Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

And it seemed to him as he played that through the bars of music Emily had stolen in among them, to stand in the shadows with gleaming eyes, a hand at her breast, nodding, smiling, singing… yes, there, just there. She parts her lips, the words flow from her mouth.

Poor Butterfly!

’Neath the blossoms waiting

Poor Butterfly!

For she loved him so.

Beyond the windows the full fury of the storm was upon them. Flickering zigzags of lightning daggered down from the sky to blast the valley, exhilarating, blue-white electrical bolts betokening more mighty thunderclaps. He was remembering again now the night of the big storm at

Saggetts Notch, that night, in the house on Gallop Street, when they were in the parlor behind the big doors. He’d been scared… he’d taken out his violin and played to calm himself but… Rudy

… the footsteps on the stairs, the door flung open, the dark, enraged face in the doorway, the loud, bellowing voice “No rhapsodies in this house!”

Suddenly he faltered – a second only, but his playing suffered as a result – and just when things were going so well. His glance entreated Dagmar for help; she gave him another encouraging nod and went on, and so did he, but it was no good. At every instant he had to fight the overwhelming urge to bolt, to run from the room and hide somewhere. Yes, run – upstairs – around the newel post and up the steps that creaked, hearing the crashing outside, the rain rattling on the panes, to hide under the bed.

Only there was no “upstairs” here in this house, no newel post, no squeaky steps, no bed to hide under, no Rudy behind closed doors.

Why then?

Something…

God! What was it? He saw the thing, or thought he did. Nearer it swam, and nearer, that bright little fish, only to flash out of reach, mocking him as he failed to grasp it. He felt queasy, feverish. His hand shook badly. It was Major Bowes Night all over again. He was going to make a fool of himself. Oh no, not that – don’t let that happen this time, he prayed. But the boys – the rows of faces were staring, wondering, smirking at him. He struggled frantically to stay with the music, but now every note he played, every beat and pause called to his mind – Suddenly it was upon him, suddenly Dagmar’s music room was another room, in the house on Gallop Street, and the smell of it was strong in his nostrils, it was making him sick; he was going to vomit.

He felt himself gagging as he struggled to go on with the music while jagged flashes of lightning, dark, light, dark, silver and black, black and silver lit up the room, throwing everything, listeners, furniture, objects, Dagmar, the professor, into garish relief. And there were others ion – yes, now, among the familiar faces of the boys, others had begun to materialize – Rudy Matuchek, he was there, and John, yes, John Burroughs, he was there too, and Emily – Emily! Where was she? She had been there too, but where was she now? Though he felt her presence, he could not see her. How could he when he was upstairs, in his room on Gallop Street, hiding under the bed while the thunder crashed around the rooftop and the lightning flashed and He heard the angry shouts from below, heard the scream, and he disobeyed, opened the door, rushed into the hall, looked over the railing into the vestibule, and at that moment saw God!

He threw his head back and through the oval of his mouth wafted a long, wavering scream, like a ragged scarf being flourished he stared saw clutched in Rudy’s upraised hand the bright flash of steel, poised to strike at John no, not at John, whose bleeding body was already staining the floor, but "No! Stop! Don't'"

The violin and bow hung limp at his sides as he stared at the scene being played before him, as he watched Rudy’s knife blade complete its downward path to find its mark in Emily’s breast and the blood pour forth like the water from a spring and she fall like a heap of rags upon the floor. He saw Rudy drop the knife, heard the knife clattering on the floor, saw Rudy dash through the open doorway, out into the rain and the wind.

Mother!

Mother!

MOTHER!

The sounds echo in his head, reverberating as through endless, empty caverns, and the icy rain sweeps in across the doorsill and into the front hall, soaking the rug, while Leo lies on the floor beside Emily, staring at her face, which even as he watches loses color, never moves, becomes a dead face…

Another thunderous blast shook the music room. Leo cringed, staring at the ranks of questioning faces, hearing the strangled noises pouring from his mouth, unable to stop them. His violin and bow had both fallen from his hands. Panicking, he crabbed his fingers onthe ebony piano top and his fingernails dug savagely into the silken threads of the Spanish shawl, his knuckles turned white as he gripped the fabric, the roses red as… as blood. Then, as Dagmar, still at the keyboard, came to her feet, he jerked backward in a quick, stumbling move, his fingers dragging the shawl from the piano top, carrying with it the bust of Beethoven, the Chinese vase, everything crashing to the floor and shattering. He saw Dagmar reaching out her hands toward him, but before she could prevent him he eluded her touch and rushed blindly from the room. Fritz, who had sprung to his feet, hurried after him, while behind Dagmar Professor Pinero barred the door to the others. )

“Where is he?” Fritz called to Augie, who pointed to the music cupboard. Fritz opened it and peered into the narrow space. In the corner, eyes large and staring, Leo cowered.

“Leo – what is it? What’s the trouble?”

"He killed her!” he cried, staring.

“What? What’s he saying?” asked Dagmar, coming in behind Fritz.

“He killed her!” Leo shouted again, his eyes filled with terror. “Mother! Mother!” He burst into an agony of sobs.

“Hush, hush, my dear,” Dagmar said, and, kneeling next to Leo, she took his hands and tried to reassure him. “Come, child, you mustn’t do this.” She looked frantically at I t it/, as Leo scuttled toward the wall like a frightened animal. Hugging his knees, he sank into the corner and buried his head in his arms. His shoulders shook, his sobs mounted hysterically, and he cried out once more “he killed her,” while beyond the hundred windowpanes in the library the thunder rolled down the darkened valley, like tenpins being toppled in a giant’s game of skittles, a chain of echoes dying away one after another into silence, dull, unnatural, and forbidding.

And so it had begun, the most besetting calamity that can happen at any summer camp, a solid week of rain; and just when the end of the month saw a troop of fresh arrivals being registered by Ma Starbuck and settled into the bunks reluctantly surrendered by departing campers. This was no way for new boys out to enjoy themselves for the rest of the season to be introduced to camping among the pines of Moonbow; from Virtue through Harmony to High Endeavor the cabins were shut up like so many wooden boxes, each a dark, damp, lantern-lit world of its own, inside which random campers, bored and restless, idly resorted to games of Parcheesi and Monopoly, to gum-card-scaling tournaments and hours-long bull sessions. Cornsilk consumption rose, and there was a brisk trafficking in printed contraband like Film Fun, The Police Gazette, and Pic and Click. Gus Klaus upped his status all along the line-path by reading once again to all comers the smuttiest passages from Studs Lonigan, while the most adventuresome campers, in quest of the bizarre, the prurient, or anyway the novel, ducked into the mephitic atmosphere of Malachi to take a gander at “Big Billy” Bosey exhibiting his boner from under an Indian blanket.