Brutal Telling

“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.

“Your family must be very pleased you’re a pilot.”

“Why?”

“Well, flying.”

“Because I’m a Raven? Everyone here flies, Chief Inspector. I just need more help.”

“Have you been a pilot long?”

There was silence then. Evidently his question wasn’t worth answering. And he had to agree. Silence was better. His eyes adjusted to the night and he was able to make out the line of mountains across the bay as they drove. After a few minutes they arrived at another village. The young pilot stopped the pickup in front of a nondescript white building that had a sign out front. Skidegate Community Hall. She got out and walked to the door, never looking back to see if he was following. She either trusted he was there or, more likely, didn’t care.

He left the twilit harbor and followed her through the door into the Community Hall. And into an opera house. Gamache turned round to make sure there was a door there and he hadn’t, magically, emerged into another world. They were surrounded by ornate balconies on three sides. Gamache did a slow 360, his feet squeaking a little on the polished wood floor. Only then did he realize his mouth was slightly open. He closed it and looked at the young woman beside him.

“Mais, c’est extraordinaire.”

“Haw’aa.”

Wide, gracious staircases led up to the balconies and at the far end of the room was a stage. Behind it a mural had been painted on the wall.

“That’s a Haida village,” she said, nodding toward it.

“Incroyable,” whispered Gamache. The Chief Inspector was often surprised, astonished, by life. But he was rarely dumbfounded. He was now.

“Do you like it?”

Gamache looked down and realized they’d been joined by another woman, much older than his companion or himself. And unlike his companion this woman smiled. It looked, by the ease of it, as though she found a lot of humor in life.

“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 cliche. 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