Free The Night of the Moonbow by Thomas Tryon

together. Whatever feelings had upset Leo seem to be forgotten; he offers no clue as to their source. He is knowledgeable about star-gazing and points out some constellations in the glittering sky - Cassiopeia’s Chair, Ursa Major, the North Star. Soon he begins to yawn. It has been a long day. Tiger sees him into his bunk and settles him down for the night. When Leo closes his eyes,
    Tiger slips away to join the Senecas at the Wolf’s Cave in the heart of Indian Woods.
     
    ***
     
    Later.
    Taps has sounded. The night breeze hums among the pine needles; overhead the stars pale and wink out one by one; among the sentinel trees the camp slumbers, as if the invisible hand of Morpheus had passed across lake and cabins, sprinkling moon dust, urging happy dreams. Yet there is one whose repose does not go untroubled, who shifts restlessly under his blanket, whose lips move, articulating distressful but unintelligible sounds. And while he mutters aloud against his pallid phantoms, beyond the cabin sides a tiny murder is enacted: high in the Methuselah Tree, the owl inquires of the night - “Whoo? Who?” - then sails from his branch like a gray whisper. On silent pinions he floats downward among the dark pine boughs, soft as shadows, soundless as falling snow, talons splayed, topaz eyes round as saucers, wizard-wise, seeking his prey, and with feathered finesse plucks from a patch of spear grass one hapless form whose feeble squeak of protest is choked off in midair as, soaring once more, the bird reaches his treetop and gives himself up to his midnight feast.
    The new boy awakens with a cry.
     
     
     
     

PART TWO: The Forest Primeval
     

     
    Proud son of a clever man, Icarus had watched his father, Daedalus, make for them both pairs of wings from feathers, wood, wax, and at his father’s side he had mounted the air upon those makeshift wings, flinging himself into space from the highest promontory, to soar upward and scale the banks of romping clouds, to look from on high upon the earth made small - its rivers and hills, towns and cities, its populace of insect-folk. What jubilation, what wonder, what glorious pride he felt, free as a bird, faring forth as no man before him had ever done. Icarus the darer, Icarus the bold. And yet, he must beware, for with flight comes error; a single miscalculation and the force of gravity takes over, and disaster, death.
    Balanced at the edge of the large rock, Leo feels himself unfettered, free to spread his wings and fly, to flash across the sun’s broad shining face. Slowly he raises his arms, extending them outward from his sides like wings; marvel of marvels, they start to quiver, lift lightly, gently, upward, palms cupped as though to touch the supportive, not-quite-touchable element of air. Oh yes - let him try. Now. With a deep breath he launches himself into space. Ah - yes - like this, like this. He is the bird-god, feather-winged, hawk-eyed, sharp-taloned monarch of the air. He soars, leveling out across the vast blue-white garden of clouds, his heart bursting with rapture.
    Too late he remembers: Even gods may not fly too high; -too close to the sun their wings may be singed, the wax melt, the feathers loosen, upsetting the delicate aerodynamic balance. He will be dashed to pieces for his folly. Below him the starless void, spiral of darkness, never-ending night. And he is falling, down and down and down and—!
    “Leo?”
    Appearing as if by magic, Tiger Abernathy came dashing across the meadow to give him a hand up. “Did you hurt yourself?”
    Leo wasn’t sure; he felt gingerly of an ankle, an elbow, his neck. “I - slipped.” He laughed sheepishly. What must Tiger think of such crazy behavior? For the life of him he couldn’t remember how he had got to the top of the rock, or how he had slipped from it. He pressed a fist over his heart to calm its wild beat, while Harpo, who had come bounding along behind Tiger, wagged his shaggy tail to a fare-thee-well and with a