bird.â
The figure looked at him with an intense sort of vacancy. At that moment he became aware that there was another figure behind the tall lean youth. It was a female form. She stepped from behind the first figure, silently. He couldnât make out her face. They both seemed to have been made out of the same dark and obscure material. The first figure leant over, picked up the bird, and was about to break its neck, but stopped suddenly.
âI am going to kill it,â the figure said, without any emotion. âIt will die anyway. It wonât last the night. There is no point in prolonging its agony. And it is cruel to leave it out in the square, shivering and suffering a long, slow, and lingering death. Meanwhile, you would be comfortably asleep in your bed. I am going to kill it.â
âDonât.â
âWhy not?â
âWould you like that done to you?â
The figure paused and seemed to think about it. After a long moment, he turned to the other form, his female companion, and they talked in low voices. When they had finished, he turned back and said:
âJust one twist of the neck, thatâs all. And it will all be over.â
âDonât.â
âCan you give it life?â
âI donât know how to give life.â
âAll these years of being alive and you havenât learned?â
âNo.â
âIf you canât give it life, then you must kill it.â
âI canât kill it.â
âThen I will kill it.â
âYou mustnât.â
âThere is nothing for me to do. I canât heal it. I canât give it life. That is my profound and regrettable failure. But I can give it death. I can end its misery. There is compassion in that too. A lesser compassion, I concede, but better than leaving it to die in the open air, alone. Thereâs nothing for me to do. You wonât let me kill it, so I now hand it over to you. I have done my best. Itâs now up to you. But you must give it life, or kill it. There is no middle way. You canât be neutral on this. The responsibility is yours. Goodnight.â
Whereupon the tall lean figure put the dove back on the stone floor and, linking hands with the female form, disappeared into the night.
The bird went on crawling, flailing, uttering its plaintive cry.
He stood there, watching it helplessly. And then, without thinking, he went over and picked up the dying bird. He was slightly frightened by its fragile bones and its twitching wings. He took it back with him to the bed.
He placed the dove beside his pillow, and lay down, and caressed it, saying:
âHow is it that I have never learned how to give new life?â
12
The thought made him very unhappy; for now he had a terrible choice to make. He had no ability to kill. He had never killed a thing in his life. He had never watched a living thing die. He had never healed anything either.
Now, he had to heal or kill.
And the bird was past normal healing. It would require a miracle. The concept of a miracle was strange to him, strange and wonderful and oddly terrifying.
He cuddled the bird closer to him, and soon fell asleep.
13
When he woke up, the bird was gone. The night was somehow darker, and the square brooded in deeper mystery. He looked around for the dying bird, and was distressed at not being able to find it. The thought that while he slept the bird had somehow got past his protective arm and crawled to some corner and was dying there filled him with a vague sense of guilt.
He had failed to make a decision and, deciding now, he got up from the bed and went searching the corners of the square, searching in the direction of the House of Justice, where the bird had originally been heading. He searched the herbaceous borders, and couldnât find it. He looked amongst the flowers, but it wasnât there. He had no idea how long he had been sleeping. The bird might have died by now.
He was searching
The figure looked at him with an intense sort of vacancy. At that moment he became aware that there was another figure behind the tall lean youth. It was a female form. She stepped from behind the first figure, silently. He couldnât make out her face. They both seemed to have been made out of the same dark and obscure material. The first figure leant over, picked up the bird, and was about to break its neck, but stopped suddenly.
âI am going to kill it,â the figure said, without any emotion. âIt will die anyway. It wonât last the night. There is no point in prolonging its agony. And it is cruel to leave it out in the square, shivering and suffering a long, slow, and lingering death. Meanwhile, you would be comfortably asleep in your bed. I am going to kill it.â
âDonât.â
âWhy not?â
âWould you like that done to you?â
The figure paused and seemed to think about it. After a long moment, he turned to the other form, his female companion, and they talked in low voices. When they had finished, he turned back and said:
âJust one twist of the neck, thatâs all. And it will all be over.â
âDonât.â
âCan you give it life?â
âI donât know how to give life.â
âAll these years of being alive and you havenât learned?â
âNo.â
âIf you canât give it life, then you must kill it.â
âI canât kill it.â
âThen I will kill it.â
âYou mustnât.â
âThere is nothing for me to do. I canât heal it. I canât give it life. That is my profound and regrettable failure. But I can give it death. I can end its misery. There is compassion in that too. A lesser compassion, I concede, but better than leaving it to die in the open air, alone. Thereâs nothing for me to do. You wonât let me kill it, so I now hand it over to you. I have done my best. Itâs now up to you. But you must give it life, or kill it. There is no middle way. You canât be neutral on this. The responsibility is yours. Goodnight.â
Whereupon the tall lean figure put the dove back on the stone floor and, linking hands with the female form, disappeared into the night.
The bird went on crawling, flailing, uttering its plaintive cry.
He stood there, watching it helplessly. And then, without thinking, he went over and picked up the dying bird. He was slightly frightened by its fragile bones and its twitching wings. He took it back with him to the bed.
He placed the dove beside his pillow, and lay down, and caressed it, saying:
âHow is it that I have never learned how to give new life?â
12
The thought made him very unhappy; for now he had a terrible choice to make. He had no ability to kill. He had never killed a thing in his life. He had never watched a living thing die. He had never healed anything either.
Now, he had to heal or kill.
And the bird was past normal healing. It would require a miracle. The concept of a miracle was strange to him, strange and wonderful and oddly terrifying.
He cuddled the bird closer to him, and soon fell asleep.
13
When he woke up, the bird was gone. The night was somehow darker, and the square brooded in deeper mystery. He looked around for the dying bird, and was distressed at not being able to find it. The thought that while he slept the bird had somehow got past his protective arm and crawled to some corner and was dying there filled him with a vague sense of guilt.
He had failed to make a decision and, deciding now, he got up from the bed and went searching the corners of the square, searching in the direction of the House of Justice, where the bird had originally been heading. He searched the herbaceous borders, and couldnât find it. He looked amongst the flowers, but it wasnât there. He had no idea how long he had been sleeping. The bird might have died by now.
He was searching
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