I ran home with my two remaining pears and my magazines, which no longer interested me.
My father was in his study. “What is it, son? You look as if you’ve had an epiphany.” He was always using words we didn’t know, expecting us to look them up in the dictionary. I’m afraid I never did.
With great excitement I told him the whole story. To his credit as a parent, he didn’t say I had fallen asleep and dreamed it—or I had eaten too many pears—or I had read too many weird stories. He said, “Well, son, everything the old fellow said makes sense. If we don’t stop destroying trees without replacing them, Planet Earth will be in bad trouble. Why don’t you and I do something about it? We’ll be business partners. You find a forester who’ll give us some advice about tree farming. I’ll supply the capital to buy seedlings. And you’ll be in charge of planting and maintenance.”
My father was a wise man. One thing led to another, and I became a partner in his medical clinic, just as he had been my partner in growing trees. But that’s not the end of the story. In med school I studied German as the language of science, and that’s where I met my future wife. We went to Germany on our honeymoon—to practice our second language. I particularly wanted to visit the Black Forest.
In a shop specializing in woodcarvings, I suddenly looked up and saw the little old man who had communicated with me in the woods. He had a long flowing moustache and a Tyrolean hat with the brim pulled down over his eyes, and he was carved from a rich mellow wood with some of the tree bark still visible on the hat.
“Was ist das?” I asked.
“A wood spirit,” the shopkeeper answered in flawless English. “He inhabits trees and brings good luck to those who believe in him. This one was carved by a local artist.”
“How did he know what a wood spirit looks like?” Nell asked.
The shopkeeper looked at her pityingly. “Everyone knows.”
I wanted to tell him I’d had a close encounter with a wood spirit but held my tongue—to avoid another pitying look. The carving now hangs over my fireplace, reminding me of the day that changed my life. Was I hallucinating? Or had I eaten too many pears? Or what?
“A compelling story!” Qwilleran said. “I’d like to see your carving of a wood spirit.”
“Let’s skip dessert and go home for coffee and Nell’s black walnut pie.”
On the way back to Black Creek, Qwilleran inquired about the strong local interest in the black walnut.
“The tree has always flourished in this area and certain midwestern states, but when the Limburger mansion was built, black walnut furniture and woodwork was highly desirable, and the groves were lumbered out. Today there’s a renewed demand for boards and veneer, especially in the Asian market. But it takes good heartwood to make good veneer, and black walnut trees are slow to mature. A good straight tree of the proper age can be worth upwards of fifty thousand. I’ve planted a grove of black walnuts, interspersed with other hardwoods, as a legacy for my grandchildren.”
“Fascinating subject,” Qwilleran murmured. “What is your source of information?”
“A friend of mine, Bob Chenoweth, wrote a painstakingly researched book on the subject. You might like to borrow it. He’s a good writer.”
“The name sounds Welsh.” Qwilleran prided himself on knowing the origin of surnames. “Does he sing? You know what they say: All Welshmen sing. All Scots are thrifty. All Englishmen have stiff upper lips. And all Irishmen write plays.”
“First,” said Qwilleran, when they reached the doctor’s house, “I want to see the wood spirit.”
The carving hung on the chimney breast, high over the fireplace mantel—craggy face, hooded eyes, long flowing moustache. The artist had brought it to life. “Looks a lot like me when I need a trim,” he said.
Then came the black walnut pie! He was familiar with other nut pies and found he disliked their cloying sweetness. Nell’s pie had an earthy nuttiness with a texture of creamy chewiness. Qwilleran, though never at a loss for words, could only murmur an enraptured “Wow!”
“Good, isn’t it?” Bruce said. “She makes it all the time. I crack the nuts.”
“Black walnut is an acquired taste,” she said. “Our whole family is hooked on it.”
“How large a family?”
“Three daughters. The youngest is in Nova Scotia right now, winning prizes for Scottish dancing.”
Bruce said, “The middle one is entering med school. The eldest—” He whipped out his wallet and showed a snapshot of a young woman in tan overalls, bright yellow shorts, slouch hat and field boots. She was standing next to a large tree trunk with bark peeled down like a banana—lightning damage. With obvious pride Bruce said, “She has a degree in forestry. She works as a forest ranger for the state. With the growing public concern about forests, she’ll go far!” Then, to veil his parental pride, he quipped, “She’s the one on the left.”
Qwilleran thought, Inside the dedicated pediatrician, a wood spirit is trying to get out!
A cuckoo clock sounded the hour. There were compliments, thanks, promises and reminders, and Qwilleran left with a copy of Black Walnut under his arm. For a moment he wondered if fate had deprived him of certain blessings: a father, a loving wife, talented offspring, concern for future generations, and black walnut pie “all the time.”
chapter seven
“Good news!” were the first words Qwilleran heard Thursday morning. Nick Bamba called to say that the police had released Cabin Five. “The housecleaning crew is down there now, giving it a thorough once-over.”
“Not too thorough, I hope,” Qwilleran said. “Koko likes a few lingering odors. He might detect a clue that has been overlooked by the detectives. I’m not contending that cats are smarter than people, but some cats are smarter than some people—with all due respect to the constabulary. . . . When can we move down there?”
“Give them another hour. Also, there’s a postcard here for you.”
Hanging up the phone, Qwilleran said to the cats, “Pack your bags!” They seemed to know what was afoot. Koko pranced around on his long elegant legs. Yum Yum cowered.
Polly’s card proved to be from Colonial Williamsburg. Pictured was a company of British redcoats marching down Duke of Gloucester Street.
Dear Qwill—The Governor’s Palace is gorgeous! Heard a wonderful concert at the church. Mona okay. Met interesting antique dealer from Ohio.
Love, Polly
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache and wondered what made an antique dealer “interesting.” Especially . . . one from Ohio.
Just as Qwilleran was approaching his French toast and sausage patties with gusto, the server came to the table with a cordless phone. “Call for you, Mr. Qwilleran. Will you take it at the table?”
“No. I disapprove of using a phone while operating a knife and fork. Get the name and phone number, and I’ll call back after my second cup of coffee.”
The number Qwilleran was given to call was Roger MacGillivray’s home phone. It was Thursday. He worked weekends at the newspaper in order to have Wednesdays and Thursdays off for home-schooling his youngsters. And on those two days Sharon did freelance bookkeeping for the motel in Mooseville. It was a neat arrangement.
“Roger! You called!” Qwilleran said when his friend answered. “What’s up?”
“Would you like to attend a rehearsal of the Reenactors Club? They’re doing a reenactment of an 1860 event, and they’ve hired me as a history consultant. It’s been a challenge. A performance will be given every Saturday night in July as a tourist attraction.”
“Does the show have a name?” Qwilleran asked.
“ ‘Saturday Night Brawl at the Hotel Booze.’ ”
“Does the sheriff know about it? He may close it down after the first performance.”
“It’s a clean show—historic, educational.”
“What time is the rehearsal?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Why not come and have dinner with me at the Nutcr
acker, Rog? I want to hear more about this.”
Now came the job of moving to Cabin Five. As soon as Qwilleran produced the first item of luggage, Yum Yum disappeared under the bed. A flashlight showed her huddled under the exact center of the king-sized bed. Cats have an innate spatial sense. Yum Yum knew she was safe. Even the magic word (“Treat!”) had no effect. She stayed where she was, and Koko polished off her portion. Her eyes glowed like electric lights when she faced the flashlight.
Then Trent, the porter, arrived to take everything down on the elevator. “All set to go, Mr. Qwilleran?”
“All except one cat.”
“No problem! That bed’s on casters. Just roll it out from the back wall.”
The bed rolled forward, and Yum Yum moved with it; she was still in the exact center.
“What’s your next clever suggestion, Trent?” Qwilleran asked.
“Tear gas. Stun gun.”
“How about a broom? You make a few swipes under the bed, and I’ll catch her when she runs out.”
It was a good idea that didn’t work. She shot out from the foot of the bed like a cannonball into the turret room and up the spiral staircase.
Trent, hot on her trail, yelled “Gotcha!” and made a grab, just before she launched into space with all four legs spread like a flying squirrel. But Qwilleran knew her flight pattern and caught her like a receiver catching a pass on the ten-yard line. She went limp and was dropped into the cat carrier.
“That little devil!” Qwilleran said. “She likes to make us look like fools. . . . Thanks, Trent. I’ll call you again when I need an expert cat-catcher.”
Qwilleran unloaded the van at the back door of Cabin Five. Koko, who had been there before, walked in with catly insouciance. Qwilleran showed them the location of their commode and water bowl and served a token treat.
A knock on the porch door sent both cats into hiding.
“Welcome to Creektown,” said Wendy, carrying a jug of iced tea.
“Where are the wonderful kitties?” asked Hannah, who had a plate of cookies.
They sat on the screened porch, and Qwilleran inquired about Doyle.
“When he isn’t biking he takes a canoe up the creek and shoots pictures of wildlife.”
“And what do you do, Wendy?”
“I play stereo recordings of classics and work on the family history I’m writing. My great-grandmother left a trunkful of correspondence going back to the Civil War: hardships, love affairs, disasters, war heroes, and one who disgraced the family by being a bounty-jumper—on both sides! Before the telephone, people wrote long letters in fine handwriting, usually very formal and sometimes poetic, as if they expected their words to be saved for publication. They would say, ‘Once more, dear, dear cousin, I take pen in hand and wing my thoughts to you across the miles.’ It’s an eye-opening adventure for me!”
“I wish someone would write a history of the Scotten and Hawley families,” Hannah said, looking hopefully at Qwilleran.
Don’t volunteer, he told himself, although he would like nothing better. The great body of water off the coast of Moose County, where the fisheries made their livelihood, was a vast source of drama. Someday he would write a book . . .
“Yow!” came a loud comment from indoors, and the visitors took it as a cue to take their jug and plate and go home.
Cabin Five was compact but well planned, mixing a rustic efficient ambiance with space-saving modern builtins and plenty of storage space. The bunk room, for example, had two built-in bunks on opposite walls, a closet with no door but plenty of hooks and hangers, open shelves in every spare corner, and a bank of drawers operating on nylon rollers. Easy-gliding drawers were also a feature of the tiny kitchen, dinette, and entertainment center. Table and benches for dining were built-in, as was the upholstered seating in the living room. Altogether, it was snug but comfortable and efficient, like the cabin of a boat. The Siamese seemed to prefer it to 3FF.
As Qwilleran was finding appropriate places for his belongings, he became aware of scurrying sounds under one of the bunks, as if a cat were playing with a mouse.
“Koko! What are you doing?” he demanded, as he beamed a flashlight under a bunk.
The cat was fussing with a pair of shoes, apparently the same pair that had attracted him on his previous tour of inspection. Dislodging them with a broom, Qwilleran found them to be the same brown oxfords, fairly new. “Sorry. Not my size,” he said as he sat down to think.
He had attributed Koko’s earlier fascination with the shoes to . . . foot powder? Or new leather? Obviously the cat had stashed the shoes away for future reference. Did he sense he was going to return? That cat’s ability to predict events was unnerving. . . . And now he had a sudden interest in the area behind the cabins. Apparently he knew that the airport limousine was coming down the hill and would deliver Mrs. Truffle to Cabin Four.
Qwilleran went on unpacking and putting things away: typewriter and writing materials on the dinette table, books on a wall-hung shelf over the sofa, Koko’s harness and leash in a kitchen drawer, the brown oxfords in a drawer under the TV. He was meeting Roger at five-thirty, and he had to freshen up and feed the cats.
At the inn Roger’s gray van was pulling into the parking lot, and they went to the dining room together.
The hostess who seated them seemed to know Roger, and he said, “Cathy! Will you be able to get to rehearsal tonight?”
“Yes. Mrs. Bamba is letting me leave at seven-thirty.”
Qwilleran’s curiosity was piqued. “You’ll have to tell me what this reenactment is all about. How is Cathy involved?”
“She’s one of our dance hall girls. . . . That’s what we’re calling them, anyway.”
Roger was a young man with a growing family who seldom went out to dinner except to “Grandma’s,” meaning Mildred Riker. So Qwilleran urged him to order from the high end of the menu, saying, “It’ll go on my expense account, Rog.”
Gradually the scenario for the “Saturday Night Brawl” evolved. Roger said, “The year is 1860, and the community of North Cove, now the town of Brrr, is a world of lumber camps, log drives, sawmills, and tall-masted sailing ships. It’s a Saturday night in spring, and the saloon at the Hotel Booze is filled with lumberjacks, sawyers and sailors. Upstairs they can stay overnight for a quarter, in a room without a bed but with enough floor space for a dozen men.
“In the saloon there is drinking and gambling and flirting with girls who hang around. Arguments lead to fistfights. Drunks are carried out to sober up on the wooden sidewalk.”
“And you’re staging this in the Black Bear Café?” Qwilleran asked.
“Yep! The audience sits in the booths on three sides of the restaurant. The action takes place at the long bar and at the tables in the center of the room. The cast is divided into teams of two or three at the bar . . . three or four at the tables. Each team does its thing: card playing, crap-shooting, womanizing, Indian wrestling—whatever . . . Got it, Qwill?”
“Got it!”
“Thornton Haggis worked out the staging and plays the saloonkeeper. During the performance he subtly directs the action, so that each team has its moment, and it isn’t total chaos.”
“Who are the members of the club?”
“Mostly young men, plus a few sisters and girlfriends. My job is to acquaint them with life as it was lived, when this whole area was nothing but dense forest. French traders were the first explorers. Then logging companies came from Maine and Canada. They set up lumber camps in the backwoods, felled trees, floated them down the creeks to sawmills that were set up wherever there was water power.”
“What kind of trees did they cut?” Qwilleran asked, thinking of black walnut.
“Pine was king in those days! Pine boards were shipped Down Below because of the building boom in cities. Also, the straight, slender trees, more than a hundred feet tall, made great masts for schooners. Do you realize that winter is when trees were harvested? Lumberjacks lived in primitive camps i
n the backwoods, felled the trees, dragged them out of the woods to ice-covered ‘skid roads,’ where they were loaded on sledges drawn by ox-teams, and stockpiled on the bank of a frozen creek. When the spring thaw came, they were floated downstream to the sawmills.”
Steaks and baked potatoes were served, and the men concentrated on eating, with scraps of information surfacing between bites: “Sawdust cities consisted of a sawmill, boarding house, saloon and undertaker. . . . ‘River-drivers’ were the daredevils who rode the logs down rushing streams. . . . Danger was everywhere.”
Dinner was interrupted when Nick Bamba rushed into the dining room and whispered in Qwilleran’s ear.
Jumping to his feet, Qwilleran blurted, “Something’s happened to Yum Yum!” He hurried from the room.
“I’ll go with you!” Nick said.
“How did you find out?”
“Someone phoned. The Underhills, I think.”
The two men were running down the back road—the shortcut.
“What did they say?”
“A cat howling bloody murder.”
Qwilleran had the door key in his hand. There was not a second to lose. The howls could be heard.
Then—when they approached the cabin, there was sudden silence.
“What . . . happened?” Nick gasped.
“Don’t know.”
Qwilleran jabbed the key into the lock and burst into the silent cabin. For a few seconds he looked about wildly.
Nick, at his heels, shouted, “Where are they?”
Yum Yum was sitting comfortably atop the television. Koko was in the side window, sitting tall on the sill, gazing through the screen toward Cabin Four.
At the same time a raucous voice drifted across from the neighbor:
“I don’t care who you are! I want to speak to the manager! . . . Hello! Are you the manager? Don’t ask me what’s wrong! You know very well what’s wrong! You moved a screaming hyena into the cabin next to me! I won’t stand for it! Get me out of here fast! Or I’ll call the sheriff! . . . No more apologies. Just find me an accommodation at a decent hotel. And a taxi to move my things! And don’t think I’m paying for the taxi! . . .”
Cat Who Went Up the Creek Page 7
