Lore of the Underlings: Episode 6 ~ Meeting Minyon by John Klobucher Page B

festooning
its skin and drooling from the chinny chin chin a slime aswim of
slugs within, not to mention a horny coat acrawl in all of the
foulest, boar-borne vermin — dung bugs that is, big and vile as
they come. This pig-styled head bore every dark hallmark. It had to
be the ugly mug of an angry albeit well-fatted snarl hog.
    The thing made a chilling, bloodcurdling
squeal and charged down the ramp at the near frozen children, a
baker’s dozen or so in close range. A razor-backed, toe-nailed,
spike-haired monster with no care for their tender age.
    Yet the targeted tots did not run and hide.
Instead they sang a lullaby. It was something short and sweet:
     
    Pretty pig, hello hello
    Let’s go wallow, follow follow
    By the sleeping willow tree
    Where the mud is shallow shallow
     
    Past the fallow field of dreams
    Handsome hoggy use your nose
    Diggy piggy come let’s go
    To the sleepy hollow hollow
    To the sleepy hollow
     
    The creature keeled over as if roped and
hog-tied, making a long, deep gash in the ground. It had turned
petrified, crashed fast asleep, been felled spellbound before it
went down. It was sawing wood when its skid stopped dead.
    A cloud of gnats lit on the once-lumbering
beast, slumbering peaceful now as a log. Comfortably numb. In hog
heaven. A-fog.
    “I see that you’ve already learned yer
young’uns,” said Mr. Swillyum to the woman.
    “Never too early!” replied mother Huggum, a
gleam of gold in her amber eyes as she surveyed her humming hive.
They circled the downed hog still sound a-snooze and bid it adieu
with a last verse of music, a chorus bloodthirsty but cherubic:
     
    Simmer down hambone
    Rest in peas, honey
    Be pleased to meat you
    To marrow to marrow
    Can’t wait to eat you
    Tomorrow!
     
    Those last notes fell like soil-stained
snowflakes — earthly songfall from an angelic cast.
    The swiner unleashed a belly laugh and
clapped his hands in appreciation. “Now which ones are yer fair
daughters again? I think I see two or three o’ them…”
    “I am proud, kind breeder, to say I have
seven,” cooed the yet youthful and apron-clad woman.
    “A pride in every sense!” he pronounced. “I
should like ta make their acquaintance.”
    The comb-crowned mother hen gathered her
brood in a row by the old wheeled pigpen. “Come now children, pay
your respects. The swiner’s a treasured family friend…”
    She spread her arms in their direction, palms
up, face aglow. “Here you go — these six plus this one are the cubs
of my den, lassies all of the Huggum clan.”
    “Ooo,” swooned Mr. Swillyum crooning Flower of This Thorny Land and adding, with a little wink,
“lovely as their mum, I think.”
    She blushed but her blossoms did not miss a
bleat. Instead the bunch launched into a folk dance with ten
curtsies at the end, all cheerily greeting the gentle meatman. And
done they sang in unison, “An honor dear mister herder sir!”
    Then each took a turn meting out
introductions:
     
    “I’m Hexxi.”
    “I’m Vexxi.”
     
    “She’s Trixxi.”
    “That’s Wixxi.”
     
    “We’re Noxxi and Poxxi.”
     
    “They call me Mawg.”
     
    The last seemed more boy by her half-dozen
sisters, beauties all of honey-pure skin and long, flowing manes
like lionesses. No, she was on the bearish side — big-boned and
husky, rather ham-handed, with hair shorn short and sort of
laddish. And that’s not to mention the slow, musky voice she hid
behind those meaty mitts. It first came across a little shyly; on
second thought, though, you’d have to say guy-ly.
    Yet the swiner made no notice. “The honor is
mine, my dandelions! What cute kitty cattails ya are.” He bowed a
low and hatless bow that showed the tanned pate of his sun-kissed
head. “Please call me Uncle Gustus!”
    Agiggle, the girls bowed back at him then
pounced upon the hampered pig. Each knew the job she had to do, so
like good soldiers they set straight to it.
    From a pile stacked with poles that appeared
out of