The Brutal Telling
“You must be Chief Inspector Gamache.”
A burly man with black hair and skin the color of cedar was walking across the dock, his hand out. They shook.
“I’m Sergeant Minshall, of the RCMP. We’ve been corresponding.”
His voice was deep and had a slight sing-song quality. He was Haida.
“Ah, oui, merci. Thank you for meeting the plane.”
The Mountie took the overnight bag from the pilot and slung it over his shoulder. Thanking the pilot, who ignored them, the two men walked to the end of the dock, up a ramp and along the road. There was a bite to the air and Gamache had to remember they were closer to Alaska than Vancouver.
“I see you’re not staying long.”
Gamache looked out into the ocean and knew the mainland had disappeared. No, it was not that it had vanished, but that it didn’t exist at all here. This was the mainland.
“Right. I’ve arranged a room for you at the lodge. I think you’ll enjoy it. There aren’t many people on the Queen Charlottes, as you probably know. Maybe five thousand, with half being Haida and half,” he hesitated slightly, “not. We get quite a few tourists, but the season’s ending.”
The two men had slowed and now they stopped. They’d walked by a hardware store, a coffee shop, a little building with a mermaid out front. But it was the harbor that drew Gamache’s attention. He’d never seen such scenery in all his life, and he’d seen some spectacularly beautiful places in Quebec. But none, he had to admit, came close to this.
It was wilderness. As far as he could see there were mountains rising from the water, covered in dark forest. He could see an island and fishing boats. Overhead, eagles soared. The men walked onto the beach, which was covered in pebbles and shells, and stood silent for a few minutes, listening to the birds and the lapping water and smelling the air with that combination of seaweed and fish and forest.
“There’re more eagle nests here than anywhere else in Canada, you know. It’s a sign of good luck.”
It wasn’t often an RCMP officer spoke of signs, unless it was traffic signs. Gamache didn’t turn to look at the man, he was too taken by the view, but he listened.
“The Haida have two clans. The Eagle and the Raven. I’ve arranged for you to meet with elders from both clans. They’ve invited you for dinner.”
“Thank you. Will you be there?”
It was interesting, Gamache thought, that he referred to the Haida as “they” not “we.” Perhaps it was for Gamache’s benefit, so he didn’t appear biased.
“I’ll try not to disturb them tonight.”
“It’s too late.”
Armand Gamache showered, shaved and wiped the vapor from the mirror. It was as though the mist that hung over the ancient forests had crept into his room. Perhaps to watch him. To divine his intentions.
He made a small hole in the moisture and saw a very tired Sûreté officer, far from home.
Changing into a fresh shirt and dark slacks he picked out a tie and sat on the side of the double bed, which was covered in what looked like a hand-stitched quilt.
The room was simple and clean and comfortable. But it could be filled with turnips and it wouldn’t matter. All anyone would notice was the view. It looked directly over the bay. The sunset filled the sky with gold and purples and reds, undulating and shifting. Alive. Everything seemed alive here.
“Noni, my great-grandmother, asked me to bring you to dinner.”
She still didn’t smile. In fact, she seemed singularly unhappy about the fact. He put on a gray jacket and his coat and they walked into the darkening night. Lights were on in the homes that hugged the harbor. The air was cold and damp, but fresh, and it woke him up so that he felt more alert than he had all afternoon. They climbed into an old pickup truck and headed out of town.
“So you’re from the Charlottes?”
“I’m from Haida Gwaii,” she said.
“Of course, I’m sorry. Are you with the Eagle clan?”
“Raven.”
“Ah,” said Gamache, and realized he sounded slightly ridiculous, but the young woman beside him didn’t seem to care. She seemed more interested in ignoring him completely.