Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

Suddenly there was a loud clamor overhead. Dozens of feet were stamping and pounding on the floorboards, cries became shouts, focusing attention on those sequestered underneath. Then the raft began rocking back and forth, the metal drums sounding a hollow roll as the agitated water splashed against their sides.

“We better scram out of here,” Monkey said, seeking to avoid having Rex blow his whistle on them, and they all gulped a breath and flipped down into the watery depths.

By the time Leo came up outside the raft, Monkey was aboard her, and Leo clambered up after him. Eddie and the Bomber were going in, Monkey said – the Bomber wanted to get in some rowing practice. The Bomber was the intermediate unit’s star oarsman, and was expected to win the boat race – and ten happy points for Jeremiah – at the upcoming Water Carnival. Leo nodded. He watched as Bullnuts Moriarity, wearing a rubber bathing cap strapped under his double chin, his beefy body sausaged into trunks, clambered onto the raft, followed by his fellow Endeavorites Bud Talbot, the biggest boy in camp, and Jack “Blackjack” Ratner, whose name suited him, since he was of a thin, dark, and distinctly rodent-like character with a mole-spangled face. Presently they were joined by Phil and Wally, who exchanged a few words with them, after which they all sidled over to arrange themselves around Leo.

“Hey, Wacko,” Ratner began, affecting casualness, “us guys are all goin’ up the tower. Whyn’t you come on up too?”

So that was it. “No, thanks,” he said.

“Aw, heck, be a sport, Wacko,” said Talbot, dancing around on the balls of his feet.

Leo shook his head. “I’m heading in. Coming, Monkey?” he called, but his swim buddy remained where he was, stationed beside Phil and Wally. No help there, then. Suddenly Moriarity loomed in front of him.

“Come on, Wacko, don’t be a sis. It’s not as high as it looks.” He used his belly, nudging Leo along toward the ladder. “You never know if you like it till you’ve tried it, ain’t that right, boys?”

Leo glanced helplessly about. The water surrounding the raft was crowded with the curious faces of boys waiting to see what would happen next.

“You cornin’ or not?” demanded Moriarity.

“I said no.” Leo scowled. He mustn’t let them see he was scared of them.

“Ooh, he said noooo,” Bullnuts squealed, and gave a lewd shimmy of his midsection. “Then I guess we’ll just have to… ”

Their intention clearer now, the group pressed closer and, using his belly as a ram, Bullnuts forced Leo to the foot of the ladder, where they held him perpendicular and fixed his feet on the first rung.

“Go ahead, Wacko, climb,” Moriarity commanded, goosing him upward. Leo jerked, then climbed a rung or two higher.

“Higher!" Moriarity goosed him again. Leo looked around frantically, praying for a miracle. The top of the ladder seemed so far away; he would never make it. And if he did he would fall, he knew it. He was sick with fear and panic. Help, someone, help me; but there was no one to help. All across the waterfront, every eye was on him. Even the tadpoles in the swimming crib flailed their arms and passionately screamed; and the perfidious Peewee Oliphant – there he was, hanging on the crib rope and hollering, “Wacko! Wacko!” and “ ’Ray, ’ray, all the way!”

Looking across the water to the dock, Leo sought the help of Rex – surely Rex would do something, wouldn’t he? Only it wasn’t Rex on the lifeguard stand any longer, it was Reece, and he was calmly shading his eyes to observe more clearly the action on the float; so much for any help from that quarter – it would never occur to the counselor that a Jeremian would refuse to climb the tower; even Stanley Wagner had managed that.

In an attempt to escape his tormentors Leo climbed three or four more rungs: Moriarity pushed in right behind him, forcing him on. Up he went until his eyes were level with the diving platform, and there was nothing for it but to step onto it. Breathless and fearful, he watched as Moriarity, followed by Phil, then Wally, then Ratner and Talbot, then six or eight others with smirks and grins came off the ladder behind him. He inched his way closer to the edge of the platform, summoning up his courage, telling himself he could do it. He must do it! But when he dared to look down he blinked and froze, then backed away along the railing. A resounding boo! greeted this feckless action and again the air rang with taunts.

“Whatcha waitin’ for, Wacko?” Moriarity jeered. “Ya gonna take the jump or do we make ya walk the plank?” Worse, much worse, were Phil’s contemptuous words: “Come on, Wackeem, don’t make any more of a fool of yourself than you have to. Get it over.” Leo looked from Phil’s red, aggressive face to Wally’s pale, pimply one and hated them both. And Monkey, where was he? Down below, twiddling his thumbs. "Watch out you don’t crack your skull on the cable,” Phil added. “Go ahead, I dare you.”

Leo could see the thick steel rope receding at an angle to the bottom of the lake and the heavy cement block that held both the float and its tower fast, and it seemed to him that if he were to jump he would hit it. Yet the watery abyss pulled at him like a magnet. He must go over… must fall…

Feeling Moriarity’s hand pressing the small of his back, he gasped, then clutched the railing tighter. Go on, coward, the piggy eyes seemed to say, go ahead and jump. Ashamed, Leo lowered his head; he could feel the sickish heave of his insides. His stomach gurgled and turned over, and then, losing all control, he threw up his breakfast. Moriarity, the recipient of this unexpected eruption, let out a roar of indignation, and with a bellow flung himself from the platform and plummeted into the water below.

On the platform, still shaking with fright and mortification, Leo turned to face the rest of his tormentors. It was clear to them all – to Leo himself – that he had no intention of jumping, and so must take his punishment. They stepped aside as he moved toward the ladder and began his slow descent into shame. At the bottom, he dived from the raft and stroked for the dock, where he could see Reece hopping down from his perch, while excited campers, shouting and capering with gleeful anticipation, came skittering from everywhere: Wacko was going to get the paddle!

There was no rhyme and little reason to the business, organized as it was according to long-standing custom. The paddle, broad and thick as a breadboard, was borne aloft from the hook where it was hung, and Leo was bent over the paddling barrel and held in place. Then Moriarity – first in line by virtue of the indignity he had suffered – stepped up, spit on his palms, drew the board back, and swung.

As the blow fell, hard, Leo jerked forward on the barrel and a cheer went up. Then Reece took the paddle and handed it to the next boy, itching to have a go. Before long what had begun as a sporting affair, the traditional camp chastisement for lack of nerve, had turned into an ugly demonstration of camper brutality. Pain, humiliation, and shame: Leo suffered all without a whimper. How could he whimper? He had passed out.

“Hey, you guys – he’s out cold!” cried Ratner, looking down at the limp form drooped over the barrel. As the clamor slowly died and a guilt-laden silence ensued, Fritz Auerbach pushed his way through the gathering to emerge at the head of the line. “All right, that’s enough!” he said, grabbing the paddle from Bosey.

“Hey, what’s the big idea?” Reece demanded, stepping up. “What d’you think you’re doing?”

“Putting a stop to this sadistic business, what does it look like?” He shoved Reece aside, then leaned over and lifted

Leo up in his arms. “This boy is hurt. I will take him to the infirmary. Get out of my way, please.”