The Night of the Moonbow (6 page)

Zipper Tallon heard it in the Dewdrop Inn and, buttoning up, was lured across the field by its sound. Henry Ives, his duties completed, stopped and listened. In Hosea, Gus Klaus put away his Studs Lonigan excerpts to lend an ear, finally abandoning his bunk altogether to take a gander at the music maker in Jeremiah. Ezekielites Dusty Rhoades, Emerson Bean, and Junior Leffingwell did likewise, while over in Three Corner Cove, in the gathering twilight, Honey Oliphant, giving herself a beer shampoo, heard it and wondered.

Then the music became louder and merrier as the fiddler changed his tune. Jumping onto the footlocker, he began playing an antic ditty, and as he played, beating out the time with his foot, he sang the words:

I push the first valve down.

The music goes down and around,

Whoa - ho - ho - ho - ho - ho,

And it comes up here.

Fiddling, all angles and long fingers, with a bright gleam in his eye, he seemed to Tiger like some mad musician at a crossroads fair in a storybook, whose spellbinding music would so enchant the village folk that they must jump up and leap about until they dropped of exhaustion. And, indeed, as the song gained momentum all the campers crowded into Jeremiah were suddenly on their feet, knocking one another about, leaping from bunk to bunk as they sang, faces red and perspiring in the lamplight, the excitement building to a fever pitch with pillows flying through the air and Eddie, who could walk on his hands, proving it.

Then to the scent of pine and citronella that pervaded the cabin was added another odor: the sweet, sickish pungency of tobacco smoke - Rum and Maple, though in the wild confusion no one noticed until the Bomber, dizzy, spun backward toward the porch and collided with Reece Hartsig.

Everything stopped at once, the music, the laughter, the movement, all stopped and every head turned to face the tall figure in the doorway, nattily attired in his military school uniform, the shiny visor of his cap casting a dark lunette across his eyes.

“What’s going on here?” demanded the soft, emphatic voice.

Pandemonium. The visitors to Jeremiah scattered out the back, out the sides of the cabin, seven of the occupants retreated in considerable alarm and confusion to their bunks, while the violinist, still on the footlocker, lowered his instrument slowly, then stepped down and crossed to his bunk. Only Peewee made no move, but stood in the middle of Reece’s rumpled cot, turned to stone.

Either failing to notice or choosing to ignore the newcomer’s presence in the cabin, the counselor directed stern attention to the quivering Peewee. Making fists of his hands, Reece jammed them on his hips, widening an already broad set of shoulders.

“Get . . . off . . . my . . . bed,” he commanded, still speaking softly. Peewee seemed to shrink visibly before getting down, presenting a sheepish and pathetic figure by anybody’s standard.

“All right, Kemo Sabe,” Reece said, now snapping out the words, “suppose you tell me what you think you’re up to.”

“I wasn’t doin’ nuthin’, Big Chief, honest,” came the plaintive response.

“The cap. Take it off.”

Peewee did so.

“Now put it back where you got it from.”

Again the boy obeyed.

“Now the jock.” Again Peewee did as ordered.

“Now come here.” Digging into his uniform pocket, Reece produced a shiny quarter and handed it to the boy. Peewee, who had no idea why he should be so rewarded, merely blinked.

“Toss it on the bed.” Reece indicated his cot.

Peewee again did as he was told; the coin dropped softly amid the slackened bedclothes.

“Fix it, spud. Stretch it till that quarter bounces.”

The Jeremians watched while Peewee hustled around the corners of the bed, jumping over the footlocker as he tugged and pulled the blanket so the quarter bounced. When this was seen to, Reece reached out with a long arm, turned the offender over his knee and gave him a sound whack on his bottom.

“Get the idea?” he said, setting Peewee upright.

“What idea?” the boy asked in an outraged tone, his eyes sparkling with telltale tears.

“No more jumping on the counselor’s cot. You don’t belong here anyway. Get back up the line where you do belong.” He marched Peewee to the door. “Okay?” he said, holding out the quarter.

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 still, 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.