The Night of the Moonbow Page 5

  Peewee ignored the peace offering and sprang out onto the line-path. When he had put sufficient distance between himself and his tormentor he pulled up short and from the depths of his wounded pride shouted defiantly, “I’m gonna tell my sister! I’m gonna tell Honey you got a lousy letter from Nancy Rider and it stinks of perfume and it’s got a big fat lipstick mark on the back!”

  He ran away among the trees. No one laughed. Turning back into the cabin Reece noted the envelope on his pillow. He picked it up and was about to pull the flap when his eye came to rest on the new boy. He slipped the letter under the pillow for later, then, straightening, said, “And who might this be?”

  Leo opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out, and he swallowed with a noisy gulp.

  Tiger was quick with the explanation that this was Stanley Wagner’s replacement. Reece said nothing at first, merely looked the new arrival up and down with a bland expression. He removed his cap and tucked it away on his shelf, then glanced in the mirror, running his palms over his hair, which gleamed with blond highlights. Satisfied, he turned back to the new boy, withholding his greeting for a moment longer. Leo gulped again, his face turned red, and he dropped his look to the floor, still unable to think of anything to say.

  “How is it he’s here tonight instead of tomorrow?” Though Reece looked at Phil for an explanation, again it was Tiger who replied, mentioning bus schedules and - giving the new boy’s name. A faint frown appeared between Reece’s sun-whitened brows.

  “Wackeem,” he repeated, thoughtfully, while Leo stared wordlessly back at him. No one presumed to speak; the moment drew out. Finally, Reece broke the spell, by putting out his hand; when Leo took it he felt his own engulfed.

  “Welcome to Jeremiah, camper,” said the counselor crisply, and gave Leo a curt nod.

  This salutation ventured, Reece engaged in a series of neatly executed moves, changing out of his uniform to his regular camp outfit. Wary and silent, unsure of what might happen next, the boys all watched as the ritual was performed. “You weren’t due till tomorrow,” Reece commented as he stripped off his neatly pressed shirt and shrugged on a sweatshirt. “We’re not ready for you.”

  It was getting chilly, and Leo felt himself start to shiver. He glanced around, saw the Bomber’s confident grin, Dump’s owlish look, and Tiger - what was Tiger thinking?

  “I guess he’s going to have to bunk in Stanley’s pee tonight,” Reece remarked to Phil. “You’d better get Hank over after church tomorrow with some new canvas.” Then, noting Leo’s shivers, he added, “You’ll need a sweater. Have you got one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put it on, then. I don’t want any of my boys catching cold.” He half turned away, then turned back as Leo pulled on a moth-eaten wool sweater and replaced the cap on his head. “Are those the duds they sent you off with?”

  Leo colored and stared at the floor again.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “They don’t look very camper-like to me. If you’re to be a Jeremian, we’ll have to get you outfitted properly. Phil, all of you, see what you can dig up. And for gosh sakes find him some sneakers. Those shoes ...”

  Avoiding further comment, he completed his transformation from military man to camp counselor. Accoutred now with Friend-Indeed insignia and a host of impressive-looking merit badges, he made a splendid sight. He favored the faded khaki shorts that were the traditional Moonbow uniform, each leg meticulously rolled in a double turn on the thighs. Instead of the beat-up sneakers commonly worn around camp, however, his feet were shod in well saddle-soaped moccasins and immaculate white-ribbed wool socks, turned down precisely one turn over the ankles. On his finger he wore a ring carved from a soup bone, and on one wrist a gold watch gleamed. The other wrist sported an elaborate braided band of leather, and at his neck, over a colorful bandana kerchief, was a dark thong of weathered rawhide from which hung a small heart carved of cedar, varnished and polished to a high gloss. He was like an illustration out of American Boy.

  After combing his hair and checking the part from two different angles, he added his personal Seneca medicine bag to his outfit, then used the mirror again; when at last he looked around, his eye fell on Leo’s violin case.

  He stared at it for a few moments, as if asking himself a question. “You play that thing a lot?” he asked finally.

  “No. Just sometimes.”

  Reece’s expression offered no hint of what thoughts he entertained.

  “Didn’t ya hear him, Big Chief?” The Bomber was enthusiastic. “He’s a regular Pagliacci.”

  “Try Paganini, Jerome,” Reece said. He swung his look back to Leo. “Just so long as you don’t play it again in here. We don’t want a guy sawing away on a squawk-box when campers have important matters to concentrate on - like winning the Rolfe Hartsig Memorial Trophy. Right guys?”

  Right, they chorused.

  “I see you brought your own pillow,” Reece went on.

  “Yes.”

  “He calls it Albert.” This from Phil.

  Reece’s eyebrows shifted fractionally. “He has a pillow named . . . Albert?” He frowned. “And the hat? Does it have a name, too?”

  “No. It’s just a cap.”

  “My boys generally say No, sir.”

  “No, sir.”

  “And try standing straight. Jeremians don’t slouch like that.”

  Leo did as he was told.

  Reece nodded satisfaction. “As for the chapeau, maybe you can lose it for the council fire. We don’t want to give Ezekiel cause for jealousy.” This sally got its anticipated laugh.

  With no more words, Reece sauntered out onto the porch, where he consulted with his two lieutenants, Phil and Tiger. Leo heard his name being spoken, then Phil said the word “orphan” and Tiger once more put forth an explanation; Ma Starbuck was mentioned, then something about a letter from the orphanage, then Phil said something Leo missed.

  “What’s that?” Reece said, his deep voice skating upward in surprise. “He doesn’t like baseball?”

  The rims of Leo’s ears burned; in another moment the porch conference broke up. Reece issued a couple of reminders about proper deportment at the campfire and keeping the noise down after taps; then, saying he’d see everybody later, he loped off toward the Nature Lodge.

  Leo was left wondering. “Isn’t he coming with us?” he asked, as the boys shuffled outside to greet Hank Ives, ambling down the line-path with his can of kerosene for their torches.

  “Reece? Don’t worry, you’ll see him,” Tiger assured Leo, escorting him onto the porch. By now full dusk had crept across the playing field; up and down the line-path, campers were waiting for the runners to arrive with the Flame of Friendship.

  “Okay, fellows,” Phil said, “it’s time. Let’s hop to it. Wacko, duck the hat,” he added, going down the steps.

  Leo lobbed the cap back over his shoulder; it landed squarely on his bunk, where it rolled and came to rest beside “Albert.” Tiger supposed he had never heard the superstition about hats on beds being bad luck.

  It began like the Attic games of ancient Greece, with a single flame. At eight-thirty sharp at the head of the line-path by the mailbox rack, in the manner dictated by custom, Pa Starbuck ignited the Great Torch, and from this four-footer in turn ignited the torches of the three honorary runners, one from each unit, who passed their torches over Pa’s fire, then struck out Prometheus-like, moving from cabin to cabin, presenting their flames to light the torch of each counselor, who in turn lit those of his campers, roundly 120 of them, and when the last torch had received its kiss of fire the campers, bearing aloft the dipping wavering quivering lights, slipped from their porches and began wending their way toward the council ring, the Virtue campers falling in behind the Harmonyites, they behind the older boys of High Endeavour, all linking up in single file with the solemn, ceremonial air of a procession of monks belonging to some devout sacerdotal order, the irregular line of flickering flames growing longer sti
ll, a bobbing stream of lights snaking in and out among the trees, to spread out across the semicircular tiers of the council ring, back and forth along the rows, until each camper stood in his allotted place.

  Here they waited until Pa Starbuck appeared beside the Tabernacle Rock, which bore a handsomely wrought teepee of twigs and branches. This pyramid Pa ignited with his torch, then, his ruddy features painted by the orange light, his blue eyes under white shaggy brows sparkling with eager anticipation, he offered in mellifluous tones the invocation to the Friendship Fire, enjoining “his boys” to loyalty and devotion everlasting, reflecting earnestly on the true meaning of good fellowship, lauding the rewarding principles of Camp Friend-Indeed, and offering thanks unto the Joshua Society, whose generosity had made it all possible.

  As decreed by Moonbow tradition, and having extinguished and laid aside their torches, the campers now forged among their ranks a chain of hands in token of their truest feelings, of the good fellowship to be found in a host of such evenings by the lake, and of those qualities that, properly instilled, shall create “Glad Men from Happy Boys.” The air was pungent with wood smoke and snapping sparks that eddied upward into darkness like whirlwinds of fiery dust, gusting beyond the fir boughs to the stars, whose bright gleamings tried to make up for the lack of a moon, the pale ghost of which had faded long before sunset. And in unison their voices rose up as well, lifted in the familiar camp anthem (music based on an Old Welsh air; words by G Garland Starbuck):

  Camping in the pines of Moonbow,

  Down by the lake,

  Here our loving hearts are off’r’d,

  Our gift we take.

  When the anthem was ended, everyone sat, the campers on the logs, Pa in a rustic, throne-like chair constructed from the anatomical parts of trees - limbs, crotches, elbows, and knees; then, making himself comfortable as he was accustomed to doing, he presented Coach Holliday, who, as Pa’s second-in-command, acted as master of ceremonies at all council fires, and who now offered the assemblage a preview of the many pleasures that lay ahead for Moonbow campers.

  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.