The Art of Waiting by Christopher Jory

them receding into the forest.
    â€˜Come on, you fat bastard,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s get after them.’
    And he hared off, Massimo wheezing along after him. Suddenly Aldo stopped, a noise in front of him again, then a shape. Then he heard the voice. Fausto Pozzi.
    â€˜Who’s that?’ Fausto said.
    â€˜Me.’
    â€˜Aldo?’
    â€˜And Massimo.’
    Massimo was standing at Aldo’s shoulder now.
    â€˜Why were you two making such a racket?’ said Fausto. ‘I could hear you a mile off.’
    â€˜It wasn’t us,’ said Massimo. ‘It was the boar. Loads of them.’
    â€˜Yes, I heard them too. You’ll learn to tell the difference.’
    â€˜They’ll be miles away now,’ said Aldo.
    â€˜Not necessarily,’ said Fausto. ‘Sometimes they go to ground. Especially if they have young ones with them.’
    â€˜Oh they did,’ said Massimo. ‘Lots of young ones, little babies. Didn’t they, Aldo?’
    Aldo nodded.
    â€˜Good,’ said Fausto. ‘Let’s wait here for a while, then. If they’ve gone to ground, they’re bound to move again before too long.’
    â€˜If Massimo keeps quiet, that is,’ said Aldo.
    â€˜Sorry,’ said Massimo, and his stomach rumbled again. ‘Must be nerves.’
    â€˜If they move,’ said Fausto, ‘then we wait, we listen, we assess their direction. If necessary, we follow, silently. Then we shoot. All right?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Aldo.
    â€˜Sure,’ said Massimo. ‘Whatever you say, you’re the boss.’
    Fausto grunted his approval.
    â€˜Aldo, you have the first shot,’ he said. ‘Let’s see how good you are, see if you’re as good as your dad.’
    Then another noise, something in the trees, down in thedirection the wild pigs had gone. Fausto moved off silently and the boys followed. There was a shadow among the trees again, and a shape, maybe more than one, something darker than the night, and Fausto turned momentarily, pausing. Then a crack and a scuff as something heavy pushed its way through the branches, and a heavy breath or a snort, then rustling.
    â€˜Listen, Aldo. Can you hear it?’
    There was an excitement in Fausto Pozzi’s voice and Aldo felt the excitement welling up in him too. The boar were back! He wanted to cry out, to release the unbearable tension. The noise came again, something indefinable and heavy, moving slowly, too ponderous for a wolf, too substantial to be some kind of wildfowl, almost too big for a boar. It must be a huge one! What a prize for your first night as a hunter. How it would look, its head mounted on an oak board in Casa Luca, for everyone to admire. And how proud Luca would be of his son, first time out, bagging the biggest beast in the forest, just as Luca had said he would, shooting the biggest fucking boar any of them had ever seen. And his mother cooking up the meat, the men at Casa Luca feasting for weeks on it, thinking of Aldo every time they sat down and chewed. Even for Massimo it would be a notable meal! Aldo felt a sudden upwards pressure on the barrel of his gun, Fausto leaning his hand up into it, then leaning in to Aldo’s ear and whispering his instructions.
    â€˜I’m just going over there, Aldo, to cover their escape. When I whistle, you shoot, understand?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Aldo, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Fausto moving away, now just a shadow among the trees.
    The beast was passing directly in front of him now, deep in the undergrowth, just yards away. Aldo raised his rifle and pressed the stock into his shoulder. He swallowed hard. Then he heard Fausto’s whistle. He hesitated for a moment and the whistle came again. His finger tightened and there was the flash and the bang of his gun and an instant later an echo of equal resonance, almost as if someone had let off both barrels at once. Something fell in a great