The Brutal Telling

by Louise Penny

  She then introduced him to everyone, one by one. He repeated their names and tried to keep them straight, though he was frankly lost after half a dozen. Finally Esther took him over to the buffet table, where food had been put out.

  “This is Skaay,” she said, introducing a tiny old man who looked up from his plate. His eyes were milky, blind. “Of the Eagle clan.”

  “Robert, if you prefer,” Skaay said, his voice strong and his grip stronger. He smiled. “The women of both clans have done a traditional Haida feast for you, Chief Inspector.” The blind man led Gamache down the long table, naming each dish. “This is k’aaw. It’s herring roe on kelp. This over here is pepper-smoked salmon, or if you prefer there’s wood-smoked salmon over there. Caught this morning by Reg. He spent the day smoking it. For you.”

  They walked slowly the length of the buffet. Octopus balls, crab cakes, halibut. Potato salad; fresh bread, still warm. Juices and water. No alcohol.

  “We have dances here. This is where most people have their wedding parties. And funerals. So many dinners. When the Eagle clan is hosting the Raven clan serves. And vice versa, of course. But tonight we’re all hosting. And you’re our honored guest.”

  Gamache, who’d been to state dinners in grand palaces, banquets given for him, awards presentations, had rarely felt so honored.

  He took a helping of everything and sat down. To his surprise, the young pilot joined him. Over dinner they all talked, but he noticed the Haida elders asked more questions than they answered. They were interested in his work, his life, his family. They asked about Quebec. They were informed and thoughtful. Kind, and guarded.

  Over cake, fresh bumbleberries and Cool Whip, Gamache told them about the murder. The Hermit in the cabin buried deep in the forest. The elders, always attentive, grew even more still as he told them about the man, surrounded by treasure, but alone. A man whose life had been taken, his goods left behind. A man with no name, surrounded by history, but with none himself.

  “Was he happy, do you think?” Esther asked. It was almost impossible to figure out if there was a leader of this group, by election or mutual consent. But Gamache guessed if there was one, it would be her.

  He hesitated. He hadn’t actually asked himself that question.

  Was the Hermit happy?

  “I think he was content. He led a small, peaceful life. One that appeals to me.”

  The young pilot turned to look at him. Up until that moment she’d been looking straight ahead.

  “He was surrounded by beauty,” continued Gamache. “And he had company every now and then. Someone who’d bring him what he couldn’t provide for himself. But he was afraid.”

  “Hard to be both happy and afraid,” said Esther. “But fear can lead to courage.”

  “And courage can lead to peace,” said a young man in a suit.

  It reminded Gamache of what the fisherman had written on the wall of the diner in Mutton Bay a few years earlier. He’d looked at Gamache across the room and smiled so fully it had taken the Chief Inspector’s breath away. Then the fisherman had scribbled something on the wall and left. Gamache had gone to the wall, and read:

  Where there is love there is courage,

  where there is courage there is peace,

  where there is peace there is God.

  And when you have God, you have everything.

  Gamache spoke the words, and then there was silence in the hall. The Haida were good at silence. And so was Gamache.

  “Is that a prayer?” Esther finally asked.

  “A fisherman wrote it on a wall in a place called Mutton Bay, a long way off.”

  “Perhaps not so far,” said Esther.

  “A fisherman?” asked the man in the suit, with a smile. “Figures. They’re all crazy.”

  An older man beside him, dressed in a thick sweater, gave him a swat and they laughed.

  “We’re all fishermen,” said Esther, and Gamache had the feeling she was including him. She thought for a moment then asked, “What did your Hermit love?”

  Gamache thought about that. “I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps when you do, you’ll find his killer. How can we help?”

  “There were a couple of references to Woo and Charlotte in the Hermit’s cabin. They led me to Emily Carr, and she led me here.”

  “Well, you’re far from the first,” an elderly man said with a laugh. It wasn’t a smug or derisive laugh. “Her paintings have been bringing people to Haida Gwaii for years.”

  It was hard to tell if that was considered a good thing.

  “I think the Hermit was on the Queen Charlotte Islands, maybe fifteen or more years ago. We think he was Czech. He’d have spoken with an accent.”

  Gamache brought out the photographs, taken at the morgue. He’d warned them what they’d see but he wasn’t worried. These were people who lived comfortably with life and death in a place where the line was blurred, and people, animals, and spirits walked together. Where blind men saw and everyone had the gift of flight.

  Over strong tea they looked at the dead man. They looked long and hard. Even the young pilot gave the photographs her attention.

  And as they looked at the photos, Gamache looked at them. To see a flicker of recognition. A twitch, a change in breathing. He became hyperaware of every one of them. But all he saw were people trying to help.

  “We’ve disappointed you, I’m afraid,” said Esther as Gamache put the pictures back in his satchel. “Why didn’t you just e-mail them to us?”

  “Well, I e-mailed them to Sergeant Minshall and he circulated them among the police, but I wanted to be here myself. And there’s something I couldn’t e-mail. Something I brought with me.”

  He put the two balls of towel on the table and carefully unwrapped the first.

  Not a spoon clinked against a mug, not a creamer was popped, peeled and opened, not a breath. It was as though something else had joined them then. As though silence had taken a seat.

  He gently unwrapped the next one. And it sailed across the table to join its sibling.

  “There’re others. Eight we think.”

  If they heard him they gave no indication. Then one man, middle-aged and stocky, reached out. Stopping, he looked at Gamache.

  “May I?”

  “Please.”

  He picked it up and in large, worn hands he held the sailing ship. He lifted it to his face so that he was staring into the eyes of the tiny men and women who were looking ahead with such pleasure, such joy.

  “That’s Haawasti,” whispered the bush pilot. “Will Sommes.”

  “That’s Will Sommes?” Gamache asked. He’d read about this man. He was one of Canada’s greatest living artists. His Haida carvings were bursting with life and snapped up by private collectors and museums worldwide. He’d assumed Sommes was a recluse, having grown so famous surely he’d be in hiding. But the Chief Inspector was beginning to appreciate that on Haida Gwaii legends came alive, walked among them, and sometimes sipped black tea and ate Cool Whip.

  Sommes picked up the other piece and turned it round and round. “Red cedar.”

  “From here,” confirmed Gamache.

  Sommes looked under the sailing ship. “Is that a signature?”

  “Perhaps you could tell me.”

  “Just letters. But it must mean something.”

  “It seems to be in code. We haven’t figured it out yet.”

  “The dead man made these?” Sommes held up the carving.

  “He did.”

  Sommes looked down at what he held in his hand. “I can’t tell you who he was, but I can tell you this much. Your Hermit wasn’t just afraid, he was terrified.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Next morning Gamache awoke to a fresh, cold breeze bringing sea air and the shriek of feeding birds through his open window. He turned over in bed and, drawing the warm quilt around him, he stared out the window. The day before had seemed a dream. To wake up in Three Pines and go to sleep in this Haida village bes
ide the ocean.

  The sky was brilliant blue and he could see eagles and seagulls gliding. Getting out of bed he quickly put on his warmest clothing and cursed himself for forgetting his long underwear.

  Downstairs he found a full breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast and strong coffee.

  “Lavina called and said to be at the dock by nine or she was leaving without you.”

  Gamache looked round to see who the landlady was talking to.

  He was alone in the room. “Moi?”

  “Yes you. Lavina said don’t be late.”

  Gamache looked at his watch. It was half past eight and he had no idea who Lavina was, where the dock was, or why he should go. He had one more cup of coffee, went to his room to use the washroom and get his coat and hat, then came back down to speak to the landlady.

  “Did Lavina say which dock?”

  “I suppose it’s the one she always uses. Can’t miss it.”

  How often had Gamache heard that, just before missing it? Still, he stood on the porch and taking a deep breath of bracing air he surveyed the coastline. There were several docks.

  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 Som
mes 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.”