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Fiction

City of Wild Boars

By Derek Chung
Translated from Chinese by May Huang
In this surreal short story, wild boars infiltrate a city, posing danger to and begging ethical questions of its citizens.
A wild boar bounds through a field.
Thomas Fuhrmann, CC BY-SA 4.0 Wikimedia Commons
Listen to Derek Chung read from "City of Wild Boars" in the original Chinese
 
 
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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.

“野豬城” copyright © by Derek Chung. Translation © 2024 by May Huang. All rights reserved.

English Chinese (Original)

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.

野豬城

1

窗外忽然亂哄哄的,我放下手上咬了半口的菠蘿包,走出教員室外。阿 sir,是野豬。中二乙班的葉寬走來說。在哪?我問。就在外面的斜路上。我走出去。幾個中一生猶有餘悸的在校門邊低頭竊竊私語,有時還轉頭偷瞥對面的斜路。那裏的人行道上也堆了好些人,都把頭往一個方向瞧。野豬呢?我問旁邊一個學生。不知道,剛才還在的,他們忽然就衝了過來。多少隻?好像三隻,不,四隻,三隻小的,一隻大的。有傷到人嗎?應該沒有。不是啊,另一個學生說,那個大叔,給那大野豬撞倒了,學生說時指著對面,就是他。我看見一個五十多歲的禿頭肥壯男人除下口罩頹坐在石壆上,腿上流著血,但他的臉比血還要紅,向著眾人目光的同一方向喝駡著我聽不清楚的字句。

「都是這大叔作的惡!」葉寬忽又站在我身旁。「不是他無緣無故去踢那小豬,那母豬就不會衝過來。」

葉寬悻悻然的樣子很認真。我很少看見他這般認真。

「葉寬,你在場?」

「可不是!我那時在跟斑長說話。」

「班長?」

「啊,是那隻小豬,我每天上學都碰到他,見他斑紋特別,便起了這個名字。」

「斑長會聽你說話嗎?」

「會的。我說話時他會停下來。但那大叔經過時卻嗤的笑了一聲,說豬懂人話嗎。我說不知道,但我知道他會聽。我也會去聽他的。然後那大叔就去踢斑長,很猛力地踢,說豬只會懂這個。」

我這才知道事情為甚麼會這樣發展了。「你有沒有去勸阻他?」我剛問出口便後悔了。

「他說這是大人的事!」

人一如往常沒有很快便散去。我看著斜路上那片山林,背光中墨綠入黑,混雜的市聲中像一個吸納了無數緘默的黑洞。我諦聽,好像聽出了一點點甚麼。

我如常回到教員室備課,改簿,安排輔導,偷望股價起落,間歇拿起那塊咬了半口的菠蘿包。校方報了警。有人傷了,警方和漁護署都派了人前來,問了好些話。也問了葉寬當時的情況。我不知道葉寬有沒有跟他們說他跟斑長說話這件事。

 

2

呷了一口 Murphy’s,泡沬中有淡淡的熟悉的咖啡焦味。酒吧上方的熒屏在重播著昨晚的歐聯比賽,但我的心思卻還在剛才的課堂上。葉寬問得很直接:

「為甚麼要搞平衡呢?對錯不是很清楚嗎?」

那是每兩周一次的作文課。我用了野豬闖入市區傷人為素材,要學生發表自己的感想。當然,我鄭重指出,你們大可用上次野豬在校門外闖蕩以致傷人的事件做個開頭,然後發表感想,以及,提出一些可行的方法,去解決這個問題。

我羅列了一些背景資料,包括政府和民間的意見,比如,繼續為野豬做絕育手術,然後把他們放回山林,或遷移到偏遠的地方甚或荒島去;又比如政府的辦法,把經常闖入市區,對市民有潛在危險的野豬,選擇捕捉,人道毁滅。

「大家要寫兩邊的意見,平衡論點,然後歸納,」我說:「說出你的看法。」

然後葉寬就站起來。

我還記得他剛上完體育課的樣子,汗還沿著額角、眼角不斷在流,他說話時,還好像聽到他喘息未定的聲音。

「阿 sir,野豬是無罪的。我可以只寫自己的觀點嗎?」

「那⋯⋯嗯⋯⋯」我竟不知道如何回答。「但,葉寬,我明白你的想法⋯⋯但,你不妨也看一看,野豬不斷繁殖,絕育手術也只不過是杯水車薪,越來越多的野豬闖進市區,一旦失控,後果便會很嚴重了⋯⋯你看看,那警察受傷的樣子,臀部給咬了一大口,滿腿是血,你也看過網上流傳的 video 吧?野豬瘋起來可不是玩的⋯⋯」

「那短片沒有拍到之前發生的事⋯⋯」平日頗好動甚至有點頑劣的葉寬,很認真地說,語速比往常急了許多。

「之前?之前發生了甚麼?」

「就是他們,那些野豬,他們的生存受到威脅啊!他們本來是很和平的,我常常在市區看見他們,都是安安靜靜地走路⋯⋯要不是漁護署要圍捕他們,又用電筒不斷照他們,他們也不會被逼成這樣,他們⋯⋯」

我已忘了這對話是怎樣結束的。或許我允了葉寬,讓他自由發揮吧,不必跟我的綱領;又或許,我顧全全班的公平,也顧及我的顏面,沒有答應他甚麼。但我知道葉寬無論怎樣,是只會依他認為對的方法來做的。

筆鋒沙沙磨擦紙面的聲音彷彿還在。球在熒屏上來來回回,只有一把有氣無力的旁述聲音。除此便是一片靜默。酒吧除了我這個顧客,只有對面角落暗處的一個約莫三十多歲的男子。他一直低頭滑手機,偶然抬起頭來呷一口面前的啤酒,昏暗的燈光下,是一張瘦棱枯槁的形容。

熒屏突然轉去了新聞。今日又有野豬闖進市區令市民受驚的消息。那些受訪者都把過程說得繪影繪聲。嘴巴不斷開開合合。我沒有細聽,只覺得映現在眼前的都是獠牙。然後聽到一把嬌滴滴的實習女記者說,這裏的野豬雖然沒有很長的獠牙,但給他們咬傷會傷及肌肉和神經線,而且還會感染葡萄球菌和鏈球菌,所以野豬是極度危險的,漁護署早已給這裏的野豬定性,他們是「有潛在危險的大型野生動物」⋯⋯

然後,熒屏播出了網上流傳的警察受襲短片。在這大約一分鐘的片段中,那名警察被撞得三番四次四腳朝天,狼狽不堪。我不敢在課堂上播這片,因為恐怕會在學生的一片哄笑聲中,達不到預期的啟導效果。

「這樣不被野豬襲擊才怪!」

是暗角的男子。

「為甚麼呢?」

「你看,他手上拿著的是甚麼?」

我這才察覺到那名警察手上拿著螢光棒和強力電筒,難怪他在受襲時製造了有若舞台的光影效果。

我友善地向他點頭。然後,我們便坐到一塊,聊了起來。

「你知道嗎?那天晚上我也在那裏,看見過那野豬。」他說。

「是嗎?」我有點驚訝。

「我是在 standby,我是漁護署外判的獸醫,」他嘆了一口氣,「不過都沒有用,那豬最後還是跌落山崖死了。」

「他為甚麼跌落山崖?」

「我沒有看見。看見他時已在崖下奄奄一息了。」

「是因為逼得他太緊嗎?」

「我不知道那是不是意外,」他忽然望向遠處,若有所思。「我帶來的麻醉槍完全沒用過,不過,用了結果也會一樣,他被捉回去也是難逃一死⋯⋯」

「難逃一死?」

「人道毁滅。」

我問他認同人道毁滅嗎?他問我是否認同「毁滅」這個詞?然後是短暫的沉默。他喝下餘下的啤酒,再叫來一 jar。他說他叫 Eric,幫漁護署做外判野豬絕育及遷移計劃已有三年,當有太多野豬出沒,或對市民造成騷擾時便會有 operation。他們用麻醉槍把野豬打倒,便會在數小時內進行絕育手術,然後把他們遷移到比較偏遠的地方去。

「你知道嗎?我所見過的野豬,都很溫馴,而且一點也不臭。」Eric 說:「他們有東西便吃,沒東西吃便走,很安靜,比起村狗或地盤狗來,他們可愛多了。」

「但有時對市民造成滋擾和威脅也是真的⋯⋯」

「那要看你怎樣看了,野豬落到市區,必有其理由,你要看看他們的生存空間,這幾年有沒有改變。而他們能在市區找到一個空間遊走,你細心觀察,他們其實已培養出一些能讓他們在這個城市狹縫中生存,不會讓市民覺得太過滋擾的規矩。或許,這便叫做人豬共融吧。他們守著這規矩,安安靜靜地討生活,過日子,要不是有甚麼脅逼他們,我想,他們也不致發飆發狂。」

Eric 呷了一口生啤,雙眼在暗處隱約放光。「這幾年在我手上,從沒有把一隻野豬送去人道毁滅。我總是想辦法讓他們生存下來。記得有一次在我們行動時,一隻野豬撞到上顎連鼻都斷了,我即時為他做手術,評估過情況,漁護署也尊重我的決定,沒有送他去人道毁滅。」

他說「毁滅」時雙手食指和中指做了個雙鈎的動作,續說:「生命是寶貴的,野豬的也不例外。你知道嗎,有時候,我真的認為自己聽到他們發出的聲音——不是 physical 的聲音,怎麼說呢,或者叫做一種話語吧。他們透過發出的聲音在跟我說話,雖然,或許我拿著槍,殺氣太重,他們不敢靠近,但他們也在努力嘗試跟我說話,平靜時說的,跟恐懼時說的不同,恐懼時那些話語絕對不是求饒,我清楚知道,而是一些質問,一些帶點憤怒和不解的質問。我沒能給他們答案。我在瞄準。我在屏氣。我數算著要多少槍才能把他們擊倒。我有點怨責自己。但無可奈何。我職責上要做的事僅此而已。然而,我相信在我為他們做手術時,他們是知道我的,雖然他們在麻醉的狀態下。」

Eric 說完又陷入良久的沉思。

「我有一個學生,也說自己在跟野豬說話。」我說,倒有點像自言自語。Eric 顯然沒有怎樣聽進去,他豪飲了一口生啤,抹了抹嘴角,續說:

「我在瞄準時經常盤算自己到底要用多少槍,是因為用麻醉槍真的要很小心。我不想多開,劑量過大會讓他們受苦。這點,嘿,竟跟我父親一樣。」

「世伯也是獸醫?」

「不是。他是野豬狩獵隊成員。」

「野豬狩獵隊?」

「幾年前還存在的,接到命令出動,奉旨對野豬格殺勿論的殺豬組織!」

「那他們用的不是麻醉槍吧,跟你不一樣⋯⋯」

「他們用雷明登霰彈槍!一發一百零八粒細彈,嘿,打不死也重傷。我父親說,打時要一擊即中,打頭,打頭即死!打中頸或手手腳腳,野豬生命力強,會帶傷亂衝亂走。打頭,便會減輕他們的痛苦。要是打中手手腳腳,你便要快快追上,打頭,也是為了減去他們受傷所承受的痛苦。」

Eric 的臉上更枯槁了。「嘿嘿,一野打死,就是人道了。」

我不敢置一詞,只呷著黑啤,呆望著那些泡沫。Eric 在暗處閉上眼,然後張開,像兩盞微弱的燈。

「我父親還是有一些原則的,嘿,他不打幼豬。這個,我是尊重的。但他不打,人家會打。那時我拿著報紙不起眼的角落上關於三隻小豬給狩獵隊打死的報道給父親看,他說不知道是誰打的。我又說有報道曾說有狩獵隊成員把野豬肉給眾人分吃和到酒樓烹食,他也說全不知情。樹大有枯枝,這是他的說詞。」

「這是你現在幫漁護署做野豬絕育和放回野外的原因嗎?」

Eric 笑了一笑,沒有直接回答我的問題。

「他們是有生存的權利的,不是由我們賦予。我真希望,沒有一個生命在我手上消失。你知道嗎,我最想把野豬放到偏遠的,渺無人煙的離島去,也不用絕育,讓他們自由自在的在野間覓食,繁殖後代,完全不受人類影響。但是,漁護署的同事說,這遷移計劃也漸不可行了。」

「為甚麼?」

「他們給我看一個片段,片段中有一隻大野豬拼命地在海上游,不知是不是受拍攝的船艇驚嚇,他越游越快,而前方,是隱約萬家燈火的市區。」

「他從離島游回市區?」

「應該是這樣吧。」

「離島沒有足夠的食物,還是別的原因⋯⋯」

「我不知道,或許,離島不是他們的家。他們的家在市區。」

「嗯,在市區⋯⋯」

「有時候,我想,他們也不應叫野豬,叫城豬更貼切吧。」

Eric又呷了一大口啤酒。我低頭沉默了一會,才再開口:「我從來不知道野豬會游水。」

「我們不知道的事情可多呢。」

「這個很對。」

「或許,我不會再做漁護署這個工作了。」

「是因為遷移計劃不可行?」

「不,是因為他們現在改變了做法,要我們做 culling。」

「Culling?」

「即是捕殺,選擇性捕殺。打麻醉槍不是為了做絕育手術,而是送去人道毁滅!這個我做不來!我曾經錯手誤殺過一隻小野豬,我不能再讓手上沾血。」

Eric 把雙手攤出來,昏燈中棱棱⻣瘦,有點抖。

「你殺過小野豬?」

「那時我只是瞄準那頭大母豬,我對著他的頸項,盤算著要打多少發。他的身旁有一隻小豬,十分安靜地在嚼著地上的甚麼,或許,他在感受著一種安全感,即使是在市區,車聲嘈雜,人聲喧鬧,但他還是很安樂自在,完全沒有任何危機意識。我當時看著看著,竟然入了迷。我彷彿聽到他細細咀嚼時發出的話語,他在告訴我一些甚麼呢?說來你或會覺得奇怪,我怎會聽出一些甚麼信息呢?但我當時確是如此,連我自己也不知道。我望著小豬背上的斑紋,有點像小鹿,有點像斑馬,那是當野豬成年後便會消失的毛斑,我不知不覺便呆住了,像入了定。就在那當下,我一時不覺,扳機便扣下了。中槍的是那小豬。因為麻藥劑量過多,救不回來了。那母豬看見了,也不肯走,一直守在倒下的小豬旁。我一直呆在那裏,最後,是同事為母豬補上幾槍。」

Eric 已沒有再嘆氣了,只是形容一再在昏燈中枯槁下去,像一張貼在暗角偶然略見皺動的紙。酒吧還是沒有其他人,在這疫情期間繼續一如平日保持冷清。酒保在秘密地調校著不知甚麼雞尾酒。大門的玻璃,明明白白地貼著兩張選舉宣傳海報,像一對門神。是的,一切都完善了。我和 Eric 把酒杯裏最後的酒都乾了,正要站起來,便見大門外有一隻長著小鹿般斑紋的小野豬,貼著玻璃,窸窸窣窣的窺伺門內的一切。然後,連我也聽到那窸窸窣窣嗦中隱約傳遞著的信息。

 

3

嬰豬從母豬忽然張開的陰道裏唧出來,粉紅的身上還裹著一層包衣。我用舊毛巾把包衣抹走,小豬的身體更粉紅了。我小心翼翼地把他放在鋪了禾稈草的竹籮裏。然後,一隻接一隻,竹籮裏便滿是閉著眼,四處尋索的小豬了。

他們沒有發出很多聲音。那種在禾稈草中的尋索很微弱,但他們還是那麼鍥而不捨。接著,在冬天垂下的暖燈泡下,他們一隻一隻的排好隊,在躺下的母豬懷中吃奶。他們還是閉著眼,但總是知道乳頭在哪兒。那是他們溫暖的泉源,他們一出生便曉得。他們窸窸窣窣細細吸吮的聲音,讓我彷彿聽懂了一些甚麼。

我看見小豬的白屁股朝著我。我緊緊地夾著倒轉的他,讓刀片在他的胯下切下去。一陣淒厲的慘叫聲,兩顆小小的睪丸便掉落在瓷碗裏。小豬的傷口塗了一抹凡士林,卻怎也蓋不住在其後蹩行中發出的痛苦的餘音。

我在他們乙乙的,或因饑餓或因偶然的困獸打鬥而發出的聲響中數算著他們的日子。然後,我忽然發覺他們的四蹄和嘴部紅腫潰爛,一整天躺著地上呻吟,連餵飼的時間到了也站不起來。然後,我把一隻浮腫的死豬,用木頭車送到垃圾站棄掉。可以這樣棄掉嗎?我問了也沒有另一個答案。然後我聽說有人把因口蹄症死掉的豬用來做叉燒,讓我好幾個月也不敢去碰叉燒。

那頭死去的豬沒有發出任何聲響。或許,他不發聲便是一種信息。以沉默的死亡來作為一種信息。我棄掉他時一再回頭,看到他的眼睛張得很大,白的部分比黑的多。

時日真的到了。來了許多個像囚枷的鐵籠。然後他們一隻一隻進入其中。他們有些很順利,拍打幾次,誘導幾次,便進了鐵籠,安靜地接受了他們的命運。有一些則怎也不肯進去,任豬販怎樣拼命推搡拉扯,還是釘在原處不動分毫。我看著他們的眼睛,那些眼睛裏已沒有話說。他們的叫聲也開始不再淒厲,而是像呻吟般斷斷續續,最後,只餘下一些哼哼唧唧的呼氣聲音。

我在旁觀。我默默諦聽。我想從中聽出一些甚麼。但還是徒然。鐵籠滿載成果地搬走了,場清了,我的童年也就這樣過去了。

然後,日子裏滿是聲音。而聲音只是聲音,沒有任何信息。

 

4

我從夢中醒過來。

是訓導熊 sir 推醒了我。原來我伏在教員室桌上因憊極而打盹,已不知過了多久。

「校長要見你,是關於中二乙班葉寬的事。」

我來到校長室,葉寬和幾個同學都在。校長未說甚麼事,葉寬便一個勁兒跟我說:

「斑長死了!」

「班長死了,哪個班長?」我吃了一驚。

「那小豬啊,他昨晚給漁護署的人打死了。」

「沒那回事,正確說法,他是給麻醉。」校長說。

「麻醉後呢?還不是一樣!甚麼人道毁滅?殺一隻善良的小豬,叫做人道嗎?」

「葉寬,注意點態度。」我說。

「對了,我叫你來,是你作為班主任,也該管束他們一下。」半秃頭的校長撥了撥額上一縷不聽話地垂下來的稀髮,說:「他們的膽子可大呢,沒有得到我們的同意,竟在學校裏搞了個甚麼野豬關注組中學生分會,還組織同學到外面去,說要捍衛甚麼⋯⋯」

「是捍衛野豬生存的權利。」葉寬插嘴說。

「就是了。野豬能有甚麼權利?我們作為教育工作者,反而是有責任保護你們,不要受人唆擺搞對抗,這是很危險的事,何況在疫情下,有限聚令甚麼的。我們其實是在捍衛你們啊,你們不知道嗎?我們作為教育工作者⋯⋯」

葉寬肯定沒有把這些話聽進去。但他離開校長室後,還是把公民學會通告欄上那些呼籲同學關注野豬的海報除下了。他把海報小心摺好,小心放在書包裏。

「還是自己動手好,免得被他們『毁滅』。」葉寬猶悻悻然地對我說。

「你這中學生分會也會解散吧?」

「不用解散,也就只有我們這幾個人。我們沒有組織,很鬆散的,也從來沒有連繫過校外甚麼團體,只是想做的事,就做而已。」他忽然給我一個笑臉。「阿 sir 你不用擔心,我不會連累你的。」

「⋯⋯」我臉上一紅。我知道他為甚麼這樣說。

「明天我們會去野豬給投訴最多的地方,阿 sir 你會來嗎?」

「來做甚麼?」

「來保護我們啊,你們作為教育工作者。」

我又臉上一紅。

「葉寬,雖然你不愛聽,但千萬要小心,甚麼事也好,不要勉強,你們,你們還年青,來日方長⋯⋯」

葉寬哈哈大笑,背著我向我揮了揮手。我望著他年青的背影離去。

「斑長死了!斑長死了!」

葉寬喃喃自語的說話,雖然因距離漸遠而很微弱,但我還是清清楚楚地聽見。

 

5

恍惚中我又回到那酒吧。Murphy’s 的泡沫還是那麼豐盛和夢幻。暗角的昏燈好像更暗了。沒有貼著一張枯槁的臉。那張櫈空著。整個酒吧也空著。酒保還在調弄我所不知道的雞尾酒,認真的樣子讓我想起葉寬。葉寬,他會在野豬出沒的地方幹甚麼呢,面對漁護署的人員和甚麼時候也戒備著的警察?他那麼年少,若衝動起來,別人會對他怎樣呢?我又想起那叫斑長的小野豬來。我雖沒有見過他,但想起那天看到酒吧門外徘徊的那隻小豬,也應該就是那個樣子了。斑長,如今已到了另一個世界,那個世界是否就是我童年的那個呢?那個世界,有成年沒有的,像小鹿的斑紋⋯⋯

「先生,想試一下嗎?」

我抬頭望向酒保。

「想試一下嗎,這個,我的新嘗試?」酒保搖了搖手上的調酒器,認真地問。我這才發覺酒保原來十分年青。

我點了點頭,也沒有問是甚麼。酒保滿滿地倒了一杯。顏色是我從來沒想過的。

我呷了一口,味道苦澀得怪異。那口味,我在接受與不接受之間。

「怎樣?可以嗎?」酒保問。

「可以。」

我接著一口一口的呷,漸漸,四周就出現與酒相同的顏色,跟我的酒一起開始晃動⋯⋯

酒吧的熒屏忽然中斷了剛才還播著的英超足球,畫面像刀一樣快準狠地切到一座山林前。有很多張嘴在不斷翕動著,氣氛很緊張。我看到昏黑的山林裏射出幾道精光。然後鏡頭拉近,朦朧中看到幾隻在安靜地閒蕩的野豬。

旁述說漁護署的人在用麵包引野豬出來。持麻醉槍的在附近緊按著槍枝。持盾牌的在封了的路口如臨大敵。我望著那些持麻醉槍的人,想分辨一下其中有沒有 Eric 的身影。在像與不像之間。鏡頭太晃動,我找不到一張凝定的,像一張紙貼在那裏的,枯槁的臉。

在等待間,旁述述說了這幾天來這群野豬及其同胞們的惡行:這山林的野豬撞死了一個半山名媛,深灣道的野豬把一個法官的姪女撞得半身癱瘓了,天后廟道的小野豬們學曉了攀爬的技術,大白天也能像城門水塘的猴子一樣,連群結黨的沿大廈外牆的水渠爬到窗戶沒關好的單位裏,吃掉了一屋可以吃下去的東西⋯⋯我看到快速剪接的畫面:受傷的女子,殮房外的哭臉,像遭颱風蹂躪過的家居⋯⋯然後是野豬的獠牙大特寫,他們狂奔亂撞的瘋狂樣子⋯⋯

旁述鄭重地說,這些畫面,讓我們更能確認這一點:野豬絕對是危害城市安全的,高度危險的大型野生動物。格殺勿論,這已經是全體市民的共識⋯⋯

嘴巴不斷開開合合。獠牙,獠牙,獠牙。槍枝在瞄準。盾牌在敲擊地面。山林裏的精光一閃一閃。

倏忽間我驚覺這山林,不就是學校斜路上的那座嗎!葉寬會在附近嗎?我在搖晃的直播鏡頭裏,努力尋找那年青的身影。

突然槍聲一響。野豬沒有倒下。Eric 說過,要讓一隻重近二百公斤的大野豬倒下,要連開六槍。

砰!砰!砰!砰!砰——

沉默。鏡頭裏一頭大野豬慢慢倒下。

沉默。旁述連呼叫也忘了。

鏡頭晃動著,不斷後退。整個畫面都是野豬。大大小小的野豬,老老少少的野豬,都在向鏡頭狂奔,然後從歪倒的鏡頭兩旁竄過,像流水,像瀑布。

我連忙走出酒吧外。酒吧距離學校很近,就在斜路下端。我看見斜路上急捲而來的黑色的風暴,越來越近,越來越近。我奇怪我為甚麼還會如此鎮靜。大抵,是因為我這時聽不見任何聲音。我聽不見自己心跳的聲音。那理應是在顫動著的。而野豬們跑動也沒有發出任何聲音。他們的蹄好像很軟,很柔。動作看似猛厲但四蹄卻放得很輕,像在親吻著城市的每寸地面。他們的嘴巴也沒有絲毫翕動,沒有發出任何顯示憤怒或悲哀的聲音。他們沉默地在我眼前流過,像溫柔的水流過河谷,然後流到斜路下面的街街巷巷裏。有時流水上面浮著一面盾牌,看上去就像一葉扁舟。

這時我便看見了葉寬。他站在斜路的一個電箱上,不停地朝四面的流水呼喊。儘管那是沒有聲音的呼喊,只餘下一個不平靜的黑色剪影。

而這時,流水中有一隻小豬回頭。

那斑紋,不就是跟斑長一樣嗎?斑紋聳動了一下,眼睛裏精光一閃,我看見葉寬也朝這裏望過來。接著,便是一聲震破了這個夜晚的長長的呼號——

這時我才醒過來。

 

2021年12月

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