There was only one pig in the pig farm, and Frank took to her immediately, a large sow that seemed to recognize him as an old friend might. Frank seemed to understand her, and within a day or so, he knew if the food was too light, or if the mud wasn’t cool enough, or the table scraps not very satisfying. Frank named her Milly, because he wasn’t good at names, and because his Mom, who died when he was just five-years-old was named Millicent, which, she told him once, meant “strong at work”. He liked that.
The Miller had orchestrated some interactions with the nearby, larger pig farm, and it wasn’t long before Milly grew pregnant, which had both the farmer and Frank overjoyed, but for different reasons—the Miller, because more pigs meant more income, and Frank because he knew Milly would only have beautiful children. For her part, Milly was hardly excited about the experience of bearing piglets, as Frank heard repeatedly during his frequent visits to the pen to make sure she was comfortable; and as Milly became bigger and bigger, her complaints grew louder and louder. Frank did what he could, soothing her with his low baritone voice, rolling a small kick ball around to entertain her, and giving her massages. He guided her toward a few sunny spots to let her bask while he cleaned the pen, leaving chopped broccoli that he steamed, pitted apricots, dark green lettuce, spinach, and carrots. He was looking forward to apple season, her favorite, she said. Frank and Milly had become quite inseparable during this period of time, and while the Miller on occasion would become irked when Frank lapsed on a task in the Mill because of his undivided attention, he reminded himself of the fortune that lay ahead with all of the healthy piglets he could sell.
Perhaps it was all of this attention, or the extra piles of fruit and vegetables, or the jokes Frank tried to tell, but Milly gave birth, and after one long afternoon, there were suddenly 12 tiny piglets jumbled around her stomach. They were a drove of pink and hairless shapes, with tiny snouts that pushed around incessantly, and for days Frank could do nothing more than watch them, mesmerized by the movement. He’d like to talk to E.B. White about all of this because while the author must have shared his keen ability to hear animals converse, Frank did not seem to understand the small piglets like he understood Milly, and wondered if it was just a fact in all species that mothers do not understand their children’s babbling and noises for quite some time — just their needs.
What Frank didn’t realize, and which the Miller noticed with more frequency, was that Frank’s obsession with both Milly and the piglets – a man who had already been quiet if not recluse – was making him even more isolated; his imposing figure was already intimidating, and his natural demeanor had the outline of a grimace, as if Frank had stepped on something he didn’t want to and the onlooker was to blame. The pig farm was also visible from Monkton Road, and people walking by and on carriages and horses, couldn’t help but notice Frank speaking to Milly out loud, and during Milly’s pregnancy, the picture of such an enormous sow alongside an enormous, muscular man was at once disconcerting, especially as he sat in the mud, the broad face of the pig on his thigh, his hand full of hay and kale and leafy greens. And when the bundle of piglets were born — a magnet for children to come see and pet — no one wanted to come near. From a distance, Frank hulked like a bull, and appeared to want no part of the outside world. As far as he was concerned, they were a threat to his muddy bubble.
Compounding Frank’s isolation was that at some point during his budding relationship with Milly, and in the absence of human contact, Frank found himself spending more time burying and skinning farm animals that he found on various strolls around Monkton. He knew Milly needed to rest, and over time Frank K. Mason grew to enjoy collecting the remains of dead animals, not with any particular intent, as a taxidermist might, but as one might accumulate old tools over time. He would not kill the animals; he’d find a carcass, or see vultures flying overhead, and would gather the animals and take them to his shop. Though he never articulated it as such, perhaps he thought that by caring for the animals after they died he might improve his conversational ability while they lived, that he might gain insight into the small piglets. Perhaps, he thought, he might speak with him as he had spoken with Milly, that by washing and cleaning the intricate skulls and clearing any debris in various brain cavities, for instance, he might stumble upon a clue.
Milly was happy, and Frank knew it, and he could tell her children were happy as they became noticeably larger with each passing day. Frank couldn’t help but feel a bit envious of the attention she gave her babies, but he worked hard to ignore that impulse and continued to watch her patiently nurse.
Shortly after she gave birth, Frank noticed one tiny piglet who didn’t seem to grow like the others, and Frank started to form a bond with it as he nurtured it along. He was waiting for Milly to give it a name, and after the third day, when Frank started to take Milly out for short walks, away from the babies, he asked her. She snorted and replied, “Bulgur”, because it sounded like the name of a large pig. He liked the name. They walked further down the pathway alongside the mill race, enjoying the drizzle of an afternoon rain. He told her he’d always look after Bulgur.
There had been a lot of rain that week, and both the pond and the head race feeding Manor Mill were full, but Frank didn’t take much notice. He was at peace, and felt they could have walked forever, Milly by his side, healthy babies sleeping with full bellies, and no one else in sight. But the Fall drizzle had suddenly become a storm that fateful Wednesday afternoon, and came fast, a formidable dark blanket of gray that arrived and sat stubbornly on the sky of Northern Baltimore County. The mist became drips that fell slowly, and for a short period of time Frank was so lost in the walk and thinking about Bulgur and enjoying trying to catch the heavy drops on his tongue that he didn’t notice how much faster and bigger they had become, until it felt like it was a sheet of rain pouring down. Frank brought his attention back to the moment, realized how far he was from her pen, and quickly turned her around to head back. He had just made an about face when he heard the Miller crying for help, a high, loud, panicked call, and Frank’s heart started to race. Milly was not one to run off, so after a moment of indecision, he patted her on the head and told her to head back to the pen on her own. He ran down to Manor Mill, coming in from the front, looking over at the Merryman House up toward Falls Road.
As Frank rounded the east side of the Mill to enter the front door, he already knew by the sound of the heavy splashing that the wheel was turning too fast and the break system, which Frank had tried to fix, was not providing enough resistance. Frank later learned that the pond had not been dammed properly the day before, and the head race was too full, the flume passing water faster and faster over the wheel. The axles and gears in the Mill were whirling quickly, and the grinding stones were starting to shake from the high speeds. The Mill was filled with the wrong types of noise, a cacophony of metal, wood and leather, the straps and pulleys and gear teeth straining and choking. The rain grew heavier and heavier, puddles seeming to emerge instantly from the ground all over the property.
Upstairs on the second floor, Frank swung the double Dutch doors open to view the wheel from above, spinning loudly and fast. It was the Miller, not Frank, who first heard the sad wail of Milly, and he pointed. Frank stomach dropped as he saw the horrific site of the sow, Milly, in the mill race, trying to gain traction as she tried to swim in the deep pool of water dammed up and held in place by the blocked cistern. Frank stared in horror as his mind raced to figure out what to do. Milly’s terrified screams hammered in his head.
The next few moments happened fast: Frank adjusting the weakened brake on the enormous 24-foot overshot wheel; Frank reaching down from the bottom of the Dutch door, frantically scanning for something to jam the arms, anything to stop the wheel and slow down the water. Milly had now gotten caught at the top of the flume, contorted in an awkward position, her head just rising above the level of the water. She cried for help as her face started to submerge. “Frank! Help!” She wailed. He’ll remember later that those were the last words he heard her speak.
He reached out to the wheel to attempt the impossible—to stop the wheel with his enormous strength. For anyone who would have witnessed the scene, there was a sense of improbability to it all as Frank’s biceps seemed to enlarge and swell with the intense weight of the water forcing the wheel to turn, that a single arm might hold back tons of metal, white oak and rushing water. Frank had no plan from here, except that he would hold it forever if he had to, even though after just a few seconds he could feel his arm trembling. And for a second the wheel had completely stopped, the arm of the wheel in his right hand and his entire body set behind it, with his trunks for legs quaking. He had no idea what he would do from here, and could only see the tail of Milly in the distance through the rain.
And then a crash. A metal clasp breaking. A silent rip into Frank’s face, a shot of intense pain. And that is when Frank’s strength failed, and the wheel began turning again with an unbalanced lurch with the excess water, accelerating with indifference. And the Miller stared, frozen, all the while. Frank stood up, the gash in his face rushing with blood, drops splashing into the water as the roar of the wheel continued without pause. He strained to see Milly, but only saw water. Terrible pain coursed through his hands and arms, and Frank felt immensely weak, a shell that could be blown over, hardly able to stand. For a short moment he considered letting himself fall into the wheel.
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