Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Moved A Montain

"Yow," said Koko, batting an ear with his paw.

Qwilleran went outdoors and paced the veranda that circled the entire house, wondering why he was here alone when he had been so comfortable in Moose County among friends. From the front veranda he could see across the dark treetops to the valley, where pinpoints of light traced the city of Spudsboro. Directly below him the mountainside was dotted with the high-powered yardlights of the bouses on Hawk's Nest Drive. One bank of lights flooded a swimming pool like a baseball diamond illuminated for a night game.

Elsewhere, the view was one of total darkness, except for a circle of light toward the south. It appeared to be on a nearby mountain, and the circle appeared to be revolving. Qwilleran went indoors for his binoculars and trained them on the circle. It was definitely moving—a phenomenon that would bear investigation.

A chill wind was stirring, and he retired for his first overnight on Big Potato.

CHAPTER 4

Qwilleran took a few precautions before falling into the arms of Morpheus. It was June, and the sun would be rising early; that meant the Siamese would be awake at dawn, clamoring for their breakfast. Fortunately there were blinds on the bedroom windows—opaque, room-darkening roller blinds. Qwilleran pulled them down in the cats' quarters as well as in his own—four in each room. He also took care to leave their door open so they could go downstairs to the pantry and the turkey roaster that served as their commode. It was a long walk to the pantry, and they really needed a second commode, he thought. He added "turkey roaster" to his shopping list for the next day. There was nothing like a turkey roaster, he had discovered, for a non-tip, rustproof, easy-to-clean, long-lasting litterbox.

He expected to sleep well in the fresh mountain atmosphere. There were many claims made for living at high altitudes, he recalled as he started to doze off: People who live in the mountains are nicer . . . They live longer because the water and air are so pure . . . Heavy drinkers have fewer hangovers in the mountains . . .

He slept fairly well, considering the strange bed and the lace on the sheets and pillowcases. Whenever he shifted position he felt an alien substance under his chin. Nevertheless, he managed well enough until about five-thirty. At that early hour he was jolted awake.

Was it a gunshot? It brought him to a sitting position even before his eyes were open. At the sound of the second shot he was wide awake! The realization that it was happening inside the house catapulted him from the bed just as the third shot rang out! He dashed for the door, fearing for the cats and unmindful of his own safety. He yanked open the door in time to hear the fourth shot!

At that moment he realized it was not gunfire. Two Siamese were walking triumphantly from their sleeping quarters, tails waving. Early morning light was streaming into their room, turning everything rosy. All four window shades were raised!

"You devils!" Qwilleran muttered, shuffling back to his bed. One of them—no doubt Yum Yum the Paw—had discovered how to raise a roller blind with an explosive report. Simply insert a paw in the pull-ring . . . release it . . . and BANG! Up it goes! He had to admit it was a smart maneuver.

Two hours later it was the noisy motor of an aging truck that disturbed his sleep. Checking the parking lot from a second floor window, he saw a bearded man stepping out of a red pickup with one blue fender. His beard was untamed, and he wore old-fashioned striped railroad overalls and a wide-brimmed felt fedora that was green with age. Collecting paint buckets from the truck bed, he walked slowly toward the stone steps with a hitch in his gait. Hurriedly Qwilleran pulled on some clothes and met the workman on the veranda.

"Good morning," he said to the stranger. "Nice day, isn't it? A bit coolish, but fresh." He had lived in Moose County long enough to know about weather as a form of introduction.

"Gonna rain, come nightfall," said the workman. "Gonna be a gully-washer."

"How do you know?" The air was crisp; there was not a cloud in the sky; the mountains were sharply defined. "What makes you think we'll get rain?"

"Earthworms comin' up. See'd a black snake in a tree."

The man's face was a crinkled, weatherbeaten tan, but his eyes were keen. "Gittin' too doggone much rain in these parts."

"Are you Mr. Beechum?"

"Dewey Beechum, come to finish up," he said as he started around the veranda toward the rear.

Qwilleran followed. "What needs to be finished?"

They had reached the rear of the house, and Mr. Beechum nodded toward the railing of the veranda. "That there back rail, and that there glass door." He nodded toward the French door that Koko had sniffed the night before.

"What happened to the door?" Qwilleran asked.

"Busted." He applied a final coat of stain to a section of railing and then painted the framework around the small glass panes of the door—without using a dropcloth and without a spill or a smear.

"You do good work, Mr. Beechum."

"Don't pay to do bad. See that there chair?" He nodded toward the Queen Anne chair in the foyer. "Legs was busted, but I fixed 'em. Never know they was busted."

That explained Koko's interest in the chair and the French door; one of them had recently varnished legs, and the other had new glass and a coat of fresh paint on the frame. Clever cat! He never missed a thing. He even knew that the tall secretary desk in the living room was supposed to have books in its upper deck.

"Do you live around here?" Qwilleran asked.

Beechum jerked his head to the south. "Yonder on L'il Tater. That there's a real mount'n."

"Big Potato looks pretty good to me."

"Ain't what it was, years back."

"What happened?"

"Folks from down there"—he nodded toward the valley—"they come up here and rooned it, cuttin' down trees, buildin' fancy houses, roonin' the waterfalls. No tellin' what they'll be roonin' nextways. But they won't git L'il Tater iffen we hafta hold 'em off with shotguns!"

"Good for you!" Qwilleran always agreed heartily with anyone he was trying to encourage, and already he envisioned Mr. Beechum as a colorful subject for a column in the Moose County Something. "I've been thinking, Mr. Beechum, that I'd like to have a gazebo built among the trees."

"A what?"

"A small summer house—just a floor and a roof and screens on all four sides. I don't think it would ruin anything."

"Don't need no screens up here. No bugs."

How could Qwilleran explain to this mountain man that the gazebo was for the cats, so they could enjoy the outdoors in safety? "Just the same," he said, "I'd feel more comfortable with screens. Could you build it for me?"

"How big you want?"

"Perhaps ten or twelve feet square."

"Twelve's better. No waste."

"May I pay you in advance for the materials?"

"Ain't no need."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd use that treated lumber that doesn't need painting."

"That's what I'm aimin' to do."

"Good! We're on the same wave length. When can you start, Mr. Beechum?"