Читать книгу Secrets at Camp Nokomis - Jacqueline Dembar Greene - Страница 4

Rebecca finished her last mouthful of fried chicken and stared at her empty plate. “I can’t believe how hungry I was,” she said.

“You weren’t alone. I’ve never seen so much food disappear so quickly,” Ginny marveled.

The dining room was just through a door off the covered porch on the main building. Inside, a long table served as a buffet, and on the back wall there was a massive stone fireplace. Maybe they would roast marshmallows there!

Noisy chatter filled the hall until the camp director clinked his spoon against a glass. The room fell silent. “Welcome to Camp Nokomis,” said the slightly built man, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. The spectacles magnified the director’s eyes, and with his large ears, Rebecca thought he resembled a rabbit. All he needed were whiskers.

“I’m Mr. DeAngelis,” he said, “but you may call me Mr. Dee. There are just a few people you haven’t already met. First, our camp nurse, Miss Jane.” A plump, gray-haired woman stood and gave a friendly wave to the girls.

The campers at the Loon table clapped their hands in rhythm and chanted, “Nurse Jane, Nurse Jane, she will take away your pain!” Other tables picked up the chant until Mr. Dee tapped his glass once again with an insistent tinkling.

“Our waterfront director, Roger.”

Again the Loon girls started up a refrain. “Roger, Roger, loves the Dodgers.” A strapping young man stood up and pretended to swing a bat, and then put his hand above his eyes as if watching a ball hit out of sight. The girls cheered. “Home run!” they yelled.

“Just wait till you hear Roger’s campfire stories,” Ginny whispered. “They’ll make your hair stand on end!” A ripple of excitement spread around the table.

“And now, the most important person here,” said Mr. Dee, “our cook, Miss Pepper.”

A short, reed-thin woman, no taller than Rebecca, stepped through the swinging kitchen door. She put up her hand for silence as the campers applauded. “I shall be preparing nutritious food each day and you may eat your fill. However, I don’t want anything wasted, so I expect clean plates. You’ll all return home healthier than when you arrived.” She paused and surveyed the campers before her. “You’ll be assigned chores to help clear the tables and keep the dining hall tidy. I have just one rule that is never to be broken—no campers in the dining hall between meals. No excuses!” Miss Pepper then turned on her heel and disappeared back into the kitchen. The door flapped open and closed behind her.

Mr. Dee cleared his throat. “Miss Pepper is going to prepare the best meals you’ve ever eaten, so let’s all keep her happy.” Rebecca thought that sounded like the toughest chore of all.

The girls cleared their plates, scraped the garbage into a metal pail, and slid the dishes into metal pans filled with hot soapy water. They wiped the tables clean and swept the floor.

The sun dropped lower in the sky as everyone gathered in the clearing, sitting on flat planks arranged around a ring of stones. In the center, wood was neatly stacked for a campfire. As dusk fell, Roger strode into the fire circle holding a flaming torch. He held it against the twigs stacked under the logs. Slowly the fire took hold and grew into a flickering blaze. Rebecca leaned toward the circle of light as Mr. Dee addressed the campers.

“The moon is nearly full,” he said, pointing to the sky. “The Indians who once lived here called this the Strawberry Moon.”

Rebecca turned to Tina. “I guess that’s why there are so many strawberries in the fields. I wonder if Miss Pepper will serve some.”

“I’ll ask her,” Tina offered.

Rebecca pulled back. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare! I don’t think she wants any requests from us.”

Mr. Dee made a wide arc with his arm. “The beautiful forest around us has been perfectly described by the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: ‘This is the forest primeval, the murmuring pines and the hemlocks.’ While you’re at camp, you are going to hear another wonderful poem by Longfellow telling the legend of Hiawatha. Some say Hiawatha was an Indian chief who united the warring tribes in peace. Others believe he was the great-grandson of the moon and had magical powers.” Mr. Dee continued, “Before bed each night, your counselors will read some of the poem. Each tent will choose a passage and stage it on the last night of camp. One camper will narrate while the rest act it out in pantomime.”

They were going to put on a show! Rebecca felt a tingle of excitement. There was nothing she loved more than acting. It seemed as if the fire glowed brighter as she imagined the performance. Why, camp was going to be even more wonderful than she had dreamed.

Roger stood up, firelight flickering across his face. A hush fell as he began to speak. “Long ago, an evil creature stalked the Indians who roamed this land.” He swept his arms toward the towering pine trees. “In these very woods, people told of a monster called the windigo. It lurked in the shadows, and if it saw a child wandering alone, it caught that straggler for dinner.” He snatched at the air, as if closing his hand around something. Rebecca swallowed hard.

Roger continued his story. “Hiawatha’s father, the West Wind, sent him to get rid of all the dangers on earth, so that humans would be safe. Said the wind to Hiawatha,

Cleanse the earth from all that harms it,

Clear the fishing-grounds and rivers,

Slay all monsters and magicians,

All the windigos, the giants,

All the serpents…

The girls were absolutely silent. Rebecca imagined Hiawatha as a strong young man like Roger. She whispered to Tina, “I hope Hiawatha really did get rid of all the windigos. I don’t want to meet any monsters in the woods. That would be a lot worse than a skunk!”

Lowering his voice, Roger added. “All that was ever found of the windigo’s victims were tiny bones—picked clean as toothpicks!”

Rebecca felt thrilling shivers along her back, and the campers tittered in delicious fright. “Oh, Ginny, you were right. Roger really is a wonderful storyteller,” Rebecca whispered. Ginny smiled knowingly.

Dottie wrung her hands together. “I’m getting goose bumps!”

“Indian children had a favorite game they played to practice escaping,” Roger explained. “They formed a line and snaked through the woods holding on tightly to the person in front of them. One person played the windigo and tried to capture the last child in line. Now that it’s properly dark and the moon is casting shadows…you form the line, and I’ll be the windigo!” Roger jumped forward and made a ferocious face. “If I catch you, I’ll eat you up!”

Shrieking and laughing, the girls rushed to form a line, each holding on tightly to the waist of the girl in front of her. The line snaked around the dying campfire, through the clearing, and between the murky trees. In no time at all, Roger pulled away the last girl in line and walked her over to the campfire to sit out the rest of the game. Then he ran to catch the last one in line again.

Tina hadn’t joined in at all. Rebecca dashed back to the campfire. “Come on, Tina,” she coaxed, pulling her up. “It’s not so scary. It’s great fun!”

“I’m not afraid,” Tina said with a smile, “just tired. Anyway, I’m enjoying myself just watching you all run around.” She motioned toward the line of laughing girls. “Go ahead, and if you get caught, we’ll sit here together.”

Rebecca looked back as she squeezed into the middle of the line. Tina looked content, but Rebecca wished her bunk mate had joined in. When the game ended, the girls gathered behind their counselors, who held oil lanterns to light the way back to the tents. The campers were still squealing over the excitement of the game, and no one wanted to be last. They crowded together, playfully pushing and shoving. Between the tall black pines, stars glittered overhead like tiny candles. Grandpa was right, thought Rebecca. The stars look close enough to touch.

The girls changed into their nightclothes and lined up for the privy. Tina carried her nightgown and returned holding her bloomers.

Rebecca chuckled. “I’ll bet you don’t have any brothers or sisters.”

“How did you know, Beckie?” Tina asked her.

“Because you’re so shy about changing. I have two sisters and two brothers, and my sisters and I share one tiny bedroom. There’s no room for privacy!”

The girls slipped under the crisp sheets, and Ginny settled on a canvas stool. By the glow of the oil lamp, she read several pages from The Song of Hiawatha. When she finished, she told the girls that each night the campfire would end with the song “Taps.” “I’ll sing it for you tonight,” she said, “and you’ll learn it instantly.” Her voice rose sweet and clear. “Day is done, Gone the sun, From the lake, from the hills, from the sky. All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.”

“I’ll be checking on you later tonight,” Ginny said, “and expect you all to be sound asleep.” She left quietly and dropped the tent flaps behind her.

“Say,” Cammie whispered into the silence, “does anyone think there’s really such a thing as a windigo?” She tried to sound unconcerned, but Rebecca heard a quiver in her voice.

“I don’t know,” replied Dottie, “but the windigo reminds me of the Russian witch Baba Yaga.”

“Ooh, my grandmother told me about Baba Yaga,” Sunny piped up. “She ate up children who happened upon her house in the forest.”

“Don’t be silly,” Bertie argued. “They’re all just made-up stories.”

“My bubbie said Baba Yaga is real,” Sunny insisted, “so maybe the windigo is, too.”

“Want to know something I heard last year?” Corky asked.

“Tell us,” the girls clamored.

“Well,” Corky said, “last year I heard some counselors talking about the windigo. They didn’t know I was listening, but I heard every word.”

“What did they say?” the girls asked breathlessly. “Tell us!”

“They said—” Corky paused dramatically. “Well, they said there’s a cave not far from here where the windigo lives.” Gasps echoed through the tent. “When I heard that, I knew that was why they tell us never to go into the woods alone.”

The girls fell silent. Rebecca imagined a monster lurking in a shadowy cave, just waiting for a camper to pass by. She lay awake listening to the unfamiliar sounds around her—a repeated chirp, a high-pitched hum, and a chorus of peeps from the pond. She tried not to let them frighten her. She was used to city sounds—people talking and laughing in the street below, horse-drawn wagons clattering by at all hours, trains rattling by, and ship horns across the river. Why, these are just normal country sounds, she told herself—bugs and frogs. Then an eerie hooting echoed through the woods. Ta-whoo! Ta-whoo! Rebecca’s breath caught in her throat.

That was no frog! She thought of the strange tale Roger had told of the windigo and remembered the Baba Yaga tales her grandmother had told her when she was small enough to sit on Bubbie’s comfortable lap. What if scary stories weren’t made-up but told of things that truly happened, as a warning? In spite of the warm air, Rebecca drew the covers over her head and pulled them tightly around her.