The Night of the Moonbow

by Thomas Tryon

  “A man should be told what he’s being tried for,” he said, trying to keep his voice even.

  The fox stared back at him. “I’m the judge here. You must say ‘Your Honor’ to me, like in a real court.”

  Leo put on a show of bravado. “This isn’t a court, it’s just some stupid game. You’re all nuts!”

  The forthright declaration provoked a volley of laughter: they were nuts? No pal, Wacko was the one who was nuts. After all, Wacko had been to the asylum. The fox’s fist flew up and caught him across the mouth. The blow hurt. Tears stung his eyes and he was helpless to wipe them away. Now he was certain the fox was Phil. “He likes to hurt people,” Wally had said. Leo could taste blood, feel his lip swelling.

  “Hey, come on, you guys,” someone called out wearily. “Let’s get on with it.” His companions muttered agreement. They wanted the whole show. The group parted as another figure, this one featuring a bear’s physiognomy, made his appearance.

  “Who is it that now comes before the tribunal of the Mingo Lodge, and to what end?” intoned the fox.

  “It is I,” said the bear, “Nananda the All-knowing Spirit of the Mingo tribe, and I have come to accuse. Am I permitted to continue?”

  “Who do you accuse?” came the query.

  A grubby finger was raised, pointed.

  “I accuse the prisoner.” From the voice Leo thought perhaps the bruin was Bosey; the thick-set “crocodile” at his shoulder was Bullnuts.

  The fox nodded gravely. “Very well, you may continue, Mr Prosecutor. Call your first witness.”

  The bear turned and surveyed the group on both sides of him. “I call the frog,” he said. “Let him come forward and testify. Listen carefully, all of you, to what he has to say.”

  The group gave way and yet another figure, smaller than the others and costumed as a frog, was pushed forward.

  “Say, then. Give evidence,” instructed the fox eagerly. The bear prompted the frog. When the frog spoke it was in the accents of Peewee Oliphant.

  The whole idea of Peewee’s being in on this monstrous show turned Leo’s stomach.

  “Why have you dragged him here?” he demanded. “He’s only a kid, he should be in bed.”

  Haw haw! A wave of scornful laughter filled the room.

  The fox held up a restraining hand. “We know of no ‘Peewee’ here,” he said sternly. “We know only the frog. Speak, frog. Tell the warriors of the sacred Mingo tribe all you know.”

  The frog talked fast, as if by rote. The prisoner, he said, had tried to do nasty things with the frog’s sister.

  “What things?” demanded the fox.

  The accusation was made: He had shown her dirty pictures at Three Corner Cove! He had corrupted an innocent girl.

  Leo was speechless. They had put the words in Peewee’s mouth and got him to repeat them.

  “Well, what have you to say for yourself?” Nananda the bear growled impatiently, stepping up to Leo. “Do you deny it?”

  “I deny everything!”

  “We knew you would. All right, the witness is excused. Now you can go to bed, froggy.”

  Further mirth greeted this sally. The fox quickly squelched

  it.

  There was still one who was missing from the stage as far as Leo could tell, an important player at that:.Reece. Where was Heartless? Taller and more formidable than all the rest, he should be a stand-out among the boys, yet he was nowhere discernible, not to Leo, not yet, anyway. As for the other Jeremians, though he could not pick them out in their disguises, he knew they must be there, all of them, come to have their revenge on Wacko Wackeem.

  “You all have heard the first witness,” the fox went on, raising his voice for everyone to hear. “There are others. And evidence.”

  Ahh, they said, evidence. What kind of evidence?

  “It grows late. Let us proceed,” declared the fox. “You see before you the lowest type of criminal, brought here to our meeting place for trial and judgment. He had thought to be inducted into the Seneca Lodge this night - not knowing the Senecas would never have his kind. For we will prove how unworthy a brave this prisoner is. We will show him to be a liar and a cheat—”

  “I am not!” shouted Leo, straining at his bonds, wishing he could free his hands. Tiger’s knife still sat on his hip; they hadn’t noticed it. If he could reach far enough, catch the hilt with his fingers, maybe . . . He worked the cords to stretch and loosen them.

  “Aw, someone shut him up!” called one.

  “Yeah, quit grousin’.”

  “Snuff it, Wacko, or we’ll do it for you.”

  The fox shook his rattle vigorously, commanding attention. “The prisoner has not been given leave to speak! He is therefore instructed to remain silent until the court advises him otherwise.” He addressed the prosecutor again. “Tell the court, what lies has the prisoner told?”

  The bear was inclined toward obsequiousness. “If it please the court, not just one lie, but many. Many lies. And many are those who have heard him speak such lies.” “Make your accusations.”

  The bear nodded gravely. The others shifted among their ranks; audible whispers of anticipation ran around the circle; the bear went on. “To begin with, he has made it known to everyone at camp that his father is dead.”

  “And is this a misrepresentation of the facts?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. His father’s as alive as anyone in this room.” At this disclosure exclamations of surprise erupted;

  heads bobbed and jockeyed for a better look at the accused. The blood had drained from Leo’s face and he could feel his body trembling.

  In the “prosecutor’s” hand was a manila folder with a white tab. “It is the prisoner’s private file,” the bear went on, “loaned to us for these proceedings by Ma Starbuck.” Leo strained forward against the thongs. “I don’t believe you - Ma never would have! Somebody stole it!” “Silence!”

  With grimy paws the bear opened the file. “Your Honor, I wish at this point to introduce as evidence the following documents.” He shuffled through and extracted certain items, which he identified in the same solemn tone:

  “First, the standard registration forms of Camp Friend-Indeed. Second, copies of the records of the Pitt Institute for Boys, stating the truth beyond any shadow of a doubt. Third, a handwritten letter from one Miss - Miss” - he riffled his way to the end of the letter for the name - “Miss Elsie Meekum, a member of the orphanage staff. Will the court please allow these documents to be noted and entered as ‘Exhibits A, B, and C for the prosecution’?”

  The fox looked the documents over with burlesque judiciousness. Leo watched mutely. He knew Ma: she would never have willingly surrendered her file, to anyone. But what did that matter? Now everyone in camp would know the truth about the butcher’s boy.

  “Where is his father, then?”

  The prosecutor turned to the prisoner for an answer. “Where is your father,” he demanded. “Speak!”

  “He’s dead,” he said.

  The prosecutor snorted and raised a scornful voice so all could hear. “Do you hear, men? He lies even to this court.”

  Leo lifted his own voice to be heard over the other’s. “He is dead. He’s talking about my stepfather.”

  “Listen, all of you,” came the bear’s voice, projecting so the sound carried among the trees. “He’s not dead, this father. His name is Rudy Matuchek, and he has drawn the sentence of twenty years imprisonment.”

  At this news the band of watchers put their heads together and again jabbered among themselves.

  Once more the judge raised a hand for silence and addressed the prosecutor.

  “We are interested in your words. For what crime is this man in prison?”

  “For the crime of murder!”

  Murder! The word swept through the ranks. “It is a fact,” the prosecutor continued. “Here is the proof, in my hand.” Again he waved the documents. “Now ask me, for whose murder?”

  “Yes, whose?” they deman
ded in unison, jostling one another in their eagerness to see and hear. Again the “judge” was forced to call for order.

  “For the murder of his wife!” came the reply. “And his wife’s boyfriend.” Another eruption greeted this sensational revelation. The bear eagerly pressed his point. “Hear me, men. It’s all here in the file, every word.” He held up the folder.

  The alligator had a further word to add. “His mother was a slut. She was having an affair with this other guy—” He would have gone on, but was silenced by the bear, who with obvious relish provided the details.

  “The father was a butcher and he took his butcher knife and stabbed them both to death. He was convicted and sent to prison. That’s why the prisoner was sent to the orphanage. And before that he was in the nuthouse - the loony bin. It’s all here, anyone can read it!” He brandished the papers over his head while the commotion grew louder. Leo strained harder to free himself, his eyes wildly staring at his accuser, who just shook his head at him. “You see how it is - you think you can go around telling these lies—” “They’re not lies!” Leo shouted defiantly. “They’re not!”

  “Are they the truth, then?”

  “Not exactly, but—”

  “Well, there you are! You’re a liar; and furthermore . . . ” the bear went on, ignoring Leo’s denial and taking up a position close to the fox. “Furthermore ... I stand here before this tribunal to accuse the prisoner of being responsible for the death of Tiger Abernathy.” He raised his voice so it echoed off the cellar walls. “Like father, like son!”

  Angry mutters ran about the circle. Leo stared at the bear-head. “That’s not true!”

  “Silence!” the judge roared. “On what do you base this accusation?” he asked the prosecutor.

  “It’s simple. The prisoner is a collector of spiders. One of these spiders was poisonous and it bit the deceased and gave him blood poisoning. If it weren’t for that, Tiger wouldn’t have died.”

  Leo again protested. “The spider wasn’t poisonous and everybody knows it! Ten spiders like that one could have bit someone and they’d never have died. The bite became infected because—”

  “Silence in the court! The prisoner has not been given leave to speak. Mr Prosecutor, you may continue.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” returned the prosecutor, bowing. He came closer to Leo. “So, prisoner, you will call others liar, will you? When it is you yourself who is the liar!”

  “Everything I’ve said is true.”

  “I don’t think so. In fact” - turning to the courtroom again - “I think we have already proved beyond doubt that if there is any lying being done here, the prisoner is the one doing it. And his hands are stained with the blood of Tiger Abernathy, who except for him would be standing here at this very moment.”

  “He wouldn't! He’d never be here! Let me go!” Again Leo strained against his bonds. This was more than a game, this was diabolical. He thought of Stanley Wagner. “You have no right!”

  “Shut up!”

  “Silence him.”

  “Give him a poke to shut his mouth.”

  “Silence! Silence, I said!” shouted the judge. “Enough of this. If there are any more outbursts I’ll order the prisoner gagged. We won’t waste any more time. We’ll have the verdict. And the sentence—!”

  “ ’Ray! ’Ray!” the boys shouted. “Time for sentencing.” “Jury! What is your verdict?” came the call. As one they spat the word out in his face.

  Guilty.

  Guilty!

  GUILTY!

  The cellar rang with shouts and cries, while Leo stared in disbelief and mounting alarm. No use for him to struggle more. But the end - where was that? And when it came, what would it be?

  The fox again stepped forward and raised his arms for silence. In the sudden hush he spoke to the prisoner: “You have been found guilty of the worst kind of crime

  - the crime of breaking faith. Everybody knows it was your spider that killed Tiger. It won’t do you any good to go on lying about it. A liar is what you are and you will be punished accordingly.”

  He paused, turning to speak sotto voce with the bear and several others who crowded around him to hear what he had to say. Leo watched, hating them all. The fox turned back, cleared his throat. “The penalty you will pay for your lies and treachery is as follows - watch - watch, all, see what has been arranged for the guilty.”

  Leo watches. The fox reaches up and pulls a cord. Bright lights flash on as the curtain of blankets is pulled back, revealing a makeshift stage upon which a tableau is being enacted, a grisly tableau whose essence swiftly communicates itself to Leo. He shouts out in horror. He would look away, but cannot. There, in full view, stands the menacing figure of Rudy, the butcher of Saggetts Notch, in his shirtsleeves and his bloodied apron, his straw hat perched on his head, his drooping mustache, his ever-present cigar, and, clutched in one upraised hand, his butcher knife, its blade besmirched. His other hand is closed around the throat of Emily, her breast covered with blood. She is dead; he has killed her!

  “Mother!”

  The anguished cry echoes in the room. In terror and surprise, Leo springs forward, free at last of his bonds, his fingers scrabbling at his hip. As his body knocks heavily against the exposed flank of the murderer, his fingers close around his own knife, freeing it from its sheath. Its steel blade flashes in the light.

  “No - stop!” comes a cry from among the crowd -a futile cry, for Leo’s avenging knife thrusts home. As the blade strikes there is an explosive sound of shocked surprise from Rudy, who gasps, groans, crumples, then falls backward. Frantic hands snatch at Leo, yanking him away from the stage. He stares dazedly at the gory sight of the murdered Emily, who in some unaccountable yet miraculous transformation has been restored to life, her blood-spattered features now changing into those of Gus Klaus, a look of bug-eyed horror on his face as he peers down at the lifeless body of Reece Hartsig, who lies bleeding on the floor, an expression of surprise frozen forever in his eyes, Tiger Abernathy’s parting gift to Wacko Wackeem buried to the hilt under his ribs.

  EPILOGUE

  Neither lofty nor inspiring, Mount Zion was never what you could call a real mountain, merely one of a range of low hills, the site chosen by Knute and Dagmar Kronborg as their home in America. On a bright, sunny morning toward the middle of November 1938, a thin plume of smoke curled from the hen’s-egg chimney, and high atop the observation tower the Stars and Stripes marked a brisk wind from the east. With the coming of autumn, even the sky had changed: no longer the soft, limpid cerulean blue of summer, it was a harder, more enameled blue, the blue of a Delft plate, and host to wavering wedges of geese flying south from Canada. There was a good nip in the air, too; all through the valley the leaves had turned, and in the farmers’ fields the pumpkins ripened their way toward Thanksgiving pies. Except for a black-winged hawk knifing earthward, the valley seemed to drowse in a sort of fairy-tale slumber.

  On the topmost gallery off the music room, Augie Moss was leaning over the parapet, spilling to the wind the contents of two ashtrays. Through the open doors behind him came the sound of music, a lively glissando of notes that lay melodiously on the ear. Augie slid a look up to the cruising hawk, then stepped back into the music room, where Leo Joaquim stood behind the Pleyel piano, some sheets of music open on the rack (Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto).

  Augie watched from under knitted brows. The boy had changed some. He looked older, not as thin and gangly -Augie’s cooking had helped to accomplish that - and with an indefinable something more grown-up in the line of the jaw that rested on the curve of the violin.

  Returning the ashtrays to their decreed places - the jade one on the big table, the crystal beside the piano keyboard

  - Augie slippered his way from the room, while Leo continued his practice undisturbed. If he paused for longer than the time it took to run to the bathroom, he would hear from “upstairs” the signal for him to resume pronto or catch it. At the Castle one had certain ob
ligations: in the matter of musical practice, diligence was called for; Dagmar was no easy taskmaster.

  As he bowed away, Leo’s eye traveled to the framed photograph on the piano, a pair of suntanned campers clad in khaki shorts, grinning into Dagmar’s box Brownie, two summer pals, arms across each other’s shoulders, two friends now parted - one dead, one alive. One buried under the earth, the other here, playing Mendelssohn; Felix Mendelssohn for Tiger Abernathy.

  Victim of whimsical impulse, Leo broke off his concerto and switched to another, possibly more popular but far less classic, rendition. He tossed it off with polish and verve, even for so humble a ditty, and before long he heard Augie’s sandpapery voice singing the words as he came back along the passageway:

  I push the first valve down.

  The music goes down and around,

  Whoa-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho,

  And it comes up here.

  In he came with his turkey duster, lightly feathering his way around the room, “rearranging the dust,” as Dagmar called it. When he reached the piano he clapped a hand to Leo’s shoulder and they sang the next verse together.

  I push the middle valve down.

  The music goes down around below, below,

  Dee-dle-dee ho-ho-ho,

  Listen to the ja-azz come out.

  They had swung into the last verse when a clarion voice rang out from overhead.

  “No one had better push that other valve down or there’ll be hash for dinner. August, more coffee! Leo, more Mendelssohn!”

  Augie slipped Leo a conspiratorial wink, then trucked his way across the tiles to disappear around the corner while the boy had recourse once more to his music. Not long after, the old man again passed the doorway as he carried her morning coffee tray to Dagmar. He found her at the desk in her bedroom, writing letters.

  “Was it you who encouraged him to play that dreadful stuff?” she asked, adding sugar lumps to the cup (she liked her coffee black but sweet).

  “No, ma’am,” Augie replied in his soft, dusty voice. “That was his own inspiration. Ask me, I think it’s hot.” “Hot!” Dagmar was indignant. “The notes of that composition are as nails on a blackboard,” she declared. “And the words are pure jabberwocky.”