Corsican Honor

by William Heffernan

  The path they were on forked at a large outcropping, one path going off and down into a thick maze to the right, the other going off to the left, then rising in the direction from which they had just come.

  Antoine moved out on the rock face. A small snake slithered across his path, and he kicked it with his boot and sent it tumbling and writhing into the brush as he muttered oaths in Corsican that Alex did not understand.

  His father had warned him there were poisonous snakes in the maquis, and that was why he had to wear the high boots he had bought him. He had wanted to wear his sneakers—he always wanted to wear them—but he was glad now he had listened to his father and had worn the thick leather that went halfway up his calf.

  “Was that snake poisonous?” he asked Antoine.

  “I don’t know. It didn’t bite me,” Antoine said. “The next one we see, I will let it bite, and if I drop dead you will know.”

  He laughed and rubbed Alex’s hair, then raised a finger to his lips. “It is time to be quiet now. To wait and listen for the dogs, so we will know the way the hunt is going, and to watch for old cochon.”

  Alex looked behind him and was, surprised to see they were on a precipice with a drop of more than five hundred feet. The outcropping was narrow, and the only way off was the way they had come. If a boar charged them there was no way to run, no escape.

  He wondered why Antoine had chosen such a place. He considered it, then thought he had the answer. The boar would have used the paths many times, and it would know there was no reason to come this way, or even look in this direction. So, if it came along one of the paths that forked in front of them, they would see it before it saw them. He decided his uncle was a very smart hunter.

  The morning wore on, the sun rising at their backs, the warmth beating down on them. It had been cold early in the morning, and they had worn jackets against it. Now they took their jackets off and dropped them at their feet, and the sun felt warm and dry and comforting.

  The sound of dogs—the barking and the bells—came from their right, and Antoine pointed down into a deep ravine. There was a tiny clearing, and a flash of brown moved across it and was gone.

  “Pig,” Antoine whispered.

  Moments later two dogs raced through the same clearing and disappeared again.

  “Cochon is headed down to the place where Meme and your father are. He won’t come up to us unless he stops to fight the dogs, then changes direction.” He glanced at his watch. “It is a good time to go up and eat some food,” he said. He noted the look of disappointment in Alex’s eyes. “We will come back after we eat. This is the time the men usually gather for food.” He raised a finger. “Just a bite. It is not time for lunch yet. But we will eat, and we will listen to what the others have seen. And perhaps we will learn some secrets about the way the pigs are running today.”

  They gathered up their coats and started up again, and Alex wondered how many times they would climb up and down the steep terrain before the hunt was over.

  “Do you think Meme or my father will shoot that pig we saw?” he asked Antoine’s back.

  “It is hard to say. It is very thick down there, and sometimes a pig can be very close, but still you cannot see him.” He turned around and tapped his nose. “It is why my secret place is so much better. If the pig comes, we will see him.”

  The men were gathered on the road when Alex and Antoine climbed out of the maquis, some sitting on rocks, eating bread and drinking coffee from thermos jugs, others standing in small groups, speaking of what they had seen that morning.

  One, a burly man with bright red hair, was sitting on a long, flat rock with two others, quietly sharpening his knife. When he had finished, he feathered the blade with his thumb and gave it a look of concern. The man beside him had taken off his shirt, and his back was thickly matted with black hair. The redhead slid quietly next to him and, holding the knife like a straight razor, scraped it along his back. Then he looked at the blade, at the bald spot on the man’s back, and smiled.

  The man, who had been shaved, turned his head and muttered something in Corsican, and the redhead laughed and slid the knife into its sheath.

  Alex sat on a rock, eating a chunk of bread smeared with pâté and drinking from a thermos of milk. It was nine o’clock when they had started up, and the new warmth of the sun had made him sweat heavily on the climb, and he felt tired. He watched the men and saw that few of them seemed affected by the heat, and he wondered if they were simply used to it, or were so strong it didn’t bother them. He thought about what it would be like in the middle of the day, and he hoped Antoine would stay down longer next time. Then he remembered the great lunch they had brought with them, and he knew he would not.

  Antoine was talking with a group of men, and he made comic gestures describing the boar and the dogs they had seen. One of the men pointed down into the maquis and made a sweeping gesture with one arm, and Alex thought he was probably telling Antoine how he thought the boar would have gone.

  Antoine nodded, slapped the man on the shoulder, then came to Alex, taking a final bite from a huge chunk of bread he was eating.

  “We go back now,” he said. “I have told the beaters about our pig, and they will make a great circle and drive him back to us.”

  Alex stood, renewed excitement draining the fatigue from his body. “Do you think it will come?” he asked.

  “It is hard to tell with pigs,” Antoine said. “But I think so. I have decided to tie you to a stick and dangle you over the edge of the cliff. Then the pig will come like a fish to a worm.” He cuffed the boy lightly, then pulled him to his side and hugged him. “Come. This old pig is laughing at us, and we must seek revenge,” he said.

  As they headed toward their path, Meme and Piers came up out of the maquis, and Antoine gave his brother a disgusted wave. “There was a pig so close to you, I’m surprised it didn’t bite you on the ass,” he shouted. “Stop sleeping down there.” Meme returned the wave, but Antoine ignored it. “And if you are looking for food, there is none. We ate it all,” he roared.

  Piers nodded to his son, and Alex noticed he was mopping his face and neck with a large handkerchief, and the sight of it made his legs feel suddenly stronger. At least he wasn’t the only one the heat and the maquis had beaten down.

  The climb down seemed shorter this time, and Alex recognized many of the twists and turns they had taken earlier. The scent of the maquis seemed stronger too; it was deeper and richer, as though the sun had baked the foliage and made it more aromatic.

  When they reached the precipice, Alex scanned the ground for the snake that had been there earlier, but it had not returned, and they took up their position and stared down into the ravine where they had seen the boar.

  They saw the beaters a half hour later, four dogs running in front, their bells clanging as they forced their way through the thick tangle of foliage. Alex could hear the men calling and singing more clearly now. The voice of one man—a heavy baritone—rose and fell several octaves, and the solemnness of the melody made the boy think of someone singing in church.

  The beaters turned north, and at times Alex could barely make them out as they were swallowed by the maquis. Then they began to make a large circle, and though he could not see them, the sound of their voices told him they had turned and were headed back toward them.

  He saw Antoine’s body tense, and then he pointed into the ravine. Alex tried to follow where he was pointing, but could see nothing. Then he heard the bells and the barking of the dogs, and he saw them rush through a small clearing and disappear again.

  The sound of the dogs was rising toward them, but the foliage was so thick he could not see even the movement of branches. Then he heard the boar, a deep, guttural snorting, almost like short, repetitive growls, and his eyes moved to the sound, but again there was nothing he could see.

  The snorting and the barking of the dogs seemed to draw closer together—the sounds were only thirty or forty yards away now, and suddenl
y there was a great thrashing sound in the brush just below them. Branches snapped, and a thick tangle of brush seemed to wave back and forth, and suddenly one of the dogs yelped, and its body flew up into the air, almost ten feet above the ground. The dog’s stomach appeared to be trailing a long, gray cord, and Alex was confused by it, then realized it was the dog’s intestine hanging from its body. His arms and legs began to tremble.

  There was another yelp, followed by a long whine of pain, and then the crashing stopped and Alex could hear the snorting draw even closer. Antoine had raised his shotgun to his shoulder and was following the sound along the length of the barrel.

  The boar broke into a clearing only fifty feet in front of them, and Antoine squeezed the trigger, but the firing pin fell against a dead percussion cap. He cursed in Corsican, then squeezed the second trigger. The shotgun roared, and the boar, struck just above the shoulder, staggered and fell to its knees.

  Antoine broke the shotgun and flipped out the shells, cursing and grumbling, but the only word Alex recognized was merde, which his uncle repeated several times. His uncle forced two new shells into the chambers, and snapped the shotgun closed. The boar was up now, and it seemed to jump in place to face them, and Alex saw the murderous glint in its small eyes. Never before had he seen a look of pure hatred, and it both fascinated and terrified him. But he realized that his legs and arms had stopped shaking, and he stared at the boar, mesmerized.

  The boar came at them like a freight train, with a speed that seemed impossible for its bulk and size, and its head, held low to the ground, moved from side to side, the great tusks that curved up from its snout glinting in the sun.

  Antoine leveled the shotgun and fired, and it was almost as though the boar had struck an invisible wall. Its body seemed to stop momentarily, and then it flipped over, coming forward again, its hind legs almost striking Antoine’s knee as it fell at their feet.

  Antoine let out a long breath, then cursed.

  “Merde,” he said. “I have ruined the head.” The boar grunted, its hind legs kicking out, and Alex, his legs trembling again, jumped back.

  “Ah, there is still some life in him,” Antoine said, and he reached behind him and pulled Alex forward. “You must finish him off,” he said, getting behind the boy and fixing the shotgun in his hands.

  He adjusted the weapon against the boy’s shoulder, helped him level it at the boar’s heart, then stepped back.

  “Now. Now,” he said.

  Alex squeezed the trigger, and the shotgun jumped in his hands, the butt slamming into his shoulder and driving him back into Antoine’s arms. The body of the boar jumped on the ground, then was still, and as the ringing sound faded from his ears, Alex heard Antoine laughing with unmistakable joy.

  “You have killed the old bastard,” Antoine roared. “And it is a good pig. Well over three hundred pounds, I think.”

  He knelt beside the boy and took his shoulders between his large hands, and he could feel him tremble with the fear and excitement of the kill. But the boy had not run, had not cried out in his fear, and Antoine was proud of the courage he had shown. He pulled him to his chest and gave him a great hug.

  He stood, still hugging the boy with one arm, and took the shotgun from him.

  “Now we must see to the dogs,” he said. “I think at least two of them have been killed. But we must put them out of their misery if they are still alive and badly hurt.”

  He led the boy down to the thick foliage where the dogs had battled the boar. Two of the dogs were dead, and two others were sniffing about their bodies. Antoine kicked at the other dogs, driving them away. He was glad the dogs were already dead. He did not want to have to kill them in front of the boy. He had debated whether he should go to the dogs himself, but had decided the boy must see all of what they had done. It was the only way for him to understand.

  Alex stared at one of the dead animals. Its belly was ripped open from pelvis to sternum, and its entrails lay on the ground, still steaming in the air. He thought about the boar they had killed, and of the way it had charged them and the murderous look in its eye. It would have killed us, he thought. Just like it killed the dogs, and he felt no sorrow for the boar they had shot. He only felt sorrow for the dogs.

  Antoine led him back to the dead pig, and Alex saw now that there was a large hole in the center of its forehead, and he thought his own shot had been unnecessary, was just something his uncle had done to please him.

  He looked up at his uncle and smiled. “I thought you said the boar would never charge you,” he said. “That it would be too afraid.”

  “It must have been a foreign pig,” Antoine said. “One that swam to our island and did not know who he was dealing with.”

  He pulled the boy to him again. “I am proud of you,” he said. “You showed great courage, and that is good. You have Corsican honor, just as I knew you would.”

  He knelt, dipped his thumb into the boar’s blood, then stood again, and made a mark on Alex’s forehead. “You are a hunter now, and never again will you fear anyone who attacks you.” He nodded. “Because now you have Corsican blood, and you have learned the most important truth. You have learned you will not run away.”

  Alex felt enormous pride, greater than he had ever known.

  The beaters made their way into the clearing and gathered around the boar, assessing its size and weight, and examining the shots that had taken it down.

  “Three shots, Patriarche,” one of the men said. “That is a great many for you.”

  “The boy killed the pig,” Antoine said proudly. “And one of the shells misfired, so the first shot was hurried and missed its mark.”

  The men tied the boar’s legs to a long pole, and took turns carrying it up the steep rise to the road. Antoine did not help them. He and Alex walked behind, like great hunters basking in the glory of their kill. The boar’s body swayed heavily, its great weight bending the pole, its curved tusks flashing as its head swung back and forth, the tongue protruding from the side of its long snout. Alex felt some sorrow now that the boar was dead. It was a great, powerful creature, he thought, and it must have ruled its part of the maquis like a king. It had no enemies except the hunters, and it simply had defended its home against the dogs and the men. He decided the boar was not truly evil, even though it wanted to kill anything that crossed its path. It did not go into the village and attack the people who lived there. That would make it really bad. And he couldn’t think of many animals who did that, except some lions and tigers he had read about, that had grown too old to catch food. And, of course, there was man.

  He wanted to talk to Antoine about those things, but he thought he would sound foolish, and he didn’t think his uncle would understand what he meant. He didn’t think his father or his uncle Meme would either. Perhaps he could ask his mother, but only if she promised not to tell his father. He didn’t want to tarnish the pride everyone would feel for him. But he wanted to understand what he and his uncle had done. And he wanted to know why he felt pleased they had killed the boar.

  There were two more shots as they climbed up out of the maquis, and when they had gathered on the road, two other groups of hunters brought up boars that had been shot. Both of the boars were smaller than theirs, and one—which the men said was a sow and weighed less than one hundred pounds—had been shot by Meme.

  Antoine teased him about his kill, claiming he and Alex had seen three pigs of that size.

  “We just kicked them in the ass and sent them on their way,” he boasted. “My nephew and I are hunters. We do not kill piglets,” he said.

  “You are lucky the boy shot the pig for you,” Meme countered. “It saved you from being shamed in front of these brave men.”

  Piers knelt before the boar, then gave it a firm pat, and looked up at his son. “It’s a fine boar,” he said. “As large as any I’ve ever seen.” He lowered his voice. “Did you really shoot it?” he asked.

  Alex nodded. “But Uncle Antoine shot it first,” h
e whispered in English, to be certain the men would not hear. “I think it was almost dead when I did.”

  His father smiled at him, pleased by his honesty. “I’ve seen more than one boar that everyone thought was dead get up and raise holy hell with the hunters,” he said.

  Alex’s eyes brightened, and he stood a little straighter. He was happy his father had told him that.

  Antoine came over and lifted Alex up on his shoulder. “Come, my little Corsican,” he said. “We have a great pig to show the people of the village. And tomorrow we will cook it and have a great feast.”

  The men loaded the boars into the rear of a truck, and the caravan of cars drove back to the village. As they drew close, the men blasted the horns of their cars, and the villagers came out to see the day’s kill.

  People gathered around the rear of the truck, and there were words of praise for the large pig. And when Antoine told them that his nephew had shot the boar, there was praise for Alex too, and several people patted his back and stroked his hair as signs of affection and respect.

  Antoine beamed with pride, and he told the villagers that tomorrow there would be a feast at his and his brother’s home, and that the whole village was invited to come and eat the pig.

  “You may tell your relatives in other villages as well,” he said. “This is a great pig, and there will be food enough for everyone.”

  There were murmurs of pleasure and excitement among the crowd, and Alex thought they somehow felt honored to be invited to the Pisani home. He wondered why that was.

  On the drive back to the house, Alex asked Antoine if he really knew how to cook a pig.

  His uncle looked at him and raised his chin, assuming an offended pose. “I am one of the great cookers of pigs in the entire world,” he intoned. “Books have been written about my secret recipe.”