Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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umns that appeared to mount to heaven, indestructible columns, among which the music of the organ seemed to billow and roll, surging into every nook, every corner, every existing cranny. It was all too great. It was all too huge. It seemed so complete, so omnipotent, that Clarence felt vaguely annoyed. He turned and entered one of the little chapels, but the music, now soft and quiet, followed him in. He closed the gate at the entrance as if to shut it out. It was in vain. The chapel, though of small dimensions, was exceedingly rich in material. On the milk-white altar of marble, which was partially covered with a purple silk cloth, stood sacramental vessels of gold. Brilliantly colored Gothic windows rose behind it. Twin ormolu cabinets, standing in the centers of the side walls, were crowned with Sevres vases of the most exquisite propor- tions. The cushions, the urns, even the walls themselves were of incredible richness. But amid this luxury and beauty was a foreign note, discordantly sounded. It consisted of the chairs, which were plain to a point of crudeness. Perhaps the Bishop feared souvenir hunters. Nevertheless, they pleased Clarence. To him they seemed to dilute the luxury of the apartment, to make it palatable. Ha! There was an idea. It might serve as a core about which to construct a story. He seated himself on one of the aisle chairs and began to think. He thought and thought, but after every idea some sort of objection presented itself. He grew bored and drowsy. His gaze wandered back to the chairs. They were evidently just a whim of the Bishop. He was notoriously eccentric. Clarence began to mentally ramble, aiming criticism and conjecture at everything in general and at nothing in particular. Presently he remembered his purpose in being in the chapel. Perhaps, he thought, if he closed his eyes he would not be distracted by his surroundings. Yes, that was a good idea. He put it into execution and-fell asleep. It was night when he awoke, and the cathedral was silent. A faint hum of traffic penetrated to the dim interior of the building. He stood up, somewhat alarmed. He should have been home long ago. He went to the windows and studied his watch in the feeble light that filtered through from the street. It was twenty-live minutes past nine. Not so late after all, he thought, as he groped toward the vague outlines of the chapel gate. With a maximum of difhculty he opened it and stepped out. In the corridor, he stood undecided as to which way to turn. But then, he thought, it didn't make much differnce. He turned to his right, walking quickly and quietly around the the chancel toward the transept. God, how dark it was! The arrogant, threatening columns reared themselves to indiscernible heights, like petrified tree trunks in an enchanted forest. Enchanted? Haunted! It was approximately here that the Bishop of Hampshire was murdered. That was a half a thousand years ago, but it was still claimed that his spirit haunted the place. The REFLECTOR- . ., 11

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Heritage By Gora'w1 Rott Smifh HE music of the organ hlled the cathedral as if with some magic color as it rose and fell, almost fading away, and then suddenly breaking upon one's ear with voices of thunder. Clar- ence was quite impressed as he walked down the nave between the rows of pillars. He felt as though he were little more than a speck beside the towering columns, beneath the dis- tant arches of stone. The huge rose windows above the doors made him feel conspicuous. They looked like monstrous eyes, cold and blue, or inflamed and red. They seemed so round-as if innocently surprised. Soft beams of light came through them, beams that soothed the raw stone, glossed over its roughness, smoothed it to indistinctness, until it mounted into nothing - fantastic and dream-like in gloom. Life, thought Clarence, was something like this cathedral: distant, yet close, hard and cold, yet intangible. Ah, that, he thought, would be a good topic for his story, The I3m11u.tic.s of Life. Or maybe he should say, The Inmzefz- Jifier. Well, anyway, that could be decided upon later. just at present the all-important problem was the selection of a theme, a basic idea. In fact, that was the reason he had come to the cathedral. This stoical structure had in- differently looked down on many deeds and scenes, dramatic, pathetic, and humorous, and would look down on many more. Here, he had thought, within this quiet edihce a great idea might come to him. But no idea, no inspiration, no divine revelation came to the boy. A genius is never prosaic. On the con- trary, often a little mad. He walked up to the foot of the chancel. Then he turned to his left and walked around behind the altar. He stared up at the towering columns, columns that formed the back- ground of the chancelg smooth, polished col-

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Clarence's grandfather had once told him about the Bishop. It seems that this Bishop had had a friend, a dwarf. This dwarf was rumored to be a demon. for after the Bishop was murdered, it was never seen again--at least not in the flesh. Many people had claimed to have seen its spirit since its disappearance back in the middle of the Fifteenth century. The latest person had been the present organist, and his story had set the town agog. His account ran that one night he had had to return to the cathedral to get some music. It was then that he had seen the dwarf. It was, he claimed, looking flxedly at him from the altar. The organist had described it as having a triangular, bearded face and horns projecting from the forehead. Terrified, he had fled at the sight, leaving his precious music behind. The next morning the crucifix had been found lying on the floor. Clarence shuddered. Suppose he should encounter it? He stopped and listened. All was silent, save for the faint sound of traflic from the street. He proceeded falteringly. Presently a cold sweat began to form on his skin. His scalp tightened, and he walked mechanically. O, God! Had he heard footsteps? He felt that he was being stared at. Baleful green eyes were somewhere in the dark- ness behind him. The infamous sixth sensei' was doing its insidious work. He strove to put aside his fears. It was all nonsensical superstition! He listened intently. There was not a sound, save,-yes! From the darkness behind came the soft pat of very deliberate footsteps. Dignity and reason fled. Superstitious terror, the instinctive horror of the nameless, wreaked havoc on his composure. He wanted to run. He wanted to scream. He was paralyzed with fear. It was following him. It was getting closer. Two green eyes that were remarkably close together peered out of the shadows. Then, out of the darkness into the faint rays of cold light from the window, emerged a head and a pair of shoulders. O, God! It was the-the DWARF! He gasped, and then his horrified shriek tore at the silence of the night. Go away! Go away! he screamed. Leave me alone! Don't touch me! i He shrieked at the top of his lungs again and again, and then suddenly turned and fled down the dark aisle toward the doors at the end of the nave. The Thing came bounding after him with a weird, unearthly rhythm, never passing, always keeping in the darkness behind. O, God, he whispered in despair. Terror forced him to run faster and faster, faster than he knew how. Suddenly there was a terrible rattle at a door across the nave. It opened, and a man with a lantern stood silhouetted in the light from the street. Clarence headed for him, screaming with horror. The Thing! The Thing! It's following me. O, help! He dodged among the columns, blinded with fear. Suddenly a dark mass loomed up in front of him. He couldn't avoid it. He was going too fast. Too late. He collided with it. Clarence groaned and sank unconscious to the floor. When he regained consciousness, he was lying on the grass. A portly