The Icelandic Canadian - 01.09.1968, Page 55

THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
53
lava, and reeking of filth a;; if it is-
sued from a vent of hell itself. Aioused,
his fury was that of a madman; a con-
flagration creating its own wind to
fan itself to yet greater heights of
frenzy. It overwhelmed, crushed her.
It bore her down and ground her into
the dust no less than his fist and his
heel. She was broken before ever he
struck. At his hands she died two
deaths, the later a comparatively pain-
less extinction of life in the body. Not
the blow itself that killed her, but
realization of the fact that he was cap-
able of striking her—this boy whom
she had given life, whom she had nur-
tured and loved—Her Boy. Her mo-
ther-heart stopped beating. Further
developments were but incidental to
that central fact—mere detail. Her
death agony was not physical but men-
tal.
Seeing his mother prone before him
in no wise lessened the young man's
fury. On the contrary it seemed but
to add fuel to the flames of his rage.
It hissed and shrieked in diabolical
vehemence. All the pent-up evil in
him, smoldering without an outlet
throughout his long confinement, now
broke its bounds in one consummate
act. The sum of his hatred of society,
in arms against him—of his captors, of
his keepers, of the whole world was
'here resolved. The body of his mother
was the epitome of everything that had
tried to restrain him, and he wreaked
his vengence on it. Her heart was the
symbol of that restraining influence:
nothing less sufficed than that he
crush it in his own hands. He would
tear it from its roots, hot and quiver-
ing! He—
A frenzied tear at the poor covering
of her breast, a slash with his great
knife, a plunge of the hand. It was
firmly anchored, this heart of a wo-
man; ibut he was strong. And there it
was, warm and dripping. He stood up,
gloating, exultant, the light of hell-
fire in his eyes. Between the fingers
of his strong right hand the yielding
heart of his mother bulged as he con-
tracted the grip. Now . . . but what
was that! A wave of realization swept
over him. Within a moment his fury
had turned to terror, smiting him,
scourging him. One look at the gaping
wound, then flight, precipitate, with-
out direction or destination—flight
from a nameless terror. Headlong he
plunged and headlong he fell; and as
he fell the instinctive action of putting
forth his hands to break the fall re-
leased the object clutched in his grip,
clotted as it was with the life-blood of
his victim—the heart of his mother.
There it was, darkened and distorted,
in the muck before his very face as he
lay, half-stunned with the impact. And
a poor, pitiful object it was, this heart
of a mother. A dead object, surely, save
for the Grace of God and the love of a
mother, which may extend its solici-
tude beyond the portals of death and
reach ministering and caressing hands
across the grave.
Once again it was vouchsafed the
mother to speak to her child, and this
last time not with the lips but with
the heart. As Her Boy lay after his
fall, and as his mother’s heart lay in
the muck before him, a voice issued
out of it, low but loud enough for
him to hear, and of infinite tenderness,
saying: “My Boy, are you hurt?’’
—
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Ass’n Ltd.
GENERAL STORE CREAMERY
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PHONE 79-251 RIVERTON, MAN.