The Brutal Telling (54 page)

But at only one was there a seaplane. And the young bush pilot looking
at her watch. Was her name Lavina? To his embarrassment he realized he’d never asked her.

He walked over and as his feet hit the wooden boards of the dock he saw she wasn’t alone. Will Sommes was with her.

“Thought you’d like to see where those pieces of wood came from,” the carver said, inviting Gamache into the small pontoon plane. “My granddaughter’s agreed to fly us. The plane you came in on yesterday’s a commercial flight. This is her own.”

“I have a granddaughter too,” said Gamache, looking he hoped not too frantically for the seat belt as the plane pushed off from the wharf and headed into the sound. “And another on the way. My granddaughter makes me finger paintings.”

He almost added that at least a finger painting wasn’t likely to kill you, but he thought that would be ungracious.

The plane gathered speed and began bouncing off the small waves. It was then Gamache noticed the torn canvas straps inside the plane, the rusting seats, the ripped cushions. He looked out the window and wished he hadn’t had that full breakfast.

Then they were airborne and banking to the left they climbed into the sky and headed down the coastline. For forty minutes they flew. It was too noisy inside the tiny cabin to do anything other than yell at each other. Every now and then Sommes would lean over and point something out. He’d gesture down to a small bay and say things like, “That’s where man first appeared, in the clam shell. It’s our Garden of Eden.” Or a little later, “Look down. Those are the last virgin red cedars in existence, the last ancient forest.”

Gamache had an eagle’s-eye view of this world. He looked down on rivers and inlets and forest and mountains carved by glaciers. Eventually they descended into a bay whose peaks were shrouded in mist even on this clear day. As they got lower and skimmed over the water toward the dark shoreline Will Sommes leaned in to Gamache again and shouted, “Welcome to Gwaii Haanas. The place of wonders.”

And it was.

Lavina got them as close as she could then a man appeared on the shore and shoved a boat out, leaping into it at the last moment. At the door to the seaplane he held out his hand to help the Chief Inspector into the tippy boat and introduced himself.

“My name’s John. I’m the Watchman.”

Gamache noticed he was barefooted, and saw Lavina and her grandfather taking their shoes and socks off and rolling up their cuffs as John rowed. Gamache soon saw why. The boat could only get so close. They’d have to walk the last ten feet. He removed his shoes and socks, rolled up his pants and climbed over the side. Almost. As soon as his big toe touched the water it, and he, recoiled. Ahead of him he saw Lavina and Sommes smile.

“It is cold,” admitted the Watchman.

“Oh, come on, princess, suck it up,” said Lavina. Gamache wondered if she was channeling Ruth Zardo. Was there one in every pack?

Gamache sucked it up and joined them on the beach, his feet purple from just a minute in the water. He nimbly walked over the stones to a stump and, sitting down, he rubbed the dirt and shards of shell from his soles and put his socks and shoes back on. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt such relief. Actually, when the pontoon plane landed was probably the last time.

He’d been so struck by the surroundings, by the Watchman, by the frigid water, he’d failed to see what was actually there. Now he saw. Standing on the very edge of the forest was a solemn semicircle of totem poles.

Gamache felt all his blood rush to his core, his center.

“This is Ninstints,” whispered Will Sommes.

Gamache didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He stared at the tall poles into which was carved the Mythtime, that marriage of animals and spirits. Killer whales, sharks, wolves, bears, eagles and crows were all staring back at him. And something else. Things with long tongues and huge eyes, and teeth. Creatures unknown outside the Mythtime, but very real here.

Gamache had the feeling he was standing at the very edge of memory.

Some totem poles were straight and tall, but most had tumbled over or were lurching sideways.

“We are all fishermen,” said Will. “Esther was right. The sea feeds our bodies, but that feeds our souls.” He opened his hands in a simple, small gesture toward the forest.

John the Watchman spoke softly as they picked their way among the totem poles.

“This is the largest collection of standing totem poles in the world.
The site’s now protected, but it wasn’t always. Some poles commemorate a special event, some are mortuary poles. Each tells a story. The images build on each other and are in a specific and intentional order.”

“This is where Emily Carr did much of her painting,” said Gamache.

“I thought you’d like to see it,” said Sommes.

“
Merci
. I’m very grateful to you.”

“This settlement was the last to fall. It was the most isolated, and perhaps the most ornery,” said John. “But eventually it collapsed too. A tidal wave of disease, alcohol and missionaries finally washed over this place, as it had all the others. The totems were torn down, the longhouses destroyed. That’s what’s left.” He pointed to a bump in the forest, covered by moss. “That was a longhouse.”

For an hour Armand Gamache wandered the site. He was allowed to touch the totems and he found himself reaching high and placing his large, certain hand on the magnificent faces, trying to feel whoever had carved such a creature.

Eventually he walked over to John, who’d spent that hour standing in one spot, watching.

“I’m here investigating a murder. May I show you a couple of things?”

John nodded.

“The first is a photograph of the dead man. I think he might have spent time on Haida Gwaii, though I think he’d have called them the Charlottes.”

“Then he wasn’t Haida.”

“No, I don’t think he was.” Gamache showed John the picture.

He took it and studied it carefully. “I’m sorry, I don’t know him.”

“It would have been a while ago. Fifteen, maybe twenty years.”

“That was a difficult time. There were a lot of people here. It was when the Haida finally stopped the logging companies, by blocking the roads. He might have been a logger.”

“He might have been. He certainly seemed comfortable in a forest. And he built himself a log cabin. Who here could teach him that?”

“Are you kidding?”

“No.”

“Just about anyone. Most Haida live in villages now, but almost all of us have cabins in the woods. Ones we built ourselves, or our parents built.”

“Do you live in a cabin?”

Did John hesitate? “No, I have a room at the Holiday Inn Ninstints,” he laughed. “Yes. I built my own cabin a few years ago. Want to see it?”

“If you don’t mind.”

While Will Sommes and his granddaughter wandered around, John the Watchman took Gamache deeper into the forest. “Some of these trees are more than a thousand years old, you know.”

“Worth saving,” said Gamache.

“Not all would agree.” He stopped and pointed. To a small cabin, in the forest, with a porch, and one rocking chair.

The image of the Hermit’s.

“Did you know him, John?” asked Gamache, suddenly very aware he was alone in the woods with a powerful man.

“The dead man?”

Gamache nodded.

John smiled again. “No.” But he’d come very close to Gamache.

“Did you teach him to build a log cabin?”

“No.”

“Did you teach him to carve?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you had?”

“I have nothing to fear from you. Nothing to hide.”

“Then why are you here, all alone?”

“Why are you?” John’s voice was barely a whisper, a hiss.

Gamache unwrapped a carving. John stared at the men and women in the boat and backed away.

“It’s made from red cedar. From Haida Gwaii,” said Gamache. “Perhaps even from these trees in this forest. The murdered man made it.”

“That means nothing to me,” said John and with a last glance at the carving he walked away.

Gamache followed him out and found Will Sommes on the beach, smiling.

“Have a nice talk with John?”

“He hadn’t much to say.”

“He’s a Watchman, not a Chatter.”

Gamache smiled and started rewrapping the carving, but Sommes touched his hand to stop him and took the carving once again.

“You say it’s from here. Is it old growth?”

“We don’t know. The scientists can’t say. They’d have to destroy the carving to get a big enough sample and I wouldn’t let them.”

“This is worth more than a man’s life?” Sommes held the carving up.

“Few things are worth more than a man’s life, monsieur. But that life has already been lost. I’m hoping to find who did it without destroying his creation as well.”

This seemed to satisfy Sommes, who handed the carving back, but reluctantly.

“I’d like to have met the man who did that. He was gifted.”

“He might have been a logger. Might have helped cut down your forests.”

“Many in my family were loggers. It happens. Doesn’t make them bad men or lifelong enemies.”

“Do you teach other artists?” Gamache asked, casually.

“You think maybe he came here to talk to me?” asked Sommes.

“I think he came here. And he’s a carver.”

“First he was a logger, now he’s a carver. Which is it, Chief Inspector?”

It was said with humor, but the criticism wasn’t lost on Gamache. He was fishing, and he knew it. So did Sommes. So did Esther. We’re all fishermen, she’d said.

Had he found anything on this visit? Gamache was beginning to doubt it.

“Do you teach carving?” he persisted.

Sommes shook his head. “Only to other Haida.”

“The Hermit used wood from here. Does that surprise you?”

“Not at all. Some stands are now protected, but we’ve agreed on areas that can be logged. And replanted. It’s a good industry, if managed properly. And young trees are great for the ecosystem. I advise all wood carvers to use red cedar.”

“We should be going. The weather’s changing,” said Lavina.

As the float plane took off and banked away from the sheltered bay Gamache looked down. It appeared as though one of the totem poles had come alive, and waved. But then he recognized it as John, who guarded the haunting place but had been afraid of the small piece of wood in Gamache’s hand. John, who’d placed himself beyond the pale.

“He was involved in the logging dispute, you know,” Sommes shouted over the old engine.

“Seems a good person to have on your side.”

“And he was. On your side, I mean. John was a Mountie. He was forced to arrest his own grandmother. I can still see him as he led her away.”

“John’s my uncle,” Lavina shouted from the cockpit. It took Gamache a moment to put it all together. The quiet, somber, solitary man he’d met, the man who watched their plane fly away, had arrested Esther.

“And now he’s a Watchman, guarding the last of the totem poles,” said Gamache.

“We all guard something,” said Sommes.

S
ergeant Minshall had left a message for him at the guesthouse, and an envelope. Over a lunch of fresh fish and canned corn, he opened it and drew out more photographs, printed from the sergeant’s computer. And there was an e-mail.

Armand,

We’ve tracked down four of the remaining carvings. There are two we still can’t find, the one Olivier sold on eBay and one of the ones auctioned in Geneva. None of the collectors has agreed to send us the actual work of art, but they did send photos (see attached). No other carving has printing underneath.

Jérôme continues to work on your code. No luck yet.

What do you make of these pictures? Quite shocking, don’t you think?

I’ve been working on the items from the cabin. So far none has been reported stolen and I can’t seem to find a connection among them. I thought a gold bracelet might be Czech, but turns out to be Dacian. An astonishing find. Predates the current Romanians.

But it’s very odd. The items don’t seem to be related. Unless that’s the key? Will have to think about it some more. I’m trying to keep the lid on these finds, but already I’m getting calls from around the world. News agencies, museums. Can’t imagine how the word spread, but it has. Mostly about the Amber Room. Wait until they find out about the rest.

I hear you’re on the Queen Charlotte Islands. Lucky man. If you meet Will Sommes tell him I adore his work. He’s a recluse, so I doubt you’ll see him.

Thérèse Brunel