A Dark Encounter

We had another heart stopping experience last night when confronted with yet another fearsome creature, a giant beast, a bristly wild boar with evil red eyes and dripping fangs in our neighbor’s olive grove. Or something like that. Actually, there’s more than one version of the story.

Here’s one version:

We were having cocktails on their terrace with Paul and Carol and their charming and lovely daughter Rebecca, all recent English transplants to Monte Leone and terrific folks, when the encounter took place. Paul is a retired executive now fully engaged managing his olive groves. Carol appears to be fully engaged in managing Paul.

Night had fallen and the sky was alive with stars, although the moon had not risen. Other than faint starlight the only illumination came from a few candles and a cloud of fireflies winking their ghostly signals.

Suddenly a loud cracking of brush came from the olive grove down near the garden. Then came snuffling and grunting and the sound of dirt being thrown around as some unidentified but undoubtedly huge beast pawed at the earth.

“It’s a wild boar,” MaryLou said.

“Are you sure?” asked Carol.

“Absolutely, we’ve seen them before.”

“Are they dangerous?”

“Deadly,” I said. “Razor sharp tusks and hooves, bad tempered, attack at the slightest provocation.”

“Oh my God,” Carol said.

The women immediately retreated to the safety of the house while Paul, stouthearted fellow, and I prepared to face the beast.

“Don’t you have a shotgun?” I asked Paul.

“Haven’t had time to buy one yet. Surely you have a pistol with you. All Americans carry pistols don’t they?”

“Usually carry two, but left them at home this trip”

Lacking proper weaponry, but determined to drive this menace from our midst, protect the women, save the carrots and so fourth, we armed ourselves with sticks and flashlights; torches the Brits call them. I like torches better, don’t you? Sounds more dramatic. Gift for words the Brits, well it is their language.

It was black as a demon’s heart in the olive grove, our flashlights… torches that is (see, much better) spread narrow beams outside of which anything could be lurking and waiting for the right moment to pounce, or in the case of the boar, charge and trample us under it’s feet.

We quartered the grove side-by-side searching, ever searching, moving ever so slowly and carefully, all the while alert to danger and trying to watch our backs. But wait, what if he was behind us? We revised our tactics and got back-to-back, difficult to move that way but more secure. As we approached the very edge of the olive grove where the cliff falls away to a rock strewn gully below Paul cried out, “There he is!”

I spun in my tracks bringing my torch (love that word) to bear. In the twin beams I saw the largest razor back boar I’d ever seen, tusks a foot long, back as high as my chest. Well, ok, high as my waist. Big dude anyway. Paul immediately charged, waving his stick and bellowing at the brute, “Be gone you foul creature.”

I charged alongside the intrepid Brit, stick raised in the second Escrima position and ready to strike a deadly blow if it came to it. But no strike was required. Paul’s fierce charge and warlike countenance had shown the creature for the weak hearted thing it was. The boar spun in its tracks and leaped, only to fall from the precipice dashing his life out on the rocks far below.

“Bloody good show,” I said. I’m picking up some other British words and try to use them as much as possible, have a robust ring to them don’t they?

“Nothing to it,” Paul said, in the best tradition of British modesty in regard to personal heroism.

Back at the house the women were peering fearfully from the windows as our torches (try saying it, you’ll like it) cast their beams across the table with its overturned glasses and other debris from sudden flight.

“Is it safe to come out?” MaryLou asked.

“All good now,” I said. “ The creature’s dead, carrots safe, probably have some barbequed ribs tomorrow evening.”

Not bad, huh? Picking up that clipped British form of speech. Must figure out when to say bloody, still a little confused about that.

OK. That’s one story. Here’s another one.

In this version we’re still having cocktails on the terrace and everything is the same until the cracking of brush alerted us to the presence of an uninvited guest.

“What the hell is that?” I asked.

“Sound’s like a wild boar,” MaryLou said.

“Oh, yeah,” Paul said, they’re all over the place. Eat your carrots right out of the garden if you don’t keep an eye on them.”

“Care for another drink?” asked Carol.

“Sure thing,” We all replied in unison.

The remainder of the evening passed pleasantly. The moon rose full and golden bathing us in its warm light, the fireflies blinked, crickets cricked. Judging from the sounds in the olive grove the boar wandered away and we talked about everything under the sun with our new friends until it was time to walk hand in hand back down the narrow road to the stone house on the hill here in the magical Italian countryside.

I’m taking votes on which version is preferred.