United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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THE FABLE OF THE NARWHAL By Alex Spalding, XII We had reached the little river Massive cliffs walled either side She’s a twisting turning river That in summer drives her tide Down the barren, rock-strewn tundra Through the sombre Arctic shore, Into the ice-gorged Felly, Where the “kid-lit” grind and roar. But how silent and oppressive Was that misty muffled day! Where through the bleached surrounding void Two travellers inched their way. Beneath the towering canyon heights A shadow like a pall Fell on us, and no speck of light Broke through the canyon wall. “It was here they say she vanished That’s how the legend speaks.” My guide Tagorngnak muttered As the frost fell from his cheeks. “ ’Twas long ago and summer When the Ka-yuk makes his nest And soars above his eyrie High on the canyon crest. His dark eyes held enquiry As we stood there in the cold. But I held his gaze and waited For the story to unfold. “You know our ancient custom When a lad and lass are wed How they’re promised to each other ’Fore babyhood has fled. So ’t chanced this certain maiden, When time, its course, had run Was taken by her hunter To his land this side of the sun. But little did she know him Nor could she guess her fate His evil ways and stony heart No warmth could penetrate. Amongst his kinsmen hunters He soon aroused distrust And after violent quarrels From their commune he was thrust. Thus lost her eyes their starlight Thus ceased her heart to sing A gentle flower too early bloomed To brave the frost of spring. Their trouble gained and magnified His cruelty, her pain. For as the days passed slowly on He grew the more insane. She sent word to her kinsmen Which told of her distress In hope that they’d relieve her And offer her redress. But his cunning had escaped them Of their path he kept aside And among these rocky gorges He’d found a den to hide. No kindly word nor loving hand Could fall upon her now. All hope was gone and so alone She made a desperate vow. Then one dark mom, he left her To vanish in the fog Leaving her sole companion A mangy, half-starved dog. She shivered crouching slowly Upon her bundle bed And stared into the “k’od-lerk” fire And wished that she were dead. Her heart was gall and torment Her mind, a demon tore As she broke the binding ribband, Loosed her tresses to the floor. And in this ebon raiment She climbed the mountain side While far below, returning The madman she espied. “Where are you going?” he slavered, Why don’t you come inside?” “I go to gather ‘paung-rait’ from the hills’ She quickly lied. But she forced her pace much faster And without another look She reached the highest pinnacle Which jutted o’er the brook. “Come back to me” he pleaded “I shall love you as before” “You never loved me — ever. I shall come to you no more!” And gazing o’er the water Down its murky depths of green. She plunged into the canyon As some nymph-l.ike fairy queen. When the misty spray had lifted, And the foam had melted ’way, Not a lifeless hulk he visioned But a form of pearl and gray. No waving tresses floating Nor a visage cold and pale, But a tusk of spirall’d ivory And a flashing, leaping tail. The narwhal grew and prospered And so our fathers say That this is how he got his tusk, His coat of dappled gray. Though many years have seen him play About his briny grave He seems to pause and listen yet For the voice above the wave. 16

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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

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THE PRICE OF A LEMON By Deby Miller He closed the front door behind him, tucked his scarf under the lapel of his coat, and hurried quickly down the street. “Ach, such a cold day,” thought Mendel. Echoes of an argument rung in his ears, and he could still hear Rachel protesting. “But Mendel, you go to the hospital every day, and always you take a big bag of ‘presents’ for all those strangers. You are an old man now, and it is time to forget such foolishness.” As she spoke, Mendel’s wife made neat, tiny stitches on a piece of white cloth, and as her anger mounted, so did the impetus with which she attacked the task at hand. The needle jabbed her thumb, and a tiny droplet of blood appeared. She winced, and Mendel looked away. Her voice grew gentler, as if understanding had grown from the pain which she had just experienced. Almost pleadingly she added, “You could go on Sunday for a while, but during the week you should stay home and rest. Don’t you think that you have already repaid the price of a lemon?” Mendel did not heed her entreaties. For the hundredth time, (or so it seemed to him) he ex¬ plained to her that sick-visiting was a “mitzva”— a good deed. When he left, she was still sitting in the same position—cloth in hand, needle poised, look¬ ing at the blood-stained cloth. He was sorry he had caused her pain, and the thought occurred, that in all the years they had lived together, he must have hurt Rachel many times. The air was sharp and the biting wind chilled the very marrow in his bones. The old man shivered, and clutched his paper bag tightly. He thought that in one respect at least, his wife had been right. He was an old man . . . Around him, red-cheeked youngsters playing in the snow were unaware that a little old man had stopped to catch his breath. Mendel shifted the bag in his arms and walked on. There was a day, he mused, when he too was touched with the bloom of childhood and innocence. He could not recall having played in the snow, nor had there been a shiny sled to be pulled about in. He could remember isolated incidents—the time his mother died, and he was found peering under the sheet that covered the mirror in her bedroom—the time he threw Avrumel, the rich man’s son into a mud puddle, because he had flaunted his shiny boots before them—the time they barred the synagogue doors and prayed that the enemy would get sober quickly—and the “time” on the boat . . . The other inci dents, he would sometimes forget, but never the one on the boat . . . It was such a long time ago! At the time, he was a mere boy of fiften or sixteen. The ominous threat of “pogrom” was present everywhere. He was going to work in America, and then bring over the family. The anticipated pogrom came more quickly than anyone had expected—and the plan never material¬ ized . . . The boat was very crowded. Mendel had never seen so many people together at once—and all were so very sick and unhappy. He too had been sick, and in later years he used to joke that sea-sickness had been a god-send—for he could not have afforded to buy food anyway. During the day, he leaned against his knapsack, groaning inwardly. At night, when all were asleep, he allowed himself the pleasure of a hearty moan. With each rock and sway of the boat Mendel had prayed for death to reunite him with his family. But he did not die. In the blackness of the night, a stranger, whose face Mendel never saw, produced a lemon from a large paper bag, and gave it to him. Mendel winced as he sucked the sour fruit, and fell into a deep sleep, clutching bits of rind in his sweating palm. The next day, he felt as good as new again. . . . There must have been some reason for God to have spared his life—and with a lemon, at that. Mendel knew that he would never be able to repay the debt—the debt of his life. In spite of this, (and perhaps because of it, for he was a stubborn man) Mendel was determined to show his gratitude. Every day he would visit the sick at the hospital, and in their homes—-always carrying a big paper bag. He made an odd picture—a little old man with a graying beard, clutching his bag, and panting a little . . . He remembered his wife’s lamentation. “Such a man, such a man . . . for the price of a lemon!” She had a way of shaking her head that made an angry utterance become almost an endearment. His fingers were numb, his cheeks stinging with the cold, and the bag weighted his arms heavily. He caught his breath, opened the heavy hospital door, and smiled at the heavily-skirted nuns who greeted him familiarly. 17