Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

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 forgotten; 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.

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.