The Night of the Moonbow

by Thomas Tryon

  “But having lost my own boy,” she said, “I have found so many other boys to take his place, which is why I enjoy having them running about our castle. They make me merry, and I’m glad I’ve got them back.”

  Then Fritz disclosed that two Swiss Red Cross officials, who were expected to arrive in Washington, D.C., some time next month, might have word about his family. He hoped to be able to talk with them.

  From time to time the professor’s friendly look would make sure to include Leo, as if to say, Isn’t it nice that we can share this bit of time together? But what was he doing here? Obviously Dagmar had invited him for some reason; he hadn’t just dropped in out of the blue.

  Leo’s hand made a sudden, almost involuntary movement toward his water goblet, and instead of taking it by the stem he knocked it over. The water spilled across the tabletop and dripped between the glass and the wrought-iron frame.

  “It’s all right, no harm done,” said Dagmar, mopping up, while Fritz shifted his gaze to the sky, which had turned a darker, more ominous shade.

  “I wonder if our fine day hasn’t ended?” he murmured. The wind had freshened and the trees were showing the pale undersides of their leaves.

  Dagmar, too, scanned the heavens for signs. “Rain, Augie?” she asked.

  “Didn’t I say?” Augie replied. “Barometer’s droppin’.”

  “And not a word in the paper. Perhaps you’d better close a few windows. Now,” she went on, briskly rubbing her palms together and looking first at Fritz, then at the professor, “I think perhaps it is time for us to have a little music, eh? What do you say, Leo, shall we go along and see if my Pleyel is in good tune?” She leaned toward him to scrutinize him more closely. “Leo, are you all right? You’re not ill, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Shall we move, then, to the music room? Professor Pinero is eager to hear you play. I want everything to go exactly as I have planned it.”

  Leo slipped a sidelong glance at Fritz, and another over the parapet to Reece in the driveway. Catching the look, Reece smiled up amiably, that amazing little trick of his. Leo felt his hands getting clammy. It was no use, he couldn’t play; stubbornly he shook his head, his eyes riveted on the monogrammed napkin on his lap. There was a long pause, during which he felt all eyes on him and he wished the earth might open and swallow him up.

  “Very well, then,” Dagmar said at last, and, flinging Fritz an exasperated look, she went to the railing and called down to the other campers, telling them to come along, it was time for “a spot of music.” As they came trooping up the stairs, she shooed them in the direction of the music room. “Come in, boys, come in, don’t be shy,” she cried, leading the way as knots of them hung about in the various doorways, reluctant to intrude into so hallowed a place.

  While Fritz waited, Leo dawdled on the terrace, concentrating on the view. Overhead a flock of crows winged past the tower, veering steeply to disappear among the trees down in the glen, while from far up the valley, north of Moonbow Lake, there came a solitary clap of thunder that rolled out of the gathering clouds like the distant peal of a bronze bell and died away into nothingness.

  “Leo?” Fritz prompted. “You remember what we talked about? You have been given a valuable gift-you must make the most if it. You want to play, you know you do. I can see it in your face.”

  It was true. He was feeling little feverish flickers of excitement, and an undeniable pleasure, but at the same time his fingers felt hot and swollen, and his stomach was churning. If only Reece weren’t here.

  Fearing the worst, he left the parapet with Fritz, and joined the stragglers leaping over the threshold to the music room, shuffling to distribute themselves, some on the soft, plumpy furniture, Reece and the Jeremians scattered along the window seats, the rest on the Oriental rugs dotting the floor. The professor was ensconced in a tall-backed chair, and while Leo squeezed in between Tiger and the Homln, Fritz, his cap tipped back on his head, perched himself .imp the woodpile between two doors.

  Finally, when the last camper had hunkered down in a corner, Dagmar, standing in the bow of her piano, welcomed the newest visitors to the Castle and remembered the old ones. Then, shedding her fingers of their rings, she seated herself on the bench, checked the pedals, and raised her hands over the keyboard to begin. Leo recognized the selection at once: Tchaikovsky’s “Marche Slave,” a sonorous piece that brought out the best that the Pleyel had to offer.

  Despite the arthritis in her fingers, Dagmar played expertly, with grace and élan, and as she played she looked over the top of the music rack and smiled at Leo; in that smile he read a variety of things: wishing and disappointment, and the fleeting expression of a stout will that seemed to be telling him that any musician who could execute such lyric passages should never be thwarted, only encouraged to play, and that music - oh, such music - was the soul’s balm; let no one stand in the way of its purest expression.

  When she had brought the final passage to its close, she let her hands drop into her lap while the boys’ applause echoed about the room. As a group they had settled down now and become serious music-appreciators; no one fidgeted, no one giggled, no one looked bored. Dagmar smiled at the professor, and at Fritz, and after a moment she began again, this time the Moonlight Sonata. Her strong, wrinkled face expressed a simplicity of effort, as if the creation of such perfection of sound were the easiest trick in the world to manage, and once or two times more Leo felt that her wandering eye was seeking him out.

  Then, rather than following the sonata’s first, slow movement with the second, faster one, she stopped playing, and before anyone could react, tiddled the notes of “Kitten on the Keys” - her little joke.

  “More! More! Encore!” the boys called, laughing.

  But instead she sat, neck straight, head erect, her eyes now resting on Leo. Well, they seemed to say, what about it, my young friend? Are you willing? Or will you still sit there on my pretty velvet settee, stubborn and afraid? This is your last chance. Will you let the moment pass? Leo hesitated. He knew that everyone was waiting for Dagmar to say or do something, unaware that she was waiting for him. He slid his eyes to Reece, who leaned casually against the wall, his expression unreadable behind his dark glasses,- then drew another breath, and in that breath, suddenly in his mind he stood apart from himself; it was as if he had become another person, a disinterested party, someone else altogether. He saw himself getting to his feet, nodding to the professor, who sat very straight, his look filled with anticipation, saw himself walking away from the settee toward the piano, toward those blue-gray eyes. He placed his fingertips lightly on the neck of his violin. His brows rose; a silent question was both asked and answered. Now Dagmar smiled. How did she know ? But she did, she did. He heard a clock striking somewhere, in another room, as if in some other house, but its message was clear. The hour was his. Now was the moment. He would play; must play.

  Since they had already agreed on a selection - the “Traumerei” he had worked on - there seemed nothing more to do but begin. Jutting out his chin, he nestled the instrument into the nook of his shoulder, took a deep breath, glanced at Dagmar. She gave him a tiny nod, then leaned forward slightly, bringing her body into play, and her fingers softly sounded the first piano chords.

  He began, sliding his bow across the strings, making music — awful music. The notes were on key, but they were parched notes, without luster, passionless. He struggled for mastery, attempting to focus his gaze on a neutral line above the sight line of his audience - but found his eyes straying helplessly to Reece.

  Please, help me, he silently prayed. Prayed for .1 l><>ml> to be dropped on the roof and blow him up, violin and .ill Surely he could not go on. Better to quit now. Crazy to think he could get away with it this time. Then he struck a wrong note full out; its wretched sound screeched in his ear. Mortified, he glanced impulsively at Dagmar, and as though on cue her eyes met his. He expected reproach, but saw none. Instead, in that moment he recalled the words s
he had tried to impress on him: words about reaching out, about being hard as steel, about letting no one stand in your way. Make the most of your moment when it comes - seize it, seize it, he heard her saying. Carpe diem, carpe diem.

  He must go on, he must. As he repeated these words over and over in his mind, something began to happen: a warm, comforting wave washed over him and suddenly he felt safer, calmer, more relaxed. His breathing came more easily, then the musical tone itself began to alter, the notes vibrated differently, they stretched themselves out, richly, roundly, his bow glided more smoothly and effortlessly.

  Again his eye swung to Dagmar, bent over the keys, her body “helping the music,” playing effortlessly, with great delicacy, traces of a smile now on her lips. Yes, she seemed to be saying. This. This is what I hoped to hear, these notes, this music . . . this, my young friend . . .

  Beyond the doors and windows, the sky had darkened so that additional lights had to be switched on to illuminate the room, their beams throwing circles across the plastered ceiling. As Dagmar took a hand from the keyboard to switch on the little vellum-shaded lamp at her shoulder, Leo’s glance flicked along the row of faces, moving from one camper to the next, from Tiger to the Bomber, to Emerson Bean and Junior Leffingwell, from Pete Melrose to Gus Klaus and Oggie Ogden, all listening to him.

  The piece ended, too soon, he thought, and marveled that it had gone so quickly. “On the wings of song,” wasn’t that what she’d said? To fly on wings?

  He heard the applause, saw Fritz’s nod of approval, and he glanced again at Dagmar, waiting awkwardly while she riffled through the stack of music at her elbow. Approving a selection, she beckoned him to her side. When he saw its title, he felt a pang of fear. It was the Paganini Caprice in A Minor. But before he could protest she was off. He must follow. He touched his bow lightly to the strings, jerked his chin up, and he was off too. There, you’ve got it, he told himself as the notes danced into the air, light and bright and intricate, like so many children at play. His bowing hand flew, and his spirit soared with the music. He glanced at Professor Pinero, who sat now with his head against the back of his chair, eyes almost closed, on his face what Leo judged to be a look of approval. Glancing sideways now, he kept his eye on the tip of his bow. It was moving with control and rhythm, the angle changing as it made itself felt upon the strings, the bony wrist and long, thin fingers drawing forth the music. And, ah, the music! The melody seemed to pour from the curved belly of the violin to float upward to the ceiling, then come flooding down and out, filling all ears. He was performing with an assurance that was undeniable, his body hunching, tilting, swaying as he drew the melody to its sharp, pizzicato ending.

  There was a moment’s silence. Dagmar took her fingers from the keys, eyes shining with pleasure, while Leo, stiffly dropping his arms and instrument to his sides, stared at the floor. Then the wave of applause washed over him. A deep peal of thunder sounded, rolling across the valley, ominous in the way of all thunderclaps heralding storms, yet, for Leo, somehow a sovereign sign of his victory. He glanced at Reece, who was applauding -perfunctorily? - with the others. Swallow that, Heartless, he thought, giddy with happiness. Chew on those glissandos awhile.

  Not knowing what else to do, be bowed slightly, catching sight of the smiling professor, who called, “Encore, encore!,” to which solicitation Dagmar added her own, beckoning him with a curled finger and asking what pine he would give his audience now.

  “Poor Butterfly” was Leo’s choice. He plucked a string, giving Dagmar the key, and the room quieted again, but before they could begin their attention became unfocused, as outside, with a swift inevitability, the rain began to fall, first in a spasmodic patter, big, fat drops playing a ploppy sort of drumbeat on the tree leaves, beating on the roof; then, after this prelude, as if making up its mind to spend its force in a single assault, in an overwhelming surge.

  Inside the room, once more the musicians picked up their cue and began to play. Once again Leo felt his eye drawn to Reece - and he knew surprise, elation, jubilation. Whatever Reece was now or might yet become, when Leo played he was every bit as good, every bit as powerful, as rich, as glamorous. He turned his eyes back to Dagmar, whose eyes enlarged fractionally, telegraphing her message: Fine, keep it up. And he thought, What if I hadn’t tried? What if she hadn’t made me? Would I ever have known this feeling? See what we’ve accomplished, her smile seemed to be telling him. Isn’t this rich? Isn’t this fun?

  And it seemed to him as he played that through the bars of music Emily had stolen in among them, to stand in the shadows with gleaming eyes, a hand at her breast, nodding, smiling, singing .. . yes, there, just there. She parts her lips, the words flow from her mouth.

  Poor Butterfly!

  ’Neath the blossoms waiting

  Poor Butterfly!

  For she loved him so.

  Beyond the windows the full fury of the storm was upon them. Flickering zigzags of lightning daggered down from the sky to blast the valley, exhilarating, blue-white electrical bolts betokening more mighty thunderclaps. He was remembering again now the night of the big storm at

  Saggetts Notch, that night, in the house on Gallop Street, when they were in the parlor behind the big doors. He’d been scared . . . he’d taken out his violin and played to calm himself but . . . Rudy ... the footsteps on the stairs, the door flung open, the dark, enraged face in the doorway, the loud, bellowing voice—

  “No rhapsodies in this house!”

  Suddenly he faltered - a second only, but his playing suffered as a result - and just when things were going so well. His glance entreated Dagmar for help; she gave him another encouraging nod and went on, and so did he, but it was no good. At every instant he had to fight the overwhelming urge to bolt, to run from the room and hide somewhere. Yes, run - upstairs - around the newel post and up the steps that creaked, hearing the crashing outside, the rain rattling on the panes, to hide under the bed.

  Only there was no “upstairs” here in this house, no newel post, no squeaky steps, no bed to hide under, no Rudy behind closed doors.

  Why then?

  Something . . .

  God! What was it? He saw the thing, or thought he did. Nearer it swam, and nearer, that bright little fish, only to flash out of reach, mocking him as he failed to grasp it. He felt queasy, feverish. His hand shook badly. It was Major Bowes Night all over again. He was going to make a fool of himself. Oh no, not that - don’t let that happen this time, he prayed. But the boys — the rows of faces were staring, wondering, smirking at him. He struggled frantically to stay with the music, but now every note he played, every beat and pause called to his mind - Suddenly it was upon him, suddenly Dagmar’s music room was another room, in the house on Gallop Street, and the smell of it was strong in his nostrils, it was making him sick; he was going to vomit.

  He felt himself gagging as he struggled to go on with the music while jagged flashes of lightning, dark, light, dark, silver and black, black and silver lit up the room, throwing everything, listeners, furniture, objects, Dagmar, the professor, into garish relief. And there were others ion - yes, now, among the familiar faces of the boys, others had begun to materialize - Rudy Matuchek, he was there, and John, yes, John Burroughs, he was there too, and Emily - Emily! Where was she? She had been there too, but where was she now? Though he felt her presence, he could not see her. How could he when he was upstairs, in his room on Gallop Street, hiding under the bed while the thunder crashed around the rooftop and the lightning flashed and—

  He heard the angry shouts from below, heard the scream, and he disobeyed, opened the door, rushed into the hall, looked over the railing into the vestibule, and at that moment saw—

  God!

  He threw his head back and through the oval of his mouth wafted a long, wavering scream, like a ragged scarf being flourished he stared saw clutched in Rudy’s upraised hand the bright flash of steel, poised to strike at John no, not at John, whose bleeding body was already staining the floor,
but "No! Stop! Don't'"

  The violin and bow hung limp at his sides as he stared at the scene being played before him, as he watched Rudy’s knife blade complete its downward path to find its mark in Emily’s breast and the blood pour forth like the water from a spring and she fall like a heap of rags upon the floor. He saw Rudy drop the knife, heard the knife clattering on the floor, saw Rudy dash through the open doorway, out into the rain and the wind.

  Mother!

  Mother!

  MOTHER!

  The sounds echo in his head, reverberating as through endless, empty caverns, and the icy rain sweeps in across the doorsill and into the front hall, soaking the rug, while Leo lies on the floor beside Emily, staring at her face, which even as he watches loses color, never moves, becomes a dead face . . .

  Another thunderous blast shook the music room. Leo cringed, staring at the ranks of questioning faces, hearing the strangled noises pouring from his mouth, unable to stop them. His violin and bow had both fallen from his hands. Panicking, he crabbed his fingers on- the ebony piano top and his fingernails dug savagely into the silken threads of the Spanish shawl, his knuckles turned white as he gripped the fabric, the roses red as ... as blood. Then, as Dagmar, still at the keyboard, came to her feet, he jerked backward in a quick, stumbling move, his fingers dragging the shawl from the piano top, carrying with it the bust of Beethoven, the Chinese vase, everything crashing to the floor and shattering. He saw Dagmar reaching out her hands toward him, but before she could prevent him he eluded her touch and rushed blindly from the room. Fritz, who had sprung to his feet, hurried after him, while behind Dagmar Professor Pinero barred the door to the others.

  )

  “Where is he?” Fritz called to Augie, who pointed to the music cupboard. Fritz opened it and peered into the narrow space. In the corner, eyes large and staring, Leo cowered.

  “Leo - what is it? What’s the trouble?”

  "He killed her!” he cried, staring.

  “What? What’s he saying?” asked Dagmar, coming in behind Fritz.