Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

Brrrt – brrrt – brrrt-! Chest out, whistle shrilling, Hap Holliday came strutting across the field in his billed baseball cap and jacket with a white felt B sewn on the chest (Harold Hampton Holliday was a three-letter man from Bowdoin). “ ’Ray, Coach, ’ray!” the boys cheered, and Hap clutched his mitts overhead boxer-style, then called for quiet, and began counting heads. “Hey hey, guys, who’s missing here?” He consulted his clipboard. “Wackeem. Where’s Wackeem? Let’s get Slugger Wackeem over here.”

Finally, when Leo and the rest of the new boys had been obliged to come forward and suffer the mirthful scrutiny of the others, Hap proceeded to the matter at hand, explaining how the hunt worked. Campers experienced in the art of hunting snipe would be teamed up in pairs with a tyro, forming a hunting threesome, two to beat, one to catch. The “old” boys on each team would use tin pans and batons to flush the snipe through the woods and roust them in the direction of the catchers – the- new campers, who would handle the sacks and do the actual catching. Each team would report back to the lodge with its catch; the team that trapped the most birds would win.

Then it was time to pick the teams. One after the other the pairs of old boys stepped up, one by one the new boys'were assigned. Tiger and the Bomber drew Leffingwell; Tallon and Klaus got Dusty Rhoades. Hunnicutt of Malachi, one of the new boys in the High Endeavour unit, went with his cabin-mates Bosey and Mullens, while Emerson Bean fell to Dump and Eddie Fiske. Finally, of the new boys, only Leo was left; of the leaders, Phil Dodge and Wally Pfeiffer.

“Okay, Wacko,” Phil called, rubbing his palms briskly together, “I guess that makes us a team.” Leo moved reluctantly to join his assigned partners.

“All right, now, fellows,” Hap was shouting, “step up and collect your gear. One sack to each new boy. Beaters, grab your pans, let’s get going here.” He shoved a burlap sack smelling of fertilizer at Leo. “Take it, Wackeem,” he ordered. “If you can’t pitch a ball, maybe you can catch a bird,” he added, drawing a laugh.

Leo accepted the sack, feeling his cheeks heat up. Before he started off, Tiger swung by for a final pointer.

“Remember, when you’re in Indian Woods, the Old Lake Road is always to the north,” he said, then hurried away to catch up with the Bomber and Leffingwell, who were already halfway across the field, leaving Leo to Phil and Wally. Soon the boys had crossed the road and entered Indian Woods; in another few moments each team was out of sight and sound of the others, and on its own.

“This way, not far now,” Phil said encouragingly. They tramped along a while longer, until Phil stopped and cupped a hand to his ear.

“There! That’s them all right – snipe! We’re really in luck.”

“Sure are,” Wally seconded quickly.

Leo darted him a look, but Wally’s bland, noncommittal expression told him nothing, and Phil began issuing crisp instructions: Leo was to remain here, in this spot, with his sack, and wait. As beaters, Phil and Wally would make their way circuitously to the “other side,” where they knew the snipe were gathered. Beating their pans, they would flush the covey in Leo’s direction; all he had to do was shine his flashlight in their eyes to blind them, nab them, and carry them off.

“Where will you guys be?” Leo asked.

“We’ll meet you back at the lodge,” Phil said. “Here, better have my flashlight,” he added, exchanging it for Leo’s. “It’s got fresh batteries – you don’t want to be caught in the dark out here.” He jerked his head at Wally and they moved off together, calling ever more remote encouragement until they had disappeared into the encroaching darkness.

Leo waited, one, two, five minutes. Presently he heard the noisy clatter and bang of sticks against pans, a terrible racket doubtless designed to flush the snipe from their hiding places, but one (Leo noted) that instead of coming nearer was fading. The beaters were moving not closer, but farther away. In a few more minutes the noises had stopped altogether.

“Okay, you guys, that’s it, how do we get out of here?” he called after his erstwhile teammates. There was no answer. He called again; again no answer. Not a sound, not a peep, nothing. Just Leo Joaquim and the forest primeval. Letting the useless burlap sack slip to the ground, he squinted into the fading light, asking himself where the heck he’d been left.

The silence was eerie – a different silence from the quiet of Kelsoe’s meadow with its birdsong and butterflies in the sunshine – a brooding, ominous silence filled with menace; and in it, Leo realized, there was a message: like every last new boy in camp, he’d been had. There were no snipe. The Snipe Hunt was one of those Moonbow traditions that left dumb spuds like Wacko Joaquim holding the bag. Hello, sucker, ha ha. Some joke. Standing there like a dope in the middle of Indian Woods, he didn’t think it so funny. How was he to find his way out of the woods when every path looked just like every other? He could call out again, of course, hoping for an answer, but even if he and Bean or Hunnicutt found each other – un-likely in the dark, and it was getting darker by the minute – they would still be just as lost. Meanwhile the old-timers would be back at the lodge, gorging on watermelon and laughing their heads off.

Now he understood why Tiger had insisted that he take the compass, and, wondering if he could figure out how to use the thing, he sat down on a stump and opened it, then switched the button on Phil’s flashlight. Nuts; the flashlight didn’t work. When he unscrewed the barrel his probing fingers told him it was missing a battery. He swore and tossed it into the bushes, then brought the compass up close to his eyes, squinting. No dice: he couldn’t see the markings on its face, much less take any kind of bearing.

A chill breeze had arisen to rustle the leaves overhead, and he shrugged on his sweater. Finally he decided to take the same path Phil and Wally had taken – they would not, after all, have followed a route that led anywhere but straight back to camp – and, sticking his arms out in front of him to grope for bushes or tree trunks, he started off, blindly footing his way along the path, stumbling and blundering into things as if he had been set not to hunt the mythical snipe, but to run an obstacle course.

He soldiered on for a while, until, having twice barked his shins and once twisted his knee, he made out a fallen tree trunk and plunked himself down again. He strove to think, cudgeling his brain to come up with a way out of his predicament. It occurred to him that he could wander along these paths for hours and get nowhere. And no one would find him. He shivered, slapping at the mosquitoes that swarmed around his bare legs – they seemed to thrive on the citronella he had doused himself with – then roused himself, telling himself he must do something; he couldn’t sit here forever like a bump on a log. He arched his back and was about to get up when – what was that? A shaft of alarm nailed him in the chest. Out there – in the dark – something

… Yes, squinting hard, he could just make it out, a dark shape, over there, he could hear it moving around. Something… something was there! This was no joke. This wasn’t his imagination working overtime. He peered along the path. If only he could see better! His teeth began to chatter. He would get up and run, but his legs were too weak, his knees were wax. What was it? Hardly daring to breathe, he stretched his eyes wide in an attempt to pierce the shadows.

From the sounds in the underbrush he supposed the thing to be large and clumsy, heedlessly shattering twigs and branches as it came lurching nearer… nearer… Oh God, there it was – he could almost feel its breath, hot and panting on his neck. A moan of fear escaped his lips and, raising his arm to ward off the attack, he struggled to his feet and began to run. Unable to see where he was going, he managed to move only a few yards before he tripped and went sprawling to the ground. The beast was upon him-!