A Parthan Summer, Julie Steimle [best ereader for pdf TXT] 📗

Habits are easily formed. It is just as easy to form good habits as it is to form evil ones—Joseph F. Smith—

Dinner at the lodge of Camp Lake Dale was less a fiasco than lunch had been. By this time the individual cabin groups claimed their permanent seats for the duration of their stay at camp. Clusters of Penningtonites, Monroeites, Billsburgians, and Harvesters situated around the room like nations on a map. Of course, there were the occasional few campers who simply sat where they wanted without regard for boundaries, choosing their seat for the location. Most considered them either brave or foolish. The Pennington wrestlers chose their table just like that, and they were considered both brave and foolish because they chose to sit right next to the Monroe baseball team. Another group that selected their place for location was the Billsburg track team. They liked the far window near the back exit.

The lodge itself was filled with both long and round tables. The long ones had benches and the round ones used stools. All of the tables were stored up in cupboards under the front stage and around the back of the lodge during the activities. It was part of K.P. duty to set up the tables, which rotated between each camp cabin. Those that set up the tables also served the food. And that evening the Monroe cheer team was serving dinner.

Marissa Williams spooned the mashed potatoes, dumping them onto the trays as they came by. She gave smiles to the boys, flirting like a preening bird—but when she faced Michelle Clay and the Pennington cheerleaders she dumped rather sloppily, hoping to splatter their red and black uniforms. She got some well-splattered. But when it was Zormna’s turn to get potatoes, Zormna merely pulled her tray away.

“Z…Zo…whatever your name is—you don’t have any potatoes,” the Monroe cheer captain said.

Zormna looked at the scoop that hung over the large pot of instant potatoes and replied, “I don’t like potatoes.”

She stuck out her tray for corn.

“What? You ate too many in Ireland?” Marissa snapped as Zormna continue down the line.

Zormna ignored her. She didn’t exactly know why she disliked potatoes—only that the odor gave her a headache.

“I’ll take some,” a boy from Billsburg said, winking at Marissa.

The Monroe cheerleader dumped her heaping scoopful onto his tray.

After eating and the dinner trays were cleared, the camp director (Mr. Hardt) gave another long welcome speech about how they were all come together binding something or other, with the mention of sports in the middle of it all. He kept talking about good sportsmanship while the different schools shot glares at the other teams, which showed exactly how much any of them were really listening. As soon as he finished, the rest of the evening program began.

Skit night. Each sports team was supposed to prepare a skit or a song. Some had prepared before camp, while others had done it in the afternoon. In the case of the Pennington cheerleaders, they had mostly practiced before they came to camp. They put on a Miss America pageant with each girl as a state, playing up state quirks. Zormna was chosen as Miss Illinois and had to play up her Irish accent while wearing a green dress Joy had brought from home. Her hair was tied up in two tiny pony tails. Joy was Miss California because she was tannest of the bunch. She talked like a valley girl while wishing for peace, love, and recycling. But Michelle (of course) got to be their own state. She was to be the beautiful and intelligent contestant—and, of course, she won. Most of the skits were along that vein with many degrees of silliness. Well, the girls’ skits were. Many of the boys’ teams performed Boy Scout level skits which included varying degrees of grossness. But nearly all did something funny.

Fact was, the best really was the Pennington wrestling team. They had performed a rewritten spoof of a song from Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat. The entire lodge was rolling in the aisles in laughter, including the Monroe wrestling team—and that was a first.

Before, in between, and at the end of all the skits, they also sang songs—more songs than most knew existed. The camp counselors spent the intermissions teaching them several new rounds as the teams prepared to go on stage. But occasionally they called for a student to teach a song. Brian Henderson grabbed that opportunity and hopped up to the front of the room. He led them in a crazy song that mixed up several classic folk songs together.

“Ok, new part and sing the rest,” he said. “—‘Old Mac Donald had a farm, E – I – E – I – O. And on that farm he had a sweet heart…. Let me call you sweet heart, I’m in love with you. Let me whisper in your ear…. Oh where, oh where, has my little dog gone?—He’s home, home on the range…where they chopped down the old pine tree—TIMBER! And they hauled it away to the mill—LOG, LOG, LOG!”  He then laughed and continued, “Last verse! ‘Old Mac Donald had a farm, E – I – E – I – O. And on that farm he had a grandma…’” He had every one slap their knees as he led them in singing: “‘Late last night when we were home in bed, Miss O’ Leary took the lantern to the shed. When the cow knocked it over, she winked her eye and said…Let me call you sweet heart, I’m in love with you. Let me whisper in your ear…. Oh where, oh where, has my little dog gone?—He’s home, home on the range…where they chopped down the old pine tree—TIMBER! And they hauled it away to the mill—LOG, LOG, LOG! Old Mac Donald had a farm, E – I – E – I – O!’”

He bowed as the crowd roared with laughter. And he hopped off the stage. Everyone called him a ham, though a few from Monroe called him something else. As soon as he got back to his seat, the Billsburg baseball team began their skit, all dressed in drag—for their beauty contest.

Michelle Clay glared at them the entire time.

Everyone else broke into cackles at the hairy legs of each of the boys in dresses. Though, Zormna just gaped. For her, it was just too weird.

At the conclusion of the evening, each school group stood up and sang their school fight-song, then their alma mater. Of all the school songs, Harvest really had the nicest. They were wholly serious singing about the Harvest Hawks; though Billsburg snickered through out the entire thing because their fight song had been changed when the song Who Let the Dogs Out became popular. Of course, rival tension swelled when Monroe sang their song and Pennington started theirs with the usual buccaneer swagger.

Oh we’re the Pirates from Pennington High!

With a yo, ho, ho and a battle of fun.

We’ll fight on until the day we die!

With a swarthy swagger and a flag on the run.

Shiver me timbers.

And blow the man down!

Hoist the Jolly Roger

‘Cause we’re coming around.

With sixteen men on a dead man’s chest.

You’d better fight hard ‘cause we are the best

And Ho maties! We’ll hoist them up!

The Pennington pirates have come!

We’ll fight with out might! For it is our right!

‘Cause we are number one!

The Pennington athletes cheered, though the Monroe teams booed. But then all silenced as Mr. Hardt stood up to speak to the students once more.

It was getting late and many people were nodding off. His voice resonated a bit like a comforting father’s, saying how wonderful that camp year was going to be and how they should exemplify good sportsmanship. One or two were actually asleep on the bench. As for the others, most stared ahead and daydreamed.

Zormna was among them.

She stared at the firelight within the hugr fireplace, watching the flames dance as Mr. Hardt’s words passed by her ears. Like the sun over the lake, like the rich air and lush wind, the fire was mesmerizing.

The fire crackled and sparked, popping from the pinecones and needles that had been tossed in. She smiled vacantly, thinking of how insane such an open and dangerous thing it was, barely grated with a few pokers next to it. Not that she hadn’t seen fire before, but that it was so different from the fires within the religious halls back Home.

The fires at Home were maintained within glass containers, perfectly vented and evenly fueled. She was most familiar with the one in the Alpha district hall that she used to visit on Lenyora—their day of religious worship and the closest equivalent to what one on Earth would call the Sabbath. But she had always seen the fire from far away. She had always been forbidden to stand near the front of the hall where the presiding seers led the congregation in their religious devotions. Their reason? That Seers had ‘seeing eyes’. They would be able to recognize a Tarrn on sight. Zormna peeked at Jeff, wondering now if that were really true. He was half-seer after all, and yet he had not realized until recently that she was a Tarrn. But she thought he was incredibly insightful—freakishly so.

Her eyes went back to the fire. This one, so much more wild, was also amazing. In a way, it was like the country she was currently in. Freedom was dangerous and beautiful.

The flame sparked. The yellow and red colors entertained her eyes with patterns that were there and yet not altogether there, transient like ghosts.

 And since Zormna was not paying attention to what the camp director was saying she did not realized he had dismissed them at all until the others around her abruptly stood up to go back to their cabins. Zormna rose also, but her eyes were still on the fire. She didn’t notice Joy smirking at her, or Jennifer telling Joy and Stacey to leave her behind while the rest of the Pennington cheer team was following Michelle Clay outside. Even as the entire hall cleared out, Zormna kept watching the fire’s flames and sparks. The life of it entranced her. She stepped closer to it, breathing in the warmth that had begun to heat her skin.

“Jeff, you coming?” Brian called through the door.

Zormna turned. She saw Jeff Streigle also staring at the fire, the yellows and oranges reflecting off of his face. He turned when she had and noticed her standing there the same time she did, drawing in a breath.

Stepping back from the fire, he hesitated to leave as if he also was marveling at it. But he took in another breath and walked past Zormna to join his friend at the door. His face appeared flushed.

“Coming.” Jeff glanced back at Zormna, who returned her eyes to the firelight. The golden and orange light reflected onto her pale countenance, making her face and hair glow like the setting sun. Seeing her like this, in this setting even, sent a shiver like electricity through him—one so powerful that is was overwhelming. His heart beat too heavily in his chest. He had to leave. Jeff stepped quickly out of the lodge, but Zormna hardly noticed him as he walked off.

Stepping closer to the blaze, Zormna sat slowly onto the bench in front of the flame then pulled the fire iron off of the rack near by. Carefully and curiously, she weighted the rod in her hand then poked at the fire as she watched the glowing log roll over, popping and casting pieces of coal and ash about the fireplace. She gazed at the blackened log and eyed the glowing edges and cracks in the wood. Life and death emanated in that singular moment. It made her feel both fragile and yet powerful. Though she was not very religious in the sense of many of her countrymen, she felt like the Source of her faith was