The Night of the Moonbow (23 page)

In his bunk with a book yesterday evening during the after-supper free period, Leo had caught snatches of a conversation coming from the vicinity of Old Faithful.

“I just don’t get it,” Reece was saying while Tiger dropped his lips to the water spout. “Why do you bother with him, anyway?”

“No bother. I like him. I know he goofs up sometimes, but he knows lots of things, he’s smart, and he’s funny, too.”

“I don’t think he’s funny. And he’s breaking up the team! Don’t you get it, fellah? He’s just not our kind. He’s different. You can see that, can’t you?”

“Maybe we’ll rub off on him,” Tiger said, tongue-in-cheek. “Or maybe he’ll rub off on us.”

“Yeah - that’s what I’m afraid of. Remember Stanley?" “Come on, Big Chief, let’s skip the bad news,” Tiger said. “Leo’s going to be okay - look at the points he’s won us. And what does it matter if he is different? Everybody can’t be the same—”

“He’ll damn well measure up to Jeremiah or I’ll know the reason why. He’s turning into a real troublemaker around here. Maybe a taste of—”

Tiger had been bailed out when Hap’s whistle started off the scheduled game of Kick the Can, and Leo had heaved himself up from his bunk to join the fray. Kick the Can was a favorite game of his, he was good at it; his thin frame seemed suited to skulking around in the dusky shadows, suddenly to come rushing out of nowhere to kick the can and free the prisoners, then escape himself, and rack up a score. Unfortunately, there were not many points to be won in so haphazard a sport, especially since Coach Holliday inevitably assigned Leo to teams that were bound to lose.

Speak of the devil. Through the lodge doors Leo could see the coach emerging from the path at Five Points; Reece was with him, and Leo watched as the two, carrying several sheets of paper, marched up to the bulletin board at the foot of the lodge steps and posted them - removing several outdated ones to do so. The current demerit list, no doubt, along with the happy-points total by camper (Tiger was number one) and cabin (still Malachi, alas). They made an ill-assorted pair, the stocky, thick-necked Hap, and Reece, much the taller and leaner of the two, his skin so darkly tanned by now that Leo thought he resembled a cigar-store Indian.

Leo returned to his polishing, and when he glanced out again he saw Reece dressing down one of the new campers whom he’d evidently caught in some infraction. The boy seemed to wilt visibly, and as he slunk away Reece broke into a flashing grin and scribbled a quick note on the piece of paper he’d just tacked up, then he and Hap went off together laughing.

Hearing a cough, Leo looked around to find Fritz Auerbach standing by the next window, likewise observing the little scene. “Your counselor is quite a stickler, isn’t he?” He smiled and came over. After Leo’s paddling, there had sprung up a warm alliance between the refugee and the orphan, two whose lives had been very different, yet whose present situations were not dissimilar. Fritz asked how Leo was coming with the book Fritz had loaned him, and Leo asked to hold on to it a while longer.

“Reece keeps us so busy, I haven’t had much time.”

Fritz nodded sympathetically. “How are you and Big Chief doing these days? Is he still angry over what happened on Sunday?”

Leo shrugged. “Now he’s mad at Tiger, too,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because Tiger sticks up for me.”

Fritz drew at his lip. “It’s because Reece feels threatened.”

“By what?”

“By you, my friend. I know it doesn’t seem you’ve done anything to threaten him, but think about it. That little joke of yours with the pine trees after the Snipe Hunt, then changing the skit on him, then the affair of Sunday - he thinks his authority is being undermined. Don’t ever forget he’s cock of the walk here.” Fritz winked and Leo nodded. He liked being around Fritz, whose eyes were so warm and friendly and who always had time for a little talk and a bit of savvy instruction. The sad situation of his family seldom showed in his manner - though he spoke of his loved ones often enough - and he never felt sorry for himself. Leo had come to admire him more with every passing day, as had many of the other campers, including Tiger.

“By the way,” Fritz went on. “I was talking with Dagmar about you.” Since coming to Moonbow he and Dagmar Kronborg had struck up a warm friendship: two Europeans roosting in a nest of Yankees, who could speak French to each other (Fritz disliked speaking German). “She’d enjoy hearing you play again sometime.”

Leo was surprised, after the way he’d made a fool of himself in front of the woman. “Did she say that?”

“Indeed she did. She’s sincere, believe me. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

Leo didn’t know how he felt about playing in public after his folly.

“But of course,” Fritz said. “That is understandable. Still, Dagmar says it will help if you adopt a more serious approach to your studies. You could do your mother proud, you know. You have said how much she wished you to become a good musician.”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, perhaps you might think of her and do so. But not by the lazy door, eh? Give it plenty of get-up-and-go.” He rolled a fist and gave Leo the lightest sock on the chin. Leo said he was resolved to try.

After Fritz had gone, with the trophy now giving off an unimpeachable luster, Leo looked around to discover that the rest of the work squad was making for the doors, having been dismissed by Oats, who gave Leo permission to leave too, asking him first to put away his gear and take along the broom Emerson had left behind the stuffed fox. When he returned from the utility closet, Oats had disappeared into the staff room. Leo glanced around to see what might have been missed. The place was spick and span and would pass inspection with no trouble - except for a smudge where one of the departing clean-up squad had rested his hand against the door of the war bonnet’s case. Using a clean corner of his rag, he blew on the glass and gave it a good buffing until the mark disappeared; then he stood back, looking up at the headdress, thinking of the history behind it, how the Great Plainsman had presented it to Pa, a scene so often described by Pa himself that there was hardly a camper who didn’t feel he’d been an actual witness to the event.

A noble gift, Leo thought, and, backing off another step or two, he studied the plaque inscribed with the words “Personal gift of Wm F Cody to Garland Starbuck,” and the date of the presentation (August 1914), and beneath that the list of names of those who had been given the honor of wearing the headdress through the years: the Moonbow Warriors of Friend-Indeed. First on the list, for the years 1914-1916, was Rolfe Hartsig; and last - at number 5 - was his son, Reece, and the year 1934, followed by a dash.

As Leo stared at this last name on the list he mentally appended the year 1938 and under Reece’s name his own:

6. Leo Joaquim 1938-

Even though he knew it was a foregone conclusion that, despite his lack of physical stature, the Sachems would pick Tiger Abernathy to inherit the mantle of the Moonbow Warrior, Leo couldn’t suppress the fantasy. That’s all it was, of course, make-believe; for how could Leo ever hope to be tapped as the exalted Warrior when he wasn’t even a member of the Senecas? But if by some wild chance he should be presented the red feather and the medicine bag, if he too could join the Lodge -

There was an undeniable power in belonging to that group of honor campers, and the source of that power lay not only in the membership but in those little chamois bags each brave wore around his neck, those “medicine bags” whose secret contents were so potent. What was it, the Senecas’ magic? What amulet or talisman did the bags contain and how was it used? Leo longed to know. He had never told anyone, not even Tiger, about his inadvertent visit to the Seneca campfire grounds that night of the Snipe Hunt, but he had thought about it often and wondered and imagined. What did they do there, those chosen warriors, and in such secrecy that no outsider was allowed to witness their sacred rituals? Whatever these were, they bound the Senecas together in lifelong friendship. Tiger and the Bomber had told him about the big holiday reunion held every Christmas vacation, when all current and former members still alive would meet at a Hartford hotel for a happy get-together of handshaking and speeches after dinner. And how, as a grown-up, out in the big world, a Seneca could always turn for help in time of need to one of the brotherhood, and sometimes, like Reece, get his picture in the newspaper as a result of his achievements.

Again Leo let his gaze rest on the war bonnet, imagining what it would be like to be not only a Seneca but the Moonbow Warrior himself - the most elite of that elite corps, whose fierce but noble appearance was meant to instill in every Friend-Indeed camper the desire to be strong and valiant and noble himself, to practice in his daily life all those qualities that made “Glad Men from Happy Boys.”

As he stared into the glass case it seemed to Leo that he might actually become the wearer of the feathered bonnet, clad in beaded moccasins and a breechclout -he, Leo Joaquim, crouching low and toe-stepping to the accompaniment of a dozen tom-toms, as behind him rose the silver moon and out of the mist and magic of the night the fabled moonbow formed itself overhead - and, glancing around to make sure he was unobserved by spying eyes, he opened the case, then reached inside, removed the war bonnet from its stand, and placed it on his head. The sensation was indescribable. The instant its weight crowned him he felt transformed, no longer merely Leo Joaquim. A palpable warmth seemed to emanate from the interior of the headdress, permeating his skull and brain, imbuing him with all manner of strange capabilities, as if every warrior before him who had ever worn the bonnet had left a share of his own power inside it, to be passed on to anyone who would put it on - those worthy of wearing it.

Mesmerized, he stepped back from the case. He raised his arms, palms outward, saluting the Buffalo Bill portrait over the mantel, and in the silvery curves of the Hartsig Trophy the bright feathers came alive. He felt giddy with excitement, the sense of sudden power mixed with the unnerving realization that what he was doing was taboo. How wonderful, how strange ... It was as if in putting on the bonnet he had actually become the Moonbow Warrior, and he drew his chin down, moving closer to the silver, still watching his reflection. He could feel the sweat running from under the headdress, down his brow and trickling alongside his nose. He shivered, his skin prickled with gooseflesh, and the hairs rose along his arms.

The feeling passed. Whatever it was, it melted away; he was just a two-bit camper - and what he was doing was terribly wrong; if he were to be caught the'consequences would be dire. He must return the bonnet immediately— As he turned from the fireplace he stopped short, sounding a gasp of alarm. Pa Starbuck stood in the open doorway, an expression of shocked indignation on his face.

“What can you be thinking of?” he demanded, advancing on Leo like some aroused Old Testament patriarch, his eyes flashing beneath his beetling brows.

The hapless Leo stared back, groping for an answer. “Nothing. I mean I was only—”

Pa raised his hand in a hieratic gesture. “Surely you must be aware that no one is allowed to don this headdress without being duly elected Moonbow Warrior, Chief of the Senecas. How do you come to be wearing it?”

Leo was at a loss to explain. “I just wanted to see how I looked. I—” It had all seemed so simple, really; but as he stammered this excuse he could hear how lame it must sound. He flinched as the bonnet was lifted from his head. Reverently Pa replaced it in the case, then again turned his watery blue gaze on the culprit.

“You were making fun of the Warrior,” he said. “But the Warrior is not a figure for sport. He has a profound meaning for every single boy at camp. I am sorry you yourself do not feel his power.” Again he raised his hand as Leo sought to protest. “My boy, my boy,” he went on, “haven’t you been here long enough to realize that this” - he rested a hand on the glass case - “this is a sacred trust? Never to be violated, never handled or touched by the uninitiated? You leave me to wonder just what sort of camper it is, what sort of careless, unthinking boy, who would deliberately flout the rules and the most sacred tenets of Camp Friend-Indeed.” He clicked his tongue in dismay. “What, I wonder, will the Senecas think when they learn of this impious act? What measures will they be forced to take against such a sacrilege?”

Leo felt a cold blade slice through his heart. “Do you have to? Tell, I mean?”

“Must / tell?” Pa was wounded. “No, no, my boy, I shall not speak, it is not / who shall tell. But the spirit of Buffalo Bill, the Great Plainsman, it shall speak. As the very rafters of this room shall also tell their tale of a boy who is so unthinking. Come away now,” he said, leading Leo toward the door. “We must allow the disturbed spirits to settle themselves, let them find renewed tranquillity.” He turned and with upraised hands paid obeisance to the portrait over the mantel, then strode from the room, shaking his head and rolling his eyes to heaven, as if to consult with his Maker over this renegade who had dared to put a feathered bonnet on his head.

To deal with the matter of the war bonnet, at powwow time that afternoon a special meeting of the Sachems’ Council was convened at the lodge. The meeting took some time, and when, finally, they all came out again, the dinner bell was ringing. Leo wished he didn’t have to go, but there was no way out. He hiked slowly up to the dining hall, entered, and headed for Jeremiah’s table, blushing furiously as, feeling every eye upon him, he took his customary seat and bowed his head for grace.

What was the verdict? he wondered. Whatever it was, he wasn’t likely to learn about it from Reece, who was acting as if nothing had happened at all. “Pass the potatoes, Wally,” he said, and “May I have the milk,” as his eye kept flicking to the staff table, where Pa Starbuck sat, benign and jovial and, like Reece, giving no sign that Leo could observe that anything was amiss, nodding and beaming at his fellow diners, now buttering a roll and crunching it between his store-bought teeth. The meal continued to unfold as usual, except that this evening there was an unusual amount of whispering, of looks exchanged, and neither Tiger nor the Bomber had much to say to anyone. Leo couldn’t eat, his stomach was fluttering so, and he made only token passes at his plate. Finally, when the chinking of the kitchen “silver” on chinaware had died away and only the dull hubbub of many voices could be heard, he knew the moment had come. The large hall grew quiet.