The Night of the Moonbow

by Thomas Tryon

  As he peered around in wonder, it dawned on him that he had stumbled onto the site of the Senecas’ council fire. It also occurred to him that he had no business here, that he was trespassing: in this sacred spot were performed those secret rites that were taboo for nonentities like Wacko Wackeem. He could picture the scene, the Seneca braves and warriors with their painted faces, turkey feathers in their hair, gathered around the fire, making Big Medicine in the night.

  Eager to investigate further, he stifled his misgivings and, using a pine branch that when lighted proved a satisfactory torch, he made his way into the cave. The space was much larger than it appeared from the outside. Its roof, formed by a solid slab of rock, slanted upward from the aperture, so that upon entering the cavern you had to crouch, yet once inside you were able to stand again. Raising his torch higher, he proceeded farther into the room, following a trail of symbols and pictographs. Here was a deer, here a beaver, here a raccoon, here a snake, and here - he brought his light closer - this was the picture the others pointed to, an Indian brave armed with a bow and a fistful of arrows, standing over the body of a buffalo. What did it all mean? The answer, like the contents of the little chamois bag each Seneca wore around his neck, was known only to a few, and to none who did not belong.

  His torch began to gutter and he hurried outside again - to see, to his horror, that his little blaze had ignited the pine needles at the edge of the clearing he had made and was spreading out of control. A wave of panic surged up from the depths of his belly as he pictured the whole of Indian Woods going up in smoke, and, cursing his stupidity, he ran from one spot to another, stamping out the flames. But as fast as he stifled them in one place they sprang up in another. Water - he needed water! Desperately he unbuttoned his fly and peed as hard as he could. When he had quenched the last of the flames he discovered that he had also put out his original fire, a mistake that had again left him in the dark. A fine Seneca he’d make. Except—

  He wasn’t in the dark after all. It was true - the moon was up! Finally a bit of luck! Now, if he could just figure out how to use Tiger’s compass. He dug it out again, holding it up so that the light fell across its face. He picked out a tree trunk in a beam of moonlight to the north and moved toward it. From there he sighted another tree and, referring to his compass, another, until - a light! Yes, certainly; he could make out a winking light through the trees. Civilization was over there somewhere.

  He pushed on, feeling a creeping excitement as he thought of winning his way out of the forest and getting back to camp. He couldn’t wait to tell Phil and Wally he hadn’t been fooled, that he’d known all the time there were no stupid snipes. Then, almost without his being aware of it, he found himself clear of trees and standing on the sloping shoulder of the Old Lake Road. Car lights! That was what he’d seen, the headlights of a moving car! He laughed with joy and relief. He was saved! Now to get back to camp.

  Wondering how far he had to go, he turned left and started walking - and stopped as he rounded the bend. The hulking silhouette of the old Steelyard place loomed before him. Chance had dumped him out upon the road almost in front of the Haunted House! For an instant he was actually glad to see it; he knew now that he wasn’t far from camp. But then, as he stared up at the tower window, at the peaked gable, the bent lightning rods and the gimcrack bits of gingerbread, the house seemed to transform itself, to become that other house, on Gallop Street, the way it had been before . . . before . . . when he was the butcher’s boy; and Emily, she was the butcher’s wife; and he, Rudy Matuchek, was the butcher, damn him to hell, and . . .

  “No rhapsodies in this house!”

  Out of the inky darkness filling his head, that same bright, slippery fish of thought swam by, recalling -what? Still, it wouldn’t come to him, but eluded him as always. What was it he was trying so desperately to remember?

  “No rhapsodies in this house!” Again the angry voice sounded in his ears. “How many times I got to tell you, no rhapsodies in this house! Damn that kid. Where is he anyway? He’s never here when I want him! I get the strap now!”

  “No! Don’t you touch him! Not again!”

  “You shut your face! He’s no good, that boy! He needs discipline. I give him!”

  “You so much as touch him, you’ll be sorry!”

  “What you say?”

  “You heard me. Don’t you lay a finger on him!”

  “You shut up!”

  The sound of his hand striking Emily’s face made Leo jerk back. Her sobs filled his ears. He let out an audible groan of pain. No! Don’t let it happen! No - please. Don’t hurt her! Overcome with fright, he tried to master the involuntary spasm that now gripped him. Then, the great storm broke from a great height, smashing down on him just as it had that night; an ominous thunderclap, a deep, tumultuous peal, and suddenly he is - yes - up there, in the window, watching for her - mother - mother - MOTHER - where are you?

  He can hear the heavy downpour beating against the windowpane, drumming on the roof slates. The river is rising, rising fast to flood the dikes that laborers have spent two years throwing up, sweeping them away in a torrent, and the same tide is now loosening the footings of the L Street Bridge, and Emily - Emily is coming on the trolley car - the L Street car - Mother! - and Rudy is shouting and then the world begins to spin, a maelstrom sweeping everything away from him - Mother! - he hears her cry -“Leo, oh Leo . . . ” that dread sound of agony, her white hand fluttering, and - oh, Mother!

  Suddenly he was running toward the house, up the crazy paving, up the steps, onto the porch to the open doorway gaping before him and—

  He stopped; he could go no farther. Whatever it was, he could do nothing about it. It was too late. She was gone. He was alone . . .

  Terrible sobs were wrenched from him, his eyes blurred with tears, tremors ran through him like electric shocks -for a while he stood there on the threshold, trapped like a bug in a spider’s newly spun web; felt himself cocooned in silken gauze that spun around his body, tighter and tighter, until he was made a small neat package of. Then, suddenly, a cold wind drifted across his back, chilling his neck, and the spell was broken. He turned away from the house and broke into a trot, down the walk to the road, pelting hard along its shoulder, never stopping for breath until he reached the rack of mailboxes at the top of the line-path, and beyond that, camp.

  He forced his disturbing thoughts from his mind, determined to have the last laugh on his erstwhile snipe-hunting partners. As he came down the line-path he heard from the lodge sounds of merriment and lusty singing - no doubt the old boys enjoying their watermelon and making fun of all the dumb suckers still wandering around in Indian Woods. Shunning the lights, he made his way toward Jeremiah. He had an idea he wanted to execute. The cabin was dark and deserted when he reached it. He borrowed the Bomber’s extra flashlight, then hurried away to the toolshed behind the cottage where Fritz Auerbach stayed, and located a trowel and two small clay pots. From there he proceeded into the woods behind the cottage and dug up two pine seedlings, which he quickly transplanted into the pots; then, having returned the trowel to the shed, he hurried back to the cabin. He set one of the pots in the center of Phil’s bunk, the other on Wally’s, then stretched out on his own bunk to wait . . .

  He must have dozed off; he was suddenly aware of subdued laughter, and he glimpsed figures coming down the line-path.

  “ . . . I bet he’ll never find his way out of there.” He recognized Phil’s voice, and there was a nasal chortle that sounded like Dump. “We’ll probably have to go out and wet-nurse him home,” Phil went on sourly, and in they came, five of the Lucky Seven - Tiger and the Bomber had yet to show. In the dim light no one noticed Leo at first, and he lay still, watching through slitted eyes as Phil, slurping the remains of a slice of watermelon, went to his bunk.

  “What’s this junk doing here?” he demanded, turning with the potted tree that had been set out on his pillow.

  “Evening, all,” Leo said, sitting up and grinn
ing. “It’s a present. Wally has one too. Like them?”

  Phil ordered the lantern lighted, then strode over to Leo and stared down at him.

  “What the heck do you think you’re doing? You got dirt all over my pillow.”

  “Sorry for that,” Leo replied, with no spark of humility. “How’d you get back so quick?”

  “Yeah, how?” echoed Wally.

  “It didn’t take long, did it?” Leo was relishing the baffled looks on their faces.

  “You cheated,” Phil said. “You followed us out.”

  “I never. You thought you’d gotten me good and lost, but you didn’t. I knew where I was all the time.”

  “The heck you say!”

  “And before I forget, thanks a lot for the loan of your flashlight. It was really kind of you guys. It didn’t work, though, so I threw it away.” He dipped into his pocket and produced the compass. “The reason I didn’t get lost was because I had this.”

  Phil’s brows shot up. “That’s Abernathy’s. Where’d you get it?” As he reached for it, Leo put it behind his back.

  “Tiger gave it to me.”

  “Liar! He never! Hand it over.”

  Leo defied him. “No, why should I?”

  As he stuck the compass back in his pocket, Phil threw himself on him and shoved him back to the bunk rail. “Ow!” Leo cried, nursing an elbow. “That hurt!” “What’s going on?” Tiger was standing in the doorway with the Bomber.

  ' “He’s got your compass, Tige,” Phil said. “He stole it from your box.”

  “No, he didn’t. I gave it to him.”

  Phil was stunned. “You got to be kidding! You won that compass - it’s a prize.”

  “That’s okay. I gave it to him.”

  “Well, if that’s not - well, damn it anyway!”

  “So how’d it go?” Tiger asked, turning to Leo.

  “It—” Leo swept the circle of faces with bright eyes. “It was grand,” he said with profound satisfaction.

  Phil glowered and turned away; he grabbed up his seedling and chucked it with the pot through the door; its fellow followed in short order.

  “What was that all about?” Tiger asked.

  Leo chuckled. “Those are the snipe I was supposed to bag.”

  Tiger and the Bomber looked puzzled.

  “He’s just being a weisenheimer,” Phil said. “They’re little pine trees!”

  “I don’t get it,” Tiger said.

  “It’s an anagram,” Leo explained. “Pines. P-i-n-e-s. S-n-i-p-e.”

  Tiger darted a look of covert amusement to the Bomber. It wasn’t easy getting a leg up on Phil Dodge.

  ’Samatter, can’tcha take a joke?” the Bomber said, laughing. His bunk squeaked as he heaved himself up and hauled out his pajamas.

  A moment later an angry expletive was heard from the porch.

  “What the damn hell—!” Reece boomed out as he tripped over a pot. When he appeared in the doorway, he clutched a pine sapling in each hand, the roots exposed, pots gone.

  “What’s this crap lying around out there for?” he demanded, looking around for the guilty party.

  "It’s nothin’, Big Chief,” said the Bomber, hopping down to intercept him and forestall trouble. “Just a little gag is

  Reece wasn’t to be put off. “I don’t get it. What gag?” He turned to Phil for explanation.

  “Ask Wacko,” came the sullen reply.

  “All right, Wackeem, is this some of your doing?”

  Leo shrugged and feebly echoed the Bomber’s comment. “Just a joke.”

  “I don’t like jokes. Not this kind anyway,” Reece fumed. “What do you think this place is, a shit-house? This is no Dewdrop Inn, it’s Jeremiah!"

  “He’s got Tiger’s compass, too,” Phil was compelled to say.

  “Is that true?” Reece demanded of Leo.

  “I used it, sure.”

  “Give Tiger back his property.”

  “That’s okay, he can keep it,” Tiger said.

  Reece scowled. “My dad awarded you that compass. It’s a good one. You take it back.”

  To avoid further argument, Tiger pocketed the compass. “And you can have two mornings extra K.P. in exchange,” Reece said to Leo. “Post yourself for duty in the morning. And if anybody asks you why, tell them it’s because you’re a wiseguy.”

  "Aw, c’mon,” the Bomber protested. “Have a heart.” “Yeah,” Leo said, “have a heart . . . Heartless.”

  There was an awkward silence in the cabin; what Leo had intended as a joke hadn’t come off that way. Reece slowly turned his eyes on him. “What did you say?” he asked softly.

  Leo blanched. “I just said . . . have a . . . h-heart.”

  “You called me Heartless. Nobody calls me Heartless, got that?”

  “Yes ...”

  “Yes, sir!"

  “Yes, sir!"

  “Now, you take the broom and clean up that mess out there.” Reece gestured toward the door.

  “Yes, sir.” Leo took the broom and went out. He was disposing of the debris in the trash can when he saw Tiger waiting for him at the fountain.

  “I guess I screwed up,” he said sheepishly.

  “We told you he doesn’t like that name. The Bomber gets away with it sometimes - you forget you ever heard it. But ya done good, camper. Real smart.” He gave Leo a clap on the shoulder.

  Leo warmed to the compliment; praise from Caesar. Still, he wished it had come not from Tiger, but from Reece himself.

  Later, as he climbed into his bunk to settle down to sleep, he looked over at Reece in his cot a scant three-feet away. His eyes were slitted open, staring at him it seemed; Charlie Chan eyes that made Leo nervous.

  “Shape up, Wacko,” they were saying. “Remember Stanley Wagner.”

  Resolved to heed the silent warning, Leo shut his own eyes and tried to get some sleep. But sleep would not come that night, and he lay long awake, thinking about the luckless Stanley, who might have had bad dreams too, and about his sudden, mysterious departure. Leo decided he didn’t want to know too much about Stanley.

  Ma Starbuck, seated with her ear as close to Pa’s static-riddled Atwater-Kent radio speaker as her bulk would allow, nodded emphatically. As usual, “Ma Perkins” was right. If Lauralee, a “modern” housewife, really wanted to hold on to her mate, Buzz Morgan - a “real good” garage mechanic who tuned up engines over at Zeke’s Service Station - she was just going to have to quit flirting with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who happened by.

  “Ma Perkins” was a latter-day oracle in the Starbuck household, and no matter how busy she was, Ma stopped what she was doing to catch the quarter-hour broadcast, which just now vied with the whirr and clatter of the antiquated Gestetner machine grinding out The Pine Cone. Ma was used to doing several things at once (there was a brace of apple pies cooling on the shelf outside her kitchen window), but “Ma Perkins” was too good to miss, and not until Lauralee had agreed to watch her step (though she sure would like to “get outta this burg and see some city lights”) did Ma return to her typewriter, set up by the window so she could keep an eye on the compound formed by three façades - barn, store, and office - that was the hub of the upper camp.

  Across the way in the barn, morning crafts session was in full swing. One of the oldest in the district, the barn was well suited to its current purpose, its old stalls, tackrooms, and lofts having been readily transformed into workrooms - the Marconi Radio Shop (in the hayloft), the Swoboda Wood-Carving Shop, the Rembrandt Paint Shop, the Silas Marner Weaving Shop, the Paul Revere Metalworking Shop - and on any morning except Sunday the place rang to the din of ball-peen hammers on sheet copper and saws eating wood, to the ceaseless hum of voices as young craftsmen went about the business of creating a work of art, this summer under the gentle guidance of Fritz Auerbach.

  From time to time one of the boys would lay down his tools and come out to the pump for a cooling drink or to make a purchase at the Coop (stopping by the office first to g
et the money from his spending envelope). The Coop had once been exactly what its name implied, a chicken coop housing a flock of Rhode Island Reds, from which, in the camp’s earlier years, Ma had extracted her nickle of “egg money.” Nowadays, for two hours every morning and another in the evening, from behind its full-length oilcloth-covered counter, the counselors took turns vending materials for leather craft, beadwork, woodburning, and other handicraft projects, as well as candy bars and soda pop kept chilled in an old cold box upon which the legend MOXIE had all but worn away.

  Now, through the window of the barn that marked the Swoboda Wood-Carving Shop, Ma glimpsed the feathered Tyrolean cap belonging to Fritz Auerbach. He was hard at work on his pet project, a scale model of a village in Austria called Durenstein, which, when completed, was intended as a special gift for Camp Friend-Indeed.

  “Hi, Fritz,” she called. “How’s it going with all the little folk?”

  Fritz put his head out the window and laughed. “No little folk today, Mrs Starbuck, only little houses.”

  “I thought you was gonna call me Ma, like everybody else at camp.”

  “Okay, Ma, you’re the boss.” He tipped his hat brim over his eye and withdrew, catching his feather in a knothole. Ma beamed approvingly. She liked Fritz; everyone did.

  Though he supervised all arts-and-crafts activities, the Swoboda Wood-Carving Shop was Fritz’s personal duchy. Here he had set himself up with a sturdy workbench, a vise, chisels, knives, scroll saws, and other wood-working tools, and the adjacent walls were hung with tiny figures, human and animal, cleverly carved from chunks of wood and destined for the village: bushy-tailed squirrels, a tortoise, a deer, a man in lederhosen and a feathered cap. For Fritz was a master woodworker, and the Swoboda corner had become extremely popular with many of the campers, from the older boys in High Endeavor, eager to learn his carving secrets, to the cadets from Virtue like Peewee Oliphant, who crowded around him as he perched on his stool amid the aromatic sawdust and wood shavings.