Mystic War I

            A single powerful drum pounded out its music in the darkness. Its beat was precise and accurate; never missing a beat. The sound echoed its way through the trees and foliage that concealed the drummer.

            All was pitch black but for the stars that shone through the trees and the flicker of firelight at the end of the path. Strange shadows were cast about as one drew nearer to its flame. These morbid shadows made finding a solid place to set one’s foot down very difficult. Every so often someone stumbled and was caught by a friend.

            Amazingly enough it was only the first year campers who were ever afraid. The older ones had seen it all before and were very excited for the campfire that was held on the last night of the camp. And depending on just how old they were, some of them even knew which counselor it was who was just outside the light of fire, pounding an old oil barrel with gloved hands. But as I was saying, it was the little campers that were frightened.

            I held the hand of Rachel, the tiny white-blonde girl from my cabin. All week long she had been hearing rumors of initiation rites that first year campers supposedly went through at the camp fire. The older kids always got a big kick out of scaring the younger ones. But none of the rumors were true. I had told Rachel this, but she was still very frightened. I was accustomed to this though. For four years I had been holding the hands of little girls and little boys as we walked down the darkened path through the woods.

            The first group of campers and their counselors reached the campfire and were stopped by the ‘warriors’.

            “HALT!” shouted one such warrior. Only from his voice  could I tell that it was my friend Ben.

            “What is your tribe name?” He demanded of a little boy in the front.

            “Mingo!” said the little boy.

            “What?” said Ben in a loud voice. “I can not hear you!”

            “Mingo!” said the boy a little more louder and more clearly.

            “Bingo?” asked Ben? “I do not know of a tribe named Bingo?”

            “MINGO!” yelled the boy and several of his friends standing behind him.

            “Ah yes! Mingo!” replied Ben. “Tell your tribe that you must all shout your tribe name three times as loud as you can before entering the sacred campfire.”

            In unison the Mingo tribe shouted “MINGO! MINGO! MINGO!” The shouts echoed through the wood and mixed with the still-beating drum.

            “The wood is pleased,” said Ben. “You may enter the sacred campfire.” With that the little boy and one of his counselors, Jenny, led the way around the campfire and sat themselves in the farthest section of sawed logs that had been laid out in a circle.

            Rachel tugged on my hand.

            “Where is that drum coming from?” she whispered in my ear as I bent down to her level.

            “From the woods,” I said. “They are pounding the drum to call all of the tribes together.”

            “Oh,” she said, and she craned her neck to try and see what was happening at the beginning of the line.