Sir Adam Beck Secondary School - Lacedaemon Yearbook (London, Ontario Canada)

Page 73 text:

PADISHAH HILL he sun poked his head over Padishah Hill and with long, almost lecherous fingers began to remove the cloak of darkness from Liana and the valley in which she lay. One of the fingers found Clayton Seriate leaving his house, on his expedition to the village. Nearby a rabbit shot out of the earth and bounced across the moor. Clayton, otherwise unoccupied, was aware of this and numerous other occurrences to which he would normally have been blind. But, after all, one can ' t return to the norm after an experience like the previous day. It ' s simply impos- sible. Thus he continued down the hill from his home, sublimely aware of things. What experience could push a man to this - to forget his established pattern of life and withdraw out of himself? As many times as he had, to no avail, reviewed the events of the previous day he decided to try just once more. Perhaps in the morning air his motives would be clearer. The day before, Wednesday, had been rather an unorthodox day. Having com- pleted his chores, and with them the morning, he found himself sitting on the porch, as was his custom. While watching the world spin around, Seriate was startled to see a girl climbing his hill- -HIS hill ! Picking HIS flowers ! In the years that he had lived on Padishah Hill he had never seen anyone foolhardy enough to quit the safety of the highway and set foot on Seriate land. Since the death of Thomas Baxter at the hands of Diablo Seriate twenty years ago it seemed that even angels feared to make their way up the hill. But not her! There she was, clearly a hundred yards from the road! As Clayton rose to chase her off, she glanced up and saw him; she hesitated, markedly surprised, then started to- ward him, absolutely unafraid. Toward him ! This was too much. He lept from the porch and scrambled down after her, determined now to break her neck. Yvette Grimoire had finished her Wednesday housecleaning, and it had struck her fancy to wander the moors. When she had seen the young elderly man, his face smothering in a dusty beard, she had been surprised. It was the house that had drawn her off the road and in her haste to examine it, it hadn ' t occurred to her that anyone could live there. She quite liked the design, but was sure that it was the sort that she alone could appreciate. The gentleman had been hurrying down to meet her when his foot caught in a rabbit hole and he had sprawled out like a misshapen starfish. His fall had been so utterly ridiculous that she just had to laugh, and so she did. Damn that stupid rabbit ! What a place to put a burrow ! Clayton made a mental note it wouldn ' t be there tomorrow. Looking up he saw the girl laughing. He rose angrily and was preparing to strike her when suddenly, suddenly he realized that she wasn ' t mocking him. She was. . . oh, the idea was there, but what it was exactly couldn ' t be expressed by any words he knew. She was, in any case different from the ugly people of Liana. Still she laughed. - In his rather moted mind ' s eye, he envisioned his fall. It was hardly hilarious he decided, but perhaps it was somewhat comical. In spite of his sore hip and battered ego he was to a degree able to appreciate how someone unconnected with the incident could laugh at it. For perhaps the first time in his entire life, he enjoyed a degree of empathy with another human being. The bearded man got to his feet, raising his fist as if to strike her, and for the first time since her father ' s death, Yvette was afraid. But his yes locked in hers and as he stared, his face softened ever so slightly. Subsequently a look more embarrassment than anything else invaded his eyes, and for a few infinite seconds they stood locked in a visual embrace.

Page 72 text:

TWO POEMS WAR ORPHAN Cringing, crying, craving, crawling, Starved, forgotten child of Hell, Innocence broken by feud of superior minds, Knowing naught but pain and hate, Pure childhood marred by guilt of those Too foolish to realize; too wise to heed. And in a city home, a white child is rocked to sleep, Cradled, clothed, and nourished, Gifted by God, guaranteed a home. The orphan has no home but faith, He often longs for a word of hope, Tonight he may be dead-- Thoughts of death and parting in the twilight Of some quiet era. A knowing smile Between two hearts grown fond, older, Wiser; a scent of earth, of air, of water, A dreadful fear of night, of time itself and A longing for our life, our prime. Of years swallowed up in folly: we die Before the earth yet digests our deeds. The gilded world is but a foil, For our night surely comes: The night comes. BY CAROL ANN OULTRAM

Page 74 text:

Uneasily he motioned her to join him on the porch. And yet the silence lin- gered. Even after they had taken up position on the swing the sickly noiseless- ness continued. She didn ' t want to speak, for one speaks only when spoken to. Nonetheless his blank look indicated nothing was forthcoming. Curiosity finally took the place of refinement and rather timidly she introduced herself. He had nothing to say. He had had nothing to say for twenty years or more, and for this reason he sat there, just sharing the silence with her. He longed to look at her eyes again, but a quick glance would be worse than not seeing them at all. He would have to study them, and that would seem like staring. No, that wouldn ' t do at all. He enjoyed living alone too much. And so he gazed over the hill, contemplating, enjoying secure. And then it was all shattered. The girl had found the gall to destroy the silence, to upset his delicately tuned ears, and with nothing to say. It was only I ' m. . . followed by some gibberish that must have been her name. Maybe it wasn ' t quite so unimportant. He had yearned to talk to someone for such a long time; now here was the chance and he was passing it by. What a fool ! What to say? She had told him her name, it seemed like the sort of thing one does. Now his name, his name. . . The words stumbled off his tongue. He hadn ' t heard his own voice since. . . The first rapids cleared, Yvette was in mid-stream. Like an archeologist with a frail find she gingerly began brushing away the mystery with gentle questions, receiving at first rather curt answers. Nevertheless, he slowly opened up into a torrent of thoughts and words, slightly garbled, but comprehensible. She was asking questions. He didn ' t like that much at first, but as he felt her seeminly genuine interest, as he enjoyed the pleasure of having someone listen, he babbled on, telling her about the moon, the sun, and most of all, about the valley. His th oughts came faster than his tongue could follow - twenty three years to be relived before sundown. Finally he surprised both of them. Where do you live? He had no idea why he had asked it. He really couldn ' t care less where she lived; the fact that she was there, with him, should have been enough. She too was startled. No one had ever really cared where she lived, even enough to ask. She answered and the monologue worked its way into a conversation. And the day wore on. It was likely a mistake, he knew that and yet he didn ' t care. He hoped she wouldn ' t give him over to the world. She was different, as was he. She bore no resemblance to those lonely old women who used to come around with their unfail- ing smiles, their Important Things to Say, and their total incomprehension. She smiled only at the right times, and if a point was unclear she would look puzzled, and he ' d explain. Maybe, maybe she was interested. The afternoon fled before the night, and still they sat. But she had to return to Liana, and so he walked her halfway down the hill, as far as the rabbit hole, whence she faded down the moor, and disappeared into the lowlands. She had asked him to come visit the next day. She would show him Liana, and give him a chance to see the changes. He had never seen Liana and was certain to be unimpressed by any change. Nonetheless it would please her if he visited. He slept little that night, debating, wondering, worrying. Had it been a dream, or worse still a bad joke ? Nothing was clearer. He was still muddled. And he was still on his way to town, timidly unaware of the human race he was about to discover. He was off to make his visit. And that was all. Paul Davidson