United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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“He dead I guess?” Joe nodded; he could remember the Kid just be¬ fore it happened and the look on his face before he passed out. The ’Breed was big, and there was no white man around any more. He would be the boss now, not Joe. “It was accident. You saw that. It was accident, eh ” His voice didn’t change. Joe looked up at him. There was no-one to oppose him now, the Kid was gone. It was no use fighting. He had tried it and failed. Anyway it was too late to fight. And he remembered the white men at the trading post laughing in his face because he was no longer a man in their eyes. He rose slowly and coughed. He leaned against the side of the sleigh and looked at the ’Breed. “Yeah,” he said, “Yeah, it was an accident. These things happen.” Something that approached a smile flickered on the ’Breed’s face, then he turned and walked toward the cat. ASYLUM By Marianne Forsyth The only difference Between the patient and the staff Is the keys. The jangle of a mind insane The jangle of keys To lock it away from me. “Hey nurse, can I go out? just for a minute?” “Not just now Later.” In a year or ten years, Or they will carry you up from the basement And wash you, and pad you, and ship you out In a box. You’ll get out, later. I lock my brother in. I am my brother’s keeper, His gaoler. He could not live in this world we made, So by himself he made another. He is a strange Thing now, Different, and frightening. What could I do but lock him away? I will hide from the judgement Of my being that he is — By locking him away. And I would stumble Through the nightmare he fled from And hurt myself on the broken edges And take my soul in the street and fight To get away from him, Only for this — It’s dark in the nightmare And empty and without meaning And I’m not sure where I am And which way is away. Am I over there? 14

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driven on a stinging wind from the north west. It took him nearly eight hours to cross the portage and come back. He could hardly climb down from the cab for stiffness, and his teeth were chattering from the bone-piercing wind and cold. It was more than forty below. The ’Breed took one sleigh and pulled out. It was all that he could manage in the dark along the twist¬ ing trail. The Kid had just begun to warm up and doze in the caboose a couple of hours later when he heard the cat coming back. He tried at first to pretend that it was a dream but the clacking tracks and the headlights penciling through the light snow and the wind made it certain. He cursed with a boy’s inex¬ perience, repeating the same words several times. The cat came along side of the caboose and Stopped. When the ’Breed came in he was just putting on his parka. The cat was still running, just outside the door. Its throttle was wide open. “What’s wrong?” “A runner broke.” He was sullen and his scar was almost purple from the cold. The frost on his parka hood began to melt; the fur clung wetly to his face. “How did you do it?” “Dunno. Maybe a rock I guess.” “Well why the hell don’t you idle that thing down!” The ’Breed looked at him for a few seconds, ex¬ pressionless, debating what to do. Finally he went out and pushed the throttle in. Joe was making coffee. “Get your coat on; we’re going.” The sleigh was about halfway across the portage. The snow stopped falling before they reached it and the stars had come out from behind the clouds.. The exhaust smoke of the cat hung in a blue ribbon where the light of the rear lamp was reflected up from the snowy trail between the pines. There was room for only two in the box, the ’Breed rode on the drawbar and hung on with aching hands. It was the kind of cold that bites through three pairs of mitts. It took them maybe an hour an d a half to fix the sleigh. Joe talked on hopelessly. The ’Breed and the Kid were quiet. They were just about finished when the Kid hit him. It was an accident, the wrench slipped in his hand and the end of it slapped against the ’Breed’s nose. It was a heavy blow and in the frost the skin came away with the cold wrench. He stood up, speaking slowly with a heavy accent with his hand against his face. “Damn stupid Kid, don’t know nothing.” He lowered his hand as though to put on his mitt, then took a wild open-handed swing at the Kid’s head. He missed. “Try that again and I’ll break your greasy neck!” “Who?” “Me!” The Kid knew better than to start a fight. He still had a long way to go and whether he won or lost the ’Breed would be ugly. The ’Breed muttered something in Cree a nd turned away. Joe was still leaning against the sleigh, coughing and spitting. The ’Breed picked up the wrench and began to tighten the bolt. The Kid watched him for a minute. “Make sure it’s tight.” He didn’t answer. Afterwards Joe took the swing. The other two walked back down the portage. The snow was not packed enough to make very good walking and it was dark. Neither spoke during the whole walk. When they got back to the caboose there was a skim of ice on the coffee Joe had been making. With stops and trouble it was early on the morning of the fifth day when they finally hauled the caboose across and prepared to hook the train for the rest of the trip up the river. The ’Breed broke another sleigh runner on the same rock. The Kid knew that it was on purpose but he said nothing. This morning things seemed a little better. He knew it could have been worse. They hadn’t upset any sleighs and everything was still in shape. The weather was a little milder. The sun was shining on the trees and the glaring snow. They were at the end of the portage, just getting rigged up to move on when it happened. The ’Breed was driving the cat. He bunted one of the sleighs up behind the other with the dozer and waited for the Kid to fasten its draw chains, then backed away to push in the next. He left the motor screaming all the time. He bunted in the second sleigh and stopped. The Kid stepped in front of it and bent over to fasten the chains. His parka hood bothered him, he straightened up and pushed the hood back from his face. The ’Breed was fumbling with the gear shift, changing to reverse. The engine was wide open, belching its smoke high into the air. The Kid seemed to notice it as he pushed back his hood. He stood there, looking at the big ’Breed over the top of the sleigh. He had an open face, almost a child’s face, and everything showed on it. He was mad now. “Idle down!” he yelled, but the ’Breed didn’t seem to hear, or if he did he didn’t let on. He shouted again. The ’Breed looked up and let out the clutch with a jerk. Reverse is right beside high on the shift lever. It wasn’t in reverse. The cat rared ahead. Its tracks kicked back a little snow as it hit the sleigh. Then they both slammed ahead and stopped with a jerk as the frost-coated runners bit into the snow once more. The Kid was between the sleighs. For a second or two he looked surprised, like a boy that has cut his finger on a new knife, and then he passed out. The ’Breed jumped off the cat and ran ahead to the small space between the sleighs. Joe had been standing beside them when it happened. He moved back to the cat as fast as he could, almost running. He climbed on, brought it around and pushed the second sleigh back. The Kid slumped between them. His face was twisted and smeared with a trickle of blood. Even then he had stopped breathing. He lay crumpled on the trampled snow between the sleighs. The ’Breed made no move to come closer. Joe knelt beside him but he could see that it was too late. For a long time there was silence. The cat idled in the background. The ’Breed waited for Joe to speak. Finally he gave up and broke the silence himself. 13

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THE TEA PARTY By Wilda Reynolds Mrs. Chester-Smythe brought out the Morehouse tea set and her Tree of Cashmir cups and saucers when the Fiskes came to tea. Since there were so few white people in the colony these little social rituals were of supreme importance. It kept the ties still strong with home. All morning while the servants made diamond and crescent-shaped sand¬ wiches, chopped peel for the macaroons and the pound cake (Mrs. Chester-Smythe was famous for her pound cake) and polished the heirloom teaspoons, Mrs. Chester-Smythe wandered in the garden. It was a lovely spot with neat shell-lined paths and roses everywhere, completely surrounding the garden in a wall of fragrance. It was so beautfiul that Mr. Chester-Smythe suggested that they have tea in the garden, knowing how his wife loved it. When the Fiskes arrived they were enchanted. “This is charming, just like home,” said Mrs. Fiske as she squeezed a twist of lemon peel into her tea. “A macaroon? Yes, I believe I will.” Mrs. Chester-Smythe smiled pleasantly as she poured out the tea. “It was so hard to get roses to grow in this climate,” she said, adding two lumps of sugar to Mr. Fiske’s cup. “This is the first year they have been any good at all. We got a new gardener, someone from the hills who seems to have bewitched them into blooming.” Belinda and Caroline, the Chester-Smythe’s two rosy young daughters, finished their tea quickly and began teasing Mimi, Mrs. Fiske’s Pekinese. Sharp barking interrupted the conversation. “Run along, girls,” said Mr. Chester-Smythe in¬ dulgently. “You can play by the fountain.” “Such happy children,” said Mrs. Fiske, watching them run along the smooth lawn. “Here, Mimi, here darling. Come and have a bite of Mama’s macaroon.” “I can’t bear to think of them ever growing up and leaving me,” said Mrs. Chester-Smythe, sipping her steaming tea slowly. “Its too bad your Peter couldn’t come.” Mrs. Fiske waved her dainty hand in a gesture of annoyance. “Really, I don’t know what has hap¬ pened to that boy since he returned from Cambridge. He’s always going up to the hills and worrying around in one of those filthy native quarters.” “Isn’t that strange,” said Mrs. Chester-Smythe, passing a dish of bon foons to her guests. “Now girls, don’t worry your pretty heads about things like that,” said Mr. Fiske. “Peter will be all right as soon as he gets the proper perspective. Here, Sam, try one of my cigars. My brother-in-law is in the importing business and sends them out to me all the time.” “Thanks, George, don’t mind if I do,” said Mr. Chester-Smythe. “You can’t buy anything decent at the local shops.” Too soon the golden afternoon was over, and Peter was honking the horn of the jeep. The Chester- Smythes walked down the path with the Fiskes to the wrought iron gate. “Oh, dear, Peter’s got the rifle with him again,” said Mrs. Fiske. “He’s always fussing about native uprisings and silly things like that.” “Its been a delightful afternoon,” mused Mrs. Chester-Smythe as she and her husband walked back into the garden. The girls came running to meet them, their hands full of roses. “Why, look at those roses,” she cried. “They’re all drooping. Do you suppose they have the blight or something?” Mr. Chester-Smythe glanced at them casually. “Get the gardener to spray them with insecticide tomorrow. We don ' t want anything to harm the roses.” The U Alumni Association When you graduate Keep in touch with College and University through the Alumni Journal published by the Manitoba Alumni Association ROOM 114, U.M.S.U. BLDG. FORT GARRY Winnipeg, Man. Phone 44-9233 15