One day, I decided to start talking to them. I introduced myself and asked them their names. The response was an instant stampede; the sounds of their heavy breathing, high pitched squeals and dense bodies crashing through the undergrowth reverberated between the canyon walls. I persisted, and for a long time, I simply told them about what was happening in the news. But little by little I told them of my suspicions. I felt hem hanging on my words. You might say their attentiveness was just a result of my frequent visits or familiarity of the sound of my voice. But I knew better. I noticed that they had begun following me on my outings. Often they seemed to hiding just outside my gate, waiting for me to come out. This was bold behavior for them--the witch asked for a report on the pigs at every meeting. Had I seen any? Where were they? How many? They did quite extensive damage to her roads and orchards-their only revenge, I suppose. Of course, I never told her of my contact with them.

After many attempts at hunting down the pigs, she told me she had arranged to have a trap installed on the property. Once captive, the animal could be shot at close range. She had hunters on call for this purpose, she said. She had also instructed the caretaker to bait it and set it each evening, since the pigs seemed to do the most damage at night. I had never met this caretaker, but she referred to him often. He dug the drainage trenches alongside the roads, felled dead trees for firewood, and performed all sorts of other vital maintenance, his only payment being free tenancy in what was once a smokehouse below her house. Certainly she could not have lived alone on her hill without his help. Naturally, I was curious who would have accepted such a position

I began alternating my routes in the hopes of finding the trap. I hoped not only to meet the caretaker, but also, if possible, to disarm the trap. When I eventually came upon it, I stopped in my tracks. It was an enormous steel cage with a trick door that shut behind any large creature that entered. I circled it several times, being careful to keep a safe distance, until I felt confident that I could disable it. I then decided to return at dusk.

As I left the cabin, I was surprised not to find any pigs waiting, but there was no time to waste, so I kept to my course. Continuing through the forest and across the grassy clearings, I became increasingly alarmed by their absence. Had the trap been a distraction for me while she carried out some more devious plan? It even crossed my mind that perhaps the trap was meant for me. I almost turned back, but as I stopped to deliberate, I heard the familiar sound of small hooves probing the forest floor. They were below me, on a parallel trail. I knew the trail well-it was still used occaisionally to bring out timber on trucks and so was much more exposed. I looked down the slope and saw them clearly. It looked as though every pig in the forest was there, walking en masse along both sides of the road. They were clustered so tightly that they jostled one another as they jumped over logs and wound through the trees. At the center of the group was a man.

Instinctively, I stepped back out of view. Who was he? He was heading toward the trap; could this be the caretaker? How had he convinced the pigs to follow him? The questions ran through my mind as I continued, following the movements below by sound alone. Once I was certain of their destination, I quickened my pace to reach the trap first and hid myself near the giant door. As they passed, I struggled for a clear view of the man, but he was turned toward the trap. I was unable to see his face or the workings of his hands. He crouched at the trap door for several minutes, and I could hear all kinds of strange sounds, what seemed to be hammering and the clanging of metal on metal.

When he stepped away, I saw immediately that the trap was useless. The door hinge was torn completely and a large section of the metal grate was bent and broken. I also saw the caretaker's face. It was quite flushed and fleshy, with small, deep-set eyes. His head and arms were covered with short bristly dark hair, in contrast to the pinkness of the skin underneath. His nose had a wide, slightly upturned tip reminiscent of the many snouts now turned toward him expectantly. He stood for a long time looking back at the pigs, sniffing lightly now and then. Finally, he put his tools in his pockets and headed back the way he had come. As I waited for him to put some distance between us, I felt overwhelmed by the sadness of the creatures who had just stood face to face, longing so desperately to trade places. Each understood the other but was powerless to help, except in this silent, hidden place.
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