"I'll be back shortly," he called over his shoulder. "I'm going to find Lake Batata. If I don't return in half an hour, send out the bloodhounds." The Siamese followed him to the door in ominous silence and then scampered into the living room and watched from a window when he headed for the woods, as if they might never see their meal ticket again.
A wooden shingle daubed with the word "trail" was nailed to a tree, and from there a sun-dappled path carpeted with pine needles and last year's oak leaves made soft footing. It wound through a dense growth of trees and underbrush, and the silence was absolute. This was what Qwilleran had hoped to finda secret place for ambling and thinking. The trail meandered this way and that, sometimes circumventing a particularly large tree trunk or rocky outcrop, sometimes requiring him to climb over a fallen tree. It was descending gradually, and he reminded himself that the return walk would be uphill, but he was not concerned; in Moose County he walked daily and rode a bike, and he was in good condition.
Every few hundred yards there was another chip of wood nailed to a tree to reassure him that this was the trail, but Lake Batata had not appeared. Could it have been a mirage? The decline was becoming steeper, the woods more dense, the footing less secure. There were slippery leaves that had not dried in this deep shade, and there were half-exposed roots that made the trail treacherous. Once he tripped and went down on his bad knee, but he pressed on. The inn was no longer visible on its summit, nor was the valley. This was real wilderness, and he liked it. Now and then a small animal scurried through the underbrush, but the only birds were crows, circling overhead and cawing their raucous complaints. Where, he asked himself, are the cardinals, chickadees, and goldfinches we have in Moose County?
Walking downhill put more of a strain on his knee than walking uphill, and he was glad to stumble upon a small clearing with a rustic pavilion, a circular shelter just large enough for a round picnic table and benches. Qwilleran sat down gratefully and leaned his elbows on the table. The wood was well weathered, and the pavilion itself was rotting. It was a long time since the Hawkinfields had picnicked there. He sat quietly and marveled at the silence of the woods, unaware that this was the silence before a storm. Even the crows had taken cover.
After a while his watch told him it was time to start back up the trail ... if he could find it. From which direction had he come? All the trees and shrubs looked alike, and there were several trampled areas that might be the beginning of a path. While sitting in the circular pavilion he had become disoriented. The sun would be sinking in the west, and the inn would lie to the north, but where was the sun? It had disappeared behind clouds, and the woods were heavily shaded. Beechum's prediction might be accurate.
Without further delay Qwilleran had to make a decision. One path ascended slightly, and the others descended. Common sense told him to take the former, so he started out, but soon it rose over a knob and sloped abruptly downhill. Returning to the clearing he tried another trail, which soon became no trail at all; it led into a thicket. Still, it was ascending, and Tiptop was up theresomewhere. In the long run how could he go wrong? He struck out through low underbrush, catching his pantlegs on thorns, picking his way among shrubs that snapped back in his face and threatened to jab him in the eye. The walking stick was more of a hindrance than a help, and he tossed it aside. All the while, it was getting darker. He could go back, but which way was back? He had a fear that he was traveling in circles.
He stood still, closed his eyes, and tried to apply reason. That was when he heard something plunging through the underbrush. It sounded like a large animalnot one of those small scurrying things. He listened and strained his eyes in the direction of the rustling leaves and snapping twigs. Soon he saw it through the gathering darknessa large black beast lumbering in his direction. A bear! he thought, and a chill ran down his spine. What was the advice he had heard from hunters? Don't make a sudden move. Keep perfectly still.
Qwilleran kept perfectly still, and the black animal came closer. It was advancing with grim purpose. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and then he realized it was a doga large black dog. Was it wild? Was it vicious? It was not starving; in fact, it was grossly rotund, and it seemed to be wearing a collar. Whose dog would be up here on this desolate mountaintop? The trimmed ears and tail suggested that it was a Doberman, out of shape from overeating. With relief he observed that it was wagging its tail.
"Good dog! Good dog!" he said, keeping his hands in his pockets and making no sudden move.
In friendly fashion the Doberman came closer and leaned against his legs. The collar was studded with nail-heads, spelling a name: L-U-C-Y.
"Good dog, Lucy," he said. "Are you Lucy?" He patted the black head, and the overfed dog leaned harder, applying considerable pressure. She was pushing him to one side. Qwilleran stepped away, and Lucy pushed again.
My God! Qwilleran thought. She's a rescue dog! Where's her brandy keg?
When he started to move in the direction she indicated, she bounded ahead, looking back to be sure he was following. Lucy could penetrate the thicket better than he could, and when he made too little progress, she returned to investigate the delay.
Eventually they emerged onto a carpet of pine needles. "This is the trail!" Qwilleran exulted. "Good dog! Good Lucy!" She bounded ahead. Now he recognized a certain fallen tree and a certain giant oak circumvented by the path. When finally the great gray-green hulk loomed above the treetops, he let out an involuntary yelp, and Lucy raced for the inn. She arrived first and waited for him on the veranda, close by the kitchen door.
Incredible! Qwilleran thought; she wants food, and she knows exactly where to go. Two yowling voices could be heard indoors. "Too bad, Lucy," he said. "I can't invite you in, but I'll find you some chow. Stay here." On the porch she appeared much smaller than she had when first lumbering out of the dark woods. Gratefully he gave her four hot dogs he had bought for himself. The Siamese disdained hot dogs with withering contempt, but Lucy gobbled them and took offon another errand of mercy or in search of another handout.
Indoors the Siamese sniffed Qwilleran's pantlegs and made unflattering grimaces.
"Don't curl your whiskers," he reproached them. "Lucy brought me home just in time." Rain was obviously on the way. The wind was rising, creating a menacing roar around the summit of Big Potato, and the dragon sky was raging.
For no reason at all, except relief at being rescued, Qwilleran felt a need to talk with someone in Moose County. This time he phoned Arch Riker, hoping he would be at home. It was Saturday night, and the middle-aged editor of the Moose County Something might be dining out with his cranky, middle-aged friend, Amanda that is, if they were on speaking terms this week.
When Riker answered, Qwilleran said, "Just checking to see if Moose County is still on the map."
"I thought you were going to boycott us," Riker chided him. "What's the matter? Are you homesick?"
"Why aren't you out romancing the lovely Amanda? I thought this was national date night by act of Congress."
"None of your business."
The two men had been friends since boyhood, and their dialogue never needed to be polite or even sequential.
"How's your little cabin in the Potatoes?" the editor asked. "Does it meet your modest needs?"
"It's adequate. I have six bedrooms, and I can park ten cars and seat twelve for dinner. Right now the wind's roaring as if a locomotive is headed for the side of the building. But it was beautiful earlier in the day. I had lunch with the editor of the Spudsboro Gazette, and Fm sending you a copy of the paper. Note the column called 'Potato Peelings.' You might want to apply for syndication rights."