Cover by Deborah Grieves

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February 2007

February: Pigs

Gallery

Columns

  • Healthy Green Artists:
    Spring Cleaning in the Studio
  • Wombat Droppings:
    Art, Escapism, and Despair
  • Behind the Art:
    Folds and Fabric in Art
  • Myths and Symbols:
    A Gift from the Netherworld
  • EMG News:
    News for February!

    Features

  • Huggable Art: A Plushie Tutorial
  • Dragon Thrall: A Rambling Walkthrough

    Fiction

  • Fiction: The Three Little Pigs: Memoirs of a Misunderstood Wolf
  • Fiction: Piglet
  • Fiction: The Day the Pigs Invaded

    Reviews

  • Movie: The Host
  • Movie: Sinking of Japan
  • Movie: Pathfinder
  • Movie: Silk
  • Movie: Pan’s Labyrinth


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  • Piglet
    by Valerie Joanne Higgins

    The strangest theft there had ever been,
    People talked for many a day.
    Someone stole a litter of piglets,
    And left a baby girl in the hay.

    In their drink the old wives muttered,
    Though the young folk pretended mirth,
    That no piglets had been stolen,
    And the sow had given the little girl birth.

    The Blacksmith's wife was in milk with her latest child,
    So she took the infant to breast,
    Years flew, the girl grew, harvests were good,
    As though the village were blessed.

    Ceri was the name that they gave her,
    Her foster parents were appalled,
    That Ceri might be her name,
    But Piglet is what she was called.

    Piglet was a merry hearted girl,
    With hair streaked both tawny and gold.
    The village boys were willing slaves,
    To her eyes so laughing and bold.

    And who knows what might have happened,
    Had she wed an honest village man,
    Or been left alone to make her own way,
    As often such sturdy hearts can?

    But one day mischance came calling,
    He rode over the mountain pass.
    The King's son came to his hunting lodge,
    And set eyes on our merry lass.

    The blacksmith's wife was a kind foolish woman,
    Who had heard more fairy tales than she should.
    No, when a prince pays court at a smithy,
    He doesn't mean anything good.

    He took Ceri, smith's daughter out to a boarhunt,
    They rode apart from the boarhound pack.
    He took our Piglet out hunting,
    And he never brought the girl back.

    The Smith went and asked for his daughter,
    Well, the prince struck him down to the ground,
    And he swore that if ever he caught her,
    He would have her witch branded and drowned.

    They set out to search that forest,
    As soon as there was light to see,
    A few to take her for drowning,
    And many to warn her to flee.

    Where she and the prince had dismounted,
    They found her torn clothes on the track,
    And two sets of feet had run down to the stream,
    But only one had turned back.

    However wildly they hunted,
    They could never find out any more,
    For where Piglet's feet might have run,
    Was hid by the tracks of the boar.

    The Smith and most of the village,
    Had rebellion in their hearts that day,
    But when they arrived back home,
    They were left with nothing to say.

    The village palings were shattered,
    Blood had splattered the smithy door.
    The prince's body lay mangled and trampled,
    By a savage herd of wild boar.

    The herdsman ran swift and called home the cows,
    Such a shame they muddied the track,
    But when cows need to come in for milking,
    You can't very well hold them back.

    Yes of course they'd all seen where the herd went,
    When the king's hunters came the next day.
    But no two agreed on how the tracks had laid,
    Each argued a different way.

    For many a day, and many a year,
    We've walked into the forest to roam.
    Searching and always calling,
    Calling our Piglet home.

    ,

    Valerie Joanne Higgins a fantasy artist and poet who lives in Shropshire, England.
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