Susan and I led Mr Entwhistle down the dock and onto the sand Susan and I walked slowly at first figuring that anyone with a cane might need a little more time but Mr Entwhistle didn’t use his cane to help him walk He swung it casually over his shoulder and then swung it back and tapped it on the ground like Fred Astaire in one of those old dance movies We crossed the sand to the cedar sidewalk that runs along the first row of houses The houses are clumped close together like they’re protecting each other from the damp A few houses actually seem to lean toward each other to stay warm All the houses have windows facing the sidewalk As we passed each house people glanced up from doing dishes or reading books or fixing fishing gear Nobody was surprised to see Susan or me but they were surprised to see Mr Entwhistle No boat or plane had landed but here we were leading a stranger down the boardwalk a stranger who looked like a famous storybook detective seen on the foggy streets of London England You look like a detective I said Are you No I am a writer and an artist I am Gerald Entwhistle
Perhaps you’ve heard of me I don’t think so said Susan Me either I said But we’re only twelve Ah but it is children for whom I write and paint I am the author and illustrator of the Bobby and Bernice Beaver books I read one of those I said excitedly Bobby and his wife Bernice are beavers who build dams that look like famous buildings You have it my lad said Mr Entwhistle patting my head which is something I usually hate And for my art I must travel this beaver-laden country and draw the little beasts in their habitat Couldn’t you just go to the zoo in London or something asked Susan They’ve got beavers there right Yes but I pride myself in the accuracy of my drawings I need the natural flowers and trees where beaver live I need the proper hue of the water and the texture of the rocks I am a perfectionist you see Animals must be drawn in their proper environment A loud deep roar seemed to make the fog swirl in front
of us The sound echoed off the mountains Mr Entwhistle stopped What was that he asked his voice quiet for the first time He didn’t sound afraid just curious A lion I said casually A mountain lion It’s close he added puffing more quickly on his pipe He sent round balls of smoke into the air like miniature smoke signals It’s an African lion I said She’s not in her natural habitat She’s locked in the tennis court and she’s hungry You have a lion in this village asked Mr Entwhistle He said it calmly but he did take a small step back toward his rowboat Yes said Susan Muriel was left here when she was a cub She’s our pet now She’s tame Imagine that said Mr Entwhistle I am in a Canadian west coast village with a tame lion Ah life is strange This morning I stared death in the eye he said like a stage actor overplaying his part and now I share this fine little village with an African lion We are both poor souls far from home Here’s my house I said stopping on the wooden
