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Years of a life lived in solitary darkness, with not a single light to guide Minimus' way, had now been flipped on itself. He had at last discovered his sun, the beaming star in the sky that danced in his eyes and the exuberance of his life that lit his soul on fire – and those were Comrades Napoleon and Snowball, as well as Animal Farm itself. Never in all his life had Minimus been so ecstatic; after living most of his short life as simply a lost cause, he now had the ebullience to at last feel as if the spark in his soul had ignited into a flame, to Animal Farm, his greatest work.
In the few months it had taken for the pigs to develop their linguistic skills, Minimus had been an especially passionate pupil, much to Snowball's elation. The poetic pig would spend hours on end poring over the pages of Jones' textbooks – used and unused – often sacrificing sleep, much to his own detriment. Despite this, Minimus always rose each dawn to continue his avid consumption of literature.
Oftentimes, it would be Snowball that directed the animals in their reading, being the most eloquent of the pigs. While Minimus tended to shy away from Snowball, his admiration for his forward-thinking comrade was evident. At times when Minimus did manage to gather his courage and speak to Snowball, he would share his aspirations to be a poet, which Snowball wholeheartedly supported him in.
During one of the pigs' daily readings, Snowball peered over Minimus, who was completely absorbed in his book. There were rips and tears in a few of the pages, but it never averted Minimus' eager gaze.
"You're doing well, comrade!" Snowball acclaimed. "It is quite honorable how much effort you put into your literacy."
Minimus did not respond but quietly acknowledged Snowball with a brief glance of respect and a nod. A satisfactory yet fleeting feeling of pride flooded within Minimus as a gentle fountain would; in the span of a few months, he had evolved from simple alphabetical lessons to full books with complex language.
Night had settled in, and the majority of the animals were asleep, aside from Minimus, who was rather excitedly flipping through pages of a worn book, as usual. Yet, his attention was diverted elsewhere – which was quite rare for him, considering how absorbed he was in his studies. In the darkness of the barn, the object that had captured his attention appeared to him as a beam of light; it was, in fact, a bright yellow notebook that had been carelessly tossed into a haystack. Curiously, Minimus approached it.
The pig cautiously opened the notebook with a single hoof, and to his bewilderment, there was no writing inside. It was a blank canvas, subject to his experimentation. In his time, Minimus had read through many books, but they had their own stories written in them already – meaning Minimus could not tamper with them. But this was completely blank, and whatever was written was up to the poetic pig himself.
For the first time in his life, he curled up around the journal and slept soundly.
Minimus was startled awake by one he never expected to see in these areas of the farm – Napoleon. Napoleon equaled Snowball in terms of arrogance, and although he was an intelligent pig that learned to read quite quickly, he did not hold the same dedication for it as Snowball and Minimus. Once Napoleon reached a certain level of eloquence, he decided there was other work to be done in the preparation of the Rebellion, and that it would be pointless to spend his days exclusively in the pursuit of knowledge. Minimus held a deep admiration for him, albeit not for the same reasons as Snowball.
"Good morning, comrade," greeted Napoleon. He, being quite the respected and feared pig, would only ever partake in minute pleasantries with pigs like himself and did not bother greeting the other animals.
Minimus gave him a slight bow, a gesture of respect. "Good morning, Comrade Napoleon."
"Is this anything of importance?" He realized Napoleon was referring to the notebook Minimus had fallen asleep with.
"I happened to find an empty notebook buried in the haystack last night," replied Minimus, who had to evade stumbling over his words. "I was wondering if it would serve us well. Perhaps we could use it to document any plans for the coming Rebellion? Nothing has been written on the pages as of now, so there is a chance I could put it to good use."
"I would not be opposed to the idea. Inspire your comrades for what is to come, Minimus." Napoleon ordered in a gruff tone before trotting away. His ears twitched fretfully, for he knew Napoleon was quite a tough pig to please.
Merely a few days later, the Rebellion came and went – it had arrived more quickly than anyone anticipated, leaving most animals in a state of disbelief. The animals themselves had hardly planned that day, but with Jones forgetting to feed them once again, they unanimously decided it was their last straw. At long last, the abusive and neglectful Farmer Jones had been driven from Manor Farm, which was now dubbed "Animal Farm" by the pigs.
Minimus had not expected this, but shortly after the Rebellion, he found himself growing a soft spot for a particularly amicable raven. Most other animals held disdain for this raven due to his refusal to partake in their daily chores, but Minimus found him to be pleasant company. They would spend a considerable portion of the day – albeit not too long, as Minimus had other duties to attend to – telling one another their stories and tales. One of his more prominent traits was the raven's deeply rooted fondness for an afterlife he called "Sugarcandy Mountain". While Minimus wished to believe that his words were true, he could not fully bring himself to believe in it, especially not when Squealer, a rather persuasive pig, insisted that it was fictitious.
Squealer was a talented orator, perhaps the most talented he had seen. If Snowball was the sole writer of Animal Farm, then Squealer was its speaker. It was often Squealer that was the one to keep the animals at work with his consoling tone and convincing nature, even when it had been hours on end.
Minimus knew he could not compare to Squealer, or even Snowball, for that matter – especially not Snowball. He was poetic, but one that often stumbled on his words, perhaps the least respected of the pigs. Still, being the least esteemed of the pigs did not nullify the fact he was still a pig, as he was not oblivious to the special treatment he would receive.
In Minimus' opinion, Squealer was the most convivial with him, and the two would often converse over platters of milk in the farmhouse. Although the propagandist usually adopted a more formal tone, Minimus could tell there was mutual respect between the both of them.
"Comrade, do you not believe that spending so much time around preachers is a detriment to you? If you aren't careful, you may even find yourself believing his gospel! I take you for one more intelligent than that," remarked Squealer.
"I thank you kindly," replied Minimus, "but although I do not believe every word that the raven spouts, I find myself in pleasant company. For one that did not participate in Snowball's lessons, he is quite well-spoken. He intrigues me; that's all."
Squealer's expression shifted into a disapproving one, but he remained cordial. "I suppose that is tolerable, as long as you don't wind up a zealot. His presence on Animal Farm concerns me. I would rather not have anyone on the farm oppose the ideals of our leaders Comrade Napoleon..." Squealer trailed off for a moment, before adding "... and Snowball."
Minimus never thought the raven to be a contrarian, even despite his eccentric beliefs of the afterlife. But, if so many of the pigs held such a detestation for this bird, could there be an issue he had missed? He attempted to repress those worries for now to return to his writing and studies.
Although Minimus was averse to approaching Snowball as to not make a fool of himself in front of the more eloquent pig, he often caught sight of him in the farmhouse with papers scattered around him. He felt a growing curiosity as to what Snowball was arranging but did not approach him regarding the topic. It was best he leave him be; after all, Snowball appeared to be very immersed in thought.
Minimus felt he was rather intrusive; instead of putting himself to work on his own endeavors, he would so endlessly wonder about others. The pig was so lost in thought that he hardly realized another was approaching him, one that turned out to be Squealer.
"Comrade! Would you care to inform me on how your poetry is coming along?" As he questioned Minimus, Squealer tilted his head curiously, his tail whisking from side to side.
"I'm pleased with your inquiry! I don't believe I told you yet, but I am writing a poem about one of our leaders, Snowball. Would you... like to see it?"
Squealer's expression contorted into a puzzled one. "For... Snowball? I would have assumed otherwise." Despite his lack of enthusiasm, Squealer shifted into a more comfortable position on the ground and directed his attention towards Minimus.
"Well, it isn't quite finished, but I remain hopeful that my writing piques your interest." Minimus flipped to a specific page in his notebook, which he now perpetually carried with him.
Briefly clearing his throat, Minimus began to read the poem aloud:
"A cloudless mind like the sky on a summer day
As clear and fresh as a rose in a lovely bouquet
Go forth, Comrade Snowball!
Introduce Animal Farm to thy glorious ways."
After having read the poem to him, Squealer nodded in approval. "I do appreciate poetry regarding our leaders. They have truly run Animal Farm to the best of their ability." However, it was his only remark before bounding away, most likely to convince one of the less diligent sheep that there was still work to be done.
Minimus was not oblivious to his comrade's preference for Napoleon but assumed it was more likely due to the fact Napoleon would let Squealer reap the benefits of being a pig more than Snowball would. The latter was much stricter about following Old Major's ideals, even if he, too, was flawed in that regard at times.
Occasionally, Minimus would hear incessant arguing from the farmhouse, most often between Snowball and Napoleon. Concern dwelled within him, since in his eyes, they were both valuable and competent leaders, despite their disagreements with the weekly debates as well as amongst the other pigs. To him, if Napoleon was the sun, then Snowball was the moon. Yet, Minimus felt that it was not his place to offer input, especially with them both being above him in status.
He would simply rest on the ground with his ears perked during these debates, evidently not wishing to involve himself. If he were to show support towards one, would he lose respect from the other – if they even respected him at all? Minimus struggled with the thought; he was not held in a very high regard as is, but rather than being disliked as his raven comrade was, he was more so ignored. He was simply a poet. What more could he provide?
Minimus' train of thought immediately shattered as a deafening roar erupted from the barn. Apart of him wished to close his eyes and bury his face in his hooves, if only to avoid an unsavory sight for a few precious moments. However, the sight of the animals fearfully backing away from the belligerent pack of dogs was one that he could not ignore, and he felt only their fear – although, it seemed that the dogs were only after Snowball in specific. Why was that?
When the chaos had died down amongst the animals, Napoleon claimed a spot at the front of the barn, guarded by a circle of dogs with Squealer at his side. His voice boomed throughout the area, and such a domineering presence was quite difficult to miss.
"Comrades! Snowball is a traitor," insisted the boar. "We have recently discovered that he has been conspiring with Jones." His leader's expression grew darker than Minimus had ever seen before. "If any of you are discovered to have betrayed Animal Farm, expect that you will face consequences for your actions. Traitors are not tolerated here, and the choices you make will not go unpunished."
At this, the animals flew into a panic but maintained barely enough composure to seem presentable. Snowball, a traitor? Had he not been one of the most loyal comrades to the farm, and a valiant leader alongside Napoleon? From their memory, he had fought bravely in the Battle of Cowshed, but the animals did not dare question Napoleon. If they ever had a doubt in their minds, the snapping jaws of the dogs would silence it instantly.
Minimus' gaze frantically went from side to side. If Snowball was a traitor, then practically anyone on the farm could be a traitor. Thus, his thoughts began to spiral into convoluted fragments – was Boxer, the respected workhorse a traitor? Was Squealer secretly a traitor, and only used his wit to gain a more pleasant life than most other animals? Or what if every sheep was a traitor, with no meaning behind the words they chanted each day?
What if Minimus himself was a traitor?
No, that could not possibly be correct – everything in his minimal amount of power went towards the prosperity of Animal Farm. He hoped with all his might that no one would assume otherwise; perhaps Snowball had simply been a bad apple that was far too skilled at concealing it.
Due to this revelation, Minimus found himself consciously avoiding most other animals – that was, beside Napoleon and occasionally Squealer – as dread would form in his stomach whenever he caught a glimpse of any potential traitors. The idea that he could be interacting with those that were conspiring against Animal Farm sickened him to the very core of his being, and a secretly enraged Minimus did not wish to admit to his sheer resentment towards Snowball, whom he had so deeply admired.
It only shocked him just then that he had not written in a few weeks. Minimus' paranoia had unfortunately gotten the better of him, and his usual comrade he would so jovially bounce ideas off – the raven – was most certainly a traitor to Animal Farm, with all his talk of a false afterlife that never existed to begin with. As of now, he could only trust Napoleon and Squealer, two very clearly loyal comrades, even if he could never feel completely certain of himself.
The poet felt as if he was becoming a shell of himself; what was he to Animal Farm if he could no longer write? What could Minimus possibly offer the farm besides the presence of an insignificant speck such as himself? Still, he swore day and night that it would not be that way; he could not betray Animal Farm as his former comrade did. Whatever he did, he knew it must be in service to Squealer or Napoleon, especially Napoleon.
Little did Minimus know that one meeting in the barn would change that, forever. Just as he wished, he could eternally be of use to Animal Farm.
Nothing came as a shock to Minimus anymore; secret traitors were everywhere, after all. They only remained in Animal Farm for the generous rations they would get after a merely short amount of labor. It was unthinkable how they could take advantage of Napoleon in this way, and Minimus detested the thought. No comrade should have any reason to betray a farm with such a competent leader.
After so long of these thoughts swirling in his mind, a slight smile could only form on Minimus as he observed the dogs tearing apart the long-undiscovered traitors of Animal Farm, which was quite the gruesome sight, but that made it all the more satisfying to him. His eyes fixed on the feathers being mercilessly plucked off the hens as the dogs ripped them to pieces, flesh and all, fully taking in the retribution they waited far too long for.
It was quite inspiring, almost – but Minimus concluded that he did not put in nearly enough effort for such a divine leader. Comrade Napoleon was the only animal on the farm he could ever trust, the one that always knew what to do in situations such as these, and for someone so glorious to have his farm overrun by traitors was something he was not deserving of.
For the first time in weeks, Minimus opened his journal, put pen to paper, and did what he was created to do – write.
The poet wrote for hours without a single break in between, until he finally reached his last words. Each stroke of ink was dedicated to Napoleon, the pig who had served the farm the most out of anyone.
"Faithful and true to thee,
Yes, his first squeak should be
"Comrade Napoleon!" "