Z for Zachariah

He has lived through the night.

Once I was sure he had died. I slept on the sofa in the living room, and all night he did not make a sound. I could not really sleep for any length of time, but dozed now and then, and in between I would go in and see how he was. At about two in the morning I went in, listened for his breathing, and did not hear it. I felt so frightened I thought my own heart was going to stop. I said a prayer, and crept closer. Finally, from about a foot away, I did hear it, terribly faint and fast. Each time after that it was the same, but it did not stop. I kept the fire going and changed the hot water bottle every hour, putting it next to his feet. They are so cold I am sure they are not getting any circulation.

Morning finally came, and I made myself some breakfast and coffee; though I have no appetite I must eat. I also went and milked the cow; I am afraid of her going dry immediately if I neglect that much more, since the calf is now beginning to graze. When I came back the room was light, and I looked at him: He was so pale it was frightening. I did not try to take his temperature, but I did count his respiration. He was breathing almost fifty times a minute; I recall from my high school course that normal is about sixteen. His lips looked puffy, grey and cracked, and when I touched them they felt as dry as cardboard. I got a clean cloth and soaked it in water; I held it to his lips and moistened them, squeezing the cloth gently so that some of the water might trickle into his mouth. I did not dare try to give him water from a glass, for fear he might strangle. I washed his face, which was cold and sticky.

Then I fed Faro and walked to the church again. This time I knew it was mostly for my own benefit; I was so worried I could not think clearly; I felt dizzy and ill, I suppose partly because I had had next to no sleep. But there was nothing to be gained by sitting in the house and watching. Either he was going to die or he was not. My being there would make no difference.

Anyway, I was worried not just about whether he would live, but about what had happened in the laboratory—what I had heard happening in the laboratory—because that is what I had done, just as surely as if it were a recording. And that was a reason I needed to be able to think clearly.

Faro bolted his breakfast and caught up with me. We went into the church together, and I was just realizing that I had forgotten the Bible, and considering whether I should go back for it, when I noticed that he had come to a point, and was inching along the church floor towards the altar. I could see nothing there, and it gave me an eerie feeling—in the stillness, for a second I thought he might be stalking a spirit or an angel.

I motioned him to lie still, went forward myself, rather fearfully, and then I saw it: a small, rumpled black thing—a baby crow, no bigger than a sparrow, its furry down just beginning to sprout feathers that would be wings and a tail. It fluttered away from me when I came near, but it could not get itself off the floor. Where had it come from? And how had it got into the church? I looked up, and above me rose the square opening that formed the inside of the steeple, actually more like a high cupola. Near the top there was a criss-cross wooden framework of two-by-four built to support a church bell, though no bell had ever been brought here. On one side of this, just inside the eaves of the roof, I saw a rather untidy collection of sticks, leaves and straw, a nest. A pair of crows had built there, and one of the babies had fallen out.

I watched it and it watched me, with very lively small black eyes. I moved a step closer; it fluttered a step further away, until finally it was against the wall behind the altar. Then it just gave up and sat there.

I had found baby birds before, of course. All of us had, and my father told us that we should always leave them where they were, since the parent birds were usually watching from a nearby tree, and would rescue the baby if we stayed away. He was right. I have seen them do it. But I did not think it likely that the adult crows would venture down the steeple into the church, or that they would even realize that was where the baby had fallen.

So I picked it up, holding it as gently as I could in both hands. It did not struggle but sat there quite trustingly. I was tempted to take it home and feed it, but realized that I had enough to think about without a pet to take care of. Also, as soon as I carried it outside I heard a raucous sound, looked up, and there were two big crows flapping overhead. One of them came to rest on the steeple, so I knew they must be the parents, and had seen what I held in my hands. I set the baby down in the grass where they could not miss finding it, and when I had retreated up the road a short way (calling Faro with me—he was intensely interested in the whole procedure) I saw that they had already flown down to it. I never heard of crows’ nesting in a steeple before, but I suppose they change their habits when there are no other birds around.

As I walked back to the house I thought, it might be a good omen. I am a little superstitious, and have always thought that birds bring good luck; when I wake up in the morning, look out of the window and see a bird the first thing—especially if it is close up, and looking towards me—I feel as if it is a symbol, and that something good will happen that day. I suppose that it is because when I was about four, and first heard about prayers, I was told that they flew up to heaven. So I thought of them as rather like birds, with wings, flying upward, and when I saw a bird flying after I said my prayers I would think, maybe that was mine.

This one, of course, flew (fell!) downwards from above, the wrong direction for a prayer. Still it made me feel a bit more cheerful as I walked back to the house, even when I remembered that I had forgotten to say any prayer at all.

Evening

He is still the same. I do not know what keeps him alive. I do not dare to try to move him; I have the feeling that the least disturbance, even a loud noise, might snap the thread. So I still have not changed the bed, though it is soiled.

When I came back from the church I spoke to him, very softly, I just told him I was there. He did not wake up, or even flicker his eyelids. Yet I had a feeling he heard me, even if unconsciously, and that it was good for him to know someone was there.

In fact I was so convinced of this that I decided to read to him, quietly, sitting by his bed so he would sense where I was. I thought of the Bible, but in the end decided poetry might be more soothing, so I brought an anthology from my room and read Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”. It is sad, but I like it. I realized it was about death, but I was sure he could not understand the words at all; I only hoped he might hear the sound.

Again, I am not too sure for whose benefit I was really doing it. Reading the poem certainly made me feel less worried and confused. I thought that later I might also play the piano, something quiet, and using the soft pedal. It is, after all, in the next room, and he did like it when I played before.

After I finished Gray’s “Elegy” I sat in the chair thinking about him and Edward.

I suppose I have to accept the idea that Mr Loomis shot Edward and killed him, and that is a terrible thought, because of what I hoped and because he is the only other human being I am ever likely to know.

But I do not know just how bad it is, or was.

From what he said in his dream, and from the holes in the suit, I cannot help believing he did it. But from what he said, too, I cannot be sure how wrong it was. In a way, it was self-defence. If Edward had taken the suit, and left, and had never come back, he would, in effect, have doomed Mr Loomis to stay in the laboratory—perhaps forever—-probably forever—and there he would eventually have run out of food, or water or air, and died. So in a way Edward was, when he tried to steal the suit, threatening to kill him.

Also, Mr Loomis may have been concerned about more than just staying alive. In his dream he said that the suit was too important to waste. He called it “the last useful thing”. He may have been thinking not just of himself, but of human survival. At that time he surely still believed that there might be groups of people alive in shelters— underground Air Force bases, and so on—and the suit, the only one of its kind, might be the only way to contact them, and eventually for them to contact each other. It was too important to waste. If he was thinking about that, and if Edward would not consider it, if Edward was being selfish and foolish, then Edward was wrong.

In a way it depends on what Edward was like. If he was honest and sensible, and really meant to return the suit, and would have returned it, then maybe Mr Loomis should have let him borrow it. Except, of course, as he said—suppose something went wrong? But if Edward was just being thoughtless and trying to sneak away, then I cannot blame Mr Loomis so much.

But suppose, on the other hand, Mr Loomis was trying to keep the suit for himself? Suppose he meant to take it, when the time came, and strike out on his own, hoping to find civilization surviving somewhere? That was what he finally did.