Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Moved A Montain

Moira said, "Last summer we had a great vacation in the Potato Mountains—didn't we, Kip? We took the kids and the camper. Beautiful scenery! Wonderful mountain air! And so peaceful! Even with four kids and two dogs it was peaceful."

"I've never heard of the Potato Mountains," Qwilleran said.

"They're just being developed. You should get there before the influx of tourists," Kip advised. "If you'd like to borrow our camper for a couple of weeks, you're welcome to it."

Arch Riker said, "I don't picture Qwill in a camper unless it has twenty-four-hour room service. We used to be in scouting together, and he was the only kid who hated campouts and cookouts."

Qwilleran was quaking inwardly at the thought of condensed living in an RV with a pair of restless indoor cats. "I appreciate the offer," he said, "but it would be better for me to rent a cabin for a couple of months—something Thoreau-esque but with indoor plumbing, you know. I don't need any frills, just the basic comforts."

"They have cabins for rent in the Potato Mountains," Moira said. "We saw lots of vacancy signs—didn't we, Kip? And there's a nice little town in the valley with restaurants and stores. The kids went down there for movies and the video arcade."

"Do they have a public library? Do you suppose there's a veterinarian?"

"Sure to be," said Kip. "There's a courthouse, so it's obviously the county seat. Neat little burg! A river runs right along the main street."

"What's the name of the town?"

"Spudsboro!" the MacDiarmids said in unison with wide grins as they waited for Qwilleran's incredulous reaction.

"We're not kidding," said Moira. "That's what it's called on the map. It's right between two ranges of mountains. We camped in a national forest in the West Potatoes. On the east side there's Big Potato Mountain and Little Potato Mountain."

"And I suppose the Gravy River runs through the valley," Qwilleran quipped.

"The river is the Yellyhoo, I'm sorry to say," said Kip. "It's great for white-water rafting—not the Colorado by a long shot, but the kids got a thrill out of it. There are caves if you're interested in spelunking, but the locals discourage it, and Moira is chicken, anyway."

"Where do the Potato Mountains get their name?"

The MacDiarmids looked at each other questioningly. "Well," Moira ventured, "they're sort of round and knobby. Friendly mountains, you know—not overwhelming like the Rockies."

"Big Potato is in the throes of development," said her husband. "Little Potato is inhabited but still primitive. In the 1920s it was a haven for moonshiners, they say, because the revenuers couldn't find them in the dense woods."

Moira said, "There are lots of artists on Little Potato, selling all kinds of crafts. We brought home some exciting pottery and baskets."

"Yes," Kip said, "and there's a girl who does those tapestries you like, Qwill." When his wife nudged him he repeated, "There's a young woman who does those tapestries you like . . . How do you bachelors manage, Qwill, without a wife to set you straight all the time?"

"It's a deprivation I'm willing to suffer," Qwilleran replied with a humble bow.

"If you're really interested in mountains, I'll call the editor of the Spudsboro Gazette. We were roommates in J school, and he bought the newspaper last summer. That's how we found out about the Potatoes. Colin Carmichael, his name is. If you decide to go down there, you should look him up. Swell guy. I'll tell him to have a rental agent contact you. Spudsboro has a chamber of commerce that's right on the ball."

"Don't make me sound like a Rockefeller, Kip. They'll hike the rent. I want something simple, and I want to keep a low profile."

"Sure. I understand."

"How's the weather in the Potatoes?"

"Terrific! Didn't rain once while we were there."

For the rest of the evening Qwilleran appeared distracted, and he kept fingering his moustache, a nervous habit triggered by a desire for action. He made quick decisions, and now his instincts were telling him to flee to the Potato Mountains and resolve his quandary. Why that particular range of mountains attracted him was something he could not explain, except that they sounded appetizing, and he enjoyed what he called the pleasures of the table.

Arriving home after the reception, he was greeted at the door by two Siamese cats with expectancy in their perky ears and waving tails. He gave each of them a cocktail sausage spirited away from the hotel buffet, and after they had gobbled their treat rapturously and washed up meticulously, he made his announcement. "You guys won't like this, but we're going to spend the summer in the mountains." He always conversed with them as if they were humans with a passable IQ. In fact, he often wondered how he had lived alone for so many years without two intelligent beings to listen attentively and respond with encouraging yowls and sympathetic blinks.

Their names were Koko and Yum Yum—seal-point Siamese with hypnotically blue eyes in dark brown masks and with brown extremities shading into fawn-colored bodies. The female was an endearing lap sitter who was fascinated by Qwilleran's moustache and who used catly wiles to get the better of him in an argument. The male was nothing short of extraordinary—a genetically superior animal gifted with senses of detection and even prognostication in certain circumstances. His official cognomen was Kao K'o Kung, and he had a dignity worthy of his namesake. Koko's exploits were by no means a figment of Qwilleran's imagination; the hard-headed, cynical journalist had documented them over a period of years and intended eventually to write a book.

Before he broke the news to his two housemates he anticipated a negative reaction. They could read his mind if not his lips, and he knew they disliked a change of address. As he expected, Yum Yum sat in a compact bundle with legs tucked out of sight, a reproachful expression in her violet-tinged blue eyes. Surprisingly, Koko seemed excited about the prospect, prancing back and forth on long, elegant legs.

"Have I made the right decision?" Qwilleran asked.

"Yow!" said Koko spiritedly.

In the next few days Qwilleran proceeded with plans, arranging for a summerlong absence, plotting an itinerary, choosing motels, and making a packing list. For good weather and the quiet life he would need only lightweight summer casuals. It never occurred to him to take rain gear.

Soon the mail began to arrive from Spudsboro. The first prospectus invited him to buy into time-share condominiums, now under construction. A realty agent listed residential lots and acreage for sale. A contractor offered to build the house of Qwilleran's dreams. Several rental agents sent lists of cabins and cottages available, no pets allowed. The Siamese watched anxiously as each letter was opened and tossed into the wastebasket. Yet, the more disappointing the opportunities, the more Qwilleran was determined to go to the Potatoes.

The situation improved with a telephone call from Spudsboro. The person on the line was friendly and enthusiastic. "Mr. Qwilleran, this is Dolly Lessmore of Lessmore Realty. Colin Carmichael tells us you want to rent a mountain retreat for the entire summer."

It was a husky, deep-pitched voice that he identified as that of a woman who smoked too much. He visualized her as rather short and stocky, with a towering hair-do, a taste for bright colors, a three-pack-a-day habit, and a pocketful of breath mints. He prided himself on his ability to personify a voice accurately. Yes, he told her, he was considering the possibility of a mountain vacation.