Z for Zachariah

Chapter Nineteen

June 30th (continued)

I did not sleep any more that night. After I got out of the house I ran, not thinking where I went, not caring, except just to get away as fast as I could. As it happened I ran down the road towards the store and church; I did not hear any sound of his following me but I could not be sure, because my ears were pounding with my own heartbeats. I have never been so afraid. I ran at top speed for, I think, a minute or more. Then I slowed down enough to look over my shoulder. Although there was no moon that night it was clear, the sky was bright and I could see the road plainly. There was no sign of him. I slowed to a dog-trot, breathing so hard I was dizzy. I passed the pond, and when I reached the store I stopped, got partly behind it, and sat down where I could still watch the road.

I did not think he could run, but I did not trust that idea—I had also not thought he could walk without the cane.

And there I sat for an hour or more, not thinking much, but first getting my breath, trying to stop shaking. Faro was nowhere to be seen, and I knew where he was. He had hidden under the porch. He always did that. When there was any friction between people—if my father or mother had to scold Joseph or David or me for instance—he would sense it and crawl under there. He had heard the struggle, of course. If he had not, if he had not been there in the room to wake me up in time, I do not know how it would have ended.

After a while I felt thirsty and very cold; a small, chill wind had blown up, and I thought of the blankets that were still in the cave. I could pull one on over my torn shirt; I could sit at the entrance and keep watch. At that point my brain began working again, at least a little, and I remembered that I had no shoes and no other shirt at the cave—I had taken my clothes back to the house—so while I was at the store I had better get new ones. It came to me then that I might never go back to the house again, not as long as he was there.

It was coal black inside the store, but I knew the shelf where Mr Klein kept the matches, and also where he kept the candles. I groped my way around and got a candle lit. In the clothing section of the store—it is on the rear right as you come in—I picked out a pair of sneakers my size and two shirts, one cotton, one flannel, by candlelight. I put on the shoes and flannel shirt (being so cold) and was just buttoning it when I heard a thud up near the front of the store. I jumped so hard I knocked the candle over and it went out.

I should not have been so frightened, I know. But I was. I started shaking again, and just stood there in the dark, listening. There was no other sound. Then I thought: the door! That was what had happened. I had left the door in the front of the store open about six inches, and the wind had blown it shut. I re-lit the candle, my hands shaking so I could hardly strike the match, and went to the front. It was the door—that was all. Still I wanted to get out of there. I was not used to being such a coward.

In the relative lightness outside I felt better, and walked, carrying my extra shirt (and the candle, which I blew out and put in my pocket) to the pond. There, where the brook flows in, I drank and rested. Except for the water and the blinking of the stars there was no movement anywhere. Yet I felt in danger.

I walked on. In the cave—I had not been there for weeks—all was as I had left it. I lit a lamp, put a blanket around my shoulders and sat in the entrance, in my usual place, where I could lean back against the rock wall and look down on the house. In the dark it was visible only as part of a blur that formed the garden, the trees, and the bushes. There was no light in any window that I could see.

I sat there all the rest of the night, watching. I was sure he did not know where I was, or where the cave was, or even that there was a cave. I did not think he could climb this hillside. But I watched anyway.

In the early morning the scene below slowly took shape and colour. The leaves turned light grey and then green. The house turned white, the road black and the hilltop behind me grew bright. I got my binoculars from inside the cave. It seemed important to me to observe what, if anything, he was going to do. I had a feeling he would be really anxious to know where I was.

The first movement was Faro, coming hesitantly around the corner of the house, sniffing as he came. He circled the house, went on to the tent, circled that, and then set off down the road, his nose still to the ground. He was following me.

Within ten seconds of this Mr. Loomis appeared. He must have been watching out of the front window. He walked to the edge of the road, limping a little—but without the cane—and stared after the dog as it disappeared down the road. He stood there a minute, then walked back to the house. I could guess a couple of things from that: he had not seen or heard which way I ran last night—but he knew that Faro would follow me. That was why he had been watching.

I saw then that I had been lucky, in my confusion, to run down the road and not straight up to the cave. I knew what Faro would do. He would track me to the store, from the store back to the pond, and from the pond to where I sat, but Mr Loomis could not see that from the house. I could almost time Faro’s movements. Sure enough, in about ten minutes he came up through the woods, wagging his tail.

I patted him and was glad to see him, but that was all I did—I was still intent on watching the scene below. He stayed with me for about ten minutes and then, after sniffing around inside the cave, he trotted off down the hill, back to the house. I had been used to feeding him in the morning; it was time for his breakfast and his food-dish was in the garden near the front porch. I suppose he thought I would follow him.

I made a mistake. I should have fed him here at the cave, because I did have a few tins of meat—three to be exact—and also some tinned hash that he would have eaten at a pinch. But it did not occur to me until after he left, and even then only as a small worry, not a big one. Not until later did I begin to realize that Faro could—quite innocently—lead Mr Loomis to me and that if I had fed him and kept him with me, I might have prevented that. And then it was too late.

Because what happened was that a few minutes after Faro reappeared in the front garden Mr Loomis came out of the front door, carrying his dish, and it was full of food. He put it down, and as Faro began to eat it I could see that Mr Loomis had something else in his hand. Through the binoculars it looked like a belt, and that is what it was—one of David’s or Joseph’s, I suppose, from their clothes cupboard. He had cut it off short, and as Faro ate he slipped it around the dog’s neck and fastened the buckle.

Faro did not seem to mind much; he gave a shake or two and then went back to his eating. Mr Loomis meanwhile went to the porch and got something else. At first I thought it was piece of rope but then, from its bright green colour, I knew it was not. It was a long electric cord, the one from my mother’s vacuum cleaner. He slipped it through the belt around Faro’s neck and knotted it. He tied the other end to the porch rail.

Poor Faro! He had never in his life been tied up before. When he finished eating he shook himself again, trying to get the collar off, and then trotted away. When he came to the end of the tether his head snapped back and he fell down. He stood up, shook himself, and tried again. Next he turned around and backed off, trying to pull the collar over his head. Mr Loomis watched: at last, having seen that the dog could not get away, he turned and went back into the house.

Faro, following the instinct of all dogs, sat down and chewed on the cord. But it was made of heavy wire with a tough plastic coating, and though he kept gnawing for half an hour it was too much for his teeth.

After that he cried, a thin mournful yipping sound he had not made since he was a puppy. I wanted to run down and untie the knot, but of course I couldn’t.

So I sat where I was and watched. Also, I began to think about what I should do, what was going to happen. I thought about all the routine things I should be doing—milking the cow, feeding the chickens and collecting the eggs, weeding the garden. Could I just live up here, keeping my distance, and continue to do them? Perhaps the outdoor things I could. Cooking the meals I could not do, since that would mean going into the house. Mr Loomis would have to cook his own. Should I continue to bring him supplies from the store? I did not think he could walk far enough to get his own, not yet. I could not let him starve, no matter what he had done.

I decided that somehow or other we would have to work out a compromise, a way that we could both live in the valley even though not as friends. There was enough room, and he was welcome to have the house. Perhaps I could live in the store or church. I was willing to do the work as necessary. And we could stay apart, and leave each other entirely alone.

The trouble was, I knew I would be willing to do that, but I was not sure he would be.

Still the effort had to be made. I decided I would go and talk to him. I could do it from a distance. I was thinking of how and what to say, when I fell asleep.

I woke up in late afternoon, my neck was sore and stiff, and I was hungry. I had only a smattering of food supplies still in the cave, but I opened a tin of hash and ate it cold.

Today I am going to figure out where I can build a fire, by day so he will not see the smoke, or by night so that he will not see the flames. I expect the second way will be easier.