Cat Who Went Up the Creek

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.