The Peripatetic Coffin and Other Stories by Ethan Rutherford Page B

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?
    We didn’t have too much