The Inhabited Garden: A Fable

By Wayne Luckmann

Camp Cory director for many years, facing a new season with additional staff, including a newly appointed business manager also acting as a senior counselor who holds differing views as to how the camp should be managed, Henry Carter finds that the changes in staff along with a significant increase in camp inhabitants from different ethnic, social, and economic background soon begin challenging his direction of the camp and ordering its program of activities.

One particular challenge Carter faces is Solomon, a boy sent to camp for the summer to help him recover from his loss of a brother. Solomon along with Phil, Andy, Stricklin, Hansen, and Herman, all from the same small town and attending camp for the first time, soon meet boys such as Mick and Pudge and Jessie and Warren who are very different in attitudes, manners, and experiences from their own

• Language: English
• Publisher: Squirrel Haven Publishing
• Release date: Feb 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463427842

Wayne Luckmann

Wayne Luckmann, a student of life and of ideas, writes from the basis of what he has experienced over several decades and what he has learned through observation and through close and repeated readings in literature, science, philosophy, psychology, linguistics, languages, and art. After surviving service of over forty years as tenured faculty at Green River College in Auburn, WA, and eleven years in Glendale, Arizona fostering rescued dogs and feral cats, he now resides in Bremerton, WA, his days now focused on continued reading in all his chosen subjects, continued study of the classical guitar, and dedicated attention to Works in Progress.

Book preview

The Inhabited Garden

By

Wayne Luckmann

Copyright 2015 by Wayne Luckmann

All characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this work are either the products of the author's imagination or are used as fiction.

The Garden Inhabited

Henry Carter reluctantly pushed himself from the webbing of the deck chair and walked slowly to the railing of the terrace. He looked down at the growing confusion below. Now, here, still at the beginning of the new season, surveying the scene below, he weighed what he would have to do with all that. Where would he find the energy? To think they could do anything at all! And here, again, another week, with still more groups arriving.

How many weeks ahead? How many more fresh groups? Still, he knew the effort he and others had to make was worthwhile, but now as he watched the excitement of the activity below, he suddenly felt a bit weary, wanting to just stand here, just watching as another week began.

He had spent the early part of the morning supervising, arranging and cleaning of camp facilities for additional groups, discussing plans for the activities of the coming weeks with the senior and junior counselors, and then, as always, taking a light breakfast with them on the terrace where campers seldom were allowed, he and the counselors eating alone before the new week began when they would take their meals with the campers in the dining area of the assembly hall from whose terrace he now viewed the continuing arrival of new inhabitants.

After breakfast, Newland, one of the senior counselors, drove the camp bus into Mount Horeb, the town across the lake, to pick up campers deposited there by the Agency that managed the camp and arranged for individuals from various institutions or sponsoring service groups to attend the camp during the summer. Newland would be returning with another busload, some staying a week or more, others from institutions remaining for several weeks or even the whole season.

He looked down to the dirt road where a white station wagon, diminished by distance, slowed, then stopped, discharging its load looking even smaller from where Carter watched them stretch, look around, then busy themselves in unloading the bags and trunks that held their belongings. Carter saw Pickering, one of the junior counselors, come out of the hall to greet the man who climbed from the wagon to help unload gear, the man helping herd the new inhabitants to the edge of the slope before the hall, walk back to the wagon, climb in, turn the wagon around, and slowly move back down the dirt road that curved around one of the low hills below the hill from where Carter studied the growing activity below.

Watching the milling, boisterous groups below, thinking of Newland bringing another group, Carter thought of the city from which many of them came: littered streets, garbage strewn alleyways, rubble from crumbling buildings, other buildings bare of paint or stained from passing seasons. Then he looked beyond the grassy level to the lush forest and beyond the trees to where he could see the sparkling lake deep in color beneath a clear sky. The warm sunlight, the clear air—weren’t they better than the shadows of those infested streets? To think that some he viewed had never been out of their own neighborhoods and had never seen a lake or a forest or any animals in their natural habitat.

Perhaps that was why some of them were so hostile at first because of their uncertainty, the antagonism of their questions sometimes disquieting him. Yet previous summers had been mostly pleasant. He recalled a few incidents that had led to name calling, verbal disagreements, some unwillingness to participate in camp activities, some lost or misplaced items, but none of those incidents had been viewed as real challenges. Why should this summer ahead be any different?

But he wondered now if perhaps he should consider giving up his present position after this season. Should this be his last one as director? He had eagerly welcomed the challenges of directing the camp in its first years. What had tarnished the more recent experience for him? Certainly, it couldn’t be the inhabitants. He had always enjoyed them, despite questions that challenged both his wisdom and his authority. He had always received a deep pleasure from seeing them respond to their new experiences, even those who at first appeared apprehensive.

Some grew so excited at what they found, bringing to him common snakes and common toads and what they considered strange and exotic plants that had caught their eye. He had thrilled to their innocent acceptance. Yet he had warned them. Although there was little danger in what they had brought to him to exhibit, they had to be cautious about handling strange things. Some snakes, some toads, some strange and exotic plants were as deadly as they were beautiful. How serious they had grown then, abandoning their discovery, thrusting it from them, exclaiming repugnance. And he, having emphasized caution had tried to restore their faith and wonder. Not all things are bad or deadly, he told them. You just have to be careful, that’s all. You have to learn and then act wisely.

Even so, despite the pleasure he received from their discoveries, this summer was beginning to seem longer than others. Why was that? Each summer at the end had seemed long, but they seemed to have grown longer over the years. Now Carter began to consider whether perhaps the summers were becoming too long. Had he arrived at a time when he had begun to wonder if perhaps he shouldn’t give up more than his position as director? Perhaps the time had come for him to turn over his duties to those still filled with the energy and confidence of youth. Then he reconsidered what was new this season: A new senior counselor would arrive shortly on one of the busloads, and directing other new staff would surely require his full attention.

Another summer. Another season. And the challenges begin again, Carter mused, savoring this brief pause before the new week began as he stood at the railing on the terrace of the hall, sometimes referred to with some jest as The Ark, especially during the rainy season, because of its size and shape and its location set high on a grassy knoll of a vast, surrounding forest that extended in waves to the horizon crowned by hazy blue ancient hills.

He had always delighted in watching the first loads of new inhabitants arrive. For so many of them, this camp was a strikingly different experience. This year, especially, with such different groups, along with the increase in number of inhabitants, and with a new senior and additional junior counselor to accommodate the increase in number, Carter surmised that the differences for everyone would be even more challenging.

So he waited and watched in the warming summer day, looking out over the moraine of small green hills and grasslands, the gullies and new leafed forest that spread to the bright water of the lake that reached to the town at the south end, the stores and homes reduced to the appearance of toys by the distance, their windows glistening in the early summer sun.

He heard an engine roar against the steep pull of the dirt road that climbed from the highway to the camp then watched as the yellow bus pulled up onto the level of grass at the base of the hill that nestled the building, stopped, and began discharging occupants who spilled out onto the grass with their assortment of bags and sacks and cardboard boxes then ranged themselves along side the bus.

He turned from the railing of the balcony on which he stood before the large timbered building and started through the open sliding glass door to the large area of concrete underneath the timbers of the high roof. Weaving his way through rows of rough wooden tables and benches he approached two young men who sat near the main entrance, another larger sliding glass door.

They’re here! he announced. Let’s go! His voiced boomed in the cavern of the high hall.

Junior counselors for the summer, both about the same age and about the same size, both former varsity football in t-shirts and cut-offs and black canvas shoes, they rose to meet him.

You ready? Carter asked looking up at the young men who were taller.

Yes, sir, Pickering replied, the other boy nodding his agreement.

Then the two fell in behind Carter’s shorter frame and graying head following him out a larger open glass door and down the wide sweep of grassy hill to the yellow bus.

Two men approached as Carter and the junior counselors reached the new arrivals. One of the men from the bus, a short, thinly built man with glasses and pipe came forward with a slight smile that Carter knew as typical.

Here they are, Henry, Newland said. Hope you’re ready for them.

We better be, the other man from the bus said. Then he stepped forward, extending his hand. J. B. Quine, the man said to Carter who took the man’s hand and noted that Quine was a challenger, one of those who had to see how many bones he can crack in his handshake.

Carter quickly surveyed the man who was about the same height but much heavier with a full face and jowls, dark-rimmed glasses, and a baldpate that ran the top of his skull. The man’s seemingly bold attitude confirmed the handshake from which Carter extracted his hand and turned to the two young men who stood behind him.

Mister Pickering and Mister Campbell, Carter said. Our junior counselors. You’ll find them helpful. Pickering’s been with us a few years now, haven’t you, Jay?

Three years, sir, Pickering replied, offering Quine his hand.

Quine hesitated at first before accepting. Pickering grinned and met the man’s inspection.

Tom Campbell’s new this year, like yourself.

Campbell nodded to Quine in greeting. Quine willingly offered his hand.

Indeed, Quine said. This is a new experience for me. I’m looking forward to the challenge." He smiled looking at the young man, readily meeting the young man’s firm hand.

And you’ll most likely get it, Newland added then turned from the group and started back toward the bus. "Better get things going! How about us getting to work, Jay? I’ve got another load waiting in Mount Horeb, and I’m sure the sooner we can get them here the better the town will like it.

Quine looked after as Newland moved away. Pickering and Campbell in their numbered jerseys, cut-offs, and black canvas hightops went along.

Does Newland really mean what he said about the town? Quine asked.

I’m afraid so, Carter said. He met the heavy man’s stern expression. He looked toward the lake and the distant shore. Quine followed his search.

Really? So what’s the problem?

Some good citizens of the town have never liked the idea of a camp for boys being here. We let the boys into town on a free day as a special privilege or as a special reward for accomplishment or for good behavior. And given the nature of boys, and given the nature of small towns, the mix isn’t always the best for all concerned.

Well, that doesn’t sound promising! Quine said.

This year, Carter continued, if they find out what we have here, I’m sure those town people will be even more concerned. And by now with another such group waiting to be picked up, the town most likely has had a good chance to see some difference in those we’re serving. I’m sure whoever’s with them from the Agency will do whatever he can, but even so our relationship with Mount Horeb has never been the most relaxed.

Well, Quine said, We surely will have to do something about that! No reason we shouldn’t be able to. Good opportunity to educate.

Carter flushed at Quine’s’ remarks. He didn’t like the ambitious tone in the man’s voice. I guess that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it, Carter observed. Yes, indeed, it is! Quine sounded a bit defensive, but his voice also carried a tone of arrogance. That’s one of the reasons I accepted my appointment. I have been fully aware of some difficulties we’ve been having over the last few years, and with my background in practical matters and my affiliations with various social groups, the Agency appeared most willing to bring me in as part of the team.

Carter noticed Quine’s use of we. Already the man sounded as if he were well-established and already assuming control. Well, Carter was still director with the most years of experience, and Quine would be a new business manager, acting as well as a senior counselor with only limited experience, despite his connections.

Carter turned from the bus and started up the slope toward the long building at the top of the hill that rose beyond in low grassy knolls and shrubs and small gullies to the forested peak. Quine stepped out beside him moving more slowly because of his size.

Carter adjusted his pace.

We certainly can use all the help we can get, Carter said. I’m sure you’ll find everything we do here a challenge. I always have.

And you’ve been here some time, haven’t you? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?

Carter paused in his climb, allowing the other man to catch his breath. He searched the man’s stern countenance: the scowl, the heavy features, and the impressive bulk, and he decided that this summer might, indeed, be a long and difficult one.

Twenty years now, Carter said quietly. His voice was confident, his manner balanced. I think we’ve done a fine job with the available resources.

Perhaps you did, Quine offered. But I understand from the Agency that they haven’t been exactly overjoyed with what’s been happening the last few years.

Someone actually say that? Carter asked, pausing again to study the man, then continuing. My reading of the Agency reports seem to indicate that I was doing all right, at least as anyone might expect given the circumstances. Twenty years is a long time to keep someone who is apparently ineffective.

Perhaps, Quine countered. But apparently the Agency has had recent cause to review the camp’s operation and its management.

Carter stopped again just as they reached the wide entrance to the large building. He looked Quine full in the face. You’re a real joy, Carter said. Are you always so blunt? Then he slid back the large glass door and entered the huge cavern of the hall. Quine followed.

I expect to be, Quine said. And in our present situation such bluntness, as you call it, appears to be necessary. Look, Carter, I’m here to help. He lowered his voice when it boomed in the hollow of the hall. I wasn’t appointed, nor did I seek appointment, to win friends.

Carter led them to the kitchen where he helped Quine to staff coffee. Then he moved back out to the dining area and motioned Quine to the bench of one of the rough wood tables where he took the bench opposite.

I was looking for a way to use my talents, Quine continued, easing himself onto the bench across from Carter. I was looking for a way to help out in these difficult times. With my background in business and my affiliations with numerous political and social organizations, the Agency with its responsibility for managing this camp appeared most willing to use my services that, by the way, I’m donating. I thought the experience would be rewarding, my abilities needed. I’ve taught for some years, and I think I can readily apply my varied background to the situation here. We need more such contributions from the private sector. Too many handouts, too much government, not enough individual responsibility.

And I, too, have taught many years, and I’ve been here as long. I’ve had hands-on experience right here in Camp Cory. The boys we’ve had have always had problems. This year, with resources I am sure you are well aware of as limited as they have been, the Agency offered to take whatever boys a group wanted to sponsor for a summer’s experience. Most of these boys, as the Agency surely told you, are from one kind of institution or another. Many are without parents or are from group homes. Some even have juvenile records. And with the increase in numbers, I don’t anticipate our job as being any easier than in the past. Most likely it will be an even greater challenge. And I’m sure that with the background you claim, you will offer valuable assistance to me and the other counselors.

I will certainly try, Quine said. From what the Agency told me and from what you just said, I certainly can see why they needed someone with my background.

Well, I most likely will learn why.

Funding, of course, appears to be the main concern. Quine offered. The Agency wants to show that an operation such as we have here can be effective—tolerable costs that offer justifiable results.

Yes, of course, and that means getting more boys out of group homes and institutions for something more rewarding, allowing their home institutions a way of cutting costs and reducing their operations for the summer by reducing staff, making needed repairs, and the like. We’ve provided such relief in the past. The difference this year is the increase in the number of institutions that have come to us looking for a way of solving their funding problem and their parenting problem, for want of better words. You most likely have been informed of how many inhabitants we have this season.

Yes, of course, Quine said. That number seems a lot for what limited resources we have. But I’m here to do anything I can to help. Where do we start?

Let me show you around. I’ll be able to give you an idea of how I’ve run the place. I’m sure you’ll have your own ideas of how things should be done, especially the business side, and I will be most ready to consider and even employ some of your suggestions. I like to think that we are all in this together for the purpose of helping the boys. That’s what we are here for. And I like to think that what we’re also giving the boys is an experience that’s memorable and valuable. Yes, I know that may sound idealistic, and perhaps even a bit softheaded for you. So be it. But I believe what I’ve just stated, and I’ve tried to practice what I believe as long as I’ve been here.

I too have my beliefs, Quine said. And most likely my ideas differ from yours that seem a bit liberal. Well, I’m here to show them what it’s like to be responsible, what its like to have people honor their obligations. We’ve had much too much leniency, too much lack of moral guidance. And from what I hear about these boys, they could use a few lessons in self-control. And that’s what I’m here for. As you most likely already know, one of the conditions of my appointment is that I take charge of managing camp discipline.

Carter studied the man. You serious? No, I have yet to be informed.

Carter thought about what he had just been told. Quine was apparently right. The Agency must be looking at what he had been doing as director the last few years. Until now, Carter had complete authority, had made all the decisions, although he had done so after he had always consulted his associates, even bringing in the junior counselors for their recommendations. Now it appeared that the present situation was different.

Perhaps I’ll ask for verification, Carter said. Seems that someone at the Agency should have done some informing.

Typical, Carter thought. What you most needed to know, the bureaucratic system kept from you, most likely to cover its intent.

I’m sure that someone at the Agency will be able to answer any questions you might have regarding either my qualifications or the conditions of my appointment.

It’s not your qualifications that concern me. I’m a bit surprised to learn from someone who’s just arrived that an important aspect of my authority appears transferred to a business manager.

I’m not sure what reasons the Agency might have for not informing you. I just assumed you already knew. Too bad you unfortunately had to learn it from me. But perhaps it offered an opportunity to be open and forthright from the beginning. That’s the way I like to operate, and that’s the way I try to be—open, honest, direct. That’s what I expect to do with the boys. And that’s what I propose to do when it comes to discipline.

I’ve never had any serious problem with discipline. Carter defended. Why does the Agency now think we need someone such as yourself with whatever special talents you may have to suddenly be in charge of discipline?

Well, from the reports I’ve read, you have had problems in recent years. Evidentially with the increase in numbers this season and the increase in ethnicity, the Agency apparently anticipates the problems might become worse and those problems would lead to the camp’s beginning to lose support from social service groups and corporate donors.

They said that too!

Not exactly. That’s what I inferred. I was told that some groups, especially those with religious affiliations, have indicated their growing concerns with the way activities are conducted here.

Yes, I know we’ve had some educational programs that might raise such concerns. I didn’t realize nor was I told that such programs were viewed as problems.

Well, considering what you have already said about there being a different breed of boy this year and an increase in their numbers, maybe the Agency anticipated that the situation might be a bit too different and a bit too challenging for one person to manage.

"I didn’t use the word ‘breed.’ And I think we’ve done well in managing discipline. Of course the mix of boys with differing backgrounds this season is a change, but most boys sent by perennial groups are still the same. Some are from families whose parents have professional backgrounds and high socio-economic status. But more boys will be sent from institutions the Agency services. I’ve already begun accommodating that mix. This year we’re letting the inhabitants decide along with their counselors where and with whom they will share a tent,

Really! Quine exclaimed, his long forehead wrinkling.

Yes. We’ve decided that doing so is a way of beginning to allow them to decide something for themselves and to live with their choices.

I suppose, Quine demurred. But I had thought it better to have all the boys close, near the hall, thus allowing easier detection of any possibilities for trouble.

Keep them under surveillance, you mean. How is that supposed to teach them responsibility or help them gain self-control?

In a time when circumstances are so different anyway, now is not the time to be too liberal and go to extremes. I’ve been informed that the funding situation is critical. We have to make the operation effective with tolerable costs.

I, too, have been so informed. In fact, I’ve been directed more or less to make the camp pay its own way. You see I’m not entirely oblivious to the problems or to the Agency’s attitude. I have been here a while, and its natural for the Agency to start considering new leadership, especially with the economic situation so dismal. Of course, the Agency in its typical fashion has not said so as directly as you would. But I have understood the message: I’m supposed to efficiently direct camp functioning.

You might add, ‘or else.’ That at least is what I perceived from my talks with the Agency.

And apparently the Agency has told you what they haven’t told me—at least not so bluntly. I am not so naïve or so unconcerned to not be aware of what’s happening. To be blunt with you, Quine, I fully intend to fulfill my position. And I’m not at all pleased with the idea that someone like you might possibly be eroding my authority!

Carter rose and moved to the kitchen to rinse his cup. Quine followed with his bulk. Well, I come highly qualified and highly regarded!

I am sure your are, Carter said with quiet authority, hanging up his cup and turning to face Quine. But you started something with your bluntness. And I’m just acting in kind. This camp is my life. I’ve invested considerable time here, and I don’t want to lose that investment, especially to someone who thinks he can just march right in and take over. You may have used those moves in your other experiences, but they’re not going to work as well here!

You’ll see how well those moves work, Quine said, an expression on his face more smirk than smile that Carter would come to know too well and dislike even more. Quine set his unwashed cup in the metal sink. "And we’ll see how effective I can be. I’ve always succeeded at what I’ve done. And I expect to be just as successful here.

Good! Carter said. Now that we both are on record as to where we stand, let’s just try to keep in mind what we’re here for. We’re not here for me or for you, but for them!

Then they heard the sound of the returning bus. Come on! Carter ordered. I’ll show you your office and your quarters. Where’s your bag?

I left it on the bus. I thought I’d have one of the boys bring it up later.

Good way to lose things Carter admonished, delighted at having to discipline Quine. "You can start off right by showing that you are able to do things for yourself. That’s one thing we stress here. Everyone does his fair share, and everyone gets paid a fair return in exchange.

I’ll remember that, Quine said facetiously. Sounds like a good business practice. I appreciate that.

And Carter, dismayed at Quine’s continued smug, know-it-all response, silently led the way to staff quarters. The season ahead suddenly felt even longer.

Solomon stood alone near the yellow bus feeling lost. He squinted against the bright sunlight toward the gray-haired man with sharp features and glasses who came down from the huge building on the hill. He watched the man descend followed by two older boys who seemed to Solomon really big, one of them whose appearance Solomon had not seen often even when he had lived in the city. He watched as the small man with the pipe who had driven the bus and the large man with little hair and thick glasses who had arrived on the bus went to meet the gray-haired man and the older boys. He watched them exchange greetings. Then the small man with the pipe came back with the older boys. The other two men turned and began slowly climbing the slope toward the large building on the hill that looked more like some kind of boat.

Boys! the man with the pipe who had driven the bus called. I want you to meet your counselors. They’ll be helping you get settled. Now I’m going off to get some more of your friends. He smiled at them a thin smile, placed the pipe in his mouth, then climbed into the bus and started the engine while the older boys who the man said would be their counselors waved them toward the grassy slope away from the moving bus.

Let’s go! one of the junior counselors ordered. We’ve got work to do. Get your gear and set it here.

Solomon took up his carton following the others who took up cloth bags or plastic sacks or battered cases and moved to the bottom of the slope. They waited while the two junior counselors moved in among them, splitting them into two groups, calling off names from lists they had on clipboards.

Then one of the counselors took one group and led them off. Solomon watched them march over the edge of a hill and out of sight, the line straggling, with the boys in the rear scuffling and dancing along behind waving to those who remained on the grassy slope.

Where they going? someone asked.

Deeply bronzed because of his natural color, the older boy who remained stood over them and looked with studied confidence through dark glasses toward the disappearing line.

They’re another section, he said. They’ll eat with us, but they’ll be tenting in a different area of camp.

His answered seemed so final no one dared ask more. Then he began, and as he talked, he referred to his clipboard, using the board as a prop to emphasize his points, establish his authority, and create a necessary distance.

Only five or six years older than the boys he addressed, his sense of authority, his position, his self-confidence, and his security were continually shifting. Although larger and stronger, a football letter award recipient, somewhat a celebrity as one of the few of his ethnicity in his former high school, he was mostly because of his color and ethnicity still not fully sure of himself or of his position in the society he was beginning to represent, so any recrimination, any possibility of error brought his whole character into question. He protected himself by being tough, demanding, and sometimes arrogant.

But to Solomon, just one in a herd of boys who squinted up at him against the bright, open sky, the gathering heat, the older boy appeared colossal.

I’m Pickering! The junior counselor said.

For Solomon the proclamation seemed heroic and filled with power. No one in the town Solomon now lived was like the person before him, and even in his old neighborhood when he lived in the city, Solomon had seen no one similar. He had occasionally heard talk of those kind who lived on the other side of the valley with the railroad yards. And for a short time Solomon had contact with boys his own age who looked like Pickering. Solomon had met them at a downtown Boys Club Solomon sometimes went to for playing games and singing in a chorus. He had found the others who looked like Pickering lively and somewhat friendly but also bold and directive in their ordering of the games that they sometimes invited Solomon to join when no one else was there.

I’ll be leading you while you’re here at Camp Cory, Pickering added. We’ll go to meals together. We’ll take part in activities together. We’ll live together."

Then he began a catalogue of what he considered essential information, those rules and practices they needed to know in order to survive Camp Cory:

Where they would sleep, eat, relieve themselves. What activities they could take part in: swimming, canoeing, learning crafts such as weaving, carving, tying knots. Where they should go when they were feeling unwell. Where not to go: avoid the woods after dark; avoid going anywhere alone day or night. And be sure to use the buddy system! Choose someone to be with you at all times — even when you use the latrine!

What’s a latrine? one brave boy asked.

Toilet! Pickering said.

That brought various responses — gasps, nervous laughter, exchange of glances.

Keep track of your things and keep them secure. Follow directions, and above all, respond promptly to bugle calls when you hear them.

He finished, and even as he ended he was already ordering them to follow, waving them along, starting for an area of tents, sweeping them by with his clipboard, urging them as they struggled with bags, cartons, or sacks.

Respond promptly to calls! someone mimicked.

How we supposed to secure this? one boy asked shifting his carton to get a better hold.

I already feel unwell, another complained.

Make sure you take a buddy to the latrine!

Pickering ignored all such remarks as he marshaled them down the incline of the curving path to the road that had brought them up to the level before the slope.

Solomon followed closely, staying near one of the first in the line that straggled along the dirt road. He knew that he must get to a tent first. He must not be last. He might miss having a bunk. There were so many others here, so many he did not know.

What if he couldn’t get a tent with Andy or Phil, two boys he knew from the town where he now lived. He didn’t like the idea of having to tent with Hansen who was always too wild or Herman who seemed so slow, but Stricklin, always so frail, would be all right.

He knew all of them from the same small town near where Solomon now lived and with whom he went to the same county school, but Solomon, always alone, even in a group, remained apart. He never had been good at making friends at where he now lived, and even before that when he had lived in the city, he had always been interested in doing what others disliked, such as getting good grades for which he had always been praised, and especially reading. He would rather read than play. Or he would go to the downtown Boys club where he had met boys that Pickering reminded him of, so different in appearance and manner from those in his own Southside neighborhood.

But most often after school, he had always hurried home to work on his collections of bugs, rocks, leaves, or anything he could find in the world of his neighborhood or his backyard. Or he would take care of his brother, a baby still, whom Solomon had loved more than anyone he had ever known. Thinking now about that loss, Solomon suddenly felt the residual grief well within him, and he fought back tears, hiding them from the others by acting as if the sun dazzled his eyes.

Solomon followed closely as they marched from the level beneath the hall, down across the dirt road worn by tires and feet, following a path until it leveled again, where the land extended out to the right into a promontory of rock and earth that dropped away in low cliffs on either side. Directly to the left of where they stood, the terrain dipped more gradually to an area of grassy flatland before it cut down again into a hollow overgrown with low dense shrub and a small stream that followed the gully.

A good place to avoid! Pickering warned, waving his clipboard toward the hollow, then turning to face them while still walking backward. "Lots of wild things there. They’ll surprise you if you’re not careful.

What kind of things? someone asked.

All kinds. He warned turning forward again. Snakes! Sticker bushes! Poisoned plants! Lot of you, I’m sure, will have to find out for yourself!

The other boys appeared impressed, some seeming to show alarm. But Solomon looked out over the growth of bushes, tall grass, and thistle. He saw the reddish-brown earth between the shrubs along the bank where the bank climbed bare toward another level of grassy plain. He saw the tall, ripe grass that caught the sunlight.

Solomon wondered about the place. He turned to search the path that rose up the dusty slope to the building set on the hill; then he looked back to the cut that dropped to the stream that trickled at the bottom of the gully. That place seemed tame enough to him. Besides, if snakes were all he had to worry about, they weren’t much. He wasn’t afraid of snakes. He liked snakes — and even spiders. He turned back toward the path and the weight of the carton he carried as they gathered near an area of tents.

That gully runs down to the lake! Pickering shouted. Some of you will be living here, so you’ll probably try using the gully to get to the lake. There are your tents!"

He pointed to the pyramids of canvas pitched on the flat grassland below one cliff of the promontory where the grassy plain dropped to the shrub-filled hollow.

Those who want to live there, sound off! Take your gear, go stake out a bunk in one of the tents! The rest will follow me! We’ve got one more place! Out there!

He stretched his brown arm and hand with the clipboard to indicate the head of land that seemed to jut out into a spear point.

That’s both a great place and a dangerous place! From there you can see the whole camp. You can see the lake. You can even see Mount Horeb, the town where some of you were dropped on the way here before we picked you up!

That cliff’s my favorite place, and I’ll be bunking with the guys who choose to live there! But that’s a mean place! You’ll find there’s a sharp drop off at the end. You can’t fool with it! It’s high enough you could kill yourself if you fell. I’ll be staying here to make sure none of you go over the edge. So whoever wants to live there will have to be guys I can count on! Now, who wants the gully?

Pickering waited while the boys surveyed the possibilities looking from one area to the other, assessing them.

Solomon looked toward where the land suddenly ended dropping to the grassy plain below, the pyramid tents outlined against the sky and the distant forest beyond. He liked high places. He liked the idea of being thought old enough to be counted on. So he waited. Then the boys began to choose, raising their hands, and Pickering began acknowledging them.

Make up your mind! he urged. Those who don’t take the gully will have to live out there on the cliff!

What if I don’t like either one? one boy asked.

"You can make arrangements. Trade with someone in another area. But you can’t be wandering all over camp deciding where to bunk. Get settled first and then you’ll have a chance to see if you can trade with someone in another area when we meet in the hall for midday mess.

"Mess? What mess? one of the braver ones asked.

Meal time, Pickering said. So, how about it? Either the gully or the cliff! Now, who wants the gully? We’ve got lots of empty bunks!

This time he didn’t have long to wait before the hands shot up. When he checked off their names and determined he had enough volunteers, he cut them off.

"O.K., that’s it! Go claim your bunk! The rest find a place on the cliff! I’ll be around to see how you’re doing! And remember your tent number! You’ll need it for seating at mess! Listen for the bugle! When you hear it, we’ll be gathering to march! And we always march together for mess!

O.K.? So when I tell you to do something — Do it! He scanned their faces studying him. Go find a bunk!"

They scattered, scrambling to find a place. Then Pickering followed in his typical slow patrol bearing his clipboard, wandering among tents to break up fights.

Solomon reached the tent first. He grabbed the canvas flap and flipped it back letting the warm air and sunlight churn within. The interior of the tent was dim and musty. The boards of the platform for the floor sounded as he stomped across dragging the cardboard box. He labored the carton to the bunk against the wall opposite the flap. He sat on the bunk resting, happy that he had arrived before others so that he had his choice of bunks. Having arrived first, he assumed he now had authority, and he felt a sense of ownership. He felt more secure and that he would be able somehow to determine the order of what took place in the tent.

Being first, he assumed the others would have to listen to him and follow his directions. He would become leader. Yet, even as he thought of himself as leader, he imagined the burden that belonged to that position and it troubled him. He began to worry. He liked the idea of having the others follow him, of stopping when he stopped, of waiting as he turned, just like Pickering had turned, the others paying attention as he pronounced his decisions.

He recalled the leader of the gang he had once run with for a while when he lived in the city. He remembered the confidence, the self-assuredness that leader had displayed despite not being much older than Solomon, the boy barking commands so that others accepted his desires as their own. Yet Solomon considered the weight of having to decide for others, of knowing that others waited for him to decide. The burden seemed almost too great so that he found himself drawn between doubt and desire.

He calmed by going outside the tent to look for the others from his town. He saw them, smaller now, as they wandered in among the tents that had already filled, struggling with their own bags and cartons as he had struggled with his.

Here! he yelled, assuming leadership. But none of them heard his call. Hey, over here! he cried.

One of them spotted him then turned to the others. They all stood in tall grass with the hills behind them looking to where he stood before the tent. He waved. Then after they returned his signal, he went back inside the tent.

He noticed the fruit crate next to his bunk. He inspected those beside the other bunks to make sure he had the best one for himself. Then he began to unpack his box. He recalled Pickering’s instructions:

Make sure you keep most of the things you won’t need right away secured in your bag! You want to make sure that nothing gets lost or grows legs and feet and walks off.

They had howled at his remark.

Keep your things secure in the bag! Only use the crate for what you’ll need every day! Use your bag for what you don’t want to lose!

Solomon worried that he did not have a bag. He only had a box that already appeared battered and about to lose a flap. But then he considered that he really didn’t have anything worth enough for someone to bother taking.

The platform of the tent sounded. Solomon looked up startled. Andy stood in the doorway of the tent, his shape dark against the light and the trees Solomon saw through the opening.

Geez, Solomon! You always get someplace first! Andy cried. He pushed back the wire-rimmed glasses onto the bridge of his nose. Then another shape came up from behind, and Andy dove for one of the bunks along the sidewalls of the tent.

"I’ve got mine! Andy yelled rolling onto the bunk.

The others arrived. Phil came first, older but smaller than the others. Without a word — deliberately, quietly, precisely as always, Phil quickly took the remaining bunk. The three boys sat in proud ownership as the others staggered in.

You’ll have to find another tent, Phil called. His voice rose toward a laugh. He rolled back on the bunk, his legs coming up to his chest.

Yeah, this one’s full! Andy cried.

Slow, dull-eyed Herman staggered in. Older than the rest, older even than Phil, he lost through dullness what he gained through age. Now he stood blinking at the sudden dimness of the tent, blinking at those seated on the bunks until Hansen, perpetually wild with reddish, tousled hair, eyes a hectic green, came up behind Herman, deliberately jarring him, sending Herman stumbling into the tent.

Move, you dummy! Hansen laughed. The others laughed with him as Herman thrashed to maintain his balance and keep from stumbling. He regained his footing.

Quit your shoving! This tent’s full!

Finally Stricklin arrived, always last, the most frail, the youngest, with fine, sharp features and soft, birdlike bones, dovelike, the one most picked on, the one who always lingered behind waiting for the others to satisfy their own desires first.

Hansen, seeing the situation, turned and bolted from the tent knocking Stricklin to the ground.

Out of the way! Hansen yelled. He pounded toward the other tent opposite. Tent’s full. Got dibs on this one!"

Stricklin remained lying on the grass, his face slowly working into a grimace. He held his arms across his thin chest and gasped, his lips moving, his cries barely audible.

Here we go again, Phil said. He went out of the tent past Herman. Then he knelt beside Stricklin who rolled, still holding his chest, still gasping, moaning to himself. Come on, Strick, Phil soothed. It’ll be OK.

Stricklin finally found his voice. His words starting as a hiss grew to a scream. The others were always amazed and always amused at Stricklin’s rapid recovery:  That god damn Hansen! That son of a bitch!

Hansen by now, of course, had gained domination of the other tent. He stood within the opening chortling at Stricklin’s condemnation.

Got mine! he called. Got mine!

You son of a bitch, Hansen! Stricklin screamed.

Easy Strick. Easy, boy, Phil soothed. He looked at the others.

Hansen continued to laugh

Knock it off, Hansen, Phil warned.

You going to make me?

Phil bolted to his feet then charged. Hansen braced himself, held out his arm, and met Phil’s small light frame, hurtling Phil back upon the ground. Phil broke his fall with his hands behind him. He rose, walked to where Hansen towered above him from the platform of the tent."

You think you’re so tough, Phil said.

Hansen set his face, working himself into rage. You’re damn right I am!

One of these days, Hansen, I’ll take care of you.

I’ll be waiting when you’re ready, Hansen said.

Phil turned and walked away returning to his tent. He brushed between Andy and Solomon standing in the opening. He flung himself on his bunk.

Stricklin’s right, Phil said quietly. Hansen’s a son of a bitch.

The mood calmed. Andy began to unpack. Herman slouched over to the other tent. Stricklin went slowly.

You mean I’ve got to sleep in the same damn tent as him?

Solomon looked out through the opening of his tent. Stricklin stood pouting outside the other tent. Solomon felt disappointed with himself. He should have defended Stricklin. He should have done what Phil had wanted to do to Hansen. He should have helped Phil. Instead, he had hung back and watched the boys flare and then calm. Now that the incident had past, what could he do?

Solomon considered moving and giving Stricklin his bunk. Then Hansen and Stricklin wouldn’t be at each other all the time. But Solomon remembered Phil’s failed attempt to deal with Hansen. He wasn’t afraid of Hansen, he told himself. He was about to rise, to call to Stricklin and offer Stricklin his bunk when Hansen appeared at the opening of the other tent.

Come on in, baby! Hansen sneered.

Hansen turned and disappeared into the dimness of the tent and Stricklin, still pouting, reluctantly entered dragging his bag. Solomon heard Stricklin’s sharp cry and Hansen’s wild laugh. Herman, the slow bear, growled. The boys settled.

Carter watched from the terrace as boys gathered again on the level of grass below the assembly hall. Then he turned from the terrace railing and started back toward the shade of the overhang and the slider that opened into the building.

Well, I suppose I better get going, he said, more to himself than to the others who lounged in webbed chairs on the broad expanse of wood deck enjoying a brief pause after the surge of morning activities. Better get the troops out of the sun. They’re not used to so much light.

He turned to leave just as Quine’s bulk ambled past to the railing. Carter studied the man as Quine surveyed the camp as if he owned it.

You know, it’s too bad no one has done something with all this, Quine said, more to himself than to anyone else.

Carter waited for Quine to continue.

What’s that? Towers, senior counselor and camp psychologist called. He sat forward, took his pipe from his mouth, and held it while he, too, waited, studying Quine’s broad back.

Yes, Quine, Carter added cautiously. What do you mean? You just arrived. We’ve done plenty.

But Quine remained standing with his back to the other men. Folding his thick arms, his thick fingers gripping him, he went on studying the miniature scene below.

Carter and Towers studied Quine’s back. Both of them waited.

Quine stood on the terrace at the prow of the long building. He looked out across the moraine of intermittent grass and trees that rolled away toward the higher distant hills blue at the horizon. He stood at the railing enjoying the early afternoon sun, the clear air, the relaxed, full feeling from food, coffee, and the one filtered cigarette he allowed himself only after a midday meal.

Oh, it was just a thought I had, that’s all. Quine said, finally.

Come on now, Quine! Towers scolded. You can’t leave us wondering! I detect in your voice a certain seriousness — shall we say. I surmise from your tone you mean something more than just a thought.

Quine turned, his face set in the scowl that meant he was thinking. He strode back into the shade of the roof where the two sides of the building angled together and overhung the terrace.

Towers leaned forward in his webbed chair, his arms across his knees, his empty cup dangling from a finger. His eyes, almost startled looking, almost wild looking, as they sometimes were, he studied Quine as Quine stood before them preparing to offer a pronouncement.

Well, Quine said. You know, for some time I’ve wondered what someone could do with a place such as this. He swept his arm toward the tents, toward the scattered equipment, the milling boys, toward the bright line of woods beyond the grassy hills. With such a fantastic opportunity here! Look what’s been done with it! Nothing! Absolutely nothing!"

Quine, Towers noted. You haven’t told us anything!

Newland, finished now with his most recent duty of supervising the cleaning and re-ordering of the hall from the shambles of midday mess, ambled in and stood to survey them with his faint, quizzical smile, the dead pipe in his hand. Told us what? Newland asked.

Quine went into a deliberate study. He lowered his head allowing them to follow the shining forehead as it sloped over the top forming a bare plain between the two forests of coarse hair on either side. Then with his head almost on his chest, his lips pouting, he raised two thick fingers to his temple to focus his thought.

Do I perceive some problem here? Newland asked searching the faces of the others.

Not yet! Carter shot back, becoming irritated. Well, Quine, he said. If you’re not going to explain, I better think about getting the boys oriented for this week’s activities.

Consider, if you will, Quine said ponderously, finally breaking silence, his bushy brows beneath his continuous forehead and thick glasses rising as his forehead furrowed, we have here a splendid opportunity to really study the actions of group behavior under relatively primitive conditions. Yet, look how little we’ve done!

Look, Quine, we aren’t here for research, Carter said.

Hold on, Carter, Towers said.

Up to now, Quine said, ignoring them, some have only studied isolated groups within artificial, somewhat contrived situations. But what about the situation such as we have here?

Yes, indeed, Towers said. His eyes grew even larger as he appeared to take on an almost vacant look while he considered Quine’s suggestion.

Quine’s face suddenly came loose as if he were shaking himself from a trance. He smacked his lips.

Look, Quine, Carter insisted. This camp is not a facility for studying sociological behavior!

What precisely do you have in mind? Towers asked, ignoring Carter and directing his question to Quine.

I’m not quite sure. I have to do some thinking.

But you’re right, Towers said. Most of what we know about human relationships in regard to group behavior is really confined to theory. There are, of course, the so-called experiments of Sherif and his associates, but, as you stated, they were rather contrived, and the first two, as you know had to be terminated. In one case, the boys discovered that they were being manipulated and struck out at those who were conducting the study.

Indeed, Quine added. And, of course, we have the original sin faction to contend with. It would seem to me they have made a rather sweeping indictment of human nature. True, that’s simply literature.

Simply literature! Carter exclaimed.

Well, Towers continued following Quine’s prompt, even if we accept Golding’s premise, for example, the conditions under which his boys existed were uncontrolled.

Wasn’t the society that put them on that island controlling them? Newland asked.

To some extent, yes, Towers said. "But the point is that Golding’s notion about human nature offers, I must emphasize, only a vivid rendering of a view traditionally held that has never