Wild Boars of the Iberian Forest

Oliver took a small paper packet from his waistcoat pocket and gently sprinkled a handful of acorns onto the dusty path. They made the softest little patter as they fell, rolling into the shallow hoofprints he had just drawn.

Then he sat very still upon his stone, paws folded, notebook resting on his knees. The forest seemed to hold its breath with him. A jay scolded once and flew away. After a while, there came a faint, careful rustling in the undergrowth, like someone politely moving aside dry curtains of leaves. A dark snout appeared between the ferns, sniffing the air. Wild boars, Oliver remembered, trusted their noses more than their eyes. They could smell acorns and truffles hidden deep beneath the soil, and even sense danger long before they saw it.