Transformation Story: Sowed

Sowed

Polly Cousins emerged from the front door of her cottage. She had been here three days and having unpacked finally felt it was becoming her home. The place had been built in the 1920s and though the electrics and fittings had been updated, the style was pleasingly nostalgic. Polly had made a decent amount of money from writing gritty thrillers set in London and that, with a bequest from an aunt in Australia, had been able to afford this place, as far from the streets of Tottenham as she could imagine. Some friends were convinced she would be bored here and had predicted that she would be back in the capital within the year. Polly had reminded them that she was not entirely cut off, there was the internet and she still had the car she had bought new when her first published novel had started selling well. However, the lack of traffic and arguments in the street were things Polly had quickly noticed and now treasured. Of course, the English countryside was not without noise, but she had come to enjoy the fact that a vixen or an owl sounding out, would be the loudest thing she would hear of a night.

The nearest village was a mile from the house so she could walk there if she wanted. She had already stocked up from the small supermarket there and had had a takeaway from the low-key Chinese restaurant fitted into the ground floor of a house. What she had not done so far, was explore the area around her house. Out the back was an overgrown garden that she looked forward to working on in the summer. She had managed to pull back what had grown over the wooden gate in the garden’s rear wall, trusting that out her she would need no greater.

Beyond the garden, were beech woods and Polly imagined they would finally give way to fields. The landscape she had driven through to reach the house was a mixture of oil seed and wheat grown in the flatter areas plus fields of cattle and of pigs in the meadows and on the hills respectively. There had been occasions in the afternoons of the days here, when stopping unpacking Polly had sat at the large wooden kitchen table that had come with the house and heard the sound of pigs brought on the wind. She imagined that they were at a farm somewhere close by. Today she had decided to find it.

A track ran off the road that her house stood back from and went at an angle up the hill. A sign at its entrance said ‘Tannakin Holme’ but Polly guessed that it was the farm. No vehicles had come down the track and she imagined that there was a made-up route joining the road at the top of the hill, leaving this one rarely taken these days. She wondered if it might provide a short cut to the village and anyway, she felt it was a good idea to get to know what appeared to be her closest neighbours. As she walked out this morning, Polly began dreaming of being sold freshly laid eggs or milk from a churn or even farmhouse butter. As she climbed the track through the beech trees Polly found herself imagining a whole host of produce she might get easily from her neighbours.

The track finally came clear of the trees and Polly found herself among arable fields. There were pumpkins; sweetcorn and, what she guessed, were soybeans. A short way further on where the woods arced round once more, stood the house. It looked to be of the Victorian Gothic style with medieval affectations and Polly could imagine that on a dark night it could look pretty scary. Around it were old fashioned brick-built structures and from one she heard the squeal of piglets and a deeper sound which she somehow knew came from a sow. As she went to their home, Polly saw no gate enclosed them and she imagined these pigs were free to roam in the woods. Soon she was at their sty. Compared to what she had always been told, it was dry inside with straw on the floor. In contrast to the bright pink colour she had expected, these pigs were a dark mahogany red shade. The sow had ten piglets of much the same colour, scrapping for a teat. Though she must have had twelve or fourteen on show they did not seem satisfied.

One piglet turned away from the sow and walked towards Polly, its long snout raised as if sniffing her out. Tenatively, Polly went down on her haunches and the piglet let her pick it up. It nuzzled her, pressing its mouth against the thick wool of her sweater. A little embarrassed she realised it was seeking out her own ‘teat’.

‘Would you like to feed them?’

Polly gave a shriek at the sound of the voice and then struggled to keep hold of the piglet. Turning sharply, she saw a broad, red faced man approaching. She assumed this was the owner, her neighbour. As he came closer, she realised he was younger than she had expected. His weather beaten face and the old fashioned sideburns belied his age which in fact was probably close to hers: somewhere in his mid-thirties. He was kitted out much as she would have imagined, with a green waterproof coat, a maroon moleskin jacket beneath and brown trousers tucked into wellington boots. She was glad she was not too differently dressed, though her own wellingtons were only getting their first working in.

‘Erm … yes, sorry, I was not … stealing, pig rustling.’

The man smiled warmly, ‘I guessed that. Thieves come in the night. Anyway, the thief that wanted to mess with their father would be a fool.’

‘Is he around?’

‘Out there in the woods. These are Tamworths,’ he gestured to the pigs, ‘a very old breed, though these are really half-Tamworth, half-boar. I don’t breed them for their meat … I am almost all the way to being a vegetarian, I use them for finding out the best mushrooms before those foragers that come down from the city restaurants get them. In exchange I look out for them; give them a bed when they need it and food if that’s short.’

‘I’d heard there were boars back in British woods.’

‘Oh yes, there certainly are, have been a couple of decades now. They escaped from specialist farms, but now, well, they’ve taken to this land and there might be as many as a thousand wild now; there’s certainly some in these woods. One would be the father of this lot.’

‘They’re all fighting for a teat.’

‘Happens some times. A sow’ll have up to sixteen teats, but for some not all will work. I think this latest one was a little old for it, though it was one of Moccus’s males who still got her pregnant.’

‘Moccus?’

‘Oh he’s the main boar around here, or at least that’s what I call him. There are others too.’

‘Are they dangerous?’ Polly suddenly had the image of her being knocked down by an angry boar in the woods.

‘I don’t think they would threaten you. This one already takes you for its mother.’

The piglet in Polly’s arms had fallen asleep. She stroked its dark red, hairy body and it shifted contentedly.

‘So, would you like to feed them, those who can’t get a working teat?’

For a moment Polly’s nipples tingled and then she had a sensation on points running down her front. She wondered bizarrely if it was the piglet treating her like a sow triggering such a reaction. However, then the sensation was quickly gone and she found herself feeling sorry for the litter.

‘Sure – what do we do?’

‘Come on.’

‘I’m Polly, by the way.’

‘Polly Cousins – better known as Miranda Hardacre, crime writer,’ the man smiled. ‘PC Slater told us, in case, well, in case the newspapers or mad fans turned up.’

‘Ah, alright.’ Polly could only imagine that the local constabulary had got the information from the estate agents.

‘It’s alright, we look after our own around here.’

‘And I’m … one of your own?’

The man smiled, ‘I am really hope so. We’ll see after the big pig moon.’

‘Big pig moon?’

‘The twelfth day in the moon’s cycle. People think the full moon or the new moon are the important ones, but well … it was something my father always said. Just one of those country sayings I guess.’

Polly found she chuckled. She had never considered the moon as a pig, but guessed it had been all kinds of things in various cultures.

‘I’m Anthony, Anthony Swinborne, by the way and no, there’s no Mrs. Swinborne and no, I’m not gay, but no, I am not looking for a wife either,’ he laughed lightly.

Polly could easily imagine he had had all the same kind of questions as herself down the years.

‘I’m much too busy looking for wives for Moccus to think about myself.’

Polly took that as a continuation of the joke then remembered what he had said about the age of the sow. She wondered if he took in ‘rescue’ sows, if there were even such a thing. In the next few minutes she was taken to the shed by the sty and soon equipped with bottles of formula milk was not only feeding the piglet which had taken a shine to her, but many of its hungry brothers and sisters. The sow looked relieved. When the piglets were satisfied and had tucked down to nap, the pig rose on her strong legs and came over to Polly.

‘It’s alright she’ll not harm you. I think she wants to say thanks.’

With the sow standing, Polly could see that while she was bulky, her body was longer and more slender than some pigs she had seen in books down the years. Her head was long with a prominent snout rather than a short upturned one. The sow’s ears too, rather than hanging down over her eyes, were erect, giving the sow an alert appearance.

‘What do you call her?’

‘Oh, this is Caroline.’

Polly had always found it odd to name animals with human names, but she guessed that was up to Anthony.

‘Hello, Caroline, I’m Polly.’

Polly rubbed the sow’s nose. In return, the pig licked her hand.

‘That will help, if you smell a little like her, the piglets will take to you all the quicker.’

Polly was not certain if she really wanted to smell like a sow. However, she made no point of it, as clearly Anthony liked these pigs and did all he could for them. She stood back a little and looked at the man, wondering if she should be cautious of him. However, she found a degree of affection for him and his eccentricities. While he had made it quite clear that there would be no romance, Polly found she trusted the farmer and easily envisaged them being friends as well as neighbours.

****

It was a dry day and Polly had once more walked into the village. Of course, she could have groceries delivered but she felt it was better to make use of the local facilities. While she had had some relationships down the years, the need for her to work long hours, not talking to people, had generally led the men to lose interest. She would not count herself as a recluse, despite what some of her friends had claimed when she had bought the cottage, but she did like to be in control of when and where she socialised. That approach, she recognised, could make people feel she was stand-offish and she certainly did not want the villagers here sneering at her as a frosty outsider.

Before heading into the supermarket, Polly decided to explore more of the village beyond the main road. Turning down a side road, she found that there was another street, running parallel to the large one. This had smaller shops and she was pleased to find a hairdresser, a pet-cum-country supplies shop, a solicitors and a pub, ‘The Boar’s Head’. The road ended in a small square with a café, a church and a place that proved to be a combined library, museum, community centre and church hall. Having stopped for a coffee and some homemade cake, Polly headed across to this combination place. In the hallway she found a ‘book exchange’ where people were encouraged to bring a book they had read and exchange it for another. She marvelled at the honesty of the people here, sure that back even in her part of London someone would have cleared off the whole lot, either to sell on a market stall or simply for the sake of it. Polly smiled as she saw a very worn paperback copy of her first novel was one of those in the selection.

Going on Polly found herself in a large high room with numerous rows of books and carousels of leaflets. She saw all but the latest of her novels prominently displayed at the top of the ‘Crime’ section. A sign pointed her towards the museum exhibits next door. A sparky woman the age of Polly’s mother, jumped up as she came in and was quickly introducing herself as Anna Jarman. She appeared to be in on Polly’s pseudonymous identity but was clearly proud of herself for being discreet. Polly asked her a few questions about the village but Anna needed little prompting. Glad of the information, but looking for an excuse to move on, Polly ran her eyes back around her. Now she saw that, by the issuing desk, was a table with a range of handicrafts, primarily woodwork and knitwear, each item with its own price label carefully tied on.

‘Oh that’s …’ Polly stopped herself from saying ‘cute’ not wanting to be patronising, ‘a good idea. These are all made by people from the village?’

‘Or the farms round about.’

Polly wanted to buy something to show willing and found her eyes drawn to a pair of mittens. They were of a russet shade of wool that reminded her of the Tamworths and she imagined that it would be a common colour around here. She picked up a pair which looked to be her size.

‘These are nice,’ said as she slipped them on.

Polly could see that they were well knitted. While they might have come from someone local they did not really look ‘home made’. They had a lining which to Polly felt waterproof and she found herself imagining wearing these as she walked along the lanes in the vicinity on autumn or winter days.

‘I think the last pair I sold of these was to Caroline Hopkinson.’

‘Caroline Hopkinson,’ Polly repeated, not sure why the name sounded familiar.

‘Yes, she had a weekend place here, up at the head of the village,’ Imelda gestured in that direction, ‘but then she retired, retired early, mind. Was always taking photos, painting, loved the woods.’

‘Was?’

‘Oh yes, then one day she was not here any more. Only about - what was it? - four months back. I don’t know whether she returned to work, got a different job, moved abroad, whatever, she never came in here again.’

‘Okay, but these look great mittens,’ Polly repeated.

‘Made by Old Mother Hutton – I shouldn’t call her that – Eleanor Hutton over at ‘Caridwen Ring’ – that’s the house name. You ought to call up her.’

‘I might do that, these feel very snug and I am sure I’ll appreciate them when I am out walking.’

In the next few minutes, Polly had paid for the mittens and had made her way out of the centre. She slipped them on in the street and for some reason she felt a sense of contentment. As she began to walk back the way she had come, Polly imagined that came from her feeling that she was indeed fitting into this village. By the time she was well on her way to her cottage, Polly was thoroughly pleased that she had bought the place and felt that it was working out even better than she had imagined the place could be when she had first seen it.

****

The previous day had been a mixture of showers, but today was dry and Polly felt it a good time to continue her exploration of the village and, in particular, to hunt out the mitten-maker, Eleanor Hutton. It took her some time and asking directions of locals before she got on the narrow road which led off the main street about three-quarters of the way through the village. It was on the same side as Mr. Swinborne’s farm and as she walked down it, Polly wondered if there was a route through the fields and woods to get from here back to her own cottage. Past the last village house, the tarmac gave way to a gravel track and then to a grass one. Consequently, by the time she reached the broad wooden gate emblazoned with the carved name, ‘Caridwen Ring’, Polly felt right back in the countryside.

This cottage was perhaps fifty or eighty years older than hers, but built to a similar, though slightly larger plan and with a thatched rather than tiled roof. With the assortment of herbs in numerous small borders; rabbits, chickens and various wind chimes around the place, Polly imagined that the occupant would be a cross between a traditional witch, an aged hippy and a modern New Age traveller.

Sounding the heavy iron bell at the door soon brought forth a woman who while neater and a couple of decades younger than Polly had expected certainly looked much as she had envisaged. Eleanor Hutton proved to have a warm, homely manner Polly had hoped for. She was delighted when she saw that her unexpected visitor had come wearing a pair of her mittens.

‘You can see round the house properly when you visit in the winter,’ Eleanor-call-me-Ellie explained. ‘For today, with the weather this good, it has to be the woods.’

Polly had not even taken off her coat yet so followed where Ellie led. She caught sight of some of the house, disturbing a dozing cat and dog as she did. There were paintings everywhere and of all sizes. Many showed landscapes, Polly presumed, from the local area, but others had mythological creatures or symbols on them. She imagined that living in the country a lot of this stuff seemed to be less easy to deny as hokum in the way it might have been in a city.

Out beyond the kitchen was a small walled garden holding neat rows of vegetables and yet more herbs. Polly felt she did not need to ask if Ellie produced herbal remedies and then, looking to the small greenhouse, wondered if she might also be the village’s drug dealer. Soon they were through the gate in the wall and on a broad path arched over by oaks. As it narrowed, the trees turned to beeches and Polly felt her view that this connected to the woods near her cottage, let alone those of ‘Tannakin Holme’, was probably correct. Then, abruptly, they stepped from the press of trees into a wide circular clearing. In the centre, on a raised disc of land and lit by the sunlight, were two statues. Polly wondered if this was an Iron Age structure or whether it had been built, probably by the Victorians, simply to look like that.

Ellie walked around the outside of the raised ground. Polly quickly realised that the two statues were of large pigs or boars. She guessed that was no surprise given the woods around here and even the pub’s name. The boar standing was male. The one on her side by him, showing off her sixteen teats, was, of course, female and Polly was immediately reminded of ‘Caroline’ from earlier in the week.

‘Moccus and Caridwen,’ Ellie said proudly indicating the male and female statues in turn.

‘How old are they?’ Polly asked seeing now that the definition of the carving – perhaps the casting – was barely weathered.

‘Stephen, Stephen Moore, you must meet him, he’s our local historian. Anyway, he says that they were probably cast in the mid-Victorian period, but he thinks the nature of the bronze suggests they had been recycled from earlier statues, maybe going back centuries, even millennia. He thinks that down the years people have revived the old statues. It’s difficult to say. These represent Celtic gods and it is ususual to find them together, but to me it’s nice. I am in touch with many of the old gods and spirits of this land. And, anyway, there is something about this glade that attracts the wild boars around here. Of course, when I was a girl, even a young woman, there were none left in Britain, but it’s nice to see them coming back and especially here. This ‘gathering’ if you can call it that, seems to even fit the little pig moon and big pig moon – eleventh and twelfth days in the moon cycles.’

‘Right,’ Polly responded, not wanting to seem to be scoffing of what Ellie clearly believed in sincerely.

‘If you have the courage - or maybe just the urge - you ought to come up here one night; have a look. Caroline seemed to enjoy it … maybe too much, but then again, if something in nature is calling you, there’s no point in denying it and I know it made her happy.’

Ellie then tossed a handful of what proved to be old acorns and dried beechmast between the two boar statues and bowed her head.

‘It’s always good to give them respect, especially as I live so near.’

‘Oh yes, sure.’

Polly added and bowed her own head. As did she felt a tingle, especially from her mittened-hands and wondered madly if Caridwen had given her a blessing in return. They walked back to Ellie’s house and the older woman spoke about other interesting sites in the local area, many of them definitely ancient. Polly found herself imagining that if she had been the age she was now, but back in the 1970s, coming here she probably would have ended up writing one of those fantastical stories featuring eccentric locals worshipping Pagan gods. Back in Ellie’s kitchen, having chosen rosehip tea over nettle, Polly just found it a quaint delight. Ellie’s energy, enthusiasm and downright practicality, made her seem much more a potential friend than the ‘odd old woman’ Polly had previously slipped into imagining.

****

A knock at the door stirred Polly. She realised she had fallen asleep reading. Looking up at the old clock she had picked up from an antiques stall she had visited the previous day in the nearest market town, Polly made out it was just past five. The knock came again and Polly jumped up, sending the paperback she had got from the library, spinning on to the floor. She hurried to the front door, switching on the porch light and imagining it was a delivery of some kind. She had not ordered anything online that she recalled, but if friends were not gifting her things then newspapers and, these days, websites, were often sending her books to review. The porch light, however, showed up a familiar figure, Ellie Hutton. She wore a cylindrical wool hat and a long, brown-leather coat. She grinned as Polly opened the door.

‘Oh, hi, Polly. I thought you were in. This is just a quick thing we – me, Stephen and Anthony wondered if you’d like to join us in …,’ Ellie glanced to her watch, ‘about two hours, for dinner that is. We’re all up at Anthony’s, he says you know it.’

‘Sure … yes, I do. Well, that’s nice.’

While Polly had got to know quite a few people around the village this was the first time she was being invited into someone’s home, even, she realised, that of her nearest neighbour.

‘You’re fine with vegetarian? I always like a bit of meat, nice bit of crackling, but you know Anthony … and he always makes too much.’

‘He’s happy with me coming?’

‘Yes, of course. He was the one who said you were about. He said you’d be less worried if I brought the invitation, though.’

Despite Anthony’s foreswearing of any interest in her, now Ellie said it, she realised that was correct.

‘Oh right, okay. I’ve got some wine,’ Polly said, glad she had stocked up a bit in the week.

‘That’s excellent. See you about seven for seven thirty.’  Ellie grinned then turned to go.

Polly closed the door and began thinking what she should wear. She guessed it was probably best to keep it simple: it was just a dinner between neighbours after all, nothing fancy.

****

Polly suppressed a yawn and looking at the clock on the wall, she realised how long she had been there. Anthony had gone to town with a three-course meal of vegetarian delights which had left Polly feel stuffed but content. Stephen Moore had proven to be fascinating and she guessed she had learnt more about the area and its story from the three locals than she might have done from reading a dozen books. Added to that, none of them had pressed her about what book she would be working on next or where she got her ideas from and all the other questions that she was typically asked at events or simply from strangers when they realised who she was.

Pleading weariness, Polly told her host that it was time to leave. Anthony saw Polly to the door, fetching her coat.

‘You’ll be alright to find your way back?’

‘Yes, yes, I am sure.’

‘It’s a good night for it,’ Stephen called through from the living room where they had moved after the meal, ‘the little pig moon’s bright. Better than a torch; better than a torch any night.’

Polly smiled at his comments; he had explained the cultural significance of a whole range of the moon’s phases. Stephen was the youngest of the trio and she had wondered if he might think he had a chance with a famous authoress. However, as with Ellie and Anthony, Polly had learnt that Stephen had already found his love and any person would struggle hard to take its place, even if she had had any desire to do so.

‘Bye, you two,’ Polly called back to the others; they responded in kind. ‘And thanks for the food, Anthony, you’ll have to let me do the favour in return.’ Though as she said it, Polly struggled to remember any vegetarian recipes she knew.

‘It was my pleasure.’

In the next minute, Polly was out of the house. By the light spilling from behind its curtains and then the moonlight that Stephen had commended, Polly picked her way across the farmyard without difficulty. Then however, she heard the shrill squeal of piglets and she walked towards the sty Anthony had shown her before. The door was open as usual, but this time, all she could see was the reflected moonlight in the small dark eyes of the piglets. She felt a tingle and assumed it was her empathy extending to creatures that looked helpless. 

Then Polly realised it reminded her a little of what she had felt in front of the porcine statues. She wondered if all of Ellie’s and Stephen’s talk of the people of this land and their stories of ancient gods, was beginning to impact her thinking especially when she was rather befuddled by wine.

Stepping away from the sty, Polly thought of going back into the house and telling Anthony that ‘Caroline’ was absent and her piglets looked hungry. Then, however, she felt that would be pretty patronising. It was his farm and surely he knew his pigs well enough. Maybe he intended to come out and give them milk when Ellie and Stephen left. Moving on to the track down the hill even here the light from the moon which was about three-quarters full showed  Polly’s way prettt well. She had a small torch in the pocket of her coat, but it looked like she would not need it.

As she walked on though, going past Anthony’s fields and coming under a thicker canopy of trees, Polly thought twice. Reaching into her pocket she found the mittens she had bought from the stall at the library. Now she pulled them on. As the smooth lining slid over her hands Polly acknowledged that it felt like leather. For a moment she wondered if it was pigskin and guessed if that was the case, it was probably best not to reveal these in front of Anthony.

As she walked on, the mittens seemed to fit more snuggly than Polly remembered. She walked on a short way to where a gap in the trees allowed moonlight to shine down and she looked at them to make sure she had not got them the wrong way around. Then a long squeal sounded out through the woodlands; it was far deeper though than that made by the piglets. For a moment Polly imagined it was a sound of distress, but somehow she knew then that it was in fact a signal of excitement. She imagined that somewhere boars were rutting, perhaps even ‘Caroline’ was being mounted, though surely it was too soon since she had farrowed for that. How had she learnt that term?

Her mind went from such thoughts as Polly realised her hands were tingling again. Then, the way she recalled feeling when with the piglets, the points down her front joined in. She raised one hand to a nipple, finding it very hard and in fact damp. Then she realised there was something wrong with her gloves. In the moonlight she saw that, somehow, all the wool had shredded off and instead was exposed the reddish pigskin leather below. She reached to tug off the gloves and then realised there was no seam, it was as if they had melded to her. Polly blinked, thinking it was a trick of the moonlight and shadows but she realised that her hands now were not like mittens, with a broad part and a separate thumb but they were equal, too much resembling a pig’s trotter.

Abruptly Polly felt swept by a sensation as if hit by a wave from behind her. She stumbled forward, her trotters now coming down on to the leaf-covered ground. She felt dizzy and right across her body, her blood seemed to thrum and her flesh quivered. Awkwardly she tugged at her coat as it felt far too hot and restrictive. Then she was aware of twisting, the sweater, tearing and coming away from her as her body altered. Her face ached but she could no longer lift her trotters to it. She heard her teeshirt tear and then her bra hung loose. All her nipples now felt heavy and she realised every point she could feel held a teat, one full of milk for the hungry piglets. The changes seemed impossible and dimly Polly imagined she was having some kind of seizure or maybe a hallucination. She tried to think of what fungi may have slipped into Anthony’s risotto. Everything around her appeared to shifting in angle and then Polly realised that rather than kneeling, she was standing, standing on all four of her trotters.

Polly shook her behind, her rounded hips and bum, struggling to get herself free of the useless wellington boots and jeans, that almost popped off her behind and down her slender legs. She walked forward, her panties snapping off and falling down with the rest of the town clothes. Polly raised her snout and took in the rich night scents. There was beech mast and soybeans, but above all there were the piglets. She let out a grunt seeking to reassure them and with her ears erect she heard their delightful squeals in response. Now she was trotting back up the path, away from the woods and returning to where she realised she had felt she belonged from the moment of first seeing the piglets. There was no door so the new pig was soon in the straw among her foster children.

Polly lay as she somehow knew was right. Piglets attached themselves to her teats. She had the full quota of sixteen so with only ten young she knew there was more than enough to go round. The sensation of the little mouths closing on her so-full teats ran electric through her. She had a buzz from fulfilling her purpose, being what these wonderful little ones needed to surive and to thrive. Dimly, though she realised that she was their aunt, their foster mother and not their birth mother; the milk had only come to her as she was the one who could provide it tonight to the hungry litter far better than from a bottle. As the feeding continued and the sensation shifted to one of deep contentment greater than she ever recalled the sow felt a hunger to be filled by a hog; to be bearing piglets of her own. Dreams of a big hog’s cock sliding deep into her and filling her with seed and babies; dreams of her true purpose carried Polly, who had just shortly before been a woman but was now all pig, into a euphoric state.

****

Polly had woken late that day. She had found herself not only naked in bed, something which was uncommon for her, but also with dried mud on her hands, body and legs. Her clothes were in a neat pile at the bottom of her bed, so she guessed some kind of ‘auto-pilot’ had got her safely home. Her memories were a blur. She dimly remembered leaving Anthony’s house and guessed that once outside the alcohol had begun to take full effect. She had taken both a bottle of white and of red to the small party, not sure what was supposed to ‘go’ with vegetarian food. There was other wine there and then she recalled Anthony digging out an apple-based spirit that she had a sense he distilled illegally somewhere on his farm. While she had felt privileged in being trusted enough to be inducted to the ‘secret society’ of apple-jack drinkers, she imagined now the strength of it had almost knocked her off her feet.

Polly pulled herself together and clambered from bed. Unusually for her she went about naked, making some coffee and toast. For some reason she kept thinking of crunchier food, not quite nuts, but perhaps something one of the others had mentioned could be harvested from the wild locally. She carried her breakfast up to the bathroom and sat on its plastic chair as she ran a bath. Then, as she was eating a slice of toast, her arm brushed against one of her nipples and she realised how hard and sore it was. Looking down she saw seven pairs of red dots running her chest almost to the top of her sex. For a moment she worried she had caught something, but then guessed it had probably just been her shirt or jumper chaffing and she considered if she needed to change her washing powder.

Clambering into the highly bubbled bath, Polly felt a wave of contentment that for a moment reminded her of something she could not quite recapture. She wondered if it was memory of being drunk, not not common for her these days. Then, for an instant, she thought of the sweet piglets and that she should go and visit them again. Reassuring thoughts that they were in good hands with Anthony and his friends who would help him, followed on. Abruptly then Polly was hit by an intense wave of sexual arousal and without thinking, eased her fingers into her pussy which was wonderfully slippery from the bubble bath and she found, open and welcoming.

Polly’s mind buzzed with lots of images and she could not shake the sense of a strong, heavy, hairy man thrusting into her from behind. It was not the kind of partner she would normally have envisaged and she worried now she had managed to mix Anthony into her desires. However, the arousal was demanding and with it insisting on this kind of imaginary partner, she was not going to fight it. The orgasm that hit Polly sent her arching up out of the water, moaning so loudly she was sure that, even this rural location, the neighbours would hear her. Polly’s body flushed red the full length, bright lights flashed in her vision and she felt all her nipples pulsing with excitement.

Coming down, Polly realised that this was what she had needed: a bit of mid-morning frigging was clearly the right prescription. As she lay in the bath in afterglow even though she saw how dirty the water had become, Polly idly wondered if now she was out in the fresh air of the country, her body might start wanting different things to back in the city. Maybe she needed to find a sexual partner, at least for those times when her libido demanded it, if not regularly. However, when she envisaged any possible candidates whether nearby or in neighbouring villages and towns, her mind’s eye was insistent on ruddy, chubby, heavy men. While she knew sometimes women’s bodies wanted the ‘other’, Polly did not think she was ready yet to go full ‘Farmer Giles’ in whoever she took to bed.

****

Polly had had a weird day, alternately sleeping, eating as much as she could and feeling aroused. She could not recall a time, certainly since she had stopped being a student, when her libido had intruded so much into her waking life. She had come to the conclusion that her body and mind now felt really settled here and the escape she had sought had really kicked in, allowing parts of her which had been pretty dormant, to reawake. As evening had fallen proving to be clear and crisp rather than really cold, Polly saw her back garden as if draped in snow or sugar. Looking to the sky, she recalled what both Ellie and Stephen had said about the big pig moon and she guessed this was it. Then she thought back to what Ellie had said about the boars gathering in that glade near her house. Was that real or just a local tale? Polly guessed, as she went to fetch her coat and wellingtons, that it would be easy to find out. Ellie might even be there and Polly wondered if she could delicately ask her about a herbal solution to the sensations she had been feeling today.

Soon Polly was up the track. No lights were on at Anthony’s house and she imagined he had to be out somewhere. She assumed there would be farmers’ meetings or maybe he was simply down the ‘Boar’s Head’. In the moonlight, she easily found a footpath running beyond his house in the direction which she felt sure Ellie’s house lay and boldly she marched up it. Quickly, though, Anthony’s house was gone from sight and Polly realised she could not make out any artificial lights whether from the village or outposts like Ellie’s place. Then she heard a deep squealing noise and Polly guessed the story about the boars’ gathering was true. However, closer by, she then heard someone breaking through the undergrowth moving at a pace. It did not sound like a boar and then as the shadowy figure flashed between trees and into moonlight, she gathered it was a human and probably a man.

Polly found that somehow she knew it would be Anthony even before he emerged from among the trees in front of her. She tried to dismiss the thought that she could tell his scent. After all, she had only been in his company a couple of times and while she imagined he worked hard, he had always seemed clean. As he came closer, Polly realised he was naked bar a pair of black shorts. In the moonlight, his skin seemed darker and his hair on his face thicker than she recalled. His body was covered in black and glossy hair, one reason why she had not realised he was largely unclothed.

‘Big pig moon,’ Polly said lightly.

Anthony gave a dry chuckle at that. ‘Yes and … well, you can probably see why I live alone. It’s something I have inherited. My family has been here a long time.’

‘You’re a were …’

For a moment Polly had been going to say ‘werewolf’ and then marvelled that it sounded so mundane. She guessed though what had happened or at least, what she felt had happened, in the last twenty-four hours had made so many fantastical things seem feasible.

‘A were-boar,’ Polly said simply.

Anthony smiled revealing more substantial teeth than before and the appearance of what looked to be canines but in his lower jaw. Polly wondered how close he was to fully transforming and then whether he would become a true boar or a ‘boar-man’ like how werewolves were shown in movies.

‘You make this easy, Polly. I think that is why you were drawn to this place. Your affinity is different to mine but they are akin. I am sure. Caroline … well, she became obsessed at the end. I guess she had been putting off knowing the truth down so many years of just weekends here that when she realised all the scraps she had, added up to something real, something substantial … You, I feel, though have an idea of the risks … the choices, that you can make. I have a feeling whatever you do you will be certain.’

Anthony had lost her and Polly had the sense that he believed she knew much more about whatever happened here - whether it was old gods or magic or whatever - than she actually did.

‘I fed the piglets?’

Anthony smiled again and Polly wondered if his face was truly lengthening or if it was just her imagination. ‘Yes, thank you, I was grateful for that. When I asked you if you wanted to feed them … well, I had no idea I was asking precisely the right woman.’

‘The mittens.’

‘Oh … now I understand. Ellie’s got to be more careful with those things. She is mischievous, rather than malicious. I think she likes to see what she can stir up with her handicrafts. I don’t know what she would do if they got outside the village where she could not keep an eye on or counteract any effects. I should have remembered that it was the mittens that finally tipped Caroline over the edge.’

‘They are pigskin – the linings?’

Anthony looked grim. The moonlight caught his eyes as he shook his head and she was sure that their irises were darker and the whites contracting. Boars had eyes towards the side of their heads but looking almost as much forward as humans.

‘Yes, we might be friends … but well, we see the world differently. What we are involved with is different. I have never had a choice, but Ellie … she has walked down a path she has chosen. Saying that, around here, it is impossible to entirely escape the influence of Moccus and Caridwen. If she had lived five, ten miles from here, then I guess she would be a very different sorceress. Saying that, I think she likes the gods’ strength. She loves this village and knows they watch over us; they watch over me, I know that and that is not something to be ignored.’

Polly’s mind spun with everything she was hearing. What kept jarring was that she felt all the words coming from Anthony were the truth. While she might accept that people in a rural corner of England might still have an interest in – worship seemed too strong a word – ancient Pagan gods, a were-boar and women being turned into pigs, seemed a step too far. Yet, in front of her, in a slow way which was all the more unsettling for not looking traumatic, this farmer was steadily becoming something like a boar.

Now Anthony began to stoop and Polly realised he already looked very different from the man she had seen the night before. Though larger than even a boar’s foot his hands now looked to consist of two long broad fingers with two smaller ones at the wrist. His nose was far out from his face and round at the end. His ears had lengthened, growing out of hair tighter to his head and matching that which adorned almost all she could see of his body.

Straightening up, he looked directly at Polly, ‘are you staying out tonight? Are you intending to run with me or go to the glade? You have done this before in other places?’

‘No … I don’t know. I felt a need to be out here.’

‘But you don’t look ready.’ He gestured to her clothes.

‘Ready for what?’

‘To change. You know it’s easiest with the moon on this phase and because you only changed last night.’

There was the sound of deep squeals coming from the direction of the glade.

‘They’re assembling. Of course, there are none like me in these woods. I keep hoping one will come in time. They treat me, if not as a brother, at least as a distant cousin.’

‘Right,’ Polly responded, adding a vision of an ordered assembly of wild boars to all the astounding things she was coming to accept this night.

‘Well, better get ready or you’ll just slip form before you know it.’

On coming out tonight, Polly knew she had disbelieved the fact that she could have done anything more than dreamt she had been a pig. As Anthony, a man she had no reason to doubt, spoke of her changing once more, Polly began to worry that what she recalled had been reality and added to that, she was at risk of it happening again.

‘I know it might be fun; you might be excited by the attention, but be careful around those boars or I’ll be having a Polly in my sty as well as a Caroline.’

Anthony’s words were now rather difficult to follow. Seeming to recognise that his transformation was almost complete, he turned away. As he did, Polly saw that he had shed his shorts. His back was arched with a straight tail, hairier at the end showing he was boar-like rather than resembling a pig. She recalled absently that her own tail had been long but curly, the perfect Tamworth form. Anthony gave a deep squeal and then scarpered away crashing through the undergrowth once more. As Polly had half-expected, he did not always run on all fours and sometimes rose into a hunched stand. She guessed she had indeed met her first were-boar. That fact should have shaken so much of what Polly believed about the world, but fortunately her mind somehow kept it at a distance. Polly accepted everything she had heard tonight but found it did not challenge her to rethink everything else.

With Anthony gone, Polly began moving along the path which she had previously been following with no thought of turning back. Now she was certain that it was leading her to the glade and, more than that, there would be boars there. For a moment, she wondered if that would be dangerous, but the concern disappeared quickly. It was followed by a curiosity to witness the gathering of wild creatures. Then, as she continued walking, Polly had to acknowledge that something stronger was carrying her on – she felt a real need to go there. She tried to rationalise that sense, but instead found it was almost physical. As she acknowledged that fact, Polly felt a tingle run the length of her almost like a reward for doing the right thing. As she stepped on, Polly’s body felt warm and then she realised it was aroused. Not only were her nipples hard, but there came those points all down her front, as there were a further fourteen nipples increasingly pressing against her teeshirt.

The sound of the squeals and of grunts had grown. Polly realised she could tell the males from the females and that there were perhaps three of the former and four times as many of the latter. She knew that a hog could mate with many females in one go, but in a small community like this avoiding inter-breeding meant even the dominant would let fresh blood in. Then she caught the scent of them all on the wind. It was earthy and rich and she found that it made her heady. Then she was at the edge of the glade. Ahead of her were perhaps twenty wonderful creatures: primarily boars, but with some pigs like her mixed in. For a moment, Polly wondered why she considered herself being like a pig. However, then her mind filled with everything she had done last night, not in her own home, not in Anthony’s, but where she suddenly felt she had belonged: in the sty.

Rocked by different sentiments which, at first, felt peculiar, but quickly appeared both normal and welcome, Polly breathed deeply wanting to smell more of the porcine scents ahead of her. However, something told her she was not ready yet and she felt impatient; willing to do whatever was needed to be allowed access to her friends. Though she tried to chase off the thought, it proved stubbon and then Polly found herself thinking of an ideal mate. Pushing her body to yield to whatever it needed to do, Polly felt very hot and realised that somewhere she had already dropped her coat. As she stepped forward, Polly realised she had shed her wellington boots too. Now she tugged off her sweater and enjoyed the coolness of the air across her body. As she went further, feeling impatient to be among the boars, Polly pulled off her teeshirt and then undid her bra. For an instant, she felt self-conscious but then the cool air came over her nipples, all of them, and that blissful feeling dismissed any concerns.

Feeling pressure at the small of her back, Polly reached a hand, thinking a twig or something had got caught in the waistband of her jeans. However, as she felt between two of her fingers, she told herself she was being foolish. Her poor, delightful curly tail felt constrained. Without thinking, she unzipped her jeans and then stepped out of them. Her panties felt uncomfortable too, in part because of her heat, in part because they no longer seemed to match how her hips were. As she reached down, Polly’s thick thumb brushed over where her labia had once been but now she found the last of her teats. Running her hand across them gave her a delightful feel and Polly became aware that her sex was becoming excited. She told herself she was being foolish and stroked her sex where it sat now, second down beneath her tail. It felt swollen and above all empty. Then, however, Polly felt her arms – her legs – she corrected herself, were too short to reach.

Naked, Polly felt more satisfied and quickly that it was time to get down where she actually belonged: on the ground. Doing so brought change to her face and she was pleased as it recovered its beauty of the night before, her nose growing and her jaw matching, her lovely ears rising from her head where her hair adopted the length and ruddy shade of that which was running all over her body. As her front trotters sunk into the moist earth, Polly let out a squeal of delight. She turned her long head and with her eyes, now with large black pupil and whites that were brown, she studied her sleek reddish-brown body and quivered her delightful tail. Polly’s body coursed with excitement and she stepped cautiously into the moonlit glade.

In the clearing, Polly was conscious of being watched and of being smelt. She looked around the assembled boars, feeling irritable and quivering her tail. Somehow, she knew she was a gilt, an unmated female pig and that attracted much attention. Her body ached to feel a hog riding her and Polly knew she could not leave until she had received that satisfaction. She walked slowly around to the front of the two statues in the centre of the glade and lowered her head as if seeking blessing from Moccus and Caridwen for her mating. As she raised her head once more, Polly was aware of a male approaching. Looking back down her mahogany red flank she saw he was one of the younger males. His penis emerged quickly from its sheath and Polly knew this was the boar that would turn her from a gilt to a sow. He mounted her in that moment and with her so wet and welcoming, the boar’s cock slid hard and far into her new body. Rather than moan like a human, Polly let out a squeal of pleasure.

Soon the boar was sliding back and forth quickly deep inside Polly. As he did, she felt her entire body tingle with the excitement. Every stroke seemed to strip away another piece of this Tamworth that had been human. The sensation made her befuddled and she was unaware that quickly she was losing all memory of walking on two legs, of being clothed, of speaking. Instead, there was an insistence on delighting in her beautiful ruddy body, of trotting and smelling all the rich aromas of the woods. Then, as she thought of suckling piglets the night before, Polly realised that if that was truly the case, of course she could be nothing but a pig. Then the boar squirted his hot seed into her and Polly ceased to exist. Here stood a sow, on the way now to bearing her first litter. The sow let out a delighted squeal, echoed by those of her kind stood around her.

****

Three Months, Three weeks, Five days later

‘I’m Gary Stevens, you might know me?’

‘Hello, I’m, Anthony Swinborne. What are you famous for … PC Slater, Mark Slater didn’t mention anything.’

‘Gary Stevens – SportExcess. I guess it’s quite a new channel so you might not have heard of it out this way. I do motorbike rally events. It’s something we’re looking to do around here. I’ve bought the house down the hill from here, to use as a base, do some training. I’m sure you won’t mind me coming up that track, heading out across the fields … when you’ve harvested, of course.’

‘Well … it’s not just arable.’

‘Oh … that’s fruit and veg, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but we have livestock and there’s wild animals in the woods. You’d not want to be sideswiping a boar on your bike.’

‘Boars? Wild boars? You’ve got some of them round here? That’s cool. They’re tough bastards aren’t they?’

‘And always looking to increase their numbers. They could do with some fit young males to add.’

‘Right.’

Feeling ignored by her human and the other, the pig named Polly emitted a squeal.

‘And you’ve got some here?’ Gary walked towards the sty.

‘This is a Tamworth sow, but the piglets are cross-breeds from the boars.’

‘The sow, wow, well I’m no expert in farm animals, but she’s a lovely red, got cool fur.’

‘That’s Polly.’

‘You give them human names - that’s cute.’

‘Polly’s pretty new here, that is her first litter, though she was foster mother to another. She kind of ended up here by accident, there was some assumptions made and well …’ Anthony trailed off.

‘Do you eat them?’

Anthony gave a look of distaste, ‘no, these really, well, they’re not pets, but I just help out and then they run free in the woods.’

‘Oh, right, so that’ll be a problem, what with the bikes coming up here. I’m sure you can pen them in when we’re racing.’

Anthony made no response to that. The two men stood looking at the sow and her twelve piglets hungrily working her teats. It was almost as if there was a smile of contentment on the sow’s face.

‘The simple life,’ Anthony observed. ‘If you’re a biker – have you been into the village yet?’

‘We came through it, why?’

‘You’ve got to check out Ellie Hutton, she does bespoke leather work, very good price, especially for locals. I am sure she could do you something wonderful, a whole riding suit … in pigskin; something no-one you know would have.’

‘Sounds good. I’ll do that. For the moment, though, I’ve got to push on. I’ll get one of the production team to drop by with the maps of where we will need to go and on what days.’

‘Don’t rush.’

‘Sure.’

In the next few moments, Gary Stevens turned away and was quickly gone back down the track. Anthony leant against the sty and looked at the young sow.

‘Well, I think once he’s kitted out with some of Ellie’s gear, he’ll soon find you very attractive, Polly. I think then there’ll be a good chance he’ll father your next litter and then there’ll be no more of these ideas of running around and frightening your sounder.’

Polly raised her snout and there was something in her expression that made Anthony think she was lustful.

THE END.