The Night of the Moonbow (44 page)

Evening saw the farewell banquet in the dining hall, with the tables decorated with ferns and flowers in token of the camp’s last big night of the summer. Ma and Willa-Sue were in evidence at the staff table, along with Doc Oliphant and Maryann, Honey, too, everyone eager to learn who the winners of the Hartsig Memorial Trophy were going to be.

When the meal ended Leo watched as Pa rose to offer some choice parting words - the usual Friend-Indeed talk, which Leo only half heeded; he was still thinking about Icarus, felled by Reece’s arrow, never to fly again. And the violin. What, if he had lived, would Tiger have thought of the destruction of Emily’s violin, the treasure that to Leo had been such a potent talisman, not only of the past but of. the future that Dagmar had spoken of?

A stir among the campers marked the end of Pa’s speech, as he turned to the presentation of the initial awards: Bibles and felt badges for various camp competitions. He was followed by Hap, making the athletic awards, then Rex, who handled the aquatic awards in a like fashion, and Oats, who bestowed certificates of merit for nature studies and, in Fritz’s absence, for crafts. As each camper received his prize there were cheers and applause, until Leo’s name was announced - to be greeted with silence, not a jeer or a knock, only a titter or two from the back of the room. Leo cursed the spider collection that made it necessary now for him to exhibit himself before the camp and, blushing furiously, he all but snatched the paper from Oats and regained his seat.

Finally it was time for the awarding of the Trophy. The winning cabin’s name did not come immediately to Pa’s lips, however, for some fulsome words of general commendation were required to lay the carpet, so to speak, before the grand announcement could be made. During these remarks Hap stood by, exhibiting the silver cup for all to see. And, finally, the winner was - Jeremiah! Reece strode to where Pa stood, to accept the cup “in the name of all Jeremians, past, present, and future,” with special thanks to Tiger Abernathy, who had contributed so much toward winning it.

So, the Jeremians, as expected, had taken the Trophy. That any other cabin should have won seemed unthinkable yet as he left the dining hall Leo harbored a curious sense of “so what?”, as if, with Tiger gone, the whole thing had never mattered much after all.

>

At eight o’clock that evening, as he’d done all summer before the start of each council fire, Pa made his customary appearance at the head of the line-path, bearing aloft the Great Torch, its sacred flame a beacon for all to see, there to be met by the trio of honorary runners, who lighted their torches from his, then separated to carry the flames to all three units.

Was it possible, thought Leo, watching the ceremony from Old Faithful, where he’d been waiting alone, that this was the final campfire of the season, the last time the Senecas would meet, the last telling of the moonbow tale? Could it really be that eight whole weeks had elapsed since he had come to camp? Possible that Tiger Abernathy was actually dead, that Leo would never see him again, that on this last evening they wouldn’t be sitting side by side at the council fire sharing in the fun? Half an hour earlier, as he prepared for the evening’s activity, he had felt the prick of goose pimples along his legs. He still wanted to leave, to get out, but he had promised Tiger he wouldn’t

run away, and he wouldn’t, despite all that had happened -“Never Say Die.” As a result of Wally’s warning, however, he had slipped Tiger’s compass into his pocket, and had buckled the knife onto his belt. The funny thing was, Wally himself hadn’t shown up since dinner, which didn’t necessarily mean anything, since, for the past several days, he’d been giving both the cabin and Phil a wide berth. Still, the torchlight parade had started and it wasn’t like Wally to miss formation.

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 blinked 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.