The Cat Who Went Up the Creek

chapter six

As Qwilleran was going into the dining room for breakfast, Nick Bamba hailed him from the office. “Couple of things for you here, Qwill. One looks like the postcard from Polly you’ve been waiting for.”

To exhibit his nonchalance, he put the postcard in his pocket and borrowed a paper knife to open the envelope. It contained a pair of complimentary tickets, fifth row on the aisle, for the opening of Pirates of Penzance.

At the entrance to the dining room the hostess on duty was Cathy, the MCCC student.

“Would you save me a table for four Sunday evening?”

“In the window as usual?”

“Please. And how are reservations coming in for Friday?”

“Very well! Is there something special?”

“It’s opening night of the Gilbert and Sullivan opera at the auditorium. I’m reviewing it for the paper and have two complimentary tickets. Do you know anyone who could use the other one?”

“I’m quite sure. Is it a good opera?”

“Very clever. Very tuneful.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He gave Cathy the second ticket, wondering what young innocent would be his seatmate and wishing Polly were in town.

And after taking a table, and after some badinage with the waitress, and after deciding on French toast and sausage patties . . . Qwilleran looked at Polly’s first postcard.

He expected to see a replica of an eighteenth-century village with an oxcart on a dirt road, surrounded by hens pecking in the ruts. Instead he saw an airport motel with a hundred-foot electric sign and a parking lot filled with cars. The message on the reverse side was in minuscule handwriting:

Dear Qwill—Arrived safely. Luggage lost. Delivered in middle of night. Locks broken. Mona went to hospital with rhinitis caused by strong perfume on plane.

Love, Polly

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. He had asked for more personal news, and Polly always aimed to please.

alt="[image]"/>Around noon Qwilleran set out for his luncheon-interview with Bruce Abernethy. The doctor lived in the village of Black Creek. There were two Black Creeks, one wet and one dry, as the locals liked to say. The former flowed north to the lake and had been a major waterway in pioneer days, when the forests were being lumbered. It was wider and deeper in the nineteenth century and had the advantage of being straight—an important consideration when logs were being driven downstream in the spring. The “dry” half of the metaphor was the village on the east bank of the creek—although not completely dry; the Nutcracker Inn had a bar license, and there was a neighborhood pub behind the gas station. It had a roller-coaster history: a thriving community in the boom years; a bed of ashes after the Big Burning of 1869; a veritable phoenix in the Nineties; a ghost town after the economic collapse. During Prohibition there was a period of prosperity as rum runners brought their contraband from Canada and went up the creek to the railroad.

When Qwilleran first arrived in Moose County from Down Below, the Limburger mansion stood like a grotesque monument to the past, but there was little else. Now Black Creek’s downtown had a post office, fire station and branch bank—plus a drugstore selling hardware, a grocery selling books and flowers, a gas station selling hamburgers, and a barbershop selling gifts.

Qwilleran, on his way to the Abernethy house, stopped to buy flowers, which he handed to the doctor’s wife when she greeted him at the door. “Come in! Bruce is on the phone. . . . Oh, thank you! How did you know that daisies are my favorite? . . . The date of the MCCC luncheon has been set for July 27. That’s a Thursday. Is that agreeable with your busy schedule? Everyone is so pleased you’ve consented to join us!”

“My pleasure,” he murmured. The invitation was more welcome than he revealed.

The MCCC faculty had not crossed paths with the “Qwill Pen” columnist—nor had he pursued them. His fellow journalists considered them cliquish. Actually the college had a limited curriculum, and many members of the faculty commuted from Down Below to teach two or three days a week. Qwilleran had met the college president briefly when the man was escorting Fran Brodie to a reception. Otherwise, his sole contact was Burgess Campbell, who gave a lecture course in American history. A localite, Campbell frequented the men’s coffee shops that were a part of the Moose County culture.

So the invitation to the luncheon was welcome. Contacts made there might open up a new source of “Qwill Pen” material.

Nell was saying, “You’re going to love Bruce’s story. He’s told it only twice, I think, outside the family, so it will be more or less an exclusive for your book. When do you expect to have it published?”

“As soon as I have enough tall tales to make a decent showing—not just ‘a slender volume,’ as the reviewers say.” He was trying not to stare above Nell’s head; there was a cuckoo clock on the foyer wall.

“Will it be illustrated?” she asked.

“That possibility hasn’t been discussed as yet, but it would help flesh out the volume and add to its desirability.”

“I’ve done illustrating for magazines and would like to submit samples.”

“By all means, do it!” Qwilleran said with sincerity.

The doctor came hurrying from his study. “Sorry about the delay. Full speed ahead—to the Black Bear Café! It’s my treat.”

“I’ll drive,” Qwilleran said. As they pulled away, he added, “Pleasant neighborhood here. Any problem with squirrels?”

“Not since we frustrated them by putting power lines and cables underground. And notice that the trees are away from the house. There’s a brook back there and some fine black walnuts. They like proximity to water . . . so we have the problem licked. Until next week! Then their engineering minds will figure out a solution. There’s nothing like a squirrel for keeping you humble!”

Qwilleran said, “Andy Brodie tells me you’re a fourth-generation doctor.”

“And proud of it! My great-grandfather arrived on a sailing vessel from Canada in the early days of lumbering here. It was dangerous work. Axes, saw blades, falling trees and murderous fistfights took their toll. Every community had a sawmill, a rooming house and an undertaker who built pine coffins. And there were a lot of amputations in those days. The term ‘Dr. Sawbones’ was no joke. As families moved in, there were children’s diseases and the perils of childbirth. Visit an old cemetery, and you’ll be amazed at the number of women who died in their twenties. My grandfather—second generation—made house calls on horseback and did surgery by lamplight in homes that weren’t very clean. My father had an office in his front parlor, and patients came to him. He not only treated their ailments but tried to educate them about health and hygiene.”

The Black Bear Café was in the town of Brrr, so named because of a sign writer’s slip-of-the-brush.

Since it was the coldest spot in the county, the townfolk relished the humor of the mistake and enjoyed the distinction of a place-name without a vowel. The town was on a bluff overlooking a fine natural harbor, and on the crest was an old hotel dating from the lumbering era. Architecturally it was in the shoebox style—plain, with many small windows. Its notable feature was a sign that ran the length of the roof, announcing ROOMS . . . FOOD . . . BOOZE. The letters were large enough to be seen for miles, and it was a favorite hangout for boaters, who nicknamed it the Hotel Booze.

Gary Pratt was the present owner, a young man with a lumbering gait and shaggy black beard. It was no wonder the café bore the name it did. When he acquired a mounted black bear as official greeter at the entrance, the picture was complete. Added to the restaurant’s attractions was its famous “bear burger,” considered the best ground-beef sandwich in the county. Certainly it was the largest.

“What’s the Abernethy clan connection?” Qwilleran asked when they had taken seats in a booth.

“Leslie of Aberdeenshire, dating back to the thirteenth century. Nell likes me to wear the kilt. Why don’t we promote a Scottish Night at the Nutcracker Inn?”

“Andy could play the bagpipe,” Qwilleran suggested.

“My daughter could dance the Highland Fling.”

Bruce ordered a glass of red wine, and Qwilleran ordered coffee. Both said they would have burgers—but not right away. They had business to discuss.

Qwilleran produced his tape recorder, and the doctor recounted a story that was later transcribed as “The Little Old Man in the Woods.”

When I was eleven years old, we were living in a wooded area outside Fishport, and behind our property was the forest primeval—or so I thought. It was a dense grove of trees that had a sense of mystery for an eleven-year-old. I used to go there to get away from my younger siblings and read about flying saucers. A certain giant tree with a spreading root system above ground provided comfortable seating in a kind of mossy hammock.

I would sneak off on a Saturday afternoon with the latest science fiction magazine—and a supply of pears. You see, the early French explorers had planted pear trees up and down the lakeshore. To own “a French pear tree” was a mark of distinction. We had one that was still bearing luscious fruit. Before leaving on my secret Saturday reading binge, I would climb up into the tree and stuff my shirtfront with pears. Then I’d slink away into the forest.

One day I was lounging between the huge roots of my favorite tree and reading in pop-eyed wonder about the mysteries of outer space, when I heard a rustling in the tree above me. I looked up, expecting a squirrel, and saw a pair of legs dangling from the mass of foliage: clunky brown shoes, woolly brown knee socks, brown leather breeches. A moment later, a small man dropped to the ground—or rather floated to earth. He was old, with a flowing gray moustache, and he wore a pointed cap like a woodpecker’s, with the brim pulled down over his eyes. Most amazingly, he was only about three feet tall.

I wanted to say something like: Hello . . . Who are you? . . . Where did you come from? But I was absolutely tongue-tied. Then he began to talk in a foreign language, and I had seen enough World War II movies to know it was German.

Now comes the strangest part:

I knew what he was saying!

His words were being interpreted by some kind of mental telepathy. He talked—in a kindly way—and I listened, spellbound. The more I heard, the more inspired and excited I became. He was talking about trees! That the tree is man’s best friend . . . It supplies food to eat, shade on a sunny day, wood to burn in winter, boards to build houses and furniture and boats . . . The greatest joy is to plant a tree, care for it, and watch it grow. What he did not say was something I had learned in school: That trees purify the air and contribute to the ecology of the planet!

Then, before I knew it, he was gone! But I had changed! I no longer wanted to be an astronaut; I wanted to grow trees!

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.”