School Days

by Ruskin Bond

  In the afternoon, I explored the hayfield, and found in the centre the rivulet which ran through the circular brick tunnel at the foot of the embankment. At the foot and sides of the entrance to this tunnel was a fixture of grooved iron. The mystery was solved. I was standing at the foot of an unused dam, and the tunnel through which I had crawled was for the overflow. The iron sluice was gone, but a strong wooden board could be made to fit the iron grooves and block the stream. Little did my granduncle know of the possibilities lying at his door - a great loch with trout, boats, and perhaps even a steam launch. It would be a pleasant surprise. The outlook was most promising.

  For the next week I cast about for a suitable piece of wood, but large, strong boards were as scarce as trees. For the first few evenings John McCulloch, the village blacksmith, came to the house to give us lessons in woodcarving, my grandaunt's hobby. He was a good-looking young man, with a brown moustache, and of a serious disposition.

  In the woodcarving I was not interested, and the wood only served to remind me of the sluice. At last the Devil came to help me, and one morning I entered the smithy. In a corner were a lot of boards, and I had come to buy a board three feet long, two feet five inches wide, and one and a half inches thick.

  What do you want it for?' asked John McCulloch.

  'For woodcarving,' I said.

  'Well, I'm glad you're taking an interest in the woodcarving. Nothing like it to keep you out of mischief.' He sawed a piece of wood to my measurements, and then planed the edges.

  The board slipped easily into the sluice grooves, because I had allowed an inch for expansion when submerged. The edges I greased with lard, and bored a hole below the middle of the upper edge. Through this I passed a strong piece of fencing wire running to the top of the dam, so that if necessary the sluice could be raised. On going down the tunnel I found the rivulet run dry. No water was passing.

  The next morning in the hayfield the water in the rivulet was a foot deep. At that rate it would take weeks for the dam to fill, but the time of waiting could be occupied in constructing a raft. I asked one of the sons of the minister, a boy of my own age, if he would like to join me in building a raft. He laughed. 'A raft with no place to sail it, and three miles from the sea!'

  'That's all you know,' I said. 'Come with me and I'll show you something.' In the first place I took him down the tunnel, where I now kept a candle and matches, and in the Pirate's Lair swore him to secrecy. He had been born in the district, but the tunnel was a revelation. When I told him what was happening on the other side of the dam, he wished to have nothing to do with it. I pointed out that he had nothing to do with the main project and that no one could blame him for building a raft. I also proposed that the raft be constructed in a field at the back of his house. When the time came a horse could drag it along the road to Olrig Mains. He agreed, and we set off for the manse.

  That afternoon rain fell in torrents, and continued all evening and night. As I went to sleep I reflected that the rain, pattering against the window-panes, must be filling the dam. At seven the next morning I awoke and rushed to the window. At first glance I felt unsteady, and then realised the thrill of achievement. It was a wonderful, almost awful sight. In place of the hayfield was a loch with waves on it, and the shore was only twenty yards from the house. At the dam the water was nearly up to the top, and at the other end the loch narrowed into a creek. I dressed and went downstairs. In the hall a maid was unlocking and opening the front door. She also saw the loch and raised her hand above her head. 'Mercy on us!' She turned and ran past me to inform her mistress.

  At the dam everything was in order, and the water was swirling down the overflow tunnel, full almost to the top. As soon as the water fell I must go down the tunnel and smash up the dislodged stone lest it should block the waterway. I walked along the top of the dam. Everywhere it felt as steady as a rock. When a dam is going to burst there are premonitory tremblings in the structure, so I had read. But in this dam I could not detect the slightest tremor. I would be able to assure my granduncle at breakfast that there was not the slightest danger.

  On the way back to the house I met my granduncle and aunt coming to meet me. The old man leaned on his stick and was trembling with excitement. Both spoke at once: 'Is this your work, boy?'

  'It's a mercy your uncle didn't see it first or he might have had a stroke.'

  'Yes, Uncle, but it's quite safe,' I answered.

  He turned to his wife. 'This mischief must be undone at once. Send for John McCulloch.' With that he went back to the house.

  'There's no need, Aunt,' I said, 'to send for John McCulloch. If you want the dam emptied I can do it myself.'

  'How did you close the sluice?'

  'With a piece of board.'

  'Where did you get it?'

  'I bought it from John McCulloch.'

  'From John McCulloch!' exclaimed my aunt.

  'Yes, and I can easily pull it up.'

  She went with me to the centre of the dam, where I found the wire and began to pull. The sluice did not move. I pulled harder, the wire slipped through my hands and fell into the water. I sat down and began to take off my shoes.

  'What are you going to do now?' she asked.

  'Dive for it.'

  'You'll do nothing of the kind. You'll be caught in the reeds and drowned. It's bad enough as it is.'

  'I won't be drowned. There are no reeds. . . .'

  She pointed to the house. 'You march straight back to that house for your breakfast.'

  At breakfast there was silence, and at morning family prayers there was no reference in the old man's prayer to the principal event of the day.

  After prayers John McCulloch and three men arrived, and crashed their way from the drive through the 'planting' to the Pirate's Lair. I followed at a safe distance and watched their operations. They cut down the largest pine they could find, lopped off the branches, and made the trunk into a pointed battering-ram. This they pushed into the circular brick tunnel, and struck the thick end with sledge hammers.

  'There's a terrible pressure in there,' said one of the men.

  'Yes,' said McCulloch, 'and we must jump when she breaks.'

  After a few more blows there was a loud hissing noise.

  'That's it, lads!' said McCulloch. 'One or two more.'

  After the next blow the battering-ram began to move backwards, the men jumped aside, and the largest jet of water I had ever seen shot into the Pirate's Lair, now a roaring torrent on which the pine tree disappeared downstream.

  The men departed but I stayed for a time to watch the last entertainment the dam would provide.

  From A Time to Keep.

  Going to a Hockey Game with my Sister

  Teruko Hyuga

  From Japan comes this charming little story. . . .

  'TWO IMPORTANT THINGS! ONE: DRESS WARMLY. WEAR A hood or hat, a scarf, gloves, a coat, warm boots. Make sure your head, neck and hands are covered. Two: Go with somebody older. Don't go by yourself. Don't catch cold. It's always very cold over there,' teacher said.

  I ran home most of the way from school. A Canadian hockey team was visiting Japan and was going to play against our hometown team, The White Wolf. Mother had promised to take me to watch the game. The White Wolf was once a formidable team in Japan. Nowadays nobody had any hope for the team. Nobody could expect The White Wolf to win. We just wanted to see how well they could defend themselves against the Canadian team.

  When I got home, mother was in bed!

  'What happened? Are you really sick? Very sick? Of all days, today!' I wailed.

  'I'm sorry, Makoto. Soon after you and Asako left for school, I began to feel sick. I had to get into bed. I just can't take you to the game.'

  'This is a once-in-a-lifetime event! No Canadian team will come here to Northern Japan again. No foreign team will play against The White Wolf again! The White Wolf will be dead!' I said, almost in tears. 'I have to see this game.'

  'Hi,' my sister said, coming i
n.

  'Hi!' Mother's face lit up. 'Asako, you are much older than Makoto. You can take Makoto to the rink, to see The White Wolf team play. I can't go,' mother said in a pleading tone of voice.

  My sister is in the ninth grade. I am in the fourth grade. My sister would do. Better than nothing. . . .

  'I wish father were alive!' I said sadly.

  My sister and I love skating and we are both good skaters, but I am a much better skater, in spite of the age difference. I've been skating since I was three. Actually, I am the fastest skater in the neighbourhood; I have been for years.

  Father would have been proud of me and would have taken me to any skating event, no matter what! I thought.

  'I have an important test,' my sister said.

  'I wish I had a big brother!' I said almost crying. 'I'm sure he'd be happy to take me. He'd love to watch the hockey game, too!'

  My sister looked at me.

  'Well, today is Saturday. Tonight you can study, and all day tomorrow,' mother said. 'I had promised Makoto. Asako, please take him.'

  All right, but on one condition!'

  'Oh,' I grimaced. 'All right. It's such a long way but. . . .'

  'It's such a cold day,' mother said.

  'Cold or hot, long or short, I can't go by bus!'

  'All right. We'll walk. I'm not going to be in the game. It doesn't matter if I'm tired when I get there,' I said reluctantly.

  'We'll be warm from walking, ready to watch the game,' my sister said.

  My sister gets bus sick, car sick, train sick, all kinds of motion sicknesses!

  It's about an hour's walk to the city's natural outdoor rink. Father would have taken me by bus or even by car, I thought as I walked side by side with my sister. Though she is a good skater, my sister isn't interested in hockey games. So, I shouldn't complain. . . She hadn't planned to go to the game. She was going for me.

  'Maybe even a stepfather would have been better than nothing,' I said, trying to keep up with my sister.

  'I don't know. Though some stepfathers seem nice people,' my sister said. "But we'll never have a stepfather, Makoto.'

  'That's for sure. I know,' I sighed.

  After all, mother has been a widow all these years. Father died when I was a few months old. But mother has never tried to get married again.

  By the time we reached the rink, we felt quite warm though most people looked very cold. There were people all over the place.

  The game finally started. Our hometown team was no match for the Canadian team. The White Wolf couldn't make a point. All they did was try to defend themselves against the visiting team. No matter how hard our hometown team tried, the Canadian team scored point after point. It was embarrassing. The White Wolf couldn't score even one point.

  My feet were freezing on the ice-covered ground. My gloved hands were freezing in my overcoat pockets. My whole body was freezing! People were stamping their feet to get warm. I did, too. I thought I couldn't stand the cold any longer, many times. But to my surprise, my sister was watching the game excitedly. She was obviously impressed with the Canadian team. I couldn't say I wanted to leave though inside my hood, my head was freezing, too. Biting cold winds were blowing down the snow-covered mountainsides outside our city, near the rink.

  To everybody's surprise, after a while, the White Wolf showed astonishing improvement. They still couldn't make a point but they somehow learned how to prevent the Canadian players from making more points. And they never let up. The Canadian team couldn't make another point! Maybe there was still hope for the White Wolf! People around the rink were delighted. When the game was over, everybody was happy in spite of the cold and that the Canadian team won.

  Looking frozen, people started leaving the rink for home. They were smiling and talking and proud of the way the White Wolf had proved the team had spirit and courage and could go on.

  'So cold!' I said.

  I had never been so cold, I thought, as my sister and I started walking. All the other people were heading for the bus stops. All the bus stops we saw were crowded, and all the buses we saw were bulging with people.

  In the past, walking warmed me up, but this time I couldn't get warm. I wasn't sure I'd make it home. I thought I might freeze to death before I reached home. I was beginning to worry.

  We saw a sweet potato vender. My sister hates sweet potatoes but she bought five big steaming sweet potatoes and wrapped each in a paper napkin. She gave me three.

  'Put one in each pocket to warm your hands. You can eat one,' my sister said.

  My sister put her hot sweet potatoes into her pockets and put her hands into the pockets to warm them.

  I put two sweet potatoes into my pockets and I ate one holding it in my shivering hands. I felt a little better. Then I put my hands in my pockets and held the sweet potatoes. They warmed my hands.

  When I finally saw our house, I was beginning to feel warm all over - my feet, my hands and my body.

  'It was fun, wasn't it?' my sister said.

  'Yes!' I smiled.

  'Maybe you can join the White Wolf, when you grow up, and make the team strong again!'

  'Yes!' I nodded my head vigorously.

  My sister is almost as good as a big brother! I decided.

  From Short Story International

  (Students Series)

  Old Warrior

  David Walker

  The panther launched itself -

  a dark shadow of speed and hate

  NELL'S FATHER SAT IN ONE ARMCHAIR, HIS MOTHER IN ANOTHER, Neil in the third with his legs under him. The log fire was burning big, and the wet hill air blew in through open windows. The tree frogs were loud outside. Everything was near and sharp and loud. Going away to school tomorrow.

  Then the door creaked. Toby ambled straight over to the fireplace, flopped as usual like a ton of bricks, let the bone roll on to the rug, and lay, nose against it. He grunted with satisfaction and drooled a bit at the ripe smell of his prize. It was a high old bone all right.

  Mrs Mackenzie had been reading, lost deep in her book. But she sniffed; then erupted with volcanic indignation, 'On my best Bokhara rug! Oh, that stinking animal!'

  'He's not stinking! You're st—'

  'That'll do,' said Father. 'Remove the offending object.'

  Neil removed it between finger and thumb. It was true about Toby being smelly nowadays, but this time it was the bone and not him - both reasons for being angry at Mum.

  He took the thing out to the edge of the lawn, got a firmer grip, threw it as far as he could, wiped his hand on the grass, and felt a bit better.

  Inside, Major Mackenzie was saying, 'It's a sensitive subject, Celia. Don't you realise the dog means more to him at this moment than you or I or—'

  She sighed. 'I know, darling. Have you spoken to him?'

  'I will.'

  Toby was asleep when Neil came back. Toby was eleven. Toby's father had been a bulldog, his mother a bull terrier. The result was a seventy pounds of muscled ugliness. When he walked through Darjeeling with Neil, ignoring grown-ups but wishing to greet children, he caused alarm among strangers. 'He only wants to say hullo,' Neil often had to explain.

  Toby was a famous dog, and a famous fighter when provoked. There was the mastiff which attacked every smaller dog it met.

  It made a mistake about Toby. Neither beating, nor pepper, nor water, nor anything else would make him let go of that mastiff's throat. Fortunately, there were dozens of witnesses to say he hadn't started it. Now he was old, dim-sighted, deaf, smelly, and stiff from battle. Age arrives early in India.

  Neil thought of everything as he came in and saw his dog asleep. Toby was making dream yelps, which was a funny thing about him because in real life he hunted mute.

  'I'm sorry, Neil,' said his mother. 'I didn't mean to say that. He's the best dog in the Himalayas. . . Aren't you, Toby?' But Toby did not hear.

  Neil grunted.

  'What are you going to do this afternoon?' asked his father.
>
  'I thought I might go for a walk.' Toby was deaf to everything except walks. He woke up.

  'Come to the office for a minute, boy.'

  Neil followed his father, wondering what it would be this time, and Toby followed Neil. Father shut the door. He went to the window and stared out. 'Going to be more rain,' he muttered. 'This blasted monsoon will never end.' Silence. He turned round. 'Neil, I want to talk to you about Toby.'

  Neil looked at the tiger skins and at the snow leopard which was his father's rarest trophy. He knew what was coming. It was what Mr Chatterjee had said last week at the animal hospital. He looked at the Gurkha kukris on the wall. He looked up.

  'Yes, father?'

  '. . . It's your decision, Neil. Think about it and tell me before you leave tomorrow.'

  'Why can't they just be like old people?'

  Jim Mackenzie turned again to the window. 'I remember asking my father that once - your grandfather - and he said, because they can't tell us about their aches and pains. One reason, Neil, and a good one. Let me know what you decide.'

  'Yes, father.' Neil did not look at Toby.

  'Do you want to take the .256 this afternoon in case you see a karkar?'

  'Oh gosh, yes! 'Neil's own .22 was too small for deer.'

  'Here you are.' His father gave him the Mannlicher carbine from the gun rack, and half a dozen soft-nosed shells. 'No firing at dangerous game; not that you'll see any.'