There ain’t a soul in the holler who remembers exactly where Bacon came from. Not in a way that makes sense, anyway.
Ma claims she found him rootin’ behind the woodshed one autumn morning, half-starved and shaped like a question mark. Said he looked up at her with these deep, knowing eyes and let out one long, slow grunt, as if to say, “I know what you’ve got planned, and I approve.” She tossed him some scraps. He stayed. But even Ma admits he never acted quite like the rest of the hogs. She knew there was something special about him.
Uncle Kinxy’s version is different, naturally. He swears Bacon came from the hills beyond the mines, where the fog don’t move unless you ask it nice and old things slumber with one eye open. Said he’d heard tell of a hog touched by mountain magic, one that could sniff out trouble before it even woke up. The rest of the clan laughed at first. Laughed until Bacon started proving it.
But the real tale, the one passed around the fire, traded in whispers like old hex recipes and switch handled justice, goes back to the Long Raid. The clan was outnumbered and outgunned by two rival kinlines. One of ‘em was usin’ spell boosted ballistas and dragonfire stink bombs that left scorch marks on the moonshine barrels for weeks.
The fight was bad. Real bad. Pa was holdin’ the line, Uncle Kinxy was tryin’ to flank ‘em with a sneak force of goblin cousins armed with torch chickens and slings, and Ma… well, Ma did what Ma always does when things get real sideways. She took matters into her own hands and got creative.
She set out alone that night under a full moon, a pot of stew balanced in one arm, Uncle Kinxy’s finest shine in the other, and a lantern swinging from the front of the wagon. Her destination was a narrow split in the mountain, a cave mouth so dark and silent, most goblins pretended it weren’t even there.
That’s where Anny lived.
Back then, Ma and Anny were as close as two witches could be. They weren’t born kin, but they’d been sisters in every other way. They learned their spells together. Shared secrets, herbs, heartbreak, a deep bond.
Of course, that was long ago.
These days, they don’t speak. Something split ‘em and nobody knows the full truth. But Ma don’t shine her lantern at that cave no more.
That night, though, she did.
She rolled up to the mouth of the cave, set the lantern down, and waited. No calling out. No stomping. No knocking. Just the steady flicker of that light on cold stone, a small beacon penetrating deep into the blackness of the cave.
And sure enough, after a long hush, the shadows stirred. Out stepped Anny, pale and wild eyed, draped in layers of midnight and ash.
She didn’t ask what Ma wanted. Just looked her over, eyes landing last on the hog tied to the back of the wagon. He was squat. Snub-nosed. Mean-eyed. Still as death, like he knew something was coming and didn’t care if it came for him.
“This one,” Anny rasped, stepping close and brushing a hand along his ears. “He’ll do.”
She didn’t glance at the stew. Didn’t touch the shine. When Ma offered her a pouch of battlefield medals and a charm stitched from her own hair, Anny just blinked slow, like none of it mattered.
She placed her hand on Bacon’s head and whispered something low, something sharp. The kind of spell that makes the wind hush and the trees hold their breath. The air cracked like splintering ice. Then she stepped back into the cave’s mouth without another word.
“He’ll know when it’s comin’,” she called, her voice echoing off the stone. “He’ll keep you honest.”
Ma watched the shadows close behind her, picked up the lantern, and didn’t look back.
And from that moment on, Bacon was more than just a pig.
A Hog With a Mission
Bacon don’t grunt without purpose. If he grunts twice, someone’s sneakin’. If he paces, someone’s thinkin’ about breakin’ orders. If he plants himself by the woodshed without bein’ called? That goblin best go ahead and confess before Pa comes lookin’.
He’s chased cousins all the way down to the creek and cornered ‘em behind rain barrels with his snorts alone. He once pulled down a whole curtain of Ma’s spell dried herbs when Looty tried to peek at the war ledger. Looty still claims it weren’t his fault, said the ledger fell open, and that it was Cletus who put him up to it, anyway. Bacon didn’t buy it. Neither did Pa.
Ellie swears Bacon once threw himself between her and an early triggered cannon trap. “He saved my life,” she says, hand on her chest like a preacher’s wife. “Looked me dead in the eye like, ‘Don’t you move, sugarbean.’”
Mo claims he saw Bacon blink at a rival cousin from another clan and make their spear catch fire.
Looty, naturally, insists Bacon speaks perfect goblin and just don’t feel like talkin’. Says they’ve had whole conversations. Says Bacon knows secrets about the mines that even Pa don’t.
Nobody believes him. But nobody calls him a liar either.
The Still Incident
Now, everyone remembers The Still Incident, capital letters and all.
Uncle Kinxy had just finished patchin’ up his moonshine rig after an “incident” that involved Looty, Cletus, Mo, a hog, and a stolen crossbow. He had just gotten the whole thing sealed tight and singin’ sweet again. Spirits were high.
Meanwhile, Cletus, Looty, and RG were testin’ out their latest war contraption, a modified log roller powered by elastic vines, hog grease, and bad judgment. It was supposed to simulate siege damage for practice. Instead, it got loose.
The damn thing caught fire, nobody knows how, and barreled straight into Uncle Kinxy’s newly repaired still. Boom. Shine and shrapnel everywhere. Flames lickin’ the porch roof. Goblins yellin’. Ma shoutin’ for a bucket line. Uncle Kinxy hollerin’ about his “divine distillate.” Ellie Mae cryin’ ‘cause she was sure the whole holler was gonna blow sky-high.
And Pa? Pa just cussed once, quiet like, and started diggin’ a trench with a shovel made from a cannon barrel while muttering, “I knew it had to be those three!” as if he was already making plans for a woodshed rendezvous later.
And Bacon?
Bacon was already there. He’d dragged a whole water barrel halfway across the yard before the roller even hit. Grunted twice, his classic warning. Then shoved Ma back when a spark hit her skirt. After the smoke cleared, there he was, sittin’ in the center of it all like a king on a throne of bad decisions, snortin’ like this whole mess was just another Tuesday.
The Truth About Bacon
Some say Bacon ain’t just a guard. He’s a conscience. That the witch, Anny, gave him more than a spell. She gave him the soul of the holler. The instinct to judge fair, lead firm, and never forget a face.
Others say he’s just a pig with too much attitude and a lucky streak a mile long.
Either way, when Bacon starts movin’, even Pa pays attention.
Because if Bacon’s watchin’ you?
It’s already too late to play dumb.
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