He did that again three times on the way, and after the third time he was barely stumbling along, dragging the rifle. When he reached the tent he crawled in; he has not come out again. Faro came, braver now, and sniffed at the opening of the tent. He even wagged his tail a little, and then went and sat by the empty plate.
But the man did not feed Faro. He did not make a fire tonight, nor eat any supper. But it may be that in the morning he will be better.
Chapter Five
I am writing in the morning, having eaten my breakfast; I am sitting at the entrance to the cave with my binoculars, watching the house and the tent for a sign of life. So far there has been none, except that the dog went to the tent again, wagged his tail again, and sat down expectantly for a minute or two. He had an afterthought. He ran round the house, up the hill, and came to see me. Poor Faro. He was hungry, and now that he is home he expects to be fed. There is plenty of dog food in the store, but of course I had not brought any up here, so I gave him a piece of corn bread and some tinned hash. I could be gladder to see him this time, since for the moment at least I was not worried about the man. I patted him quite a bit, and talked to him. After he had eaten he lay down beside me at the entrance and rested his head on my foot. That seemed quite touching because it is what he used to do with David, never with anyone else. Still, after only a few minutes he got up and ran back down the hill. He emerged at the house, where he sat down near the entrance to the tent. Although he likes me he seems to be adopting the man.
But the man himself has not moved.
I know he is sick, but I do not know how sick, and therefore I do not know what to do. It may be that he just doesn’t feel very well, and decided to stay in bed.
Or he may be so sick he can’t get up. He may even be dying.
Last night I would not have thought that would worry me so much, but this morning it does. It began with a dream I had just before I got up. It was one of those dreams that are more like daydreams; I have them when I am half awake and half asleep. I am somewhat aware that I am dreaming, and in a sense am making the dream up; but being half asleep it still seems true. I dreamed (or daydreamed) that it was my father in the tent, sick, and then that my whole family were there again, in the house. I felt so joyful it took my breath away, and I woke up.
I lay there realizing that it was not true, but also realizing something else. I thought I had become used to being alone, and to the idea that I would always be alone, but I was wrong. Now that there was somebody else here, the thought of going back, the thought of the house and the valley being empty again—this time forever, I was sure of that—seemed so terrible I could not bear it.
So, even though the man was a stranger and I was afraid of him, I began worrying about his being sick, and the idea that he might die made me feel quite desperate.
I am writing this partly to get it clear in my head and to help me make up my mind. I think what I will do is wait and watch until late afternoon. Then if he still has not come out of the tent I will go down there while it is still light, very quietly, and see if I can see, without getting too close, how he is. I will take my gun with me.
I am back in the house, in my own room.
The man is in the tent. He is asleep, most of the time at least, and so sick he cannot get up. He scarcely knows I am here.
Yesterday afternoon at four o’clock, as I had decided, I took my gun and went down the hill to the house. I came up behind it and walked, slowly and quietly, listening, round to the front. If I had heard any activity I was going to duck back and try to get away again without being seen. When I reached the front garden the dog came rushing up to meet me—I was afraid he was going to bark but he did not, he just sniffed my knee, wagged his tail and watched. I crept to the tent and looked in. It has a flap to close it, but that was hanging loose, partly open. Still it was dark inside. I could see only his legs at first. I crept closer, put my head inside, and my eyes adjusted to the dark. He lay on a sleeping bag, partly covered, his eyes closed, his head in a mess where he had been sick. He was breathing, quite fast and shallow. Beside him lay a water bottle, a green plastic thing, knocked over and spilled; beside that lay a bottle of pills, large white ones, with the top off, also knocked over and partly spilled out.
The tent roof was only about four feet high. I knelt down and went in, just a little, so that I could reach his hand where it lay on top of the bag. The smell was terrible. I touched his hand: it was dry and hot with fever. Just as I touched it Faro, his nose in the entrance, whined, and at the combination of the noise and the touch he opened his eyes.
“Edward,” he said. “Edward?”
He was not looking at me, or if he was, he was not seeing me; but I think he was looking at my gun, which I was still holding, because the next thing he said was:
“Bullets. It won’t stop…” He did not finish the sentence, but sighed and closed his eyes again. He was dreaming; he was delirious, and his voice sounded thick, as if his throat and mouth were swollen.
“You’re sick,” I said. “You have a fever.”
He moaned, and spoke without opening his eyes again.
“Water. Please give me water.”
I could see what had happened: before he collapsed he had opened a bottle of water and some pills. In his confusion he had knocked them over. The bottle was empty and he was too weak to get more.
“All right,” I said, “I’ll get you some water. It will take a few minutes.”
I got a pail from the kitchen, and ran to the stream where it flowed into the pond, where the water is clearest. When I got back I was hot and out of breath; I had filled it nearly full and it was heavy. I got a cup from the house and dipped it half full.
He was asleep again, so I touched his shoulder.
“Here,” I said, “drink this.”
He tried to rise but could not, not even on his elbow, and when he tried to take the cup he dropped it. I half filled it again from the pail; this time I held it, and lifted his head a little with my other hand. He gulped it down; he was really thirsty.
“More,” he said.
“Not now,” I said. “It will make you sick again.” I did not know much about medicine, but I knew that much. He fell back and went to sleep again instantly.
The truth is, I did not know enough to take care of him. I had helped my mother sometimes taking care of David or Joseph when they got sick (grippe, chicken-pox, things like that), but never anyone this sick. Still, there was no one else, so I had to try.
I got a rag from the house and using some of the water I cleaned as well as I could around his head; I got him a fresh pillow and a clean blanket. I put the pills—those that were still clean—back in the bottle, capped it, and looked at the label:
I thought that since drinking the water had not made him sick again perhaps he should eat something. But what? I decided on soup—chicken soup, since that is what my mother usually gave us when we were sick. I had left some tinned food in the house (it would have looked odd not to) when I moved to the cave, but there was no soup, so I had to walk to the store. I got some other stuff while I was there; I had already decided to move back to the house, but to leave the cave stocked for the time being, just in case. So I had quite a load to carry, and by the time I got back and got a fire going it was nearly dark.
When I took the soup in to him I found, to my surprise, that he seemed somewhat improved. He was awake, and when I entered he stared, quite bewildered, and with some effort managed to raise himself on one elbow. Then he spoke to me consciously for the first time. His voice was still very weak.
“I don’t know where I am,” he said. “Who are you?”
