The Brutal Telling
“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.
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.
“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.”