Ethan Rutherford - The Peripatetic Coffin and Other Stories

Thom Sloane raised his hand and asked why we couldn’t just ask Chickapony to give Moosey back. I told him it didn’t work like that. Chickapony campers, they aren’t like you and me, I said. You can’t just talk to them.

Not everyone was convinced, which, I could tell, might complicate things. I was feeling a little nervous about our next raid.

And that’s when Ward Hamilton came in. He was—to be honest, I’m not exactly sure what he was doing at Camp Winnesaka. He was good-looking. He had muscles. The rumor was that he’d lost his V-card to his twenty-three-year-old social studies teacher, Miss Robriand. Which would be, you know, certainly within the realm of possibility. This was his first summer here, and he’d already shattered the Archery and Long Toss records, and was in hot pursuit of the Sand Jump record, which I’d set when I was a camper.

We all admired him. He was everything Camp Winnesaka should’ve been. And something about the indignity of losing Moosey, it, I don’t know, touched him. He took it personally. We didn’t even have to ask him to step up. He walked into the Chow Hut in full war paint, gave the Comanche Cry, and led the campers down to the dock like it was something he was born to do.

I addressed them briefly at the water. I put my hand on Ward Hamilton’s shoulder and said I was proud of them for avenging this desecration of Camp Winnesaka, and that they should be proud themselves. Plug in and ride the lightning, is what I told them.

The night was very dark, remember. And this was . . . well, they didn’t find Moosey. I’m not even sure how far they got. And Ward, it’s possible he wasn’t wearing a life jacket. Or maybe was wearing it backward. There’s a chance that—I mean, it’s hard to say what really happened. There were conflicting reports. One kid said he fell in when one of our own boats accidentally nudged his, and he bumped his head on an oar on the way down. Another kid said he’d just jumped into the water. Which doesn’t make much sense. I think I’d just like to say that he was admired while he was here, and he was loved. And anytime a camper drowns, it’s a tragedy. I know that much.

We had a meeting in the Sacred Circle. I wasn’t sure, exactly, what I was going to tell them. I did know that Ward’s drowning was . . . well, it had the potential, if handled improperly, to be demoralizing to the campers. Not to mention the Pen Pals. And I think it was Eric who, well, it was his idea, the posters. He had some experience with Photoshop, and he—you’ve seen them. Ward, in the bow of the rowboat, hoisting Moosey over his head, looking toward the sun which, in turn, is showering him with the golden rays of a Winnesaka summer.

I told them Ward was a hero of no small degree and presented the poster to the Sacred Circle. I said, Never forget. I led them in a moment of silence, and then fixed the poster to the wall of the Chow Hut. We made another one and hung it in the Sandy Can. Grief can be confusing for kids and this . . . well, it put things in perspective, I think I would say. Because Ward didn’t just die, alone, in a cold and unbound universe, he died, an honorable Papoose, in an effort to realize all things Winnesaka.

Below the image of Ward, Eric had printed the phrase “Integrity Is Not Born, It Is Learned at Lake Oboe.”

Jimmy Donner, who’d been in the boat with Ward, then, this is when he came to us. He was upset. There were tears. I think he’d been binging on chocolate. It was hard to make out exactly what he was saying, but it was something about responsibility. He looked at us and said, Shouldn’t there have been . . . ? And Eric just said: Jimmy, don’t. We already have another raid under way, and what is finger-pointing going to accomplish? You need to think about what Ward would have done. Would he have fired off accusations? Would he have let doubt win the day?

The next raid was more successful. They didn’t find Moosey, but they did come back with one of Chickapony’s Sacred Stones. And this, I think in hindsight, we should’ve been happy with this. But, you see, Moosey was the whole reason for our going over there in the first place. And there was the general feeling around camp that once you start something . . . The ball was rolling, is what I’m trying to say. The campers, they had certain expectations regarding Moosey. Part of it had to do with Ward. Part of it was because one of the things we stress here at Camp Winnesaka is follow-through.

They came back with a boar’s head next, which was, I think, sort of like the Moosey of Chickapony. We celebrated in the Chow Hut with extra helpings of Mac and Buffalo. We placed the boar’s head near one of the posters of Ward. Things were—well, they were going better than they had in weeks, camper morale–wise. I mean, we hadn’t found Moosey yet, and that was a bit of a pebble in our shoe, but we’d been successful in a lot of other ways. We had a boar’s head. We had one of their Sacred Stones. Some of the kids even asked me if they could come back next summer, they were having such a good time. A couple of small victories, for them and for me.

But this, then, this is when things sort of got out of control. I’d figured . . . I don’t know what I figured. I hadn’t really considered . . . I mean, Chickapony is the camp you go to if you can’t get into Winnesaka. If you look at tradition, that is. I thought they’d appreciate the friendly ribbing and that maybe they’d just send someone over with Moosey, drop him off no-harm-no-foul, and proffer an invitation to their August Potlatch, which we’ve enjoyed for years. And that would be the end of it. I mean, it wasn’t in their interest to begin . . .

The short of it is they hit back, chopping down our totem pole while we were asleep. Dragged it through our crocus patch and softball field and down to the shore, where some boat must’ve been waiting.

It’s hard to explain things to kids. Sometimes you say the right thing, but you could just as easily say the wrong thing. They looked to me, their Head Eagle, imploringly. There was . . . well, they were pretty angry about the totem pole. I was angry about the totem pole. It had been around longer than Moosey, and had been carved by a guy who wasn’t alive anymore. Taking that totem pole, it was the height of disrespect. And what are you going to do, drop your kid off at a camp that doesn’t have a totem pole?

That night, Eric and Scott came to me and said this back-and-forth needed to stop. Any other year, when we weren’t crunched on our numbers, when enrollment wasn’t down, maybe it’d be fine. But this year? Tit for tat was unacceptable. And anything short of a decisive and resounding Winnesaka victory was, frankly, untenable in the long haul. They’d talked it over and were in agreement that we needed to mobilize a little more professionally if we were ever going to find Moosey. Eric said, “I know this is a camper thing, but . . .” I sighed. I said okay.

The two Chickapony campers they shanghaied . . . it was dark, and maybe they didn’t grab the right ones, I don’t know. Eric put these orca masks over their heads so they couldn’t see and sequestered them in the basement of the Arts and Crafts complex. The idea was that maybe they could tell us about Moosey, and the totem pole, and where we could find them. That was all we wanted. But these kids . . . I think they might have been autistic or something. Normally if you put a camper down there, spin him around a few times, and tell him he’ll never see his Pen Pals again, he’s giving up family recipes and apologizing for the time he diddled his brother in Grandpa’s basement. But these Chickapony kids, nothing. They wouldn’t crack. And then, see, it’s a bit of a dilemma. Return them to Chickapony, where they will most likely help out with future raids, especially now that they know the lay of the land here at Winnesaka, or hang on to them until things blow over?