Nathan E. Lewis

(Recently, I uncovered this Chapter 2, previously unknown to the world, proving that the final paragraph of Chapter 1, is not original but added at a later date by someone other than the author. The pigs dancing around the piano and singing, “Who’s afraid of the big, bad wolf,” and the final statement, “And they lived happily ever after,” are added. These additions do not match Chapter 2, which I now unveil to you.)

The three little pigs stared in horror at the dead wolf in the cauldron, the flames still licking the iron. With great effort they pulled it free and dragged the carcass across the clean and tidy room, out the front door, across the yard to the foot of the mulberry tree. Huffing and puffing the three little pigs dug a shallow grave, rolling the wolf into it, then covering it with dirt. They piled stones into a crude pyramid as high as they stood to ever remind them of their arch enemy.

None of the three little pigs slept the first night. At breakfast, prepared by the third little pig, they found it difficult to speak to one another, though they were brothers. Now that the wolf was dead, should the three of them live together in the house made of bricks? Or, should the first little pig and the second little pig rebuild their homes? Should they use hay and sticks? Should they use bricks? The first little pig said, “Do you think that the wolf is actually dead?” The second little pig said, “His body is dead, but do you think that his spirit will haunt us?” The third little pig said, “What makes you think that he is the only wolf out there?”

The first little pig said, “I shall rebuild my house but I will use bricks this time.” The second little pig said, “I shall also rebuild my house using bricks.” The third little pig said, “You don’t have time. The next wolf will be here any moment, and when it catches the scent of dead wolf under the mulberry tree, it will seek vengeance.” The three little pigs trembling with great fear agreed to stay together in the third little pig’s house of bricks, reenforcing it from inside, only venturing outside in broad day light to retrieve building materials. In the space of six days, the three little pigs had built a second wall of bricks flush with the interior face of the existing brick wall, making the walls of the house doubly thick.

The three little pigs began to speak in hushed tones, taking to reading the third little pig’s library full of science fiction and religious novels about the end of the world. They each would light one little taper and read silently through most of the night. At meals, in hushed tones, they would speak of the coming wolf or a pack of wolves. They could scarcely focus their conversation upon any other topic than wolves. If any friends came to call, the three little pigs would feign illness, speaking through the latch, or they would be quiet as mice until their friends departed from the door. One midday the second little pig said, “Why don’t we hang a sign on the front door that says, ‘Gone Fishing’?” The first little pig said, “That’s a good idea.” The third little pig rose from the table, found a scrap of wood and a bit of paint and made quick work of it. While he was on the front porch tacking the sign to the door, he looked over his shoulder toward the mulberry tree, the pyramid of stones in clear view. Beyond the tree on the spine of the far ridge he saw a black spot moving. He ran inside the house, locked the door and said, “The wolf is coming!”

For three hours the three little pigs lay under their beds shaking with uncontrollable fear, trying to regulate their heart beats and breathing. Every little sound was surely the wolf. Two more hours passed and the first little pig said, “Are you sure you saw a wolf?” The third little pig said, “Do either of you two have a better explanation for the black spot on the far ridge moving from the left to the right and then down the slope toward our hill just beyond the mulberry tree?” The first and second little pigs were silent then admitted that they did not have a better explanation and that the spot must have been a wolf.

At some point the three little pigs crawled from beneath their beds, crawling into their beds, pulling the covers up over their heads, and slowly falling asleep in the wee hours of the morning. They slept until the sun was high in the sky. They fried their last potatoes and their last slab of bacon, and their last six chicken eggs. As they ate, they discussed a detailed plan to get to the barn, to collect more eggs and potatoes. They discussed the futility of getting to market in town two miles away. They argued about whether or not their urbanite uncle was right when he said, “You should never move that far out into the countryside. There are wolves out there.” The first little pig reminded them that wolves were known to raid the town. The second little pig said, “But there is strength in numbers.” The third little pig said, “In the end, the wolves will wreak havoc on all pigs regardless of where they live.” The third little pig said, “We shall never be free of the fear.” The second little pig said, “This is our dark destiny. We must have done something horribly wrong.” The third little pig said, “We must be wary, very wary.” They sat dejectedly at the table of their last supper reduced to the silence of fear, waiting for the end to draw near. The end may be the spirit of the wolf, or a new wolf or the great apocalyptic pack of wolves foretold in the pig lore.

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