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Page 65 text:
“
SHORT STORIES THERE, IN THE DESERT SANDS Never had the desert sun been so hot. Like an attack from the entrails of hell it poured its wrath down deep into the parched sands. Minute grains of crystal caught its flame, shimmered in a torment of colour in its ferocity, and beamed its fire to everything living and everything dead. Only a hardy desert native had ever dared to appear and absorb the heat and disappear. Only the lonely cactus had ever stood sentinel in that great white way. Nothing else had ever been. Only this. Then they had come: dark, pitiful, furtive figures that couldn ' t bear to suffer long in this inferno; small figures that left prints in the wasteland floor for only minutes. In this strip of white hell they were insignificant. Pitiful and yet powerful, furtive and yet bold, insignificant and yet moment¬ ous. They had created change which was one thing the desert had never realized. Always there had been the sun and the rats and the lizards and the cactus. Al¬ ways it had been the same monotonous, and seemingly-unending desert. Now it changed. At first the change was little in the form of a strange mass of silver-grey metal. Yet this thing which stretched high above the cactus caught the shimmering ferocity of the sun and beamed it with an even greater fury at everything living and everything dead. This thing which was a tower stood for the lizard and the sand and the sun and God. Then it was quiet again and the desert had felt the first a p p e a r a n c e of the men. The desert night brought with it cold. It was cold to the desert because in the bowels of the sun it had been hot. In the night the figures came again. They came and they shivered in the cold and they cursed because it was cold just as they had cursed because it had been hot. Sounds from the men broke the quiet spell of the desert but as their marks had been only fora moment in the hot sand in the day so their voices were only for a moment in the night. Then in the cold stillness of the dark night came the strange sounds that had never been heard before. At first the sounds were drips in the sea that was change and mortal. The voice of man dealt like a carrion peal in the stillness. It reverberated off the group of men huddled and shivering behind the concrete that was of man and off the far away silver-grey tower that too was of man. n One minute 1 til blast. Then the drips became a syncopated beat, and the men huddled and sweated because inside of them it was hot and their sweat poured out and bounced like spit off the steel that was of man into the sand that was of G o d and the sweat dis¬ appeared. The beat that was a drip became a stream and the voice kept on and suddenly there came out of the ground small spurts of smoke and the voice stopped and suddenly the desert was alive. No day had ever been that was like that night. The tower came alive and the desert came alive and for moments all that was on the desert was a great white all-enveloping and all-destroying and all-powerful light which blinded the desert and was like one million of the hottest suns that ever were; but then, it was gone and the desert saw again and it saw that where the tower had been and the light had been was now a great cloud that was a bruiting, rushing turmoil of colour It rose high into the night, which was still light, and took some of the desert with it. The light had blinded the desert and it trembled and erupted, and it was not until days had passed that the desert became still again. Days later it was hot. The sun poured its wrath down on the parched sands like an attack from the entrails of hell. Where the tower had been was a great 57
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Page 66 text:
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cavern but the sun and the wind blew the grains of crystal across the cavern until soon there was no more: the desert had swallowed up all that was man and all that remained was of God. Grade 13 Jack Schoon THE PRISONER Derrick rolled over. His eyes opened slightly. A brilliant shaft of sunlight burned into his head. Quickly he buried his face in the pillows and tried to sleep again. ’’To-day, ” he thought, Why to-day? Why not to-morrow, or the day after? Why not yesterday? Blessed sleep cut off his questions. His head ached continu¬ ally from the rank air and his body was stiff and sore because of the brutal beat¬ ings he had received at the hands of his jailers. In the beginning he had learned to sleep because there was nothing else to do. Now he was glad that he could sleep because it was his only escape from reality. At least, when he slept he was ob¬ livious to the world around him. Several hours later he awoke again. This time there was no escape. He was too restless to lie still so he stood up and moved to the tiny, barred window that was his only link with the outside. There was a hard knot in the pit of his stomach. He was hungry, but he couldn ' t eat the slop that had been left for his breakfast. His last meal and he couldn ' t eat it. Outside sunlight twinkled merrily on the thin crust which covered the soft snow on the ground. In the distance he could see a huge expanse of trees. They were perhaps a mile away. A few months and then it would be spring. Derrick could imagine the tiny green leaflets that would soon be growing on the trees. He could see the brilliant flowers and hear the happy calls of the birds. Why did he have to die ? There were tears in his eyes as he turned away from the window. He didn ' t w T ant to die. He was too young to die. There was so much of life to look forward to. But there was nothing ahead of him. Not anymore. He, Derrick Elmer Rob¬ inson, had been sentenced to death by a puppet court, deep in Nazi Germany. They had called him a spy, but he was wearing his R.A.F. uniform. He wasn ' t a spy, but he hadn ' t even been given a chance to defend himself. Death before the firing squad , the judge had bellowed at him. To-day he was to die. Does it hurt? he wondered. Strange, nobody had thought to tell him. What was it like to stand and face those guns? Well, he ' d soon know, but he ' d never re¬ member. Perhaps that was just as well. It might hurt terribly, but then, one can never really remember pain. This thought was no comfort, and he buried his face in his hands as he sat on the edge of the hard bed. This was something that happened to other people. It could never happen to him. Yet he was waiting for death. How many nice letters of condolence had he written to wives and mothers of his friends? There were so many. He hoped that someone would write to Helen. She would appreciate it so! What if no one told her that he had been a wonderful buddy? Why hadn ' t he bothered to make more frie¬ nds? Surely there would be someone who would go to see her. How many bereaved relatives had they visited together? He ' d never kept count, there were so many. Some of them would surely help to console Helen. He and Helen had always been so close. As small c h i 1 d r e n they had played together. They had always known that they would get married. There was never any question of that. Sometimes now it was as if she was standing there beside him. He felt a bond between them. It was as if he knew when she was thinking about him. What about the kid? His name was Ian. He was seven years old now, just getting to be a pal. He ' d miss his Dad. He and Derrick would get up to get her in 58
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