Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

“I expect you’d be happy to show it to me, though.” “Anytime you like, bud.” Making fists, Reece assumed an offensive stance. “Come on, 1 dare you.”

Wanda put out a restraining hand. “Don’t, please, there’s no point to it.”

Reece crossed his arms and smirked. “Better listen to your girlfriend, Fritzy. And you better shut up about the Germans, too. I’m German and proud of it.”

Fritz shook his head sadly. “Sometimes I think I shall never understand people like you.”

“That’s okay, Fritzy,” Reece returned softly, “sometimes I don’t think I’ll ever understand people like you either. So why don’t you just trot along and play with your toy village? Or, better yet, go back and join your family in that pretty little camp they’re no doubt in.”

“Reece!” Wanda sprang to her feet in protest and took Fritz’s arm, only to have him shake her off. Suddenly the two men were grappling together, furiously pummeling each other. The muffled sounds of blows punctuated the dark while Wanda cried out for them to stop, trying to get herself between them but unable to separate them.

Reece’s tall, muscular form towered over the smaller, wirier Fritz, who seemed to be catching the worst of it, until the sounds of the struggle produced results: lights came on at Three Corner Cove, and Doc Oliphant appeared on his porch. “What’s going on over there?” he demanded, peering across the water.

“There, then – will you two please stop now?” hissed Wanda. “It’s all right,” she called back, “just a little kidding around.”

“Wanda, dear, try and control your hot-blooded beau, won’t you?” came the doctor’s admonition as he went back inside and turned off the porch light. Panting from their exertions, the two combatants faced each other with dull, sullen looks.

“You’re bleeding,” Wanda said to Reece, whose lip had been opened by a lucky punch from Fritz’s hard knuckles. “Let me get something for it.”

“Skip it.” Reece spat over the railing, then turned to Leo.

“All right, camper, skip off to where you belong,” he said, and, his lip red with blood in the lamplight, he swung away down the steps. With a prompting nod from Fritz, Leo followed. At the head of the path Reece split off without a word or sign to disappear in the direction of Bachelors’ Haven and the game of poker in progress, while Leo limped back to Jeremiah, where, as taps blew, he fell onto his bunk with his clothes on.

The crescent moon hangs high above the lake. Nothing stirs, except, in Hosea, Gus Klaus snores fitfully, making liquid flutters under his nose. Presently, from among the cabins of the Harmony unit, a solitary figure emerges, creeping stealthily along the line-path, crouching low as if fearful of discovery. With purpose and intent he moves onto the lodge path.

High in the Methuselah Tree the owl Icarus spies him soft-walking along the path, stealing up to the lodge. Inside, like a wandering moth, a pale light flits across the wide-board floor to the upright joist where the rope supporting the great horn chandelier is figure-eighted over the cleat. The dark phantom bends closer; in his hand a knife. Its sharp blade presses hard against the twisted fibers of the rope, then begins its calculated work, making a ragged cut. It is not difficult: the rope is old. One after another the strands give way, until only a handful remain intact to carry the weight of the fixture. Satisfied with his handiwork, the phantom sheathes the knife and melts into the darkness.

All is quiet again in the lodge. But in the darkness the implacable force of gravity works upon the weakened rope, exerting its power, causing the remaining strands to relinquish their hold, one after another parting. Icarus cocks his head. Soon now… any moment… yes – now!

The ponderous mass of iron and animal horn breaks free of its beam, the severed rope speeds through the tackle, the wheels turn noisily, as the chandelier comes crashing to the floor. The pine grove is rocked by the deafening sound, the lodge walls tremble from the impact, the panes in the windows rattle. In the cabins along the line-path campers and staff spring to sudden wakefulness. What is it, they ask? What has happened? Shouts and calls break out, fifty pinpoints of light are seen flickering along the pathways, converging on the lodge. And inside:

“Ah, too bad,” they mutter. “What a thing.” For the old worn rope, frayed after many years of use, has, it seems, given way, dropping the horn wonder to the floor. Beneath the clutter the village of Durenstein lies ground to dust.

Quietly, with great determination, the small spider tried to spin her web across a wide crack in the weir at Kelsoe’s Pond, where Leo had taken refuge. Poor thing, he thought, I know just how you feel. He had bestowed a name on the spider – Elsie – and hoped she would prosper in the way of her kind. Under more promising circumstances he would have collected her for his arachnid exhibit, but where was the point? Tonight he might return to the lodge to find that the shelves of his display case had suffered a fate similar to that of Durenstein.

Again he was swept by a hot wave of resentment and frustration. It had been Fritz who had noticed the ends of rope that when put together butted neatly; but when Fritz produced the evidence for Pa and voiced his suspicions -that Reece Hartsig, who had been seen leaving Jeremiah after midnight, was the guilty party – Pa had turned a deaf ear, bemoaning the loss of the model but saying there were no grounds to suspect the counselor, who had no doubt been answering a call of nature at the Dewdrop. And in the end what did it matter, really? It was the spirit of a gift that counted, wasn’t it? As for the work that had gone into it – Jeremiah would get the points Leo had earned for it, eee-heh.

And that was pretty much that. Before the end of the day the formal dedication had been canceled, the newspaper story and pictures were yanked, and the platform for the model had vanished without a trace.

Leo wanted to stop thinking about it all, to blot everything from his mind; there was no one he cared to be with – not even Fritz, while Tiger, it seemed, was a lost cause. So here he was, back at Kelsoe’s Pond, alone except for little, hardworking Elsie; good enough company, he decided, if it came to that. The spider’s unflinching persistence put him in mind of the tale Emily had read to him about the Scottish hero Robert the Bruce, who “seven times had flung himself into the fray against the English” (Emily read) and who “at nightfall still had not won the day. Knowing all was lost and that on the morrow he must yield or die,” he had taken refuge in a crofter’s cottage, where he had watched a spider – just such a spider as Elsie, Leo imagined

– trying desperately to throw a filament from which to hang her web. Each time the line fell short, yet each time she would climb back up and bravely attempt the toss again, until – until at last – success! The line held, and the spider suspended her web from it. And having watched this little drama enacted, “Robert had slept soundly, then, awakening refreshed, strode forth to marshal his troops one more time and finally to carry the day.”

The moral, Emily said – all the tales in the book had morals at the end – was “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” Whatever it was, you did it, and you did it over and over until it came right – until you won. It was like Tiger’s motto: “Never say die.” Leo guessed that was easy if you weren’t the butt of every prankster in camp, if every bully wasn’t looking for a chance to knock you down, if nearly everyone wasn’t lying in wait for you, to call you a liar, to destroy all your handiwork. He wasn’t Robert the Bruce, after all, he was only Wacko Wackeem, and this spider wasn’t going to bridge the gap in the stone in a hundred hundred years.