Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Moved A Montain

The weaver relaxed her stern expression for the first time. "They're not here. They didn't sell well, so I took them home. Most of the shoppers are looking for things under five dollars. But I could bring the capes to the shop if you want to come back another day." She looked at him dubiously as if questioning his sincerity.

"Are you open tomorrow?"

"Sunday's our biggest day."

"What hours?"

"Noon till dusk."

"Very well. I'll be here first thing. My name is Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran, spelled with a QW. And what's your first name, Ms. Beechum?" She told him, and he asked her to spell it.

"C-h-r-y-s-a-1-i-s."

"Pretty name," he said. "I met a Dewey Beechum this morning. He's going to build a gazebo for me."

"That's my father. He's an expert cabinetmaker," she said proudly. "He was one of the best hands at the furniture factory before they automated. He's looking for work now. If you know anyone who wants custom-made furniture—"

"I'll be glad to recommend him." As she wrapped the blue cape in tissue and a Five Points grocery bag, he said, "Pardon my ignorance, but why is this called Potato Cove? I've just arrived in these parts. What is a cove?"

"A cove is smaller than a valley but larger than a hollow," she said. "Are you going to live here?"

"Only for the summer."

"Alone?"

"No, I have two Siamese cats."

"What brought you here?" she asked suspiciously.

"Some friends from up north camped in the national forest across the river last summer, and they recommended the Potatoes. I was looking for a quiet place where I could do some serious thinking."

"About what?" Her blunt nosiness amused him. He was nosy himself, although usually more artful.

"About my career," he replied cryptically.

"What do you do?"

"I'm a journalist by profession . . . Tell me about you. How long have you lived in the mountains?"

"All my life. I'm a Tater. Do you know about Taters? We've been here for generations, living close to nature. We were environmentalists before the word was invented."

"If you'll forgive me for saying so, Ms. Beechum, you don't talk like a Tater."

"I went away to college. When you go into the outside world, you gain something, but you also lose something."

"Can you make a living by weaving?" he asked. If she had license to pry, so did he.

"We don't need much to live on, but we do fairly well in summer. In the winter I drive the school bus."

"You mean—you maneuver a bus up these mountain roads? You have my admiration . . . I'll see you tomorrow," he said as more tourists entered the shop. "Is there any place in the cove where I can get a cup of coffee?"

"Amy's Lunch Bucket," she said, pointing up the hill. Although she didn't smile, she had lost the chip on her shoulder.

Qwilleran waved a hand toward the silent woman at the loom. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Beechum, and compliments on your weaving!" She nodded without looking up.

Amy's Lunch Bucket was aptly named, being large enough for four old kitchen tables and some metal folding chairs obviously from the Just Rust collection. But it was clean. The floorboards were painted grass green, and the white walls were decorated with an abstract panorama of green mountains against a blue sky. A plump and pretty woman with the healthy radiance of youth presided over a make-shift kitchen behind a chest-high counter. "Nice day," she said.

"Are you Amy?" Qwilleran asked.

"Sure am!" she replied cheerfully. "What can I dish up for you?"

The menu posted on the wall behind her offered vegetable soup, veggieburgers, oat bran cookies, yogurt, apple juice, and herb tea. "Do you have coffee?" he asked.

"Sure don't. Only coffee sub and herb tea."

There was a sudden squawk behind the counter, -as if from some exotic bird.

"Goo goo goo," said Amy, leaning down.

Qwilleran peered over the counter. On a table was an infant in a basket. "Yours?" he asked.

"Yes, this is our Ashley. Two months, one week, and three days. He's going to be an ecologist when he grows up."

Qwilleran accepted coffee substitute and two oat bran cookies, which he carried to a table near the front window. The only other patrons were the candle dipper, who was eating yogurt and reading a paperback, and the blacksmith, who had ordered everything on the menu and was nicking into it with ravenous gulps.

"Howya," he said with his mouth full, and the candle dipper looked up and smiled at the man who had bought almost a hundred dollars' worth of beeswax.

A moment later Chrysalis Beechum burst into the restaurant in a hurry, waving a ceramic mug. "Apple juice for Ma," she told Amy. "How's Ashley? Is Ashley a good boy today?"

"Ashley is an angel today. How's business down the hill?"

"Surprisingly good! Put the juice on our bill, Amy."

As Chrysalis started out the door with the brimming mug, Qwilleran stood up and intercepted her. "We meet again," he said pleasantly. "Won't you join me for a cup of coffee substitute and an oat bran cookie?"

She hesitated. "I've left my mother alone at the shop,"

The candle dipper spoke up. "I'm all through eatin', Chrys. I'll stay with her till you git back."

"Aw, thanks, Missy. Take this apple juice and tell her I won't be long." Chrysalis turned back to Qwilleran. "My mother doesn't speak, so I can't leave her in the shop alone."

"She doesn't speak?" Sympathy was masking his curiosity as he held a rusty chair for her.

"It's a psychological disorder. She hasn't said a word for almost a year."

"What may I serve you?"

"Just some yogurt, plain, and thank you very much."

In that small restaurant Amy heard the order and had it ready by the time Qwilleran reached the counter.

"How do you like Potato Cove?" Chrysalis asked him.

"Interesting community," he said. "Very good shops. I like everything except the tourists."

"I know what you mean, but they pay the rent. How do you feel about what's happening to the mountains?"

"Having arrived only yesterday, I'm not ready to make a statement, I'm afraid. Are you referring to the land development?"

"That's what they call it," she said aggressively. "I call it environmental suicide! They're not only cutting down trees to ship to Japan; they're endangering life on this planet! They're creating problems of erosion, drainage, water supply, and waste control! They're robbing the wildlife of their habitat! I'm talking about Big Potato. And the Yellyhoo—one of the few wild rivers left—is in danger of pollution. I'm not going to have children, Mr. . . ."

"Qwilleran."

"I'm not going to have children because the next generation will inherit a ravaged earth."

He had heard all this before but never with such passion and at such close range. He was formulating a reply when she demanded:

"You're a journalist, you say. Why don't you write about this frightening problem? They're ripping the heart out of Big Potato, and they'd like to take our land away from us, too. Little Potato will be next!"