Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

“Hey, Wacko, I see you ate all yourpuddin’,” he said. His look was foxy as he hoisted his tray to his shoulder. “Hope you don’t get the collywobbles from it,” he added, before making his way back into the aluminum pandemonium of the kitchen.

Not that Leo really cared much what Bullnuts said. It was the rift that had erupted between him and Tiger: This morning they had been friends, this evening Tiger was making no bones of the fact that he was fed up.

“If you ask me, you’re pretty dumb soifietimes, you know that?” Tiger said now, as they walked down to the lower campus after dinner.

“But those things were private. How was I to know they’d read them?”

“You should have thought, that’s all. Now you’ll never get in the Senecas.”

Leo was stung. For Tiger to take this tack was grossly unfair. “Who cares?” he said with a shrug.

“You cared bad enough two weeks ago.” Tiger sighed. “I guess you were right. Maybe you shouldn’t have come to Moonbow. Maybe Reece was right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Maybe you’re just not good camper fodder after all.” Leo saw red. “I think you’re all a bunch of shits,” he said.

“It goes both ways, kiddo.”

“Okay yourself, kiddo.” Leo lengthened his stride and marched away. Turning in the roadway, he tossed Tiger a smirk. “Okay for you, Brew-ster-r-r,” he said.

Reece, who had been walking behind them, and had overheard the quarrel, caught up for a private word with Tiger. “Ya done good, camper,” Leo heard him say. “Now you’re being the guy we all know. You just got off track, that’s all.” And when they got to the lower playing field, Reece tossed an arm around Tiger’s shoulders, led him over to the Green Hornet, and the pair sped away, radio blaring.

By the time Leo reached the cabin, he wasn’t feeling vet well; swallowing all that paper was making his stomach, u i up. He hiked it over to the infirmary, where Wanda goi out the bottle of rhubarb-and-soda, her universal panacea for stomach woes, administered Leo a healthy dose, and sent him on his way, but when he got back to Jeremiah he felt sicker than before, and he fell into his bunk, where he lay, hot and panting and nauseated. From the lodge he could hear them singing “Down by the Station.” He wanted to go pee, then brush his teeth and go to sleep. He did none of those things. Instead, he kicked off his sneakers, took his flashlight, and began to read.

But he didn’t feel like reading either, and he shut his book and stared out at the deserted playing field. His stomach was making angry rumbles, and the rhubarb-and-soda made him burp.

He could hear the faint pitterpat of water dripping from tree leaves onto the roof; it had a nice cozy sound, reminding him of rainy afternoons with Emily in the house on Gallop Street. He must have dozed, because before he knew it he heard the sounds of the Jeremians trooping up the cabin steps. He doused his lighted flashlight quickly and feigned sleep as they came trooping in, talking and laughing as if he weren’t there, then out again to the wash rack and Old Faithful to brush their teeth, and back in, to settle into their bunks with the usual last-minute quota of gags and giggles.

He hated lying there in bed, awake but unable to read, and in desperation began to recite “Hiawatha” to himself; he had reached the stanza that began

As unto the bow the cord is,

So unto the man is woman… when the first spasm hit him, causing his body to contort as if it had been lashed. Then a second cramp seized him. When it passed, finally, he lay there in his bunk, trying to catch his breath. Sweat poured off him; his pajamas were soaked. Something more must be wrong than a few pieces of paper. When the next cramp came it made him sit bolt upright, clutching his belly. Stifling a moan, he felt an interior gurgling under his palms as his stomach lifted and heaved. He knew he had to get to the Dewdrop, but couldn’t make a move. Squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth, he forced himself to hold on tight until the pain passed; then he grabbed his flashlight and slipped from his bunk, dropping out the rear of the cabin onto the wet ground. The earth was drenched, each step sucked at his foot as, stepping over puddles, half bent over and clutching his midsection, he headed off in the direction of the latrine.

When he got there he pulled up short, pushed open the door and hurried in, loosening the string of his pajama bottoms as he grabbed the first hole. Blessed relief flooded through him as he relaxed and voided, and the gnawing seizure that had tied his innards in knots slackened its grip. Then, through the window, he heard the call of a bird – what kind of bird he could not tell, but obviously one of the nocturnal sort. To this sound was quickly joined a second, as if in formal reply to the first-its mate, perhaps? The duet was joined by yet a third call, nearer, Leo thought, lower-pitched, its tone eerie and off-putting – an ominous note, followed by a protracted silence. He became suddenly alert, frowning as he forced his ears to pick out small, meaningful sounds, but for a time all remained quiet. No, no – wait – there! Something was moving outside, a telltale twig had cracked. Then, in one mind-shattering moment, a heavy object flew through the window and struck the kerosene lamp, sending it crashing to the floor, where, extinguished, it rolled away into the dark. Leo froze, waiting for more to follow, but nothing was forthcoming; he groped for his flashlight and snapped it on. A large stone lay in the corner. He shut off the light again and listened. Through the dark oblong of the window he picked out the faintest of sounds, as though several creatures, human or other wise, had convened out there in the surrounding darkness. The next thing he knew, the walls of the building were being subjected to a series of violent blows, seemingly on all sides simultaneously, a hammering so thunderous that to protect his ears he pressed his palms over them.

When it Stopped, he got to his feet, groping for his pajama bottoms and yanking them up to his waist; but before his fingers could locate the ends of the cord, the floor tilted and the building began to sway. Back and forth it pitched, its abrupt, rocking movement catching him off guard and propelling him from the buckets to the opposite wall, where he smacked his forehead against a two-by-four. With the sickening upheaval the noisy tattoo along the building’s outer surfaces resumed, accompanied by voices – gleeful laughter. The rocking intensified. The building was being torn loose from its moorings! Defenseless, Leo felt his body tumbling head over heels as the Dewdrop Inn toppled on its back. He came to rest sprawled across the holes and, looking up, saw the door drop open above him. It missed his head by inches, swinging crazily on its hinges.

For a moment he lay where he’d been flung, dizzily trying to get his breath, his ear catching the fragments of laughter as they fitfully exploded and were suppressed in the darkness outside. Silence fell again. He could taste blood where his lips had been cut; more was running into his eye from a gash in his scalp. Beyond the oblong shape created by the open door, he glimpsed bits of tree foliage silhouetted against the sky. He got up and slowly, painfully made a futile attempt to reach the open doorway; then, getting another idea, he made his way to the window, which, because of the overturning, now lay close to the ground, and crawled free. Outside, he stumbled to his feet. ind looked around him. The Dewdrop lay on its back like some gross, wounded beast, its underpinnings naked to view; in the dark pit he could see patches of white where I lie usual ration of quicklime had been applied. The stench made him feel nearly as sick as he’d been before, and he covered his mouth to keep from vomiting.