Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

Pa was already enjoining his boys to raise their voices in an impromptu rendition of “Washed in the Blood of the Lamb,” which resulted in a sort of musical duel, with all contestants – the multitude in the grove and the party of one in the rowboat – doing their utmost to be heard. Then, as the onshore chorus swelled mightily, Leo switched tunes and tossed “Pop! Goes the Weasel” back in their teeth. The louder they sang, the louder he played, as though his solo rendition could drown out the choir of voices mounted against him. Louder grew the clamor, more jarring the contrapuntal notes, the jazzy, syncopated beat vibrating against the stolid, declarative phrases of the hymn. There would be the usual reprimands for his mischief-making, of course – that was to be expected – but Leo didn’t care. This was what Tiger would have wanted. Tiger would have understood; Tiger, who lay in the box on top of Tabernacle Rock.

If only Leo could share his grief with someone, as Harpo did. Ever since Tiger’s death the dog had roamed the camp road up and down, baying his sorrow. This morning he had been locked jn the old cold cellar under the crafts barn (where Ma stored her jams and preserves in an ancient icebox of yellow oak lined in zinc) so as to keep him from creating a disturbance during the service. But he must have escaped, for now he had taken up a picket post somewhere in the woods and was howling his fool head off. Leo had a pretty good idea of how lonely Harpo must feel.

He looked down at the knife: the Bowie knife Tiger had insisted be his. Since Tiger’s death he had kept the knife hidden from sight; he wasn’t going to let anyone rob him of Tiger’s parting gift. But today, he had decided, he had to wear it no matter what. Just as he’d had to play Tiger’s favorite song…

Finally the singing stopped and the last bars of Leo’s music hung in the torpid air, then melted into silence, leaving only their mocking memory. By now the gathering was breaking up, the council ring emptying, and Leo, laying away his instrument, noticed someone standing on the canoe dock; the thick, burly figure of the Bomber stood waving him in. He must go in, mustn’t he? Go in and face what awaited him? For with Tiger’s death he had become more than ever the camp pariah. Though no official decree of Scarsdale had been issued regarding him, hardly anyone was speaking to him. Every look, every pointing finger and whispered word said it was his fault, that he, Leo, was to blame. If it had not been for Wacko there would have been no service, no coffin, no dead friend. As for Reece, having forbidden Leo to visit the infirmary, and then learning that he’d been at Tiger’s bedside when he died, he was more vindictive than ever, determined to extract the last ounce of punishment.

Feeling imperiled on every side, Leo was wishing he had never come to camp. How was it possible for him to feel like this, when only a few short weeks ago he’d been so happy, when everything had seemed so fine? It was as though he’d been drinking water from a well, good, sweet, clear water, and now that water had been muddied and riled, it tasted bitter, as if the well had been poisoned.

He packed up his violin and headed for shore, paddling with neat, controlled strokes, the way Tiger had taught him. Off in the distance Harpo’s howling had ceased. As he neared the dock, the Bomber gave him a look.

“What the heck was that you was playin’?”

“Beethoven’s Fifth. Like it?”

“Somebody’s plenty burned about it,” the Bomber said.

Leo had no difficulty guessing who “somebody” was. With Leo at the bow, while the Bomber bent his broad back to the stern, the two boys jerked the canoe from the water and racked it up. The Bomber went to the clipboard to sign it in, and Leo, straightening, looked around the council ring. Everywhere stood knots of campers, staffers, and visitors, mixed together, talking, but moving slowly, as though their feet were held down by heavy weights. When he came nearer, Leo glimpsed more faces he recognized: Big Rolfe and Joy Hartsig, Hap Holliday, Hank Ives, a baker’s dozen church elders in black suits, doughty, gray-faced and official-looking; Honey Oliphant was now holding tight to her brother’s hand, as if he were a baby she was afraid of losing. They all stood in silent clusters regarding the casket, which in another moment was being removed from its resting place on the rock. Because it was so small, the box required only two bearers, who carried it up the aisle to the hearse parked hear the top of the ring. Burial was to be private; no campers would be there.

Then Harpo came straying toward them from among the trees, tail quivering but not wagging, a forlorn look in his eyes that made Leo want to fling his arms around the dog’s neck and hug him; but that would only make Leo cry and he had promised himself not to do that. Consequently he ignored Harpo, who finally wheeled and trotted away, while Leo climbed the ring and headed for Jeremiah.

Midway up the aisle he paused at the sight of Wanda, standing beside Fritz near a tree. She always seemed so different out of uniform. Today she had on a street frock and a little hat with a veil and she was wearing gloves. Leo hadn’t spoken with her since the morning Tiger died.

A group of Virtue cadets was standing nearby. “It’s all Wacko’s fault,” one of them was saying, “him and his spider-”

“Don’t say that, it’s not so,” Fritz said quickly. “You boys oughtn’t to repeat untrue stories. Now, run along.” Leo ducked his head as the group broke up and moved away. “It’s all right,” Fritz said, giving his shoulder an encouraging pat, “don’t pay any attention to that kind of talk.” The gesture, meant to be comforting, somehow only made Leo feel worse.

As he came onto the line-path, he saw the Abernathys talking with Pa Starbuck and the Hartsigs. Mrs Abernathy was holding a sheaf of gladioli and staring at the black box, its foot protruding eloquently through the open doors of the hearse. Leo flushed with embarrassment as she turned her eyes on him, then quickly looked away again. He desperately wanted to say something to her, to explain about the music and why he hadn’t been at the funeral, though something in her expression said she already understood, a little.

Instead, to his surprise, he found himself going up to her and holding out the sheathed Bowie knife. Misunderstanding his gesture, she shied and turned her face into her husband’s shoulder.

“Isn’t that Tiger’s knife?” Pat Abernathy asked.

Leo nodded. “He gave it to me,” he said. “I think you should have it.”

Mrs Abernathy’s voice quavered. “I’m sure that if Tiger gave it to you, he wanted you to have it. Keep it and remember him always. I know he thought a lot of you.”

Then, as Leo watched her from under his brows, she seemed to give out all of a sudden. The flowers slipped from her grasp and, with Rolfe’s assistance, her husband led her toward their car, parked just behind the hearse.

Leo went on, holding the knife in one hand, his violin case in the other. Across the line-path a grim-faced Phil was waiting on the porch of Jeremiah. Leo veered off toward the Dewdrop Inn; he wasn’t up to a confrontation right now. But Phil quickly intercepted him, hustling him into the cabin, where seven or eight boys were sitting around silently in the bunks.

“Okay, Wackeem, let’s hear it,” Phil began with an angry scowl. “Suppose you tell us what that dumb stunt was that you just pulled with your fiddle?”

Leo shrugged. “Nothing. Tiger liked that song, is all.”

“Liked it? That dumb thing? You sure have a lousy sense of the fitness of things. You’re holding every camper here up to ridicule. Isn’t that right, fellows?”

Leo glanced about at the funeral-solemn, resentful faces: Dump, Monkey, Eddie, Ogden, and Klaus, faces that had shown no friendliness in some time, and others – Dusty, Emerson – who since Tiger’s death had kept their distance. It fell to the Bomber to take Leo’s part.