Kelvin High School - Kelvin Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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the air, Mother calls a halt with the familiar adage, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” A heavy silence reigns. Everyone is obviously straining to think of “something nice.” “Er,” I venture on a remark, “1 got six out of twenty on a thing I did in English today.” This statement is greeted with hoots and guffaws which are quickly stopped by stern glances from both ends of the table. Quiet hangs over the table until the end of the Main Course. When Mother goes to get the dessert we settle the score with kicks under the table and horrible faces made at our particular adversaries. Mother returns with dessert and someone remarks in tones dripping with sarcasm, “Oh boy, something new — vanilla ice¬ cream!” At the termination of dessert we all settle back for the happy interlude in which Father drinks his tea. During this time we discuss intelligently such topics as politics, “Why I Didn’t Get Nominated for Class President,” sports, “I Can Beat Anybody Here at Tiddly-Winks,” or fashion, “What to Wear to the Bowling Alley on Saturday Night.” Finally the table is cleared and after a brief argument in which my sister and I determine that it is “my turn” I enter the kitchen and pick up a dish-towel. The rest of the family go back to their interrupted activities to the accompaniment of dishes sloshing around in the sink. The curtain of night hangs over our street and everyone heaves a sigh. Dinnertime at 249, at least for the next twenty-four hours, is over. A Question of Evil The relationship between good and evil and the essence of evil has been a prime subject of men’s thoughts since man begun to think. It is impossible to draw a clear borderline between good and evil. However, we know instinctively what is good and what is evil, by comparing it with our own set of moral values or with the morality of society. Therefore, evil is only a relative term, depending upon one’s own morality. A person will call anything “evil” which compares unfavorably with his own moral standards and consider anything good which cor¬ responds to his own set of values. Our own morality is deduced from the values which have been developed by western society in the course of centuries. The Laws of Hammurabi, the Ten Commandments, the Codex Justiniani, and the laws developed by the Germanic tribes all had the same purpose: to establish a morality by which mort¬ als might live at peace with one another and with their own minds. These laws differ in phrasing and the punishments which were to be meted out to evil¬ doers, but basically, they establish the same moral code, the same concept of evil. If even peoples as different as the Babylonians and the Germanic tribes had the same laws, humans must be instilled with a general sense of right and wrong. However, the precise ideas we have individually of evil do not necessarily coincide with society’s, since no man’s personality corresponds with the medium set by society. One person relaxes his morals one way, another pardons some other crime. Some persons have stopped thinking of evil altogether and act purely from instinct. Such individuals must be considered abnormal. The morals of the ideal person, however, who has not blunted his conscience in any direction, should conform with those of his society. From the day that Adam took the apple proffered by Eve, evil, crime, sin, no matter what the term, has been with us. Must we always condemn evil and the person who perpetrates it? Sometimes acts are com¬ mitted, that, when compared with our moral stand¬ ards, must be termed evil, yet the actions are brought on by fate or circumstance. We realize one thing: evil must be punished. Yet we must make the judg¬ ment dependent not upon the gravity of the offence alone, but also upon the circumstances leading up to it. If the motivations of two identical crimes differ, then the crimes must necessarily be of a different degree of evil. Therefore, “rubber-stamp” comparisons of men’s actions with an all-encompassing morality are not enough to determine evil. Knowledge of every factor leading up to a crime is essential to fair judg¬ ment and proper punishment. Evil will exist as long as the human race does. We must learn to cope with it, to resist it, and to judge properly what is evil and what is not. Only when we have determined what is evil for ourselves will we be able to judge the evil of others. 89

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ESSAYS 1. All Alone in the Big City by Terrence Moore, XI-37 2. Dinner is Served . by Linda Vincent, XI-30 3. A Question of Evil by Horst Packer, XI-37 All Alone in the Big City Portage Avenue was as still as death. Looking in toward the heart of the city, I could see no living thing, Behind me, the ever-widening ring of fire con¬ sumed the suburbs, Silver Heights and Tuxedo. A mighty pall of smoke cast its suffocating shadow over the rubble-strewn plain. As I walked eastward, flam¬ ing wreckage was replaced by charred, smouldering timbers. I stumbled slowly along, and found myself at the bank of the Assiniboine River. The muddy water swirled around a pile of concrete and twisted steel that had once been St. James Bridge. I resumed my painful progress toward the centre of town. My way was paved with shattered glass, erupted pavement, mangled metalwork, and splinter¬ ed, fire-blackened planks and timbers. Had cars and trucks and buses streamed along this route, carrying a work-weary city home to rest? Had street lights bathed the thoroughfare in glaring light, and flashing signs measured the heartbeat of a vibrant town? The reeking vapours of a ruptured sewer main filtered through a mountain of broken brickwork to add their ethereal mass to the thick, low-hanging cloud above. The mushroom cloud of yesterday had long since dissipated and settled back to earth, but the smoke from an atomic age bonfire, from an insatiable con- Darkness is falling on Renfrew Street and at 249, promptly at six, Mother announces, in dulcet tones, that dinner is ready. Five minutes later in not-so- dulcet tones, she again proclaims this fact. Finally at 6:08 a stentorian bellow resounds throughout the house and we emerge from various parts of our home to take our places at the “groaning board.” Don comes from the kitchen where he has been constructing a model “dragster” which, in his worthy opinion is “real neat.” Chris ascends from the base¬ ment and for some time after seems to be afflicted with that well-known disease “Television Stare.” Father, with visible effort, rises from the couch where he has been enjoying his “pre-dinner snooze.” I come from the living room floor, having furthered my education by reading about the adventures of Dick Tracy and the creatures of the Okeefenokee Swamp. Mary Jane comes to her place with a “headful of hardware” — she has just washed her hair and Mother comes from flagration which devoured a city, swelling as it ate, the smoke from this inferno of wood and flesh now blotted out the sun and moon; the sun, that had once fried an egg on the steps of the city hall; the moon, whose love-provoking beams had poured through many a bedroom window on a summer’s eve. But that was in another world, the world of reality. This was all a dream, a wild, delirious dream, in which a telephone cable of yesterday morning was now a slack, meaningless strand of metal, snaking across my path. Once, there had been a thriving city here — a day ago. And once, the golden boy had gazed across it, and in his gaze had counted prostitutes, policemen, and Salvation Army Santa Clauses. Now, he lies in a ton of rubble, his torch extinguished, his sheaf of wheat scattered to the four winds. And here I stand, at the windiest corner in Canada, near the ruins of a bank, a railway station, and a furniture store; near the ruins of a monument to the men who died in the war to end war. Around and above me, the sides of a cavernous crater bristle with gas mains, water mains and steel to reinforce a city. I brush from my clothes a layer of filthy radioactive dust, but more settles in its place. Served the kitchen to place on the table another of her culinary masterpieces. It is greeted with appropriate comments, “Not liver again!” or “Ugh! I hate scal¬ loped potatoes!” At first there is no sound. We are all too busy soothing our fierce pangs of hunger. Gradually, the silence is broken by witty, scintillating conversation — “I had a raw carrot before dinner so I don’t think I’ll have any beans.” “Would you please move your elbow? I’d like to see what I’m eating!” “Chris, when Donald wants a bun, don’t throw him one, pass the whole plate!” Usually, at this point the table becomes the site of a verbal battle over some question of earth-shaking importance, as which of the boys is the better hockey player. The sides are mostly in the ratio of three to one. When the battle becomes heated, with words like “stupid,” “idiot,” and “half-wit” flying through Dinner is 88

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SHORT STORIES 1. The Braemar Stallion . by Susan Blanchaer 2. The Transplant . by Judy Moran The Bramar Stallion The little gray man reached compulsively for the cracked whiskey bottle. Nervously he poured and swallowed. 1 watched his features. “The Breamar castle,” he mumbled easily, staring at his yellowed glass. I leaned forward in the wooden chair impatiently. “Yes, I must know everything. You see, I am the only heir to my uncle’s castle.” The old man’s eyes became dim with remembrances. I could see the past turning over and spreading itself out in his mind. “I see. You want to know the story of Tobias and your uncle before the inquest.” I nodded. “Well, here it is.” He sighed heavily. I had worked as your great-uncle Tobias’s stable manager for over five years when your uncle, back from the courts, entered into my life. His health had been seriously impaired by the shock of the recent death of his mother. He was then a young man of thirty-five years and extremely quick minded. Most of his time was spent in the barn and with the horses. He was an amazing horseman, and seemed to get along with any horse, even Raven, his father’s un¬ manageable black stallion. The man was, however, possessed with a strange mind. For the majority of the time he was energetic, happy, and loved the horses with a magnanimous pride, and he was kind and thoughtful to his father; but now and again he would act strangely and call himself Morgan, while Edan was his real name by birth. His normally cheerful nature left him and was dominated by a sullen and hateful disposition. He despised all of us impetuously and was malignant towards his father, whom he did not recognize as Tobias, but as Ramsay, someone unknown to us all. The most bewildering thing of all was Edan’s sudden fear and hatred of the fine horses which your great- uncle bred. At an instant’s provocation he would snatch up a stick and anything else within his reach, enter the stables, and perniciously beat each horse until the blood ran and it screamed in torment. There was no warning when Morgan would come forth in Edan’s body and for this reason we were forced to guard the stables day and night against any sudden aggression; but if we managed to catch him in the act he would writhe in agony at the touch of our hands, and his frenzied cries would soon bring Tobias to his aid. One day a terrible thing happened. Your great- uncle was riding Raven in the woods, and the horse stumbled throwing Tobi as to a brutal death. Edan was struck cruelly, and not long after Morgan re¬ turned to Edan’s body with unbelievable violence. For days his screeching, sardonic laughter filled our ears. Many were the times when, in his hysterical rage he fell to the ground frothing at the mouth, and weeping bitter tears. We prevented his coming near the horses a good deal of the time. Yes, most of the time, but one night he slunk past us all and into Raven’s stall. Raven had been Tobias’s favourite, a magnificent black stallion with more heart and soul than I have ever seen in a horse, but still Edan could not break his spirit with a spiked leather strap. As soon as we heard the stallions mad screams we ran to the stables, but as I witnessed his crouching body and his abnormally tense muscles I knew that we were too late. Blood and foam ran from Morgan’s mouth and his eyes stared from their sockets. His hands were blistered from the strap. The horse was almost rabid with fury and fear as the leather whirled about and scraped open his raw body. Blood ran from his nostrils and his many wounds; sweat stood out on his body like white foam on a black sea. The stallion reared and lunged at the frenzied man before him, biting Morgan severely many times. The heaving was no longer human; he was a snarling, preying animal. In a flashing snap he had ripped the horse’s life out. Then the dying beast, wheezing and gasping for a bit of air, reared once more and dropped dead at the feet of the half-conscious man. While all this was going on, we tried desperately to reach Morgan; but, like the horse, he was at bay, and as fierce as any wild creature in such a position. We approached him with kind words and gentle gestures, but all failed. In the end, Morgan stood panting over the dead stallion. The wild light in his bloodshot eyes finally flickered and went out. He trembled violently and thick tears dropped from his eyes. His mind seemed to clear as he saw the still horse at his feet; for a few moments he became Edan’s mind in Edan’s body. His head bent and his hair awry, he said to me in a distant, shaky voice, “I have killed horses and I have myself.” Those were the last words he spoke to his terrible death. Both Morgan and Edan disappeared entirely and he became a new person, in mind and soul. Voiceless and depressed, he became a shadow in Breamar, a castle of many shadows. Once in a while, upon approaching one of us, a faint light entered his 90