“Very much.” He put out his hand, and she took it.
“This is my noni,” said the pilot.
“Esther,” she said.
“Armand Gamache,” said the Chief, bowing slightly. “It’s an honor.”
“The honor is mine, Chief Inspector. Please.” She motioned into the center of the room where a long table had been set. There was a rich aroma of cooked food, and the room was filled with people talking, greeting, calling to each other. And laughing.
He’d expected the gathering of Haida elders to be in traditional garb. He was embarrassed now by that cliché. Instead the men and women were dressed as they’d come from work, some in T-shirts and heavy sweaters, some in suits. Some worked in the bank, the school, the clinic; some worked on the cold waters. Some were artists. Painters, but mostly carvers.
“This is a matrilineal society, Chief Inspector,” Esther explained. “But most of the chiefs are men. Though that doesn’t mean women are powerless. Quite the opposite.”
She looked at him, her eyes clear. It was a simple statement. Not a boast.
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:
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.