by Thomas Tryon
By now the runners had passed along the line with the fire, and, the torches having been lighted, the procession began, as it had begun on Leo’s first night at camp. Then he had thrilled at that bobbing, flickering necklace of flames, and at its promise of friendliness and good fellowship; now it seemed silly, almost meaningless. As he fell in line behind the others he was glad he’d put on his sweater. The evening air suddenly felt moist and clammy, and presently a fine, silvery mist, too light to be a fog, began to fall, refracting the smattering of pallid moonlight and giving the night an uncommonly eerie look, pale and silvery.
Entering the council ring behind the rest of the Jeremians, Leo noted that Pa had already assumed his customary place in the twig chair, his back to Tabernacle Rock, watching the boys as they filed into the rows, nodding at this one and that, his cheeks red as pippins, his blue eyes twinkling in the firelight. As always, the air in the grove was scented with the pungent odor of pine, but the damp chill this evening caused Leo to shiver and, taking his seat among the Jeremians, he hunched forward, hugging his bare knees.
When everyone was seated, Pa rose and, extending his arms, began weaving the traditional Friendship Chain that joined one camper to his fellow, all around the ring, arm over arm, hand clasped in hand, the boys of all three units linked according to tradition. And Leo, too, joined hands, with Eddie on the left and Monkey on the right, yet their touch was cold, not as it had been on that first night.
Camping in the pines of Moonbow
Down by the lake . . .
they sang, and when the anthem ended Pa began his introductory remarks, commenting on the unusual change in weather, then lapsing into one of his long-winded circumlocutions concerning “the true meaning” of Camp Friend-Indeed, including the inevitable sentimental reminiscences that earned the usual ripples of approval and indulgent laughter among his auditors. Yet this evening they seemed less content than usual to devote full attention to his words, and as he glanced about him Leo noted the absence of certain parties: Tugwell and Ogden, Bosey and Mullens and Klaus. All ought to have been present, but all were missing. And Wally - he, too, was still absent. What had become of him?
But there was no time to ponder minor mysteries. The time had come for the final selection of new members for the Seneca Lodge. As usual, Pa settled back in his chair, and out of the magical puff of smoke the familiar figure of the Moonbow Warrior appeared, in one hand the medicine bags, in the other the bouquet of red feathers. His body painted, his face daubed with color, his brow crowned by the war bonnet, the Indian Chief stood in the firelight, showing off his nearly naked form, until the tom-tom beat was heard, and as the dance began the usual awed silence fell along the rows. Who among the campers would be picked tonight? With muttered congratulations, three of the last four-weekers received their feathers and medicine bags, and so it went, until the Warrior reached the row in front of the row where the Jeremians sat, and Willard, of Obadiah, received the feather. Leo could hardly look at the dancing figure of the Moonbow Warrior; he felt a rush of emotion - anger, resentment, even fear, as Reece, in his war paint, moved into Leo’s row. As the Warrior loomed larger, Leo suddenly realized it wasn’t Reece at all, but Jay St John, who was impersonating the
Warrior. Others among the watchers were also aware of the unscheduled substitution, and furtive whispers ran among the rows. Leo heard his name muttered and he had a sudden feeling of apprehension; something was afoot, something to do with him.
Closer came the Warrior, then, as Leo stared unbelieving, the dark arm extended and the hand offered the Seneca red feather and the medicine bag - to him!
Reflexively he reached for them, and held them before him, and the muttering grew louder, louder still. Campers were talking openly, but not about him, not him now, but something else entirely. Something was happening, something strange, even wonderful, and for that moment Leo forgot all about the red feather. Look, they were saying, look at it! See? What is it? And all around the council ring boys were turning their gaze skyward. There was a sudden break in the overcast, like a ragged tear in a curtain, and through the tear the moonlight brilliantly streamed downward, setting into silvery vibration the accumulated molecules of mist, millions upon millions of them, each globule spinning and floating in the livid atmosphere. Was it—? Could it be—? Hardly daring to breathe, they watched as, above the mist-shrouded waters, the particles of moisture began to gather themselves together, resolving themselves into a thin veil, a curtain of shimmering light, and the broad bow took form, shaping itself into a luminous arc that spanned the lake, from the hills behind them to the tall tip of the Methuselah Tree.
As if pulled by some magnetic force, one by one campers and counselors a-like rose to their feet, some abandoning their places to make a concerted movement toward the waterfront, where the view was unobscured. Aaah, they breathed, it is the moonbow! The moonbow they’d been hearing about for so long - the moonbow of Pa’s story suddenly made real, a light like no other in the world.
To Leo, standing with the rest by the lakeshore, it suddenly seemed that the magical arc bathing them in its silvery
glow was a sign. A sign that the bitter events of the summer should be forgotten, that from now on everything would be all right, that they were all true Friend-Indeeders here together, boys of Moonbow who, having passed through a long, dark way, had again emerged into the light. As he gazed up at the sky it was as if all the mean tricks that had been played on him had not been played, the angry words not spoken. This, this was the thing he would take with him when he left, the moonbpw. If only Tiger were here to see it.
The phenomenon lasted for three minutes, no longer. Then a breeze rose up from the east to tear at the gauzy mist, and before their eyes the arc dissolved, ending as it had begun, in darkness. Leo sat down again, shivering and hugging his ribs. Clutched in his hand was the red feather, from his neck hung the empty medicine bag, soon to be filled with magic. The sight of them brought him back to reality. Yes - he remembered - the Moonbow Warrior had presented it to him. Within the hour he would be made a Seneca brave. Already someone was tapping his shoulder. “Get going,” came the whisper, and Leo saw the other Seneca designates leaving their places to go to the Wolf’s Cave.
Like an automaton, Leo jerked to his feet and switched on his flashlight; as he joined the rest of the honor party his mind again strayed to Tiger, and his fingers caressed the empty medicine bag on its string around his neck. Suddenly, another, more sobering thought crossed his mind: There was something fishy in all this.
Again he recalled Wally’s warning and his heart beat fast. Yes - he was certain - this was just another Mingo trick and he’d fallen for it! What a sap! He wasn’t to be made a Seneca; they were planning to get him off in the woods and do a Stanley Wagner on him! Holding his breath, he' glanced discreetly to both sides, ahead and behind. No one seemed to be paying him much attention as they trudged along the path toward Indian Woods. He made up his mind.
He must make his run for it - right now, or it would be too late. Scarcely breaking stride, he turned down the nearest crosspath and sprinted forward. No sooner had he begun his move than a shout erupted behind him and they were on to him. He ran as if from the devil himself, dashing blindly along the path, panting, his breath coming in heavy, exploding bursts, hearing nothing but the sound of his own feet hitting the needled ground, legs frantically pinwheeling as he spurred himself on. The light grew dimmer and he was forced to slow his gait; the ground was boggy; pale scarves of mist threaded among the trees, and with every headlong step the way grew more treacherous. Though the sounds of pursuit had died away, still he did not feel safe, only alone. He had started off with such a violent rush, and now he wasn’t sure where he was. It was the Snipe Hunt all over again, only tonight the games were over, the games, the jokes, the fun. No anagrams this time.
He picked up his pace, stumbled, then stopped dead, staring ahead. Before him in the shadows a quartet of menacing silhouettes barred his way. He bl
inked once, twice, thinking he must be imagining them, but the four, mute and motionless, remained, staring back at him. Their faces were smudged with burnt cork, their eyes shone white. Who they were he did not know; but what matter? They were there and they wanted him. No sense in running anymore. They had him.
Then “Come with us,” he heard one say in an ominous, oddly manipulated voice, a bit of playacting.
“What do you want?” he said, trying to pump some sound of courage into his words.
The order was repeated. The air was very still.
Suddenly Leo felt his body go flaccid, like old rubber with no spring in it, and he knew he was licked. It would be Stanley-time at the Wolf’s Cave. A robot, he proceeded as directed by his summoners.
Single file, like Indians, they broke away from camp property onto the Old Lake Road, heading, surprisingly, not into Indian Woods, as Leo had figured, but farther east, toward Pissing Rock. Trudging along the shoulder, he could hear the open-throated drag of his captors’ breathing as they marched doggedly on, the two backs ahead of him sturdy and somehow brutal-looking, while, from behind him, his every flagging step earned him a helpful prod in the small of his back, forcing him to keep pace. There was no other sound except the rhythmic crunch of their shoe soles; no cars passed, no dogs barked, nothing. Done with its brilliant show, the moon had hid its face. The night was dark, and Leo fearful of what lay ahead.
They came around the bend and then he saw it: there, beyond the treetops, rose the slanted roofs and chimneys of the Steelyard place. It was to the Haunted House that they were taking him, then, not to Indian Woods, not to the grove, not the cave. Tonight Leo Joaquim would witness no gathering of the Senecas, nor would he be made a member of that honorable lodge.
Larger and more sinister the roof peaks and gables loomed as they drew near. He wanted to look away but could not. He dragged his step, only to suffer another prod that made him jerk, forcing him on. Now they were hustling him up the crazy paving, past the beds of cinders and weeds. At the front steps he balked. Nothing could make him enter that house another time. They would have to kill him first.
“Go up, or we’ll drag you by your hair,” ordered one of them, his face disguised, voice too.
“Be a man,” advised his partner. “Go forward.”
Yes, thought Leo, be a man. Above all, he must be a man. Glad Man from Happy Boy. Ha ha . . .
The first pair marched onto the porch. Leo must follow. Making up his mind to it, he placed his foot on the bottom step and began his ascent behind the two rigid backs, the other two close behind him. The floorboards creaked, and the structure protested under their combined weight. As the party approached the doorway, the leaders held up their lanterns, then stepped inside. Leo stared at the dark portal.
“Go on in,” growled a warning voice.
“No. I won’t.” But his stubbornness was to no avail. A shove from behind propelled him across the threshold. He grew dizzy as the familiar shadows rose about him, and the odors assailed his nose. He clenched his fists, trying to control his trembling, fighting against the wave of sickness and fright that was raising the flesh on his bare legs.
“Well, bring him along then,” commanded another voice, one he hadn’t heard before, and he was given another shove. Despite his protests they manhandled him along the hallway to its end, where the heavy trapdoor stood open, with the two masked leaders waiting beside it, holding up their lanterns.
Leo was forced to stop at the edge of the hole in the floor, aware by now that they were conducting him to the Rinkydink cellar.
“We’re here,” called a voice from behind him.
“Come down.”
“Go down,” Leo was told. He stiffened.
“No, I won’t.”
“He says he won’t come down.”
“Who cares what he says? Make him. And quick, we haven’t got all night.”
Leo cried out as he felt the push from behind and he fell through the trapdoor. He was falling - falling - but instead of hitting the earth he felt his fall broken by pairs of arms, which caught and set him on his feet.
Dazed, he blinked, staring around him. The cellar seemed to be alive with light. Torches flamed everywhere. He could make out some twenty or thirty huddled forms arranged along the walls of the room, a band of grotesque, fearsome-looking figures, their faces besmirched with blacking and garishly painted. Others were wearing animal masks, furred and horned, and were clad in weird wild-man and Indian outfits. In addition to the torches, their hands clutched makeshift weapons - sticks and staves, tomahawks, axes and shields taken from the exhibition wall at the lodge, Leo realized.
But this ragtag-and-bobtail lot was no brotherhood of Senecas come together in a ceremony of honor and friendship. Tonight, the night of the last campfire - night of the moonbow - there would be held not Seneca ceremonies, but Mingo revels. In the flickering torchlight, one by one he examined the evil-looking bunch, seeking hints as to who was who. Yet so successful were their disguises that they were to all intents and purposes impenetrable - except -yes - maybe the one got up as a fox, who now took up a position of importance before Leo, eyes glinting behind his furry muzzle. In one “paw” he displayed an Indian rattle, which when shaken gave off a menacing sound, like the tail of a rattlesnake. It must be Phil, Leo decided. He’d been clever enough to remove his ring, but there was a telltale white band around his finger that the burnt cork had missed.
“Go ahead, look about you,” the fox suggested with a spurious show of affability. “See what is to be seen. Think where you are, and to what purpose.”
He gestured beyond the intervening heads, past the furnace and the coal bin, toward the shadows at the far end of the cellar. There a line of Indian blankets was hung with wooden clothes pins on a wire stretching fully across the room, effectively shutting off the farther view, while in the corner was something else Leo hadn’t noticed before. He stood tiptoe, trying to make out what - no, who - it was.
“Go on, take a good look,” urged the fox smoothly. “It’s a friend of yours. Maybe he’ll give you an idea of what’s going to happen - just in case you were wondering.”
Oh no! Leo stared in alarm and astonishment as he recognized Wally Pfeiffer. His arms had been pulled back over his head and secured, his ankles and legs bound as well. On his bare chest a crude swastika had been drawn; his lips were swollen.
“What have you done to him?” Leo demanded in consternation.
“See for yourself,” said the fox. “That’s what we do to traitors. And that spud’s a traitor if ever there was one, isn’t he, men?”
“Yeah, traitor!” they shouted. “Lousy traitor.” And, “Liar!” they called, and “Lousy, dirty creep!”
The fox resumed. “We’ve been teaching him a lesson, we have. We’ve been reminding him whose side he’s supposed to be on, and not to go warning other traitors. Present company not excepted.”
“But he’s hurt—”
“He needed a lesson,” someone muttered.
“It’s true,” said the fox. “He needed to be taught. Like certain others need it, too.” He paused for effect, allowing his words to sink in, then he spoke again. “Let’s see how well the lousy spud’s learned his lesson.” He gave Wally a jab with his staff. “All right, traitor, hop to it. Come on, say it—”
Wally’s eyes rolled in their sockets and his lips moved, but no sounds came out. The fox seized him by the hair, and yanked his head back.
“You heard me, speak! Do as you’ve been told.”
He tried to speak but couldn’t manage it. Again the fox’s hand snapped out, catching him a crack across the lips.
“Say it!”
Wally turned a pitiful face toward Leo. “Y-you - d-dirty
- murdering - bas-bas-tard.”
And he spat.
Leo recoiled as Wally’s spittle flew into his face.
“Make him say the rest,” prompted another voice, deep and resonant. It came from the lips of a “wolf.�
� Leo could see the flash of eyes behind the mask. Eyes and voice, he knew both: they belonged to the Brown Bomber. His friend, who had smashed his violin. '
“Well, speak up,” urged the wolf. Wally only stared in fright.
“Leave him alone, Bomber,” Leo said in a low voice. “He didn’t do anything to you—”
“Silence!” came the fox’s crisp command. “There is no Bomber here. We are the .brotherhood of Mingoes.” That much, ironically, was true: no Bomber here, not really. The third of the Three Musketeers had betrayed not only Leo but Tiger Abernathy as well.
As if reading Leo’s thoughts, the wolf turned away and prompted Wally again.
“Go on, now - say it.”
“I forget...”
“Tell him what you are,” he commanded.
Wally’s head lolled. “I’m nothing b-but a dirty - traitor. I d-deserve - t-to - d-die.”
“All right, that’s enough of that crap,” came an impatient voice. “Let’s get on with it and stop all this screwin’ around.”
As hands reached for Leo, he broke free and, ducking under their outstretched arms, headed for the hatchway steps. Before he could reach them he felt a heavy blow across the back of his neck; he crumpled to the floor. Amid shouts, they grabbed him and dragged him back into the light, securing him with rawhide thongs to a post in the same way Wally was tied. Bodies huddled closer now; faces, hot and sweaty, were streaked with soot.
“Let the trial begin,” the fox intoned.
“Yeah,” they all muttered, nodding, “the trial ...”
Still dizzy from the blow to his neck, Leo peered around at their faces, at their eyes agleam, anticipatory, hungry for action. So he was to be tried, then. But on what charges? What was his crime?