TEMPTATION
A man out walking met a pig sitting by the road.
‘Please, help me, kind sir!’ begged the pig. ‘I escaped from the abattoir and am travelling to the Land of the Free. But it is far away; I am tired, hungry and afraid, and my poor trotters are so very sore.’
The man took pity on the pig, and offered to go with it and protect it along the road. So he went home to pack food for the long journey, and they set out together.
The way was indeed long. Every afternoon, when the pig started to limp, the man carried it on his shoulders. In the evenings he shared his food with it, and at night he covered it with his jacket, because the pig had no coat of its own.
The terrain got very rough, and the man carried the pig for longer spells each day. Food began to run low. He eked it out as best he could, but the day came when he was down to his last handful of oatcakes. He realised that neither was going to make it to journey’s end.
As they passed through a wood, the man found a pleasant clearing by a stream and, exhausted, lowered the pig gently down, wondering what they could do.
A thought flashed into his head. Timber was plentiful here; he had matches, and he had his knife. If he were to eat the oatcakes, the pig would die of hunger soon enough, and then he could joint it, cook it and eat it.
He looked at the pig.
The pig looked at him.
Its eyes were huge; pleading.
He wavered.
No. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, do it.
He sat down wearily by the pig to discuss the only solution remaining.
‘Pig, we only have these few oatcakes left, and they won’t sustain us both. But we can mix them with water, make a fire and cook you a fine porridge. You go on and, who knows, you may yet reach the Land of the Free. I can go no further.’
When the pig had eaten all the porridge, the man exhorted it to set out immediately. ‘For’, he explained, ‘that meal will need to last you the whole way.’
The pig, however, demurred.
‘How can I leave you?’ it queried. ‘I know you are failing, and I can’t bear to think of you dying here all alone.’
‘Dearest pig!’ breathed the man, too weak to argue further.
And so the pig kept vigil until the poor man died. Then it spent some time kicking twigs and branches over his body.
Finally, it carefully nudged over a glowing ember, and soon there was a merry pyre burning.
The pig enjoyed a nap while the fire burned and cooled.
Then it feasted on the man, now nicely roasted, before trotting off briskly to the Land of the Free where, for all I know, it is living happily ever after.
‘Please, help me, kind sir!’ begged the pig. ‘I escaped from the abattoir and am travelling to the Land of the Free. But it is far away; I am tired, hungry and afraid, and my poor trotters are so very sore.’
The man took pity on the pig, and offered to go with it and protect it along the road. So he went home to pack food for the long journey, and they set out together.
The way was indeed long. Every afternoon, when the pig started to limp, the man carried it on his shoulders. In the evenings he shared his food with it, and at night he covered it with his jacket, because the pig had no coat of its own.
The terrain got very rough, and the man carried the pig for longer spells each day. Food began to run low. He eked it out as best he could, but the day came when he was down to his last handful of oatcakes. He realised that neither was going to make it to journey’s end.
As they passed through a wood, the man found a pleasant clearing by a stream and, exhausted, lowered the pig gently down, wondering what they could do.
A thought flashed into his head. Timber was plentiful here; he had matches, and he had his knife. If he were to eat the oatcakes, the pig would die of hunger soon enough, and then he could joint it, cook it and eat it.
He looked at the pig.
The pig looked at him.
Its eyes were huge; pleading.
He wavered.
No. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, do it.
He sat down wearily by the pig to discuss the only solution remaining.
‘Pig, we only have these few oatcakes left, and they won’t sustain us both. But we can mix them with water, make a fire and cook you a fine porridge. You go on and, who knows, you may yet reach the Land of the Free. I can go no further.’
When the pig had eaten all the porridge, the man exhorted it to set out immediately. ‘For’, he explained, ‘that meal will need to last you the whole way.’
The pig, however, demurred.
‘How can I leave you?’ it queried. ‘I know you are failing, and I can’t bear to think of you dying here all alone.’
‘Dearest pig!’ breathed the man, too weak to argue further.
And so the pig kept vigil until the poor man died. Then it spent some time kicking twigs and branches over his body.
Finally, it carefully nudged over a glowing ember, and soon there was a merry pyre burning.
The pig enjoyed a nap while the fire burned and cooled.
Then it feasted on the man, now nicely roasted, before trotting off briskly to the Land of the Free where, for all I know, it is living happily ever after.
