Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

“ Moooooooo…”

The panic-stricken cow came crashing through the underbrush, apparently eager to make contact with a fellow creature, be it only a dumb camper as lost as she was.

The disconsolate sound mocked Leo, marking him a greater fool than he already felt. What if someone had been watching? He’d never live it down. The cow looked so ridiculous and out of place. He shooed it off, then considered his situation, rubbing his chilled arms; even under the wool sweater his goose bumps wouldn’t go down. Overhead the pine boughs whispered softly in the breeze. He was panting with nerves and fatigue. He had no choice; he must move on. But further probings into the dark now failed to locate any trees to guide him along the path. There was no longer a path, none at all. In trying to get away from the cow, he must have stumbled into a clearing. Utterly discouraged and despondent, he kicked a stump and jammed his fists deep into his pockets – but wait! He had forgotten the packet of matches Tiger had given him. He could read the compass in the light of a match. He fumbled them out and lit one; the flame blew out before he could get even a quick look at the compass face. He lit another, and another, with similar results. There were only a few matches left. To conserve them he would build a little fire to see by.

He scrabbled up some tinder of needles and twigs, and struck another match. The tinder caught quickly; when he had it going he added some bigger twigs and pieces of branches so the blaze lighted up the clearing sufficiently for him to get his bearings. What he found himself looking at caused him to blink in surprise and wonder. In the center of the open space was a circle of round rocks marking off a campfire site – there were charred bits of wood scattered about – and, a little way off, the dark mouth of a cave. The trunks of the nearby pine trees were blazed with ax markings and knife carvings, Indian signs like the ones on the old campers’ torches, with initials and dates.

As he peered around in wonder, it dawned on him that he had stumbled onto the site of the Senecas’ council fire. It also occurred to him that he had no business here, that he was trespassing: in this sacred spot were performed those secret rites that were taboo for nonentities like Wacko Wackeem. He could picture the scene, the Seneca braves and warriors with their painted faces, turkey feathers in their hair, gathered around the fire, making Big Medicine in the night.

Eager to investigate further, he stifled his misgivings and, using a pine branch that when lighted proved a satisfactory torch, he made his way into the cave. The space was much larger than it appeared from the outside. Its roof, formed by a solid slab of rock, slanted upward from the aperture, so that upon entering the cavern you had to crouch, yet once inside you were able to stand again. Raising his torch higher, he proceeded farther into the room, following a trail of symbols and pictographs. Here was a deer, here a beaver, here a raccoon, here a snake, and here – he brought his light closer – this was the picture the others pointed to, an Indian brave armed with a bow and a fistful of arrows, standing over the body of a buffalo. What did it all mean? The answer, like the contents of the little chamois bag each Seneca wore around his neck, was known only to a few, and to none who did not belong.

His torch began to gutter and he hurried outside again – to see, to his horror, that his little blaze had ignited the pine needles at the edge of the clearing he had made and was spreading out of control. A wave of panic surged up from the depths of his belly as he pictured the whole of Indian Woods going up in smoke, and, cursing his stupidity, he ran from one spot to another, stamping out the flames. But as fast as he stifled them in one place they sprang up in another. Water – he needed water! Desperately he unbuttoned his fly and peed as hard as he could. When he had quenched the last of the flames he discovered that he had also put out his original fire, a mistake that had again left him in the dark. A fine Seneca he’d make. Except He wasn’t in the dark after all. It was true – the moon was up! Finally a bit of luck! Now, if he could just figure out how to use Tiger’s compass. He dug it out again, holding it up so that the light fell across its face. He picked out a tree trunk in a beam of moonlight to the north and moved toward it. From there he sighted another tree and, referring to his compass, another, until – a light! Yes, certainly; he could make out a winking light through the trees. Civilization was over there somewhere.

He pushed on, feeling a creeping excitement as he thought of winning his way out of the forest and getting back to camp. He couldn’t wait to tell Phil and Wally he hadn’t been fooled, that he’d known all the time there were no stupid snipes. Then, almost without his being aware of it, he found himself clear of trees and standing on the sloping shoulder of the Old Lake Road. Car lights! That was what he’d seen, the headlights of a moving car! He laughed with joy and relief. He was saved! Now to get back to camp.

Wondering how far he had to go, he turned left and started walking – and stopped as he rounded the bend. The hulking silhouette of the old Steelyard place loomed before him. Chance had dumped him out upon the road almost in front of the Haunted House! For an instant he was actually glad to see it; he knew now that he wasn’t far from camp. But then, as he stared up at the tower window, at the peaked gable, the bent lightning rods and the gimcrack bits of gingerbread, the house seemed to transform itself, to become that other house, on Gallop Street, the way it had been before… before… when he was the butcher’s boy; and Emily, she was the butcher’s wife; and he, Rudy Matuchek, was the butcher, damn him to hell, and…

“No rhapsodies in this house!”

Out of the inky darkness filling his head, that same bright, slippery fish of thought swam by, recalling -what? Still, it wouldn’t come to him, but eluded him as always. What was it he was trying so desperately to remember?

“No rhapsodies in this house!” Again the angry voice sounded in his ears. “How many times I got to tell you, no rhapsodies in this house! Damn that kid. Where is he anyway? He’s never here when I want him! I get the strap now!”

“No! Don’t you touch him! Not again!”

“You shut your face! He’s no good, that boy! He needs discipline. I give him!”

“You so much as touch him, you’ll be sorry!”

“What you say?”

“You heard me. Don’t you lay a finger on him!”

“You shut up!”

The sound of his hand striking Emily’s face made Leo jerk back. Her sobs filled his ears. He let out an audible groan of pain. No! Don’t let it happen! No – please. Don’t hurt her! Overcome with fright, he tried to master the involuntary spasm that now gripped him. Then, the great storm broke from a great height, smashing down on him just as it had that night; an ominous thunderclap, a deep, tumultuous peal, and suddenly he is – yes – up there, in the window, watching for her – mother – mother – MOTHER – where are you?

He can hear the heavy downpour beating against the windowpane, drumming on the roof slates. The river is rising, rising fast to flood the dikes that laborers have spent two years throwing up, sweeping them away in a torrent, and the same tide is now loosening the footings of the L Street Bridge, and Emily – Emily is coming on the trolley car – the L Street car – Mother! – and Rudy is shouting and then the world begins to spin, a maelstrom sweeping everything away from him – Mother! – he hears her cry -“Leo, oh Leo… ” that dread sound of agony, her white hand fluttering, and – oh, Mother!

Suddenly he was running toward the house, up the crazy paving, up the steps, onto the porch to the open doorway gaping before him and He stopped; he could go no farther. Whatever it was, he could do nothing about it. It was too late. She was gone. He was alone…