The Peripatetic Coffin and Other Stories by Ethan Rutherford Page A

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