The Brutal Telling

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 beside 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 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.

Sergeant 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.

He pulled out the photographs and looked at them as he ate. By the time the coconut cream pie arrived he’d been over them all. He’d laid them out on the table in a fan in front of him. And now he stared.

The tone of them had shifted. In one the figures seemed to be loading up carts, packing their homes. They seemed excited. Except the young man, who was gesturing anxiously to them to hurry. But in the next there seemed a growing unease among the people. And the last two were very different. In one the people were no longer walking. They were in huts, homes. But a few figures looked out the windows. Wary. Not afraid. Not yet. That was saved for the very last one Superintendent Brunel sent. It was the largest carving and the figures were standing and staring. Up. At Gamache, it seemed.

It was the oddest perspective. It made the viewer feel like part of the work. And not a pleasant part. He felt as though he was the reason they were so afraid.

Because they were, now. What had Will Sommes said the night before, when he’d spotted the boy huddled inside the ship?

Not just afraid, but terrified.

Something terrible had found the people in his carvings. And something terrible had found their creator.

What was odd was that Gamache couldn’t see the boy in the last two carvings. He asked the landlady for a magnifying glass and feeling like Sherlock Holmes he leaned over and minutely examined the photographs. But nothing.

Leaning back in his chair he sipped his tea. The coconut cream pie remained untouched. Whatever terror had taken the happiness from the carvings had also stolen his appetite.

Sergeant Minshall joined him a few minutes later and they walked once more through town, stopping at Greeley’s Construction.

“What can I do for you?” An older man, beard and hair and eyes all gray, but his body green and powerful.

“We wanted to talk to you about some of the workers you might’ve had back in the eighties and early nineties,” said Sergeant Minshall.

“You’re kidding. You know loggers. They come and go. Especially then.”

“Why especially then, monsieur?” asked Gamache.

“This is Chief Inspector Gamache, of the Sûreté du Québec.” Minshall introduced the men and they shook hands. Gamache had the definite impression that Greeley wasn’t a man to be crossed.

“Long way from home,” said Greeley.

“I am. But I’m being made to feel most welcome. What was so special about that time?”

“The late eighties and early nineties? Are you kidding? Ever heard of Lyall Island? The roadblocks, the protests? There’re thousands of acres of forest and the Haida suddenly get all upset about the logging. You didn’t hear about it?”

“I did, but I wasn’t here. Maybe you can tell me what happened.”

“It wasn’t the Haida’s fault. They were wound up by the shit-disturbers. Those über-environmentalists. Terrorists, nothing more. They recruited a bunch of thugs and kids who just wanted attention. It had nothing to do with the forests. Listen, it wasn’t like we were killing people, or even killing animals. We were taking down trees. Which grow back. And we were the biggest employer around. But the environmentalists got the Haida all worked up. Fed the kids a bunch of bullshit.”

Beside Gamache, Sergeant Minshall shifted his feet. But said nothing.

“And yet the average age of the arrested Haida was seventy-six,” said Gamache. “The elders placed themselves between the young protesters and you.”

“A stunt. Means nothing,” Greeley snapped. “I thought you said you didn’t know anything about it.”

“I said I wasn’t here. I’ve read the reports, but it’s not the same thing.”

“Fucking right. Media swallowed it whole. We looked like the bad guys and all we were trying to do was log a few hundred acres that we had a right to.”

Greeley’s voice was rising. The wound, the rage, wasn’t far beneath the surface.

“There was violence?” asked Gamache.

“Some. Bound to be. But we never started it. We just wanted to do our jobs.”

“A lot of people came and went at that time? Loggers and protesters, I suppose.”

“People crawling all over the place. And you want help finding one?” Greeley snorted. “What was his name?”

“I don’t know.” Gamache ignored the derisive laugh from Greeley and his people. Instead he showed the photo of the dead man. “He might have spoken with a Czech accent.” Greeley looked at it and handed it back.

“Please look more closely,” said the Chief Inspector.

The two men stared at each other for a moment.

“Perhaps if you stared at the picture instead of me, monsieur.” His voice, while reasonable, was also hard.

Greeley took it back and looked longer. “Don’t know him. He might’ve been here but who can tell? He’d have been a lot younger too, of course. Frankly he doesn’t look like a logger or any forester. Too small.”

It was the first helpful thing Greeley had said. Gamache glanced again at the dead recluse. Three sorts of visitors were on the Queen Charlottes in that time. Loggers, environmentalists, and artists. It seemed most likely this man was the latter. He thanked Greeley and left.

Once on the street he looked at his watch. If he could get Lavina to fly him to Prince Rupert he could still catch the red-eye to Montreal. But Gamache took a moment to make one more call.

“Monsieur Sommes?”

“Yes, Chief Inspector. Do you suspect your man might have been an eco-terrorist now?”

“Voyons, how did you know?”

Will Sommes laughed. “How can I help you?”

“John the Watchman showed me his cabin in the woods. Have you seen it?”

“I have.”

“It’s exactly the same as our dead man’s home, across the country, in the woods of Quebec.”

There was a pause on the line. “Monsieur Sommes?” Gamache wasn’t sure if he’d lost the connection.

“I’m afraid that can’t mean much. My cabin is also the same. All of them are, with very few exceptions. Sorry to disappoint you.”

Gamache hung up, anything but disappointed. He knew one thing now without question. The Hermit had been on the Queen Charlotte Islands.

Chief Inspector Gamache only just managed to make the red-eye flight out of Vancouver. He squeezed into his middle seat and as soon as the plane took off the man in front put his seat all the way back until he was almost on Gamache’s lap. The two people on either side each claimed an arm rest, and that left the Chief Inspector seven hours to listen to the little boy across the aisle play GI Joe.

He put on his half-moon glasses and read more about Emily Carr, her art, her travels, her “brutal telling.” He stared at her paintings of the Queen Charlotte Islands, and appreciated even more the powerful, poetic images. He stared longest at her paintings of Ninstints. She’d captured it just before the fall, when the totems were tall and straight and the longhouses weren’t yet covered by moss.

Flying over Winnipeg he pulled out the photographs of the Hermit’s sculptures.

He looked at them, letting his mind drift. In the background the boy had developed an entire intricate story of war and attack and heroics. Gamache thought about Beauvoir back in Three Pines, hounded by an onslaught of facts, and Ruth Zardo’s words. He closed his eyes and rested his head, thinking of the couplets Ruth kept sending, as though poetry was a weapon, which of course, it was. For her.

How beautiful was that, thought Gamache, drifting off to an uneasy sleep as Air Canada flew him home. And just as he nodded off another couplet floated up.

By the time they were flying over Toronto Gamache knew what the carvings meant, and what he had to do next.