The Night of the Moonbow (7 page)

Tucked away to the side among the nest of Jeremians, Leo sat enthralled as the coach rose to spill out a cornucopia of exciting events like so many gold coins from a troll’s pot, a kaleidoscope of Fun Lights and Movie

Nights, a Watermelon Crush, a Major Bowes Amateur Night, a Friendship Lottery, a Water Carnival, and the “piece of least resistance” - Hap chortled at his own joke - this year only, the awarding of the Hartsig Trophy, celebrating a full twenty-five years of camping in the Moonbow wildwood, to that cabin whose campers earned the highest number of happy points (after demerits were deducted), and thus exemplified in highest degree the qualities of Good Christian Campers. There was more: as an added incentive, next spring the winners of the cup would attend an All-State Civic Jamboree at the New York World’s Fair, all expenses paid by Rolfe Hartsig and the German-American Bund.

At this welcome news three cheers were given for Big Rolfe Hartsig, the benefactor of Friend-Indeed. But what, Leo wondered, glancing around again, had become of the benefactor’s son, who was nowhere to be seen? Hadn’t Tiger said that the Jeremiah counselor would be at the council fire? What was keeping him? Leo had no time to dwell on such mysteries, however, because of what the coach next had to say: as of the end of the first two-week period not Jeremiah (the favorite) but Malachi, in the High Endeavor unit, was the front-runner in the trophy competition - all owing to the hapless Stanley Wagner, whose naifie Phil Dodge now muttered sotto voce, with accompanying descriptive epithets.

Next up were the other members of Pa’s staff: Rex Kenniston, waterfront director, to announce the trial heats for the swimming competition in the Annual Water Carnival; Oats Gurley, nature director and overseer of the dining hall, to solicit contributions to The Pine Cone, the camp newspaper, of which he was the editor; and Fritz Auerbach, the new crafts supervisor, a wiry, dark-haired, intense-looking young man, who rose to offer some general remarks about how much he had enjoyed his first two weeks at Moonbow Lake; a refugee from the Nazis, who in March had overrun his homeland, Austria, Fritz was grateful for the place he had found among the Friend-Indeeders. His warmly expressed feelings brought an enthusiastic round of applause, which lasted until, from far off, there came the melodious sounds of singing, signaling that something special was about to occur. All eyes were on the lake, even Pa’s, as out of the darkness they glided, the Singing Canoes, a flotilla of craft, each bearing a paddler and members of the camp glee club, the leaping flames of torches lighting up the darkness as they glided shoreward, the singers’ voices floating across the water. Applause swept the ring as the boys on land clapped for the singers, and for another Moonbow tradition, a blend of sound and sentiment, drama and glamour, that never failed to produce a sense of awe among the campers, and an awareness, no matter how dim, of belonging to a greater whole. Leo thought he’d never heard or seen anything so beautiful.

When the canoes were beached and the singers had joined their fellows in the council ring, the usual sing-along followed, starting with the camp pledge (as sung to “Maryland, My Maryland”):

O Friend-Indeed,

My Friend-Indeed,

When I am A Friend-in-need . . .

As they sang, Leo - utterly unfamiliar with the words of the songs, yet gamely joining in - had intimations of a powerful bond being forged between him and the other campers, a warming comradeship that said he too was part of it all. From what did it spring, this sudden sense of belonging? From feeling the pressure of Tiger’s knee signifying the importance of a moment here or there? Or the mute, mirthful heave of the Bomber’s girth? From the fire’s friendly glow, the fresh, outdoorsy fragrance of the pines? Leo couldn’t tell. All he knew was that the good fellowship that suffused the gathering, knitting it together in mood and purpose, was enveloping him as well, filling him with eagerness and resolution.

The sing-along finally ended and then, with his audience settled back, waiting for what was to come next, Pa began speaking (as he could always be relied on to do) about his old friend William F Cody, otherwise known as Buffalo Bill, and about how, when Pa was a young man and working for the Friends of Joshua, he had had occasion to meet the famed Indian scout and showman, and to receive from his own hands the reverend Buffalo Bill War Bonnet.

Pa’s remarks were but the prelude to what was now to come. He paused, a moment stretching into several. Atop the slab-sided rock the crackling of the fire grew louder, and Leo felt a tingling of anticipation. Then, without warning, there was an explosion of colors, a whirling shower of sparks, and through a sudden, further blossoming of smoke a tall, dark, savage-looking figure appeared, his sharpely chiseled features painted in vivid streaks of red, green, yellow, and white - the Moonbow Warrior! What magnificence! There he stood before the gathering, looking for all the world like a real Indian, with his chamois breechclout, a breastplate of bones and beads, hammered bracelets ornamenting his biceps, and beaded moccasins on his feet. More impressive than anything was the splendid headdress he wore, the Buffalo Bill War Bonnet Pa had just spoken of, with its glorious fan of multicolored feathers, its pendant train behind, and the gewgaws that hung down either side of the Warrior’s face.

For a moment longer, he remained immobile, then, folding his arms across his chest and stretching his neck muscles, he surveyed the semicircle of campers, his eyes glinting as they searched out those who had been chosen for induction into the Seneca Lodge. When he had spotted each of them, he gestured, and from the shadows beyond Tabernacle Rock a tom-tom started beating out a slow, syncopated rhythm. The Warrior dropped into a crouch and began a sinuous, prowling dance around the fire: heel-toe-heel-toe, stamping the toe, then snapping the heel down smartly, heel-toe-heel-toe, moving back and forth behind the campfire and chanting as he moved.

Ah wah ta na hay Ah wah ta no ho Ho tah! Ho tah ha!

Na wah ha na toe!

When he had made several circles around the fire, he proceeded along the first row of campers, bending to peer closely into each face. In one hand he held a cluster of red feathers, in the other empty medicine bags, like the ones the Jeremians wore. Pausing before a camper, he bestowed one each of these items on him, to warm applause from everyone; then, winding up among the tiers, he graced another boy and another. As he drew nearer to the Jeremians, his appointed features sharply etched by the vermilion light, Leo became aware of the overpowering presence of the half-naked figure, and he strained forward as the same tokens were offered to a fourth camper two rows ahead of them. “Attaboy, Bosey,” someone whispered.

Pivoting on his moccasin-shod feet, the Indian straightened for a moment, tensing his muscles, then crouched again and moved to the end of the next row, where the boys of Cabin 7 sat. But every Jeremian had already become a Seneca, so there would be no feathers or bags handed out to them, and yet - Leo saw how the Indian was moving along the row, passing the Jeremians one after the other, coming toward the new boy. Suddenly Leo felt a surge of excitement. Was such a thing possible, a new camper being made a Seneca, achieving Brave status on his first night at camp? The crouching figure came nearer. Nearer he came; nearer, until he stood poised directly in front of Leo. Suddenly the features disguised by the dark makeup made sense to Leo, and he realized that under the war paint the Warrior was Reece Hartsig!

He wanted to lower his eyes, but found he could not. Hardly daring to return Reece’s penetrating look, he waited - hoping - not daring to hope - the moment stretching out until, like a rubber band, it snapped and he blinked. And as the Indian passed on, Leo was filled with an incomprehensible sense of wrong doing, as if his capricious thoughts might have been read. He sat glued to his log as the Warrior retreated down the aisle and at the foot of the ring, having presented the last feather and medicine bag to another camper, stood erect, and, in a few panther strides, emerged into the light again. Bringing his feet together and taking a deep breath that expanded his chest, he raised his two brown arms in a majestic salute, then lowered them as he bowed before Pa Starbuck. A single step backward, out of the circle of firelight, and as magically as he had appeared he disappeared again, swallowed up in the velvety dark.

No sooner was he gone than, at a nod from Pa, the inductees rose and were ushered from the ring, to be instructed by the Moonbow Warrior in what was to come later, when all the members of the Seneca Lodge would gather for the secret campfire at the Wolf’s Cave. Applause followed their exit, and when the clapping had died away a silence gradually fell along the tiers. From his chair beside Tabernacle Rock, Pa Starbuck coughed and hemmed a bit, then suggested that everyone have a stretch before the rest of the program began.

After this general stirring about, they all sat again, gradually settling themselves into a renewed state of anticipation as the moment approached - the telling of the tale that by tradition crowned each council fire. Fresh logs were chucked onto the burning ones, sending sparks popping like Chinese firecrackers into the blackness, and the flames cast their amber glow along the sets of tanned legs picketing the front row, where rested pair upon pair of rubber-soled U.S. Keds, lined up as on the shelf of some outsized shoestore.

***

Now is the time. The moment all the boys have been waiting for, time for the ancient tale, that mixture of old-time native lore and birchbark legend that is the warp and woof of the camp, woven from stories far older than anyone present. Such moments as these are what make Camp Friend-Indeed the place it is. The spirit of Moonbow Lake lies among the words the boys know they will soon hear, words that newcomers like Leo Joaquim have been told to pay attention to. A born teller of such tales, Pa addresses his listeners with adroit turns of phrase, conjuring the Moonbow Princess who once lived in this same place, here within this very grove of pines, and the Moonbow Warrior, her secret lover, whose lodge stood on the opposite shore, among her foes — their rival tribes for decades warring with each other over some long-forgotten quarrel.

“Alone and lorn of love,” Pa says, “the maiden waits, while deep night draws on apace, and the old Star Maker takes out his tools to cut the shape and pattern of the stars, which he pins onto the dark cloak of night. He cuts the moon as well, full and round and silvery, to shed its light over all, while still the beauteous princess waits for her warrior to come to her, across the shining water, secretly so no one will know. On her soft cheek a tear glistens, bright as the Pole Star itself, for she is resolved to rebel against the tribe and all her people, to be united in love with the man that Sagittai, the Ancient Seer, has foretold shall be hers ...”

All along the rows the boys harken, some leaning forward, some back, some gazing up at the star-strewn sky, some staring into the fire, all hanging on Pa’s every word. How they relish the telling; how silky and intricate the design as the threads of the familiar story are drawn out: whimsy and enchantment, shot through with moonlight; for to have the moonbow without a moon is impossible.

Pa goes on: “Alas,” he declares, “the princess waits in vain, for her warrior is by fate forestalled - each time he embarks, a fearful tempest, the work of Misswiss, the Evildoer, arises and forces him to return to shore. He cannot succeed until the fateful Night of the Moonbow, when, the seer proclaims, a bridge of moonlight will be magically created for him to cross upon.”

Aahh, the boys murmur, the moonbow, and Leo strains forward to catch each word.

Many nights pass, and days, and the moon wanes and waxes again, and still the moonbow does not appear. The princess weeps, the warrior chafes. Then, one night when the moon is full, the impatient maiden commandeers a canoe and paddles toward the opposite shore where her lover waits; but before she can reach it, her flight is discovered. She is overtaken and for her treachery is condemned to death; nothing, no one, can help her now, her fate is sealed.

“There the doomed princess lies,” Pa goes on with a lift to his voice, “there, upon the giant rock - this same rock where our council fire burns tonight. Misswiss holds aloft his knife. The sharp blade glints in the moonlight; see how he clutches it, ready to plunge it into her heart. Ah, hear her piteous moans - but who shall hear her pleas, who shall succor her?”

A ripple of sound traverses the rows, for the boys know that this is the best part of the story. By now Pa has risen to his full powers of description, and tonight’s moonless night seems moonless no longer, but clear and bright as can be, a night transfigured, filled with the wonder and magic of the tale.

Now, see it, boys, picture it in your minds: As the vengeful braves look on, silent and breathless, and Misswiss stays his hand yet a moment longer, little by little the miracle takes place. Yes! Look there, up in the sky! Forming itself from the tiniest, most infinitesimal particles of incandescence, attracting one another as though magnetized, gathering more and more substance, only faintly visible at first, a trembling shape of something not quite real, then, growing brighter and fuller, a filmy skein, and now, taking clearer shape, it becomes a visible band - yes, see it, boys, see it - a horizontal band that, ever so slowly, begins to bend at either end, to arch above the lake that mirrors it, its gleaming terminals linking one shore with the other, until, at last, behold the completed wonder, a luminous bow, a glorious rainbow of the night!

And so, taking heart as he prepares to meet his beloved, the Moonbow Warrior makes haste to cross the bridge of light - only to meet horror on the farther shore. Taken prisoner, bound with thongs to a sapling tree, he must witness the execution of his beloved. Again Misswiss raises his knife and prepares to strike; the warrior cries out as the mortal blow is struck, and while the blood gushes from the maiden’s heart, red as poppies, he bursts his bonds and throws himself upon her lifeless corpse. Seizing the knife that has killed her, he rises up and faces his foes, lunging toward them, desperate, until finally he falls, mortally wounded, upon the breast of the murdered princess.