Balmoral Hall School - Optima Anni Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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WI-IITHER THOU GOEST, I WILL GO He paused to look at the imprint set deeply in the snow, the small hollow which still held the curves and the texture of the cloth. The snowy mould almost retained life, so vivid it was, yet so barren and lifeless. Transfixed by the spot, the man's imagination which leapt ahead of his reason began to visualize a huddled form lying there. Frightened, he turned quickly away. Mounting in his throat was a burning sensation which soon was relieved by warm tears which overflowed from his soft, brown eyes. His thoughts were sudden and confused. Only minutes ago, it seemed, she and the child had breathed, lived and loved. Now nothing. No, he would not think of now - never again. Only of the past. She and little Hans had set out to visit an ailing relative to whom they were bringing some presents. He had pleaded with her to stay, not because of any foreboding danger he felt, but only to spend a tranquil afternoon with him. She had insisted howeverg she had felt that it was her duty. l must go, love. lfl were to stay I would only be miserable with thoughts of my sister's pain. Please understand. Oh, I shall take Hans with me - the fresh air will be good for him. Then she had bent down and kissed him gently on his forehead. He had felt sad, when the door closed, but not resentful, for he understood her overwhelming kindness which always dictated her deeds. After several futile attempts at reading a chapter of a novel he had slung his heavy coat on and started towards the local inn. There, he hoped, might be some activity in the tavern in which he might forget his yearning for a time. As he neared it, sounds of brassy instruments and vulgar singing greeted him. The flaming sun- light was obliterated as he descended into the inn, where he was encompassed by the close darkness which filled the room. From a remote corner of the room a blatant voice cried, Well, if it ain't old Ashley Hawthorne himself! Sure haven't seen you for a long time. Eh! Where ya been all my life? Knocking over his beer mug, the man stumbled to his feet and approached Ashley. I-le flung a clumsy arm around Ashley's neck, which drew a burst of raucous laughter, and steered him as best as he could to the table. Ashley drew back, repelled by the wave of alcohol which reeked from the man's bearded face. Reluctantly, he complied with their wishes to shoot crap. A monotonous series of games ensued in which Ashley seemed to be losing all his money. The futile conversations and the stale air filled with the stench of cigar smoke, sickened him. His mind, constantly straying from the game, conjured up images of her and the child. She probably would be crossing the ancient, wooden bridge now, which stood over a silent stream, blanketed with snow. She would rest there and pushing her thick bunches of red hair back, she would stoop to pat one of the tame rabbits which inhabited the woods nearby. There she would stay, findling the rabbit for quite some time, until Hans would tug impatiently at her hand. Laughing softly, she would set the rabbit down gently in the snow, stroke his fluffy tail and then go on her way. She and Hans would have to hurry now to compensate for their stop with the rabbits. The wind would take advantage of her haste and would draw forth a slight pink glow which had lain under her usual pallour. Her hair would be caught up by the playful breeze and would toss gently around her shoulders. Damn you Ashley! Are you playing with us or aren't you. You already lost half your money so you bloody well better pay some attention. lt's your turn so make it fast, a gruff voice blasted, curtly shattering the world of incredible purity that Ashley had lapsed into. The boredom of the game resumed only to be broken occasionally by the entrance of a newcomer, bringing with him a blast of cruel, wintry air. One such stranger approached their table, rubbing his raw hands frantically. ls there a man by the name of Hawthorne here? His face twitched nervously as he spoke. Ashley rose, nodding his head in assent. The man blurted out the words in rapid succession. Your wife and child were found lying in the snow. Dead. As he tramped through the snow, Ashley tried to block the vividly painful memories which kept thrusting themselves into his head. The torture was inevitable for everything which followed those words stood out so lucidly in his memory. There had been a general rumble of sympathy which escaped from the shocked listeners. This had been obscured only by the pulsating sensation in Ashely 's head, a throbbing repetition of those crucial words.