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When Old Major finally went back to his stall, it was late, his belly empty of food, and his bones tired of the endless work. This was normal for the farm, and the old boar had gotten used to the hard hours Jones put him and the other animals through.
His stall was his sanctuary, ever since he had first been exposed to the horrors of Jones back when he was a young piglet. Back then, he would go curl up next to his mother, and let her warmth comfort him.
But those days were long over. Still, he missed his mother. Missed her quiet chuckle, missed her ever-present gaze. He missed the way she would weave stories of another time, of a better time, a time without Jones. The soft melodies she and the other pigs would sing softly to him. The hope in their voice, with a hint of desperation. Back then, they sang the song like a lifeline. Now, no one sang it at all.
Old Major sighed. He sat down on the worn straw, and let his muscle relax. He wasn’t getting any younger, and time was taking a toll on him. Old Major had been through this before, many times, but never on the elder’s side. He sighed again. At least he wouldn’t have to live through Jones much longer. Again, he remembered his mother. Never had he met someone with the livelihood that she had. Even through Jones, she always dreamed of a better world. He could hear her voice; calling to him, encouraging him.
“Come, Major, come. You mustn’t lose hope. In the most dire of times, that is what you need. To keep going, to move forward, towards a better life, a better future. Life doesn’t end with Jones, my boy. Life doesn’t end with work, with sadness, with hunger and fatigue. You can get through it, my boy, you can. You just need hope. In the most desperate of times, remember that.”
Old Major still remembered that day. In the middle of summer, each day longer than the last. Jone’s son was off to college, to be a lawyer, the animals would whisper. But he needed money for school. Jones and his son didn't get along, but Jones still got him the money. Said it was a parting gift, from father to son, but the animals did all of the work, Jones barely chipping in a thing. The animals were forced to work harder and for longer than any summer before, and their rations were lowered extremely, half of them going to the marketplace to be sold.
Old Major’s mother had whispered it to him, after the work, after the feeding. When it was just the two of them, curled up in their stall. He remembered, whispering back, “But how, Mother? Jones will never change, that anyone with sense can be sure of. And the next will be just as bad, if we ever live to see it. For, Pilkington and Fredrick are just as bad! How can you say that any human will be better? The donkeys have lived a long, long life, and they don’t even know of any difference between our current and our past! It's never changed before, how can you say it will change now? How can we have hope, Mother, how?”
“Faith, my son, faith. I have faith in a better world for all animals.”
“Aren’t faith and hope the same, Mother?”
“Faith and hope, while same, are different. You must have faith for a time, a time when there is no Jones, where there is no man to make us labor. Hope, you must hope for a time when all animals work for their fellow comrades, for themselves and each other, instead of our handlers and abusers. Now, go to sleep, my love.”
Old Major remembered, he then rested his head on the straw, and let her soft voice lull him to sleep. That night, he hadn’t been able to dream of any better worlds.
‘Maybe I’ll dream tonight, dear Mother.” He mused, and let sleep overtake him.
…
When Old Major slipped into dreams, the rift between reality and fiction became more apparent. The world was brighter, sun shining, clouds a fluffy white instead of the usually dark grey, verging on black. There was no smog in the sky and the air smelled of fresh flowers and morning dew. His dream-self woke, not to the slap of a whip or a hoarse, hungover scream, but to a happy cock-a-doodle-do of the rooster and the faint chirping of birds.
‘What is this?’ Old Major thought. ‘Where am I?’ For he was most definitely not at the cruel, harsh, world of Manor Farm.
He heaved his bones, ready for the strain left over from the last days’ overbearing work. But when he stood, his body surprised him when his bones ached, yes, but it was dull. Like an afterthought, like he hadn’t been pushed close to faint the day before. He was hungry, but it wasn’t overbearing, the way he would wake with the unsupported rations that Jones gave them, occasionally nonexistent from late nights at the pub. As he moved out of his stall, and through the farm, he continued to be baffled by the difference from this world to his present. The food containers and dispenser were full, every animal getting their full share. Creatures were smiling, laughing, talking with friends about, not the latest news on Jones, but each other, their interests, hobbies, joys of life. He looked around in wonder, at the adamant happiness on his fellow comrade’s faces.
It struck Old Major, just then, that this was the utopia that his mother always dreamed of. Talked about. Sang about. When he looked around again, at the udder delight on his friends' faces, he smiled. ‘This could happen,’ he thought, ‘this could be true.’ He saw animals working for themself and their fellow comrades, each to their own extent, not being pushed too far.
Now, Old Major wasn’t foolish. He knew that the end of his time was close, closer than possible for him to see his mother’s dream turn into factuality, but he also knew that he had to speak up. Nothing would happen, the animals would keep living in Jones’ dystopia until they heard this vision. ‘Until they had hope’ Major could hear his mother whisper in his ear.
But would they be able to do it? Old Major thought about the residents of the farm. Snowball, he knew, would be on board. That young piglet had so much hope, so much good to do and kindness to give to the world. He reminded Major of his mother. Smiling at the thought, Major worked through the other animals at the farm. Boxer, ever the worker, would selflessly do everything in his power to help the smaller animals. Benjamin wouldn’t object, but Major didn’t think he’d be very for it too. He and Benjamin could be alike, in that way. But Major wasn’t too worried about convincing the old donkey; knowing that he wouldn’t side with Jones was enough. Most of the animals, say the sheep and goat, would go along just with him bringing up the idea. The hens would love being able to keep their eggs, raise their children instead of having most, if not all sent to the market to sell. He knew Snowball, with all of his excellent and passionate spells, would be able to convince the animals that he couldn’t, and that most of the pigs would be with him out of respect. Truly, Major didn’t know why so many placed their trust in him, but whatever the reason, it would help make his mother’s dream true, and give them a paradise in return.
Old Major smiled, and let himself enjoy the illusion of freedom.
…
Old Major woke to the regular conditions of the farm. Gloomy days, the sound of harsh wind whipping around the stalls.
But not for long, Major thought with a smile.
The next night, Major told himself. The next night, he’d recount his dream to his comrades. Major readied himself for another hard day’s work.
…
Finally, the sun fell and darkness ruled. Old Major was sitting in his stall, having waited the entire day for this moment. Watching the stars twinkle—which they only seemed to do when Jones was gone—Major took a deep breath, and heaved himself up for the journey to the barn. It was a well worn path that he had taken many times, and as he trudged past the stables of the other animals, he went over his speech in his head. He felt his hope, confidence, joy come coursing through his veins. He arrived at the barn, climbed up to the top platform, and settled in, waiting for the other animals to arrive.
He smiled, greeting each animal as they came in. Everyone seemed aware of his new, brighter mood. Old Major wasn’t exactly known for being the most upbeat, and he knew that the only reason he hadn’t been compared to cynical Benjamin was out of respect.
Major looked around, and after he made sure all comrades were accounted for—except Moses, but the raven was Jones’ pet, and Major didn’t feel the need to convince him—he cleared his throat.
“Comrades, you have heard already about the strange dream that I had last night. But I will come to the dream later. I have something else to say first. I do not think, comrades, that I shall be with you for many months longer, and before I die, I feel it my duty to pass on to you such wisdom I acquired. I have had a long life, I have had much time for thought as I lay alone in my stall, and I think I may say that I understand the nature of life on this earth as well as any animal now living. It is about this that I wish to speak to you.”
Old Major continued on, working to fully convey his vision and passion, in an effort to convince his fellow comrades. When he finally got to the song, Major smiled. Beast of England, by name. He thought back, remembered his mother and the other sows singing it. But it was his mother who always sang it the most. It felt final, passing on the message that his mother passed to him. He and his kids were never as close as he was with his mother, but now, lying above them, he saw how they saw him. How much everyone here looked up to him, and he smiled, soft. He may die tomorrow, but he'd done it. His mother, her memory, dream, vision, spirit, would live on in the hearts of all of the animals before him, in all of their comrades throughout England. He fell asleep content that night, if only for once.