City of Wild Boars

From outside the window came the sound of commotion, so I put down my half-eaten pineapple bun and stepped outside the staff room.

“It’s wild boars, sir,” said Felix, one of my eighth graders.

“Where?” I asked.

“Just outside, on the slope.”

I stepped out. A few timid-looking seventh graders were whispering among themselves by the school gate, occasionally peeking across the street. A bunch of people crowded around the sidewalk, all looking in the same direction.

“Where are the boars?” I asked a student standing nearby.

“I don’t know, they were just there, they suddenly rushed over.”

“How many?”

“I think three, no, four, three small ones and one big one.”

“Did they harm anyone?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yes, they did,” another student chimed in. “They knocked over that uncle over there.”

The student pointed to a man as he spoke. I saw a bald, burly fifty-something man take off his mask and slump down on the curb. His leg was bleeding, but his face was redder than the blood dripping from the wound. He yelled something at the throng I couldn’t quite hear.

“It’s all this uncle’s fault,” said Felix indignantly, who had suddenly appeared next to me. “If he hadn’t gone and kicked that small boar for no reason, his mother wouldn’t have charged at him.”

Felix had a serious look on his face. I’d seldom seen him look so solemn.

“So, you were there?” I asked.

“No! I was speaking with Head Boy at the time.”

“Who?”

“That small boar over there. I bump into him every day on my way to school, and he’s got interesting markings on his head and body, so I named him Head Boy.”

“Does Head Boy listen to the things you say?”

“Of course. When I start talking, he stops to listen. But when that uncle passed by, he scoffed and asked whether boars can understand humans. I said I didn’t know, but I know the boar is listening to me. I listen to him, too. Then the uncle went over and kicked Head Boy, saying that’s the only thing pigs can understand.”

And so I came to learn how things had evolved.

“You didn’t try to stop him?” I regretted my words the moment they left my mouth.

“He said this is a matter for grown-ups!”

Before too long, the crowd of onlookers dispersed. I stared at the forest at the edge of the slope, deep green fading to darkness, like a black hole that absorbed countless silences amid the clamor of the city. I listened carefully, and almost seemed to hear something.

I returned to the staff room to prepare for class, grade homework, and organize teaching materials. I occasionally snuck a glance at the stock market, occasionally picked up my half-eaten pineapple bun. The school reported the incident to the police. Someone had gotten injured, so the police department and the Agriculture, Fisheries and Conservation Department both sent people to ask a bunch of questions. They also spoke to Felix. Whether or not he told them about talking to Head Boy, I wasn’t sure.

***

I took a swig of Murphy’s, savoring the familiar burned taste of coffee in the foam. The television screen above the bar was re-airing last night’s Champions League game, but my mind was still on the class from earlier today. Felix had put it so directly:

“Why must everything be equal? Isn’t the difference between right and wrong obvious?”

This was in response to the homework I had assigned. Using the phenomenon of wild boars entering the city and harming citizens as an example, I’d asked the students to write an essay expressing their views on the matter. Of course, I’d stressed that the wild boar incident that took place outside the school gates could serve as a starting point from which to share more opinions and suggest ways to resolve this problem.

I’d provided some background materials, including policy ideas already put forward by the government and the general public. For example, some people suggested that we continue to sterilize the boars before releasing them back into the mountains, or even moving them to some remote island; the government had also proposed capturing the boars that most often trespassed into the city, as they posed the greatest risk to citizens, and then euthanizing them.

“Your essay should include both perspectives equally and then conclude with a summary of your views,” I explained.

That’s when Felix spoke up.

He’d just finished gym class, and beads of sweat dripped down the side of his head. As he spoke, he almost sounded out of breath.

“Sir, the wild boars are innocent. Can’t I just focus on this point of view?”

“Well . . . um . . .” I didn’t know how to respond. “Felix, I understand where you’re coming from, but as the boars proliferate, the ones that get sterilized are just a drop in the bucket. As more and more boars enter the city, if things were to spiral out of control, the consequences would be grave . . . Remember the news about the cop who got injured? It looked like something had taken a chunk out of his backside, and his legs were covered in blood. I’m sure you’ve seen the viral videos trending online, right? A crazy wild boar is no joke . . .”

“But that video didn’t show what happened before the incident,” said Felix seriously. He was unlike his usual playful, good-natured self, and spoke more quickly than before.

“Before? What happened before?”

“Well, the wild boars had come under threat! They used to live in peace. I’d see them walking quietly in the city, minding their own business . . . if it weren’t for the agricultural department trying to round them up, or shining bright flashlights on them, they wouldn’t have been forced to become like this, they wouldn’t . . .”

I’d forgotten how our conversation had ended. Perhaps I gave Felix the leeway to write whatever he pleased; or perhaps, for the sake of keeping things fair among the students, and to save my own face, I didn’t promise him anything. But I knew that no matter what, Felix would do what he believed was best.

I could still hear the faint sound of pencils scratching on paper. On the television screen, a sports commentator narrated feebly while a ball passed back and forth. Otherwise, there was not a sound to be heard in the bar. Aside from myself, the only other customer was a thirty-something man sitting in the far, dimly lit corner. He kept scrolling on his phone, looking up once in a while to sip the pint of beer before him. Under the weak lighting, his face looked thin and gaunt.

The television programming abruptly switched to the nightly news. There were more reports of wild boars storming into the city and startling citizens. Every witness they interviewed retold the scenes in vivid detail. Mouths opened and closed nonstop. I didn’t listen to what they said too carefully, but I felt that all I saw before me were sharp tusks, ready to bite. Then I heard a pretty junior reporter say that although the wild boars we have here don’t have long tusks, getting bitten would result in flesh wounds and nerve damage, and could lead to viral infections. Wild boars were a menace to society, she said. The agricultural department had long classified the local boars as “a highly dangerous species of large wild animal” . . .

Then, the screen cut to the viral clip of the cop who had been injured by a boar. In the roughly one-minute clip, the cop was knocked over again and again until he’d fallen flat on his back. I dared not show this clip during class, for fear that the students would break out laughing, defeating the purpose of the assignment.

“Now, it would have been strange for the boar to not attack him!”

The words came from the man in the corner.

“How come?” I asked.

“Don’t you see what he’s got in his hand?”

Only then did I realize that the cop was holding a glow stick and a bright flashlight, which would explain the stagelike lighting effects that could be seen as he fell.

I gave a friendly nod in the man’s direction. Then we sat together and struck up a conversation.

“You know, I was there that night, and saw that same boar,” he said.

“Really?” I was taken aback.

“I’m a veterinarian. I was hired by the agricultural department on a contract basis and was on standby that day.” He let out a deep sigh. “But it was no use, the boar ended up falling over the mountain to its death.”

“How did he fall off the mountain?”

“I didn’t see. By the time I saw him, he was already taking his last breath at the foot of the hill.”

“Did he get cornered and fall?”

“I don’t know if it was an accident or not.” The man gazed into the distance, as if lost in thought. “I’ve never once used the anesthetic gun I bring with me, but even if I had that day, the outcome would have been the same. Once the boar got captured, he wouldn’t have been able to escape death anyway.”

“Escape death?”

“By euthanasia. A humane death.”

I asked him if he agreed with animal euthanasia, or the idea of giving animals a humane death. He asked me if I agreed with the word “humane” to begin with. Then came a short period of silence. He downed the rest of his drink and ordered another pint. The man said his name was Eric. He’d been helping the agricultural department sterilize and relocate the boars for three years. Whenever too many wild boars started to appear, or disturbed the citizens, there would be an “operation.” They’d use anesthetic guns to shoot down the wild boars, perform the sterilization surgery within a matter of hours, and then move them to a remote area far away from the city.

“You know, all the wild boars I’ve encountered are extremely docile, and they don’t smell at all, either,” said Eric. “They’ll eat the food that’s available to them and leave if there isn’t any. They’re quiet, too. Much cuter than the stray dogs that live in the villages.”

“But it’s true that they sometimes disturb and threaten people in the city . . .” I began.

“That depends on how you see it. Wild boars had their reasons for migrating to the city, and to understand them, you have to observe how their habitats have changed in recent years. In the city, they can find places to roam and wander. If you look closely, you’ll see that they’ve established their own rules for existing in the city’s crevices, so as not to disturb the citizens. Perhaps we can think of this as a communion between boars and humans. If we’d let them abide by their rules and quietly go about their days, living peaceful lives, I’m sure they wouldn’t have gone crazy, were it not for external threats.”

Eric sipped on his beer, and his eyes lit up in the dark. “All these years, a pig has never been subjected to euthanasia under my watch. I always try to find a way for them to live. I remember one time, when we were in the field, a boar hit its upper jaw and broke its snout. I immediately performed surgery on him and assessed the situation. Ultimately, the agricultural department respected my decision, and didn’t send him to get euthanized.”

Eric made air quotes when he said the word “euthanized.” “Every life is precious, and wild boars are no exception. You know, sometimes I think I can hear the sounds they make—not animal sounds, but a kind of language. They’re trying to tell me something. They don’t get too close, maybe because I’m holding a gun and appear murderous, but they’re trying hard to tell me something. And what they say when they’re calm is not the same as what they say when they’re afraid. When they’re afraid they don’t beg for mercy. Rather, they ask questions, questions loaded with anger and confusion. I cannot give them an answer. I’m taking aim. I’m holding my breath. I’m calculating how many shots it would take to bring them down. I blame myself, but I also feel helpless. I’m just doing my job. And yet, when I operate on them, I know that they know who I am, even though they’re under anesthesia.”

After he spoke, Eric lapsed into deep thought once more.

“One of my students says he has spoken with the boars before,” I said, almost to myself. Eric seemed to not hear me. He took another sip of his beer, wiped the corners of his mouth, and continued.

“When I’m taking aim, I often have to think about how many shots I’m going to need, because you want to be really careful when using a tranquilizer. If I shoot too many times and the dosage is too high, I’ll only make them suffer more. Ah, in this way, I’m just like my father.”

“Was he also a vet?”

“No, he was part of the wild boar hunting squad.”

“Hunting squad?”

“It was an organization that existed a few years ago to slaughter wild boars on command, and without mercy.”

“So they weren’t using tranquilizers like you are . . .”

“They used Remington model shotguns! One of those things can hold over a hundred small bullets. Even if they don’t kill the boars, they’ll seriously injure them. My father used to say you should aim for the head, so that you can kill them in one stroke. If you hit their legs, the pigs will survive the shot and run amok. By aiming for the head, you’ll lessen their pain. If you hit anywhere else, you’d better catch up to them quick and try to shoot them in the head, so you can end their suffering.”

Eric’s face appeared even more gaunt than before. “Ha, one shot, one kill, I guess that’s a humane death for you.”

I dared not interrupt, so I just sipped my drink and stared at the foam in my glass. In the dim light, Eric closed his eyes, then blinked them open again, like two lanterns flickering faintly.

“My old man had some principles, too. He wouldn’t kill piglets. This, I respected about him. But even if he didn’t, others would. One time I showed my father a newspaper clipping about three young pigs who had been killed by hunters, and he said he didn’t know who’d done it. I also said there were reports of hunters sharing the meat with others and roasting it at restaurants, but my father said he hadn’t heard of such things. The larger the tree, the more broken branches it will have, he’d say, as if to justify their misdeeds.”

“So is that why you’re now helping the agricultural department sterilize the wild boars and relocate them to the countryside?”

Eric chuckled but didn’t directly answer my question.

“Whether they live or die is not up to us to decide. I hope that no life will be snuffed out because of me. What I want most is to release the wild boars on some remote, no-man’s island where they can freely forage and reproduce, without having to experience euthanasia or any human impact on their lives. But the department tells me that such migration is increasingly impossible to achieve.”

“Why?”

“They showed me a clip of a large wild boar swimming for his life out at sea. I don’t know if the boar was scared by the person filming on the boat, but he kept swimming faster and faster, toward a brightly lit city in the distance.”

“So he was swimming away from the island and back to the city?”

“Guess so.”

“Was it because there wasn’t enough food on the island, or some other reason . . . ?”

“Dunno. Maybe it was because the island wasn’t their home. Home was back in the city.”

“Ah, the city . . . ”

“Sometimes I think we shouldn’t call them wild boars. ‘City boars’ might be a better name.”

Eric took another large swig of his beer. I sat in silence for a while before responding. “I never knew wild boars could swim.”

“There’s a lot that we don’t know about.”

“That’s for sure.”

“Perhaps I will quit working for the department.”

“Because the migration plan won’t work?”

“No, because they want us to start ‘culling’ the boars instead.”

“Culling?”

“Selective slaughter. You still tranquilize the boars, not to sterilize them, but to prepare them for euthanasia. This, I can’t do. I once killed a young boar by mistake and can’t get blood on my hands again . . .”

Eric spread out his fingers, which looked frail under the dim light, and trembled slightly.

“You killed a suckling?”

“At the time I was aiming for its mother. My tranquilizer was pointed at her neck, and I was calculating how many shots I’d need. There was a small pig beside her, quietly grazing on something on the ground. I think he felt a sense of security, even though they were in the city, surrounded by cars and pedestrians. He was completely at ease, and did not sense that danger was near. I was mesmerized by that small boar. I could almost hear the words he was saying as he chewed quietly. What was he trying to tell me? Perhaps you’ll think it strange, that I could hear him speaking to me. But that’s how I felt at the time, and I couldn’t explain it either. I was looking at the markings on the pig’s body. They looked like the markings of a small deer or zebra, which typically go away once the pig comes of age. I was lost in my own thoughts, entranced. At that moment, without realizing it, I pulled the trigger. And hit the small boar. And because the dosage was too strong, we couldn’t save it. The mother refused to leave her child’s side, and I just stood there, dazed. In the end, a colleague gave the mother a few shots of her own, too.”

Eric no longer sighed, but seemed to grow more withered as he spoke, like a wrinkled piece of paper in a dark corner that one might occasionally glimpse. The bar was still empty, as it usually was during these pandemic times. The bartender was secretly mixing some mysterious cocktail. Two election posters were plastered on the glass doors, like a pair of door gods guarding the entrance. Everything seemed as it should be. Eric and I had emptied our glasses, and were just about to stand up, when we saw a small boar, with markings on its body, pressed up against the glass, making a rustling sound as it spied on what was going on inside. Even I could hear in its rustling the hushed message it was sending.

***

When the baby boar first burst forth from its mother’s body, its pink skin was covered in a layer of fluid that I used an old rag to wipe away, revealing delicate skin underneath. Tenderly, I placed it in a bamboo basket padded with grass. One after another, four small piglets gradually filled the basket, their eyes tightly shut, fumbling their way around.

They didn’t make much noise, poking around the grass feebly, yet with determination. Then, under the glow of bulbs warming the winter air, each piglet lined up by their mother and began suckling. Their eyes remained closed, but they knew where to go. Their mother’s body was the source of their warmth, and they knew it as soon as they were born. The rustling sound they made as they fed on their mother’s milk seemed to say something I could understand.

I stared at the pigs’ pale butts facing in my direction. Then, I grabbed a piglet, turned it upside down, and allowed my knife to fall below its crotch. Then came a shrill cry, and the sound of two small testicles falling into a porcelain bowl. The pig’s wound was smeared over with Vaseline, but the ointment couldn’t cover up the whimpers that followed as the rumps limped around in pain.

Amid the sounds of their hunger, occasional squabbles, I counted down their days. I noticed that infections began to spread on their hooves and mouths, turning them red and swollen. They’d lie prostrate on the floor all day, moaning in pain, unable to even stand up at feeding time. Later on, I put the bloated corpse of a pig in a wooden cart and took it to the garbage dump. Could I throw out a pig this way? I asked a question that had no other answer. Afterward, I heard that some people would make char-siu pork out of the pigs that died from foot and mouth disease, making me reluctant to touch char-siu for the next several months.

The dead pig made no sound. Or perhaps there was a message in his muteness. Perhaps his silent death was a message in itself. After disposing of him at the garbage station I turned back repeatedly, seeing his eyes wide open, the whites of his eyes taking up more space than the black.

Finally, their time had come. Many iron cages arrived that resembled pillories used in the olden days to torture prisoners. One by one the boars entered the cages. Some went obediently, accepting their fates after a few slaps in the right direction. Some refused to go in, feet remaining nailed to the floor, no matter how hard the swineherd pushed and shoved. I looked into their eyes, which had nothing to say. Their piercing cries turned into ragged groans until, at last, there was only the rasped sound of their breathing.

I stood on the sidelines and watched. I listened carefully. I wanted to hear what they were saying. But it was no use. The packed iron cages moved out, the space was cleared, and my childhood passed along with them.

Afterward, the days were filled with sounds. But these sounds were nothing but sounds, and carried no message.

***

I woke from my dream.

It was the school disciplinary officer who’d nudged me awake. I’d fallen asleep from exhaustion at the table in the staff room, for who knows how long.

“The principal wants to see you. It’s about Felix.”

I made it to the principal’s office, where Felix and a few other students were present. The principal was in the middle of saying something, but Felix turned to me and declared:

“Head Boy is dead!”

“Head Boy? Which student?” I was startled.

“No, Head Boy the wild boar! Last night the men from the agricultural department shot him dead.”

“Now, that’s not what happened,” interrupted the principal. “He was tranquilized, is all.”

“And what do you think happens after that? Won’t he meet the same fate, and get ‘put down’? What they call a ‘humane’ death? Is it ‘humane’ to put down a kind little boar?”

“Felix, watch your tone!” I cautioned.

“Right,” continued the principal, turning to me. “I called you here because you’re their teacher, and need to discipline your class.” He brushed away a strand of hair hanging disobediently from his receding hairline. “They’ve got some nerve . . . without my permission, they set up some kind of wild boar advocacy group for middle school students, and even encouraged fellow students to spread awareness outside school, about defending something or the other . . .”

“Defending wild boars’ right for survival!” Felix cut in.

“That’s it. What rights could wild boars possibly have? As educators, we have a responsibility to protect our students from getting caught up in protests and such. This is dangerous. Not to mention we’re in a pandemic, with restrictions on public gatherings. I’m actually defending you, don’t you see? As educators . . .”

I was positive that Felix didn’t hear a word the principal said. But when he left the office, he took down the wild boar advocacy posters he’d put up on the civic engagement notice board. Felix carefully folded up each poster and put it in his backpack.

“Sometimes it’s best to get things done yourself, to avoid being ‘put down’ by others,” he said to me angrily.

“You’ll disband this school club of yours, won’t you?”

“We won’t have to, there’s only a few of us anyway. We aren’t a formal organization, we operate freely, and we’ve never linked up with groups outside of school either. We’re just doing what we want to do.” He suddenly flashed me a smile. “Don’t worry, sir. I won’t involve you in all this.”

My face turned bright red. I knew what Felix meant.

“Tomorrow we’re headed to the district that files the most complaints about wild boars. Do you want to join us?”

“Uh, to do what?”

“To protect us. You know, as our educator.”

My face turned red again.

“Felix, I know you don’t want to listen to me . . . but you must be careful. Whatever you do, don’t push yourself too hard. You’re all still young, you’ve got your whole future ahead of you . . .”

Felix gave a hearty laugh and waved goodbye with his back turned to me. I watched his youthful silhouette retreat into the distance.

“Head Boy is dead! Head Boy is dead!”

Felix was muttering to himself, and his voice grew fainter the farther he walked, but I could still clearly hear the words coming out of his mouth.

***

In a daze, I returned to the bar. The foam on top of my Murphy’s tasted as rich and dreamy as ever. The shadow in the corner seemed darker than before. But there was no gaunt face looking back at me this time. His stool was vacant, and the rest of the bar was empty, too. The bartender was still mixing cocktails I couldn’t name, and the look of concentration on his face reminded me of Felix. What was that boy planning to do in a place crawling with wild boars, facing agricultural officers and ever-armed cops? He’s so young, but if he were to act impulsively, how would they treat him then? I thought again of the pig he named Head Boy. Although I’d never met him, I remembered the small pig I’d seen lurking outside the bar the other night. Perhaps that was how Head Boy had looked. Head Boy, who had now moved on to a different universe . . . was that universe the same one from my childhood? A world with things a grown-up world doesn’t have, like the markings of a small deer . . .

“Sir, would you like to try this?”

I looked up and saw the bartender addressing me.

“Do you want to try this cocktail? It’s my latest attempt.” The bartender was serious. He waved the cocktail shaker in his hand. It was at this moment that I realized how young he was.

I nodded, and didn’t ask any questions. The bartender filled my glass with a color I had never seen before.

I took a sip, and tasted a strange bitterness that was somewhere between agreeable and disagreeable.

“Does it taste okay?” the bartender asked.

“Yeah.”

I took one sip after another until, slowly, the room around me began to take on the same color as the cocktail, and slosh around with it too . . .

The TV that had been streaming the Premier League football game suddenly cut to a different scene, abrupt as a knife. There was a forest. Many mouths opened and closed, and the atmosphere was tense. A few rays of light shot out from the dim forest. Then the camera zoomed in to show a few wild boars quietly wandering amid the blur.

The narrator was saying that the agriculture officers were using pieces of bread to lure the wild boars. Nearby, people held tranquilizer guns with their fingers on the trigger. Those with shields stood at the blocked intersections as if on guard for any potential threat. I looked at the people holding tranquilizer guns, trying to see if Eric was among them, but couldn’t tell. The camera was too shaky, and I couldn’t see a gaunt face, like a piece of paper stuck in the corner.

While they waited, the narrator described the evil deeds that this group of wild boars and their compatriots were responsible for these past few days: they had killed a famous lady who lived on Mid-Levels, one of them had knocked over a judge’s niece on Shum Wan Road and left her half-paralyzed, the small boars on Tin Hau Temple Road had learned how to scale walls like the monkeys at the Shing Mun Reservoir and could be seen in broad daylight, climbing on the ditches outside buildings and into units through unlocked windows, eating enough food to feed an entire household. Then came a montage of the events: an injured woman, crying faces outside the morgue, a living room that looked as if it had been ravaged by a typhoon. Then, a close-up of the wild boars’ tusks, as they ran wild . . .

What these scenes confirm, the narrator said solemnly, is that wild boars pose a serious risk to this city’s safety, and should be considered a highly dangerous species of large wild animals. That they should be killed on sight is already something all citizens have reached a consensus on . . .

Mouths opened and closed nonstop, showing sharp tusks, tusks, and more tusks. Guns aimed to shoot. Shields pounded the ground. Lights in the forest flickered.

I realized with a shock that I recognized the scene—wasn’t this the forest by the school? Would Felix be nearby? I tried to search for his young figure in the shaking camera frame.

Then came the bang of a gun. But the wild boar didn’t fall. Eric had told me you’d need six straight shots to knock down a large one weighing nearly two hundred kilos.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang—

Then, silence. The camera showed a wild boar slowly toppling over.

Silence. The narrator forgot to even cry out.

The camera began to shake and retreat. The whole screen was full of boars, large and small, old and young. All were rushing toward the camera, then disappearing past the sides of its tilted frame, like running water, like a waterfall.

I hurried out of the bar. It was just at the bottom of the slope, not too far from the school. I saw the black storm rolling down the hill, getting closer and closer. I found it strange that I still felt so calm. Perhaps because I couldn’t hear anything, not even my own heartbeat, which should have been thumping. And even the wild boars didn’t make any noise as they ran. Their hooves seemed so soft and light. Their movements were fierce, but their hooves treaded quietly, as if kissing every inch of the city. Their mouths weren’t moving at all, not making any sound that would betray anger or sadness. They flowed wordlessly before my eyes, like gentle water passing through a valley, and then into the alleyways beyond the slope. Sometimes a shield would float on the water, like a small raft.

And then, I spotted Felix. He stood on a power box on the road, calling out to the stream running in all directions below. It was a voiceless cry, in the shape of a troubled silhouette.

Then, a small boar turned amid the rushing torrent.

Weren’t those markings on his body the same as Head Boy’s? The markings seemed to stir, and the boar’s eyes lit up. I saw Felix looking in the same direction. Then came a long, piercing cry that broadcast into the night, splitting it wide open—

That’s when I finally came to my senses.