The Brutal Telling

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.”