Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

A silence uncommon to the cabin ensued; but not for long. The next subject of conversation was, inevitably, the Haunted House, which Leo had passed in Hank’s jitney, and the Bomber launched into the history of the place and how one careless camper had fallen – or been pushed by “unseen hands” – through a trapdoor and broken his leg.

“Is there really a ghost?” Leo asked.

“Darn tootin’,” said the Bomber fervently.

“You betcher boots,” Monkey agreed.

“Me, I seen it!” Peewee declared.

The Bomber made a scoffing sound. “Aw, you did not, you little spud. Shut your hole before I sit on you and squash you flat.”

“Did too! Did too!” Peewee persisted. “A great big hairy monster with pop eyes and horns and tusks like a elephant. Honest I did, honest!”

As always, nobody heeded the boy’s clamor, with the exception of Leo, who listened attentively to the farfetched description of the ghost, darting glances from one Jeremian to the next, as if trying to put names and faces together. “I believe you,” he said finally when Peewee’s protestations died down.

Outside, it was turning to twilight; soon the torchlight parade would begin. The boys lit the lantern, then went about getting their equipment together for the council fire – sweaters, torches, flashlights, and little chamois bags that each camper hung around his neck on a rawhide thong.

“What are those?” Leo asked.

“Seneca medicine bags,” said Tiger, and went on to explain about the Seneca Honor Society and how, at tonight’s council fire, each new inductee would be presented with a red feather and a medicine bag, marking him as a “brave-to-be,” and then escorted to the Wolf’s Cave in Indian Woods to be formally initiated. All the regular Jeremians were already Senecas. When Leo asked what the medicine bags contained, however, he got short shrift from Phil for an answer: The contents of the bags was secret, only a Seneca brave could know.

Leo shrugged and studied the dusty toes of his shoes, then looked up suddenly. “Want to see a trick?” he asked Peewee.

Peewee gave him a suspicious look. “What kinda trick?” he asked warily.

“Like this. Watch closely.”

Peewee observed with wonder as Leo’s ears began performing weird and amazing feats, wiggling and wagging up and down. In a moment the younger boy was giggling at the comical sight, then laughing, and his childish crowing was soon joined by the deeper laughter of the others.

“Now play something!” Peewee shouted, shoving the violin case at Leo. “Go on, play!”

Leo shook his head, his expression clearly stating he had no wish to go on entertaining them.

“Yeah, play somethin’,” urged the Bomber; then they were all yelling for him, pressing and cajoling until he had no choice. With a glance toward Tiger, who’d said hardly anything since they’d come in, Leo unsnapped the catches and laid back the top of the case. With the fingernails of one hand he plucked a tiny flurry of notes from the instrument. They were all waiting. He picked up the violin and began tuning it, making rapid, professional forays on the strings until he seemed satisfied, then tucked it under his chin and began to play. Seated on the edge of Reece’s footlocker, his thin arm bent, the hand and fingers curled upon the butt of the horsehair bow, he played with a faint smile on his mouth, his eyes now flashing, now remote, his head moving with a rhythmic grace all its own as he drew forth a soft, intense melody that held his listeners in thrall.

But the roof of Jeremiah could not contain the sound of his music, nor the walls – how was this possible with all four flaps open to the evening? – and before long, all up and down the line-path they gathered, campers and counselors, on the porches of Hosea and Isaiah and Ob amp;diah and Ezekiel, and of all the cabins of Virtue and High Endeavor, to listen as the music floated out from Jeremiah.

Zipper Tallon heard it in the Dewdrop Inn and, buttoning up, was lured across the field by its sound. Henry Ives, his duties completed, stopped and listened. In Hosea, Gus Klaus put away his Studs Lonigan excerpts to lend an ear, finally abandoning his bunk altogether to take a gander at the music maker in Jeremiah. Ezekielites Dusty Rhoades, Emerson Bean, and Junior Leffingwell did likewise, while over in Three Corner Cove, in the gathering twilight, Honey Oliphant, giving herself a beer shampoo, heard it and wondered.

Then the music became louder and merrier as the fiddler changed his tune. Jumping onto the footlocker, he began playing an antic ditty, and as he played, beating out the time with his foot, he sang the words:

I push the first valve down.

The music goes down and around,

Whoa – ho – ho – ho – ho – ho,

And it comes up here.

Fiddling, all angles and long fingers, with a bright gleam in his eye, he seemed to Tiger like some mad musician at a crossroads fair in a storybook, whose spellbinding music would so enchant the village folk that they must jump up and leap about until they dropped of exhaustion. And, indeed, as the song gained momentum all the campers crowded into Jeremiah were suddenly on their feet, knocking one another about, leaping from bunk to bunk as they sang, faces red and perspiring in the lamplight, the excitement building to a fever pitch with pillows flying through the air and Eddie, who could walk on his hands, proving it.

Then to the scent of pine and citronella that pervaded the cabin was added another odor: the sweet, sickish pungency of tobacco smoke – Rum and Maple, though in the wild confusion no one noticed until the Bomber, dizzy, spun backward toward the porch and collided with Reece Hartsig.

Everything stopped at once, the music, the laughter, the movement, all stopped and every head turned to face the tall figure in the doorway, nattily attired in his military school uniform, the shiny visor of his cap casting a dark lunette across his eyes.

“What’s going on here?” demanded the soft, emphatic voice.

Pandemonium. The visitors to Jeremiah scattered out the back, out the sides of the cabin, seven of the occupants retreated in considerable alarm and confusion to their bunks, while the violinist, still on the footlocker, lowered his instrument slowly, then stepped down and crossed to his bunk. Only Peewee made no move, but stood in the middle of Reece’s rumpled cot, turned to stone.

Either failing to notice or choosing to ignore the newcomer’s presence in the cabin, the counselor directed stern attention to the quivering Peewee. Making fists of his hands, Reece jammed them on his hips, widening an already broad set of shoulders.

“Get… off… my… bed,” he commanded, still speaking softly. Peewee seemed to shrink visibly before getting down, presenting a sheepish and pathetic figure by anybody’s standard.

“All right, Kemo Sabe,” Reece said, now snapping out the words, “suppose you tell me what you think you’re up to.”

“I wasn’t doin’ nuthin’, Big Chief, honest,” came the plaintive response.

“The cap. Take it off.”

Peewee did so.

“Now put it back where you got it from.”

Again the boy obeyed.

“Now the jock.” Again Peewee did as ordered.

“Now come here.” Digging into his uniform pocket, Reece produced a shiny quarter and handed it to the boy. Peewee, who had no idea why he should be so rewarded, merely blinked.

“Toss it on the bed.” Reece indicated his cot.

Peewee again did as he was told; the coin dropped softly amid the slackened bedclothes.

“Fix it, spud. Stretch it till that quarter bounces.”

The Jeremians watched while Peewee hustled around the corners of the bed, jumping over the footlocker as he tugged and pulled the blanket so the quarter bounced. When this was seen to, Reece reached out with a long arm, turned the offender over his knee and gave him a sound whack on his bottom.