St Johns Ravenscourt School - Eagle Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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AN EXCITING ADVENTURE Nobody dreamed that anything as exciting as this would ever happen in the little fishing village of Atticia. But one quiet July day it did happen. A small fishing boat chugged its way into the harbour; out of it stepped a tall, well-dressed foreign looking man who was greeted by our latest town mystery—Mr. Jones. He had driven up to the general store over a week ago asking for Peter Tryggvason. I had replied that there was no such person around here. Since then he had been asking strange questions like “How much money did I make? ” or “How would I like to go to the big city to live? ” I recognized the driver of the fishing boat immediately. It was Joe Zeleski, one of the poorest men of the village. After both men left the boat I asked who his passenger was and where he had picked him up. Joe answered that the foreigner’s name was Pete Kofman and that he came on board from a large fancy-looking schooner called the “Slovak”. For several days nothing much happened until a group of men led by Pete and Jones were seen walking down the street. There were about twelve of them, four of whom were carrying large black suit-cases. I decided to follow them. I followed up to the edge of town where a bus picked them up. I sat down on the back fender of the bus and for about an hour the bus carried me along rough roads to an old house. The foreigners entered the house and sat down at a large table. One of the men, who was evidently hot, opened the window. In order that I could hear their conversation, I sat under the window. Soon I peered through the tinted glass of the window and to my amazement (although I really half-expected it) they were using an old-fashioned printer to make counterfeit money. Mr. Jones, (whose real name was Jim Thompson) appeared to be checking for poor copies. Pete who was the boss of the operation threw a waste basket full of poor prints out of my window. Seizing a few of the bills, I ran off to the nearest R.C.M.P station at Little Kaktovik where I reported all I had seen. Within an hour all the ring were arrested and I received a large reward of $5,000 for my findings. I used the money to help pay for a fishing boat of my own. Ian Henderson Form 6 IS A FRIEND REALLY A FRIEND? The party thrived. It was 12 o’clock and still it had not reached its highest moment. The party itself was being given by the Barr family. All those present were not just acquaintances, they were real friends. Over in the corner was Mr. Johnson. Now there was areal friend. He had once saved Mr. Barr from a rattlesnake. And there was Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham; they were really good friends. The Bars and the Cunninghams were brought up together. And we must never leave out Dr. Brown. Dr. Brown cured Mrs. Barr of scarlet fever, and there were so many more. The radio was on and sweet, soothing music came from it. Suddenly the sweet music changed to the noises of some rowdy, rock and roll group. Almost like a simultaneous response, Mr. Barr switched it off. Then the party went on as if nothing had happened. Why should it stop? There was plenty of food and there was an endless supply of champagne. So it went on. After a while Mr. Barr turned on the radio. A voice boomed out from the speaker, “We interrupt this program to deliver a message of national importance. Please DO not panic. Stay Calm! I repeat, Stay Calm! Two atomic missiles are directed at this city. Please do not panic! All is being done to stop this catastrophe. Stay in your homes. Leave this problem to the army and the police. Stay in your homes! ” Mr. Barr turned it off. All were white-faced. Suddenly Mrs. Cunningham screamed, “We are going to be killed. All of us. There is no hope! We’re all going to die! Dr. Brown simply lit his pipe as Mr. Cunningham tried to calm his wife. “If you’re going to pass away, you’re going to pass away one way or the other,” Dr. Brown said coolly. Mr. and Mrs. Barr were making their way through to the next room. “Wait! ” Mr. Johnson screamed, “That little bomb shelter you have under the other room, John. We may be saved yet! ” He was referring to Mr. Barr. Mr. Barr spoke, “No. It’s too small. It was only made for Julia and me. No, I am afraid you are going to have to find refuge somewhere else.” “I saved you from a rattlesnake and you turn me out when I am in need of shelter. It’s not going to be that way John. No! I am coming in! ” Mr. Barr spoke forceably, “Get away! ” He broke the end of a champagne bottle and wavered it around threateningly. “Get away or I’ll cut you to ribbons! ” They all backed away. Barr and his wife entered then- bomb shelter and locked the door. “Now they can’t get in! Let’s see if there’s anything on the radio.” said Barr. He turned it on. The booming voice said, “This has been the fifth chapter of ‘Atomic War’. Tune in next week at the same time. Will the atomic bombs hit? Only time can tell! ” He turned it off. Chris Dornan 7EW 80

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MOONBEAM It lay draped in the sky line some malevolent serpent, its knowing, venomous sneer beamed the blackest of all light earthward on to the cringing animals and cowering evergreens. It shone on the queerly sparkling lake that revelled in evil ecstacy at the light of the moon. The morning found the three hunters paddling into an unnamed lake high in the Canadian north. The guide provided an incessant but uninteresting dialogue that drifted over the water and then faded into nothingness, unloved and certainly unwanted. Sometimes, however, he came out with some profound statement or interesting thought. “Well,” thought Jim Bartell in the front of the canoe, “give a monkey a typewriter and eventually he’ll spell a word.” Red Hollings slept in the middle of the canoe. He was prodded out of this blissful state by the guide, who in his sargeant-major voice bellowed out that they were the first men to pass through these waters in over 250 years, and they were the first white men ever to set foot near this lake. Red Hollings, now awake, asked why the lake was deserted. He pointed out that there were many animal tracks in the area and so food would be plentiful. “Gentlemen, it’s just that the Indians are scared stiff of this place. They say it has spirits that are more evil than the Wendigo.” Both men looked at the guide with surprise. They knew the stories of the Wendigo; the evil spirit who roamed the woods. It seemed surprising that the Indians could hold something in greater dread than the Wendigo. Jim Bartell posed the question, “Did all this start 250 years ago when the last Indian came here? ” The answer came quickly, “Oh, no! Ever since the Indians can remember this place has been taboo, but over 250 years ago a strong brave tried to raise himself above mortal status by defeating the spirits. He never came back, and nobody ever went to look for him. They say it happens in the night.” The two men in the front of the canoe had the idea at the same time, “Let’s camp here.” At first the guide tried, almost hysterically, to lure them somewhere else—anywhere else, but, after many reflections on his courage by the other two men he relented, and paddled into shore. They swung into the now routine task of setting up tent and chopping wood. However, as the day advanced, the guide became more and more disquieted. This panicky feeling could not help but rub off on Red and Jim. The woods began to change, slowly, stealthily; its changes were tiny and insignificant but it was changing sure enough. The once bright woods became sombre, brooding. It was now a forest, not of trees, but of fear. The guide looked at the sun and made his decision, he had about an hour to get away. He told the men that he was going to take the canoe out of the lake and up the river and camp there and return in the morning to collect the equipment. He pleaded with them to come with him, away from the lake, but Jim and Red mocked him. He looked at them with pity in his eyes, entreated them one more time to come with him and then paddled quickly out of the lake and up the river. The sun sank below the rim of trees and the moon rose. The men edged closer to the fire. Beyond their puny circle of firelight lay a forest and a lake that they now feared. All at once the fire flared up and abruptly went out. Moonbeams girated wildly, catching the two men and flickering them into the lake now tumultuous with phospherescent specks. Red and Jim were led by dancing spectres that writhed gleefully in the fiery moonbeams. They led them past altars where lustrous Things danced and slaughtered other indescribable monstrosities. Everywhere there was dancing and singing. Somewhere a giant organ croaked out evil sounding melodies. Creatures that did not invite close inspection growled hideously and devoured screaming victims. Everywhere incense was contributing its acrid, pungent fumes. Custom-made tortures were made to bear on Red and Jim. Indescribable tortures that made mock of man’s own attempt in the art. And then c ame the ultimate torture. Fiery moonbeams swarmed over the two men, and ever so slowly baked them alive. The guide paddled up to the shore in the early morning. His eyes averted the singed and mutilated bodies. He was still terrified by the screams he had heard in the night. He put the food into the canoe and quickly paddled off. —Laurence Mardon Form III THE DREAMERS There’s always something new to do today; Old things are quickly done with, pass away From all our senses; but our mind Retains a pleasant memory of things past. The happiness, the color and the pain, Come back to life just as they were before; Creating in the present, what was past; A dreamlike image of reality. Escape from life cannot be found in dreams; The present binds us up within a wall, A concrete wall, from which there’s no escape; No chance to break the stifling bonds of life ’Til death provides us with a better way, And all humanity is nought but dust. —John Bredin Form V 82