Shawnigan Lake School - Yearbook (Shawnigan Lake, British Columbia Canada)

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had promised him that I would stay until the fourth. He would repeat these words in a dreary succession when he thought he was alone, putting the same dreadful emphasis on each syllable. It was, therefore, with a feeling of dread that I awoke on the morning of that fateful day. I quickly glanced over at the old man ' s bed, but it hadn ' t been slept in. I immediately jumped up, throwing on my clothes. Julius, Julius! I called, beginning to search for the old fellow. Suddenly I saw him entering the door, and the sight that he presented made me shiver with horror. He had obviously not slept the night before, for his bloodshot eyes were surrounded by hollow circles. From them shone forth a look of horror. His thick lips were covered with tiny specks of foam, and his beard was a stringy mess. His whole body was periodically convulsed with sharp spasms of shivering. What time do you make it ? he asked, his voice cracking with emotion. Nine o ' clock, I answered, sure that I was addressing a madman. One hour . . . only one hour left ! he shrieked, his eyes rolling wildly back into his head. One hour till when ? I asked hesitantly, backing further into the kitchen and grabbing a stout bread knife. Who said you could ask questions ? he snapped. Don ' t worry your weak head about me. Who are you to know what is to happen ? I am great. You are puny . . . small . . . nothing ! He then wandered aimlessly around the house destroying everything possible, cackling with fiendish joy as he wrecked his most valuable possessions. When I tried to reason with him he only spat venemously, swore, and said it didn ' t matter any longer. Time ticked by. For a long time he said nothing, gazing into the dying embers of the fire, sweat pouring down his sad old face, making tiny rivulets through a week ' s grime. I looked outside and shivered. It had begun to snow; swirling flakes drifted down from the dirty grey clouds that hung ominously above. A cold wind blew open the door, bringing a cloud of freezing flakes in with it. I ' ll have to get out of here today, I thought, or I ' ll be trapped all winter with this lunatic. However, since he saved my life, I should try to do something for h im. He turned around sharply and asked in a hoarse whisper, What time is it ? I glanced at my watch, my hand was shaking so much that I could barely read it. Nine thirty, I croaked. Without warning he jumped to his feet and grabbed me, pinning me against the wall ! I struggled to free myself from his vice-like grasp, but his strength was fantastic. He slapped me twice across my face with his hideous hands and then grasped my hair, forcing me to look in his eyes. They were now bright and red, the pupils had contracted to become two tiny dots, that flashed terrifyingly. I suppose you think I ' m crazy ! Well, you ' ll see. You ' re not great enough to know. I ' ll leave you here ! he shouted, his mouth twisting into an indescribably savage smile. Wh - - - wh - - - wh - - - where are you going ? I stammered. To hell! That ' s where! he yelled, laughing insanely, Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! You can read about it in my diary . . . but make it quick. His eyes burned with a fiendish glee. I ' ll be seeing you in Hades ! he screamed. With this parting speech he turned quickly and dashed through the open door. The last I saw of him he was running through a blinding snowstorm, shouting gibberish, his long hair streaming behind him, shouting and screaming into the storm. I tried to follow him but it was useless. Then I remembered the diary. Quickly I went over to where it lay and opened it. The leaves fell back at a marked page. There under the heading of June 2nd, 1915, was the following statement: The world is going to explode on November 3rd, 1955, at ten in the morning. I glanced at my watch. It was five past ten. —A. VINCENT. ti it DIVE FOR DISASTER Dave Johnson aroused himself from a deep sleep and gazed bleary eyed at the alarm clock which had rudely awakened him. It was 7:30 p.m., time to report at the dockyard for duty. Tonight was a very special occasion. For seven months he had been working on the new submarine H.M.C.S. Glory, which was now ready for her final test run. The first few days of the tests had consisted of surface cruises but tonight Dave, as engineer, had to go down with her on her maiden voyage into the depths of the sea. Page Twenty-Seven

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In spite of the fact that the old man watched me like a hawk and would give me no clue as to how to get back to civilization, I found that I was enjoying myself. My shoulder healed quickly under the watchful eye of the doctor, who somehow seemed to have plenty of medical equipment. I was able to converse freely with the doctor on matters such as English literature and historical events, although I found him curiously reluctant to discuss current affairs in spite of the fact that his only news on such things came when old Joe, as the trapper was called, brought him some magazines and books along with supplies. The only fact that marred what might have been a peaceful holiday was that I knew my sorrowing family must have long since given me up for lost. The old man refused to give even the vaguest idea of my where- abouts, making the rather lame excuse that I was not yet strong enough to move. The old boy probably wants to keep me here indefinitely for company, I thought grimly, and there isn ' t much I can do about it. Finally, one evening as we sat by the blazing log fire, he with a glass of his brew in his hand, and I with a copy of Scott ' s Ivanhoe (he kept a well-stocked but rather out-of-date library), he cleared his throat noisily and said: Well, I suppose you ' ve been wondering who I am and why I won ' t tell you how to get back to your God-forsaken civilization. Now before I tell you anything I want you to promise that during my lifetime you will not divulge this information to anyone. I assure you that I am no enemy to society, so don ' t refuse on those grounds. Please do this, remembering that it was I who saved your life. As I could find no grounds for protest, I agreed. He then went on to give me explicit instructions on how to make my way back to Fort St. James, making me promise to stay another week. We then lapsed into an uneasy silence, during which I pondered on whether or not I ought to broach the subject of his identity. Suddenly he drained his glass, nervously shifted his position several times and blurted out, Have you ever heard of Doctor Julius Shenwz ? Of course, I replied, every Canadian schoolboy has studied that amazing man. Why, did you know him ? He ignored my question. I see they haven ' t forgotten, he murmured, a wry smile twisting his lined face. Would you believe me if I were to tell you that he and I are the same person ? What ? I gasped, with amazement. What was the doctor trying to say ? This old codger and the one-time boy wonder of the Liberal party, one and the same person . . . impossible ! Yet there was some physical resemblance between the woods-dweller and the former Minister of External Affairs who had mysteriously disappeared at the beginning of the First World War. I don ' t suppose you believe me, but it ' s true, he went on in a tired old voice, which certainly seemed to have a ring of truth in it. As a matter of fact I think I do believe you, I replied. I thought you were supposed to have been kidnapped by an alien power when you disappeared in 1915. No ! he fairly shouted, that wasn ' t it at all ! It was because I saw the world was going mad . . . mad with hate and fear and conceit and distrust ! His voice had risen to a passionate crescendo and his eyes burned more fervently than ever with fanaticism. So that was it, I said. You were the fellow who made all those amazing predictions, weren ' t you ? Didn ' t you forecast the First War, the depression, the rise of Hitler, the Second War, and even the atom bomb ? They say you never made a wrong prediction. He jumped up, dropping his glass with a crash, a look of complete horror on his face. Ye Gods ! he cried, don ' t mention that ! I was a fool to ever say such things. Just forget about them . . . please never mention them again ! He sank back into his chair, his hands shaking violently. Why ? I asked, shocked that my statement should have brought such an answer. Never mind ! Never mind ! he shouted. Don ' t ever mention it again ! Then he fell, fainting, to the floor. During the next week the old man ' s condition went from bad to worse. For hours he would sit alone, staring blankly into the dying embers of the fire. During these periods he seemed to be in a trance, not uttering a word, but shivering violently. When he aroused himself his mad eyes shone forth in stark fear. He would do no housework and his once immaculate cabin soon looked sordid in spite of my efforts to keep it in good shape. Often I would hear him muttering to himself while he wandered through the house in a daze. I could understand little of what he said, except that he kept mentioning the date November third over and over again in an awed voice. This was rather disconcerting as I Page Twenty-Six

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He dressed and made himself something to eat, trying not to worry too much about the night ahead. Nothing could possibly go amiss. Glory was the latest type of submarine, equipped with many fantastic devices one hardly knew existed. After washing the dishes Dave hurried to his car and drove to work, little knowing he was heading for disaster. Approaching the yard he never failed to marvel at the bright white lights which gave the scene the look of a movie set. Dave parked the car and regarded the busy dock. Workers, moving to and fro and going up and down the gang plank of the sleek ship, resembled a community of ants crawling over a piece of candy dropped by some wayward child. Dave walked towards the jetty, showed his identification to the guard, and strolled along the pier to the submarine. He felt the tingle of fear in his spine as he walked up the gangplank. Would everything be all right ? Arriving on the bridge he noticed Captain Elliott, the short, stocky commander of Glory, watching the men making last minute adjustments to the periscope housing. Butterflies? asked Elliott as turning around he saw the worried look on Dave ' s face. Not really, replied Dave. I guess nothing could happen, but I ' ll be glad when this night ' s over. He looked at his watch — midnight, and the last worker climbed down the gangplank. Cast off ! shouted Captain Elliott. As H.M.C.S. Glory slid quietly away from the dock, Dave up on the bridge felt the chill air of an August night swishing past his bare head and sending an involuntary shiver through him. The soft lapping of the waves against the hull served to calm him. The city looked peaceful and safe to Dave as the sleek black submarine made its way out and lights blinked from the dark distant shore. As they passed through the harbour gates the sea became choppy and because the ship had increased speed it made a low swishing sound. When only five miles out the Captain gave the order to dive. This was the moment everyone had been waiting for. The hatch clanged shut and the friendly, twinkling stars were extinguished. Inside the bright control room, the rows of gauges gleamed and Dave at first was blinded. The submerging motion of the ship gave him the sensation of being on an express elevator in a skyscraper. All was quiet except for the hum of the generator. Dave checked the instruments over the shoulder of the operator, Leading Seaman Kirk. Everything was in perfect order. Twenty-five fathoms, sir, reported the quartermaster. Level off ! commanded Elliott. Then to Dave, All going as it should be, Mr. Johnson ? Yes, sir. Everything ' s fine so far, confirmed Dave. Good ! Take her down to one hundred fathoms and we ' ll call it a night, ordered the Captain. Thirty fathoms . . . , reported the rating watching the depth indicator. Thirty-five . . . forty . . . forty-five . . . The ship began to tremble. Surface ! Surface ! called Captain Elliott. H.M.C.S. Glory did not respond. As the angle of the dive steepened the ship gathered speed. It refuses to come up, sir ! cried the quartermaster. Keep trying, shouted Elliott. Three hundred fathoms, sir ! warned the rating. Well, lads, I ' m afraid this is it, said Elliott. He was outwardly calm. They stared incredulously at the depth needle which seemed to be racing around the dial. It now showed four hundred and twenty-five fathoms. The tension in the small control room was as tight as a violin string. Because there was no sound one sensed it all the more. Madly Dave thought back. He must find out what had happened before it was too late. The events of the past seven months flashed through his mind. It was s trange, he thought, trying to find out what had gone wrong. Suddenly at five hundred fathoms the sides were crushed like an eggshell, and the sea came rushing in, engulfing Dave and tossing him about like a twig in a rushing stream. Bells started clanging and the water suddenly disappeared and he found himself in bed. It had only been a dream, a strangely horrifying nightmare. Dave looked at the alarm clock which had now stopped ringing. It was 7:30 p.m. — time to go to the dock to take H.M.C.S. Glory down for the first time ! —JOHN NEAL. ti Page Twenty-Eight