Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

Mesmerized, he stepped back from the case. He raised his arms, palms outward, saluting the Buffalo Bill portrait over the mantel, and in the silvery curves of the Hartsig Trophy the bright feathers came alive. He felt giddy with excitement, the sense of sudden power mixed with the unnerving realization that what he was doing was taboo. How wonderful, how strange… It was as if in putting on the bonnet he had actually become the Moonbow Warrior, and he drew his chin down, moving closer to the silver, still watching his reflection. He could feel the sweat running from under the headdress, down his brow and trickling alongside his nose. He shivered, his skin prickled with gooseflesh, and the hairs rose along his arms.

The feeling passed. Whatever it was, it melted away; he was just a two-bit camper – and what he was doing was terribly wrong; if he were to be caught the'consequences would be dire. He must return the bonnet immediately- As he turned from the fireplace he stopped short, sounding a gasp of alarm. Pa Starbuck stood in the open doorway, an expression of shocked indignation on his face.

“What can you be thinking of?” he demanded, advancing on Leo like some aroused Old Testament patriarch, his eyes flashing beneath his beetling brows.

The hapless Leo stared back, groping for an answer. “Nothing. I mean I was only-”

Pa raised his hand in a hieratic gesture. “Surely you must be aware that no one is allowed to don this headdress without being duly elected Moonbow Warrior, Chief of the Senecas. How do you come to be wearing it?”

Leo was at a loss to explain. “I just wanted to see how I looked. I-” It had all seemed so simple, really; but as he stammered this excuse he could hear how lame it must sound. He flinched as the bonnet was lifted from his head. Reverently Pa replaced it in the case, then again turned his watery blue gaze on the culprit.

“You were making fun of the Warrior,” he said. “But the Warrior is not a figure for sport. He has a profound meaning for every single boy at camp. I am sorry you yourself do not feel his power.” Again he raised his hand as Leo sought to protest. “My boy, my boy,” he went on, “haven’t you been here long enough to realize that this” – he rested a hand on the glass case – “this is a sacred trust? Never to be violated, never handled or touched by the uninitiated? You leave me to wonder just what sort of camper it is, what sort of careless, unthinking boy, who would deliberately flout the rules and the most sacred tenets of Camp Friend-Indeed.” He clicked his tongue in dismay. “What, I wonder, will the Senecas think when they learn of this impious act? What measures will they be forced to take against such a sacrilege?”

Leo felt a cold blade slice through his heart. “Do you have to? Tell, I mean?”

“Must / tell?” Pa was wounded. “No, no, my boy, I shall not speak, it is not / who shall tell. But the spirit of Buffalo Bill, the Great Plainsman, it shall speak. As the very rafters of this room shall also tell their tale of a boy who is so unthinking. Come away now,” he said, leading Leo toward the door. “We must allow the disturbed spirits to settle themselves, let them find renewed tranquillity.” He turned and with upraised hands paid obeisance to the portrait over the mantel, then strode from the room, shaking his head and rolling his eyes to heaven, as if to consult with his Maker over this renegade who had dared to put a feathered bonnet on his head.

To deal with the matter of the war bonnet, at powwow time that afternoon a special meeting of the Sachems’ Council was convened at the lodge. The meeting took some time, and when, finally, they all came out again, the dinner bell was ringing. Leo wished he didn’t have to go, but there was no way out. He hiked slowly up to the dining hall, entered, and headed for Jeremiah’s table, blushing furiously as, feeling every eye upon him, he took his customary seat and bowed his head for grace.

What was the verdict? he wondered. Whatever it was, he wasn’t likely to learn about it from Reece, who was acting as if nothing had happened at all. “Pass the potatoes, Wally,” he said, and “May I have the milk,” as his eye kept flicking to the staff table, where Pa Starbuck sat, benign and jovial and, like Reece, giving no sign that Leo could observe that anything was amiss, nodding and beaming at his fellow diners, now buttering a roll and crunching it between his store-bought teeth. The meal continued to unfold as usual, except that this evening there was an unusual amount of whispering, of looks exchanged, and neither Tiger nor the Bomber had much to say to anyone. Leo couldn’t eat, his stomach was fluttering so, and he made only token passes at his plate. Finally, when the chinking of the kitchen “silver” on chinaware had died away and only the dull hubbub of many voices could be heard, he knew the moment had come. The large hall grew quiet.

“Friends and campers,” Pa began, rising and speaking in a warm, natural tone, “it pleases me greatly to gaze upon your happy faces this evening, and I trust we all have spent a profitable day in our sundry pursuits. I myself had the pleasure of viewing one of our feathered friends, a scarlet tanager, perched on a fencepost along the roadside. It has a nest with two fledglings, and for those among you who would care to investigate this rarity, I am tomorrow at your disposal…”

Leo drew a breath of relief: it was going to be all right; Pa wouldn’t be going on about his feathered friends if he were planning to drop the ax on Leo’s head. But he was wrong; no sooner had Pa closed his mouth than he opened it again. He coughed and cleared his throat, then, mopping his brow, went on. “Eee-heh… I regret… yes, I regret to say that there has come about a certain matter which deeply saddens me. And since this matter deals with the rights and privileges of the sworn members of the Seneca Lodge, I must of necessity turn these proceedings over to the Chief of the Senecas.” He looked across the hall to the Jeremiah table.

As occupant of this exalted post, Reece swung his legs over the bench and walked to the center of the room, where, folding his arms across his chest, he began speaking of his deep affection for the Seneca Lodge, and of the honor of having for the fifth year in a row been elected its leader, the Moonbow Warrior. He spoke of the feelings of amity and friendship among the members of the tribe, then, easing into the matter at hand, described how Pa Starbuck had happened by the Nature Lodge, where he had come upon a certain camper who, having broached the display case, had removed from it the Buffalo Bill headdress, which he had then presumed to place on his head.

At this announcement, a wave of indignation and disapproval rippled through the hall. Reece’s eyes traveled around the room, coming at last to rest on the guilty party, whose face had turned blood-red. “I now call upon the misguided camper who ran so roughshod over our Friend-Indeed traditions and dared to imagine that he was the Moonbow Warrior-”

“Get up, stupid,” Phil hissed. Dump nudged Leo with an elbow.

Leo gulped; as he made a move to stand, campers began pounding with their water tumblers and spoons, and a lively chant broke out.

“Wack-oh! Wack-oh! Wack-oh!”

“Get up!” Phil gave Leo’s thigh a painful pinch.

Leo jerked to his feet, but, once standing, gazing around at the sea of cold, scornful faces, he felt his knees go weak. He darted a look to Tiger, who answered it with a helpless one; clearly Leo was on his own.

“I’m sorry,” he managed at last. “I didn’t m-mean – I only wanted to see how it felt – I didn’t mean to insult the S-Sen-Senecas. I won’t d-do it again.”

“Darn tootin’ you won’t,” a deep voice rang out. “You won’t be able to!” Moriarity began to laugh, and the others joined in, till it seemed everyone was laughing.