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.
Pa pauses, milking every last drop of juice the drama holds. A single pin could be heard if it fell among the pine needles. Then, once more, he goes on, telling how the Old Chief, father of the fallen warrior, vowing vengeance, rouses his braves to man the canoes, commands them to sally forth and destroy the murderers of his only son, to smite them, Pa says, even as Samson smote the Philistines. But wait! A vision has appeared before him. It is the spirits of the two lovers, united in death, who now with tender words and looks entreat the chief to be merciful, to turn the cheek that has suffered the blow, to find it in his heart to return evil with good, vengeance with forgiveness, and in so doing shatter forever the cruel chains of hate that have for so long shackled the rival tribes.
And so there comes a happy ending, of sorts. Instead of seeking retribution, the Old Chief paddles the moonlit path across the glittering waters to the camp of his enemy, there to smoke the pipe of peace and exchange ceremonial gifts. Thus, the two tribes bury the tomahawk in the earth and pledge to live together in that same spirit of friendship and amity exemplified by Camp Friend-Indeed and all its boys.
The story draws to its end; Pa Starbuck sits back to reap the harvest of thought his words have planted. By custom, no applause ever follows the telling of the tale; in silent accord the boys rise from their places and by the beams of their flashlights leave the council ring, some to make their way to the Seneca honor ceremony in Indian Woods, the remainder to return silently to their respective cabins.
There is one camper, however, who does not leave, but remains seated upon the log, lost in some private reverie. Tiger, who has started off, returns, and is shocked by the sight of the stricken new boy, who sits huddled and shivering, his brow furrowed, his mouth agape, staring at the rock at the foot of the Methuselah Tree, as if the bloody death of the Moonbow Princess were still being enacted before him. He clasps and unclasps his hands, pressing them between his bare knees. It is a painful sight, and troubling to Tiger. With a comforting word, he brings Leo to his feet and leads him from the ring in the beam of his flashlight, and up through the pine grove toward the cabin called Jeremiah. But Leo, mortified by his behavior, refuses to go inside, where he will be left alone.
Tiger sits him down on the porch step, where they talk together. Whatever feelings had upset Leo seem to be forgotte
n; he offers no clue as to their source. He is knowledgeable about star-gazing and points out some constellations in the glittering sky - Cassiopeia’s Chair, Ursa Major, the North Star. Soon he begins to yawn. It has been a long day. Tiger sees him into his bunk and settles him down for the night. When Leo closes his eyes,
Tiger slips away to join the Senecas at the Wolf’s Cave in the heart of Indian Woods.
***
Later.
Taps has sounded. The night breeze hums among the pine needles; overhead the stars pale and wink out one by one; among the sentinel trees the camp slumbers, as if the invisible hand of Morpheus had passed across lake and cabins, sprinkling moon dust, urging happy dreams. Yet there is one whose repose does not go untroubled, who shifts restlessly under his blanket, whose lips move, articulating distressful but unintelligible sounds. And while he mutters aloud against his pallid phantoms, beyond the cabin sides a tiny murder is enacted: high in the Methuselah Tree, the owl inquires of the night - “Whoo? Who?” - then sails from his branch like a gray whisper. On silent pinions he floats downward among the dark pine boughs, soft as shadows, soundless as falling snow, talons splayed, topaz eyes round as saucers, wizard-wise, seeking his prey, and with feathered finesse plucks from a patch of spear grass one hapless form whose feeble squeak of protest is choked off in midair as, soaring once more, the bird reaches his treetop and gives himself up to his midnight feast.
The new boy awakens with a cry.
PART TWO: The Forest Primeval
Proud son of a clever man, Icarus had watched his father, Daedalus, make for them both pairs of wings from feathers, wood, wax, and at his father’s side he had mounted the air upon those makeshift wings, flinging himself into space from the highest promontory, to soar upward and scale the banks of romping clouds, to look from on high upon the earth made small - its rivers and hills, towns and cities, its populace of insect-folk. What jubilation, what wonder, what glorious pride he felt, free as a bird, faring forth as no man before him had ever done. Icarus the darer, Icarus the bold. And yet, he must beware, for with flight comes error; a single miscalculation and the force of gravity takes over, and disaster, death.
Balanced at the edge of the large rock, Leo feels himself unfettered, free to spread his wings and fly, to flash across the sun’s broad shining face. Slowly he raises his arms, extending them outward from his sides like wings; marvel of marvels, they start to quiver, lift lightly, gently, upward, palms cupped as though to touch the supportive, not-quite-touchable element of air. Oh yes - let him try. Now. With a deep breath he launches himself into space. Ah - yes - like this, like this. He is the bird-god, feather-winged, hawk-eyed, sharp-taloned monarch of the air. He soars, leveling out across the vast blue-white garden of clouds, his heart bursting with rapture.
Too late he remembers: Even gods may not fly too high; -too close to the sun their wings may be singed, the wax melt, the feathers loosen, upsetting the delicate aerodynamic balance. He will be dashed to pieces for his folly. Below him the starless void, spiral of darkness, never-ending night. And he is falling, down and down and down and—!
“Leo?”
Appearing as if by magic, Tiger Abernathy came dashing across the meadow to give him a hand up. “Did you hurt yourself?”
Leo wasn’t sure; he felt gingerly of an ankle, an elbow, his neck. “I - slipped.” He laughed sheepishly. What must Tiger think of such crazy behavior? For the life of him he couldn’t remember how he had got to the top of the rock, or how he had slipped from it. He pressed a fist over his heart to calm its wild beat, while Harpo, who had come bounding along behind Tiger, wagged his shaggy tail to a fare-thee-well and with a wet pink tongue passionately washed Leo’s face.
“Harpo! Hey, boy - hey, boy!” He wrestled the dog and hugged him to his chest. “Good dog, good dog!”
Tiger flopped down beside Leo and regarded him quizzically. “What were you doing, flapping your arms like that?”
Leo reddened. “I wanted to fly.” He said it like “I wanted some rice pudding; a new union suit.” How foolish it sounded, put into words. Yet, something told him it was okay, he could express such ideas to Tiger. Flights of fancy served Tiger’s mind, too.
“How did you find me?” Leo asked. “Did Harpo sniff me out?”
“This is where you usually are mornings,” Tiger explained, adding that he himself was on his way to Orcutt’s store at Four Corners; Harpo had trailed along. “Great spot, isn’t it?” he added, looking around.
Leo agreed; Kelsoe’s Pond was indeed a fine spot. That Tiger also considered it such gave him considerable satisfaction. He had discovered the place several days ago, while on a spider hunt. Spurred on by Oats Gurley, who had promised to put Leo’s accumulated arachids on permanent display in the Nature Lodge (and to award him and Jeremiah a generous number of happy points for every new addition), he had visited here several mornings since, slipping away on a solitary “nature walk,” his violin and music case in tow, along with a couple of empty codfish boxes in his canvas knapsack (a loan from Tiger), while the majority of the campers were hard at work in the crafts barn, banging away at copper ashtrays to take home to their Uncle Louies.
“What d’you think of my latest prize?” he asked tentatively, gesturing toward his most recent find, a black-and-gold specimen whose web glittered in the sun like a diamond necklace suspended between twin stalks of milkweed, gossamer filaments spun out of the abdominal workings of a creature the size of a quarter. For the past half-hour the spider had been industriously engaged in this miraculous act of manufacture, tossing out the silken threads to create the delicate design characteristic of her species.
Tiger conceded that the spider was worth Leo’s time and patience, and Leo lay back, fingers laced behind his ears, well pleased. Though Tiger did not share his fascination for spiders - indeed, he had shown a decided aversion to them -this morning, sprawling companionably beside Leo on the turf, he, too, watched closely to see what wonders the little creature would perform next.
A moment more, and her preliminary work was done; she scurried to the upper quadrant of the newly fashioned web, where, camouflaged by the flickering light and shade, she sat waiting for her prey. Before long an errant, pale-winged bug came flitting by, a poor, innocent bug up to no bad, but not a careful bug at all. It bumped into the web head-on, and in a flash the spider abandoned her corner, scrambling down the ladder of her web to pounce on the trapped insect. In ' his notebook, Leo detailed what happened next: the quick injection of paralyzing fluids, the last flutter of hapless wings, the wrapping of the victim in more filament until it resembled a miniature mummy. At last the spider dragged her dinner to the heart of the web, where she deposited it for safekeeping; then, having resumed her corner, she settled down again to wait.
Having rounded out his notes with a quick sketch of the spider’s web, Leo capped his pen and lay back, reaching his hands over his head and stretching his body like a cat. He really was tall for his age, Tiger thought, secretly envying him his height; he wished his own arms and legs were longer; his physical size, or its lack, had always 'been to him a disadvantage, and something told him he’d never see six feet, never be tall like Reece Hartsig. But then, as his dad always said, Napoleon had been forced to deal with the same problem, and look how far he got. You just couldn’t give up on things. “Never Say Die,” that was Tiger’s motto. He had got it from the famous Count Von Luckner, the crafty German naval officer whose ship, the Sea Devil, had wreaked havoc with Allied shipping during the war. When the Count came to Pequot Landing to lecture, Tiger had even got an autograph on a picture of the famous vessel: “Never Say Die, Tiger Abernathy.” Tiger was determined he would not.
“I kept a diary once,” he remarked.
This revelation interested Leo. “Why did you quit?” he asked.
Tiger chuckled. “I was doing so many things every day I never could find the time to write them all down.”
Leo could see how this might be so: a fellow like T
iger Abernathy was always busy, with a dozen irons in the fire. Was there anything he wasn’t interested in? A patrol leader in the Boy Scouts, he was also active in Christian Youth Fellowship and the Junior Grange and the Civic Guard. He had, moreover, a number of time-consuming interests and hobbies - stamp-collecting, model-airplane- and boatbuilding - while the complicated layout of his electric train set was known to fill half the attic. All in all, he was a real powerhouse, with his bright, quick, lighting-up smile, and the gleeful laugh that he made such generous use of. What he lacked in physical size he made up for in character, and compared with him, all the boys Leo had known at the orphanage — even his pal Arnie Kretchmer (“Kretch the Wretch”) - seemed commonplace and lackluster.
Leo congratulated himself on his good fortune. On that first evening in camp he hadn’t been at all sure how he would fare at Tiger’s hands. Tiger had been helpful enough, but he’d said so little, seemingly weighing “the new boy” in his mind, pondering whether they would be friends or not. And now they were friends, sort of. Leo felt it was so. Sometimes when he came here to the pond, Tiger would show up - like this morning. Leo frequently asked himself why the most popular boy in camp would bother with the likes of him, an orphan from Pitt Institute. Maybe he just felt sorry for him (Tiger was the kind of guy who always stuck up for the underdog); still, to be singled out for his attention was deeply gratifying, and in the end Leo decided it was probably his music that had won Tiger over (he had laughed a lot at Leo’s rendition of “The Music Goes ’Round and Around”).