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 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.