by Thomas Tryon
Leo tensed as from the bed came the sound of Tiger’s voice.
“Ha ... al . . . yee hepp . . . ridge,” Leo heard. Was it fever talk? Tiger’s eyes were open and he stared up at Leo but didn’t seem to recognize him.
“What? What did you say?” Leo asked.
Tiger turned his head restlessly on the pillow.
“How al - keh . . . uh . . . ”
Leo frowned slightly. Then it came to him. “How valiantly he kept the bridge,” he said. Tiger moved his hand on the coverlet, smiled, and shut his eyes again. He looked peaceful. Leo felt exhausted but not sleepy. Harpo had become too heavy. Leo put him down, then got up and stretched a couple of times.
“Come on, Harp,” Leo whispered, but the dog, now lying near the foot of the bed, made no move. Leo paused a moment longer, then backed away and left the room. Through the dispensary doorway he could see Wanda stretched out on the cot. She moved, then sat up, rubbing her eyes.
“Is he going to be okay?” Leo asked.
Swinging her feet to the floor and kneading her back, Wanda drilled him with a look. “Of course he’s going to be okay.” She took her thermometer, shook it down, and went in to look at the patient, while Leo wandered out onto the porch. His backside ached. The camp was already stirring. Over at the Oliphants’, Maryann appeared on the porch. She was wearing an Indian-pattern bathrobe, carrying a coffee mug and a lighted cigarette. Leo returned her wave, wondering why nobody ever saw her in curlers like other women.
Just then Harpo forged his way through the open doorway, bursting from the place like the hound of hell itself, bounding down the porch steps and racing off along the path, past Three Corner Cove to disappear into the woods. A moment later an unearthly howl arose that raised the hair on the nape of Leo’s neck.
“Gosh, what’s wrong with that poor creature?” Maryann called over. No one answered. On the infirmary porch Leo was backed against the railing so hard a spur hurt his leg. Heedless of the discomfort, he was staring at Wanda, who stood motionless in the doorway. Her brimming eyes sparkled in the morning light. But people like Wanda didn’t cry, they helped others dry their tears. In a husky voice she told him she was going over to use the Oliphants’ telephone. Gripping the porch post, Leo followed her with his eyes as she went down the steps and along the path; then he walked back inside.
In the sickroom the shades were pulled down to the sill. The bedsheet was drawn up over the pillow. He could make out the general shape of Tiger’s head underneath. He did not go inside the room. His knees seemed about to fold on him, and he sat down suddenly in Wanda’s chair. He tried to think, but his thoughts floated out of reach like ghostly things, as if what was happening wasn’t really happening, was just part of a dream, another bad dream he’d had. Yes, that was it, he was still asleep, he hadn’t woken at all, and he was still dreaming. In a moment he would wake up and everything would be okay - it would, wouldn’t it? If only—
He heard the sound of an auto engine. Through the opposite window he saw a car pull into view. It came to a stop on the grassy spot beside the infirmary and the Abernathys got out. They came up the steps and into the room. “Hello, Leo,” they said. “How is our boy?”
Leo didn’t know what to say. He ducked his head and didn’t look up again until they’d gone into the other room. He went onto the porch again. Over at Three Corner Cove, Wanda came out of the cottage with Maryann. Honey was with them. She had a handkerchief to her eyes. When she looked over and saw Leo she turned away, her shoulders shaking. Leo wanted to go and comfort her but didn’t know how to do that. Maryann and Wanda embraced; then Wanda came back along the path. Leo began to tremble. His eyes were blurring. As Wanda came up the steps, he turned and clambered over the railing to sprawl in the nasturtiums growing along the foundations. He scrambled up and without looking back raced along the path, passing the Oliphants’ cottage head down, to disappear into the same woods where Harpo was still howling.
Later Leo asked himself: how had the dog known when he himself had not?
Rock of ages,
Cleft for meeeeee.
Let me hide
Myself in thee-eeeee . . .
They were in the grove, all of them singing out the rousing old Protestant hymn whose words affirmed the help that cometh when a man’s faith abides in the Lord God of Hosts. Leo, however, could not take heart. Sitting in his rowboat, lost in thought, he doggedly kept his back to the somber gathering in the council ring, where every seat was filled and where the Reverend G. Garland Starbuck had for a half hour past been haranguing the assembled in his best William Jennings Bryan style. In truth, Leo had not wanted to admit to the fact of what lay atop Tabernacle Rock: the black box, covered with flowers; had not wanted to hear about “the young sapling alas too young cut down,” about “that peaceful lamb taken unto the Holy Shepherd’s loving flock,” who now “slept in the soft sweet bosom of Eternity and a Life Everlasting.”
The mere idea made Leo want to laugh. Far better to give Tiger a Viking’s funeral, the way Michael and his brothers had done in Beau Geste: set the coffin on fire and launch it out to sea in flames. Tiger would have loved a send-off like that! A burning vessel, the dead surrounded by battle shields and horned helmets, and a dead dog lying at his feet.
From where he sat Leo could make out certain figures in the congregation: the Abernathys were seated down front, along with Dr Dunbar and a number of the Society of Joshua elders. Wanda Koslowski was there too, and beside her Fritz, and a clutch of females he recognized as Ma Starbuck and Willa-Sue, Dagmar Kronborg, and Honey with her mother and Sally Berwick; on the log where the Jeremians were gathered could be seen the crop of blond curly hair belonging to Reece Hartsig.
At last the singing ended. Quickly, before the service could be brought to its pious conclusion, Leo took his violin from its case and began to play. Slowly, lugubriously, the notes rose from his strings and bow to float across the water to the council ring, where Pa and his congregation, recognizing the burlesque, were stunned to silence. Indignant heads craned toward the water to view the solitary and defiant camper out in the middle of the lake, and as the tune’s title was whispered among the subdued rows of campers they asked themselves who but Wacko Wackeem would have chosen to play a dumb ditty like “The Music Goes ’Round and Around” at such a time.
Pa was already enjoining his boys to raise their voices in an impromptu rendition of “Washed in the Blood of the Lamb,” which resulted in a sort of musical duel, with all contestants - the multitude in the grove and the party of one in the rowboat - doing their utmost to be heard. Then, as the onshore chorus swelled mightily, Leo switched tunes and tossed “Pop! Goes the Weasel” back in their teeth. The louder they sang, the louder he played, as though his solo rendition could drown out the choir of voices mounted against him. Louder grew the clamor, more jarring the contrapuntal notes, the jazzy, syncopated beat vibrating against the stolid, declarative phrases of the hymn. There would be the usual reprimands for his mischief-making, of course — that was to be expected - but Leo didn’t care. This was what Tiger would have wanted. Tiger would have understood; Tiger, who lay in the box on top of Tabernacle Rock.
If only Leo could share his grief with someone, as Harpo did. Ever since Tiger’s death the dog had roamed the camp road up and down, baying his sorrow. This morning he had been locked jn the old cold cellar under the crafts barn (where Ma stored her jams and preserves in an ancient icebox of yellow oak lined in zinc) so as to keep him from creating a disturbance during the service. But he must have escaped, for now he had taken up a picket post somewhere in the woods and was howling his fool head off. Leo had a pretty good idea of how lonely Harpo must feel.
He looked down at the knife: the Bowie knife Tiger had insisted be his. Since Tiger’s death he had kept the knife hidden from sight; he wasn’t going to let anyone rob him of Tiger’s parting gift. But today, he had decided, he had to wear it no matter what. Just as he’d had to play Tiger’s favorite song . . .
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br /> Finally the singing stopped and the last bars of Leo’s music hung in the torpid air, then melted into silence, leaving only their mocking memory. By now the gathering was breaking up, the council ring emptying, and Leo, laying away his instrument, noticed someone standing on the canoe dock; the thick, burly figure of the Bomber stood waving him in. He must go in, mustn’t he? Go in and face what awaited him? For with Tiger’s death he had become more than ever the camp pariah. Though no official decree of Scarsdale had been issued regarding him, hardly anyone was speaking to him. Every look, every pointing finger and whispered word said it was his fault, that he, Leo, was to blame. If it had not been for Wacko there would have been no service, no coffin, no dead friend. As for Reece, having forbidden Leo to visit the infirmary, and then learning that he’d been at Tiger’s bedside when he died, he was more vindictive than ever, determined to extract the last ounce of punishment.
Feeling imperiled on every side, Leo was wishing he had never come to camp. How was it possible for him to feel like this, when only a few short weeks ago he’d been so happy, when everything had seemed so fine? It was as though he’d been drinking water from a well, good, sweet, clear water, and now that water had been muddied and riled, it tasted bitter, as if the well had been poisoned.
He packed up his violin and headed for shore, paddling with neat, controlled strokes, the way Tiger had taught him. Off in the distance Harpo’s howling had ceased. As he neared the dock, the Bomber gave him a look.
“What the heck was that you was playin’?”
“Beethoven’s Fifth. Like it?”
“Somebody’s plenty burned about it,” the Bomber said.
Leo had no difficulty guessing who “somebody” was. With Leo at the bow, while the Bomber bent his broad back to the stern, the two boys jerked the canoe from the water and racked it up. The Bomber went to the clipboard to sign it in, and Leo, straightening, looked around the council ring. Everywhere stood knots of campers, staffers, and visitors, mixed together, talking, but moving slowly, as though their feet were held down by heavy weights. When he came nearer, Leo glimpsed more faces he recognized: Big Rolfe and Joy Hartsig, Hap Holliday, Hank Ives, a baker’s dozen church elders in black suits, doughty, gray-faced and official-looking; Honey Oliphant was now holding tight to her brother’s hand, as if he were a baby she was afraid of losing. They all stood in silent clusters regarding the casket, which in another moment was being removed from its resting place on the rock. Because it was so small, the box required only two bearers, who carried it up the aisle to the hearse parked hear the top of the ring. Burial was to be private; no campers would be there.
Then Harpo came straying toward them from among the trees, tail quivering but not wagging, a forlorn look in his eyes that made Leo want to fling his arms around the dog’s neck and hug him; but that would only make Leo cry and he had promised himself not to do that. Consequently he ignored Harpo, who finally wheeled and trotted away, while Leo climbed the ring and headed for Jeremiah.
Midway up the aisle he paused at the sight of Wanda, standing beside Fritz near a tree. She always seemed so different out of uniform. Today she had on a street frock and a little hat with a veil and she was wearing gloves. Leo hadn’t spoken with her since the morning Tiger died.
A group of Virtue cadets was standing nearby. “It’s all Wacko’s fault,” one of them was saying, “him and his spider—”
“Don’t say that, it’s not so,” Fritz said quickly. “You boys oughtn’t to repeat untrue stories. Now, run along.” Leo ducked his head as the group broke up and moved away. “It’s all right,” Fritz said, giving his shoulder an encouraging pat, “don’t pay any attention to that kind of talk.” The gesture, meant to be comforting, somehow only made Leo feel worse.
As he came onto the line-path, he saw the Abernathys talking with Pa Starbuck and the Hartsigs. Mrs Abernathy was holding a sheaf of gladioli and staring at the black box, its foot protruding eloquently through the open doors of the hearse. Leo flushed with embarrassment as she turned her eyes on him, then quickly looked away again. He desperately wanted to say something to her, to explain about the music and why he hadn’t been at the funeral, though something in her expression said she already understood, a little.
Instead, to his surprise, he found himself going up to her and holding out the sheathed Bowie knife. Misunderstanding his gesture, she shied and turned her face into her husband’s shoulder.
“Isn’t that Tiger’s knife?” Pat Abernathy asked.
Leo nodded. “He gave it to me,” he said. “I think you should have it.”
Mrs Abernathy’s voice quavered. “I’m sure that if Tiger gave it to you, he wanted you to have it. Keep it and remember him always. I know he thought a lot of you.”
Then, as Leo watched her from under his brows, she seemed to give out all of a sudden. The flowers slipped from her grasp and, with Rolfe’s assistance, her husband led her toward their car, parked just behind the hearse.
Leo went on, holding the knife in one hand, his violin case in the other. Across the line-path a grim-faced Phil was waiting on the porch of Jeremiah. Leo veered off toward the Dewdrop Inn; he wasn’t up to a confrontation right now. But Phil quickly intercepted him, hustling him into the cabin, where seven or eight boys were sitting around silently in the bunks.
“Okay, Wackeem, let’s hear it,” Phil began with an angry scowl. “Suppose you tell us what that dumb stunt was that you just pulled with your fiddle?”
Leo shrugged. “Nothing. Tiger liked that song, is all.”
“Liked it? That dumb thing? You sure have a lousy sense of the fitness of things. You’re holding every camper here up to ridicule. Isn’t that right, fellows?”
Leo glanced about at the funeral-solemn, resentful faces: Dump, Monkey, Eddie, Ogden, and Klaus, faces that had shown no friendliness in some time, and others - Dusty, Emerson - who since Tiger’s death had kept their distance. It fell to the Bomber to take Leo’s part.
“Cripes, leave him alone, Phil, why don’t you?” he protested. Phil whirled on him belligerently.
“Listen, toad-face, you better button up if you know what’s good for you. And what are you looking so bug-eyed at?” he demanded of Wally, who had been standing by the door.
“Nothing,” Wally murmured and climbed into his bunk.
Phil was staring at Leo’s hand. “Cripes - look!” he exclaimed, pointing. “He’s got Tiger’s knife! Where’d you get it?”
“Tiger gave it to me. He wanted me to have it.”
“Liar! You stole it!”
“The heck I did!”
“Why would Tiger give you his knife?” Phil stuck out his hand. “Give it to me,” he demanded.
When Leo refused, a scuffle began as Phil tried to wrest the knife from him. Failing in his attempt, he called for assistance. Dump jumped up and pulled at Leo, who, turning quickly, got an elbow in the mouth. In another moment a figure had appeared behind them, an arm reached out, a hand seized Phil by the scruff and pulled him away.
“All right, boys,” said Fritz Auerbach brusquely, “that’s enough of these strong-arm tactics. We don’t want any fighting today.”
Phil struggled in Fritz’s grip. “Let me go.”
“I’ll be happy to - after you return Leo’s property to him.”
“It’s not his! It’s Tiger’s!”
Coming in behind Fritz at the doorway, Wanda spoke up. “It was Tiger’s. Now it’s Leo’s. That’s how Tiger wanted it.”
“Who asked you?” Phil said, rudely. Fritz was about to take him to task when Reece came into view on the path. “All right, what’s all the racket about?” he demanded, joining the group. “Don’t you guys know we just had a funeral service around here?”
“Phil is bent on keeping Tiger’s knife,” Fritz explained. “But Tiger wanted Leo to have it.”
Reece eyed him. “How do you know? Did Tiger say so?”
“No, but Leo told me—”
“Oh? So you’ll take h
is word, then?”
“He’s not a liar. I believe him.”
“It’s true!” Leo cried. “We talked about it the night before he - he said - since he was going home - he -he—”
“Be quiet,” Reece ordered. “Phil, give him back the knife.”
Phil drew back in outrage. “No, I won’t! He can’t have it.”
Reece repeated the order in stronger terms. Cowed, Phil grudgingly handed over the knife, which Leo took and held behind him. Turning, Phil deliberately jabbed him in the ribs. “You really are a crummy little spud, you know that?”
“All right, you guys hop it over to the lodge and wait for me,” Reece said. “I want to talk to you.”
Obediently the boys trooped out of the cabin, all but the Bomber, who lingered in the doorway, waiting for a word with Leo.
“Hey, that means you, too, Jerome!” Phil snapped from outdoors. Reece fixed his eye on the Bomber, who nodded, then turned to Leo.
“I gotta go. I’ll see you after, huh?”
He left the cabin, bringing up the rear as the others followed behind Phil and disappeared along the path to the lodge. Reece turned his attention to Fritz, who was examining Leo’s bruised lip.
“They just won’t stop, will they?” Fritz said.
“They would if they weren’t given provocation. And while we’re on the subject, what are you doing around here anyway? I thought I told you to keep out of my campers’ business.”
“They were ganging up on Leo again.”
“Sure, I know, everyone’s always ganging up on ‘poor Leo.’ ”
“But they were,” Wanda insisted. “Look what they did to him.”
Reece waved an impatient hand. “Yes, take a good look at him. If it weren’t for him and his damnable spider Tiger Abernathy wouldn’t be being carried out of here in a box. He - he—”
He broke off, then turned and marched out. The others watched him go. Wanda turned to Leo. “You’d better come with me, while I put something on that lip of yours.” She was halfway out the door when she encountered the Hartsigs. There was an awkward shuffling of positions as Wanda stepped aside for Joy, who stood in the doorway, her eyes sparkling with fresh tears.