Books In English "City Of Illusions" Ursula K. Le Guin | Page 25

Falk went on past it and entered the forest, following no path now.
These were clean woods of stately, wide-aisled deciduous trees. He
went on at a good pace the rest of that day, and the next morning. The
country was growing hilly again, the ridges all running north-south across
his way, and around noon, heading for what looked from one ridge like the
low point of the next, he became embroiled in a marshy valley full of
streams. He searched for fords, floundered in boggy watermeadows, all in
a cold heavy rain. Finally as he found a way up out of the gloomy valley
the weather began to break up, and as he climbed the ridge the sun came
out ahead of him under the clouds and sent a wintry glory raying down
among the naked branches, brightening them and the great trunks and the
ground with wet gold. That cheered him; he went on sturdily, figuring to
walk till day's end before he camped. Everything was bright now and
utterly silent except for the drip of rain from twig-ends and the far-off
wistful whistle of a chickadee. Then he heard, as in his dream, the steps
that followed behind him to his left.
A fallen oak that had been an obstacle became in one startled moment
a defense: he dropped down behind it and with drawn gun spoke aloud:
"Come on out!"
For a long time nothing moved.
"Come out!" Falk said with the mindspeech, then closed to reception,
for he was afraid to receive. He had a sense of strangeness; there was a
faint, rank odor on the wind.
A wild boar walked out of the trees, crossed his tracks, and stopped to
snuff the ground. A grotesque, magnificent pig, with powerful shoulders,
razor back, trim, quick, filthy legs. Over snout and tusk and bristle, little
bright eyes looked up at Falk.
"Aah, aah, aah, man, aah," the creature said, snuffling.
Falk's tense muscles jumped, and his hand tightened on the grip of his
laser-pistol. He did not shoot. A wounded boar was hideously quick and
dangerous. He crouched there absolutely still.
"Man, man," said the wild pig, the voice thick and flat from the
scarred snout, "think to me. Think to me. Words are hard for me."
Falk's hand on the pistol shook now. Suddenly he spoke aloud: "Don't
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