Silver Totem of Shame Read online

  “No!” the young Haida woman shouted. She burst into tears and the other woman slowly led her away.

  Within minutes the blonde returned, brushing tears from her eyes. “Becky’s really sorry, but she can’t finish your tour. She’s asked me to take over.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Her boyfriend was found dead this morning.”

  Three

  I woke up to a gently rocking bed and the sound of a boat passing outside the window. I stretched and turned to snuggle into Eric, but felt only cold, empty sheets. I was about to call out to him when I remembered his early breakfast meeting. Although it was after ten, with the rain splattering against the window there seemed little point in leaping out of bed.

  We were staying on a houseboat belonging to Matt Miller, one of Eric’s former hockey buddies, now coach of the Vancouver Canucks. The houseboat was in between renters, so Matt had offered it to Eric for free. With visions of a basic cabin floating on a barge with only the bare necessities, I was very pleasantly surprised to discover we would be staying in an ultra-modern two-storey building complete with a roof garden that would rival any land-based home. It even had a humongous flat screen TV and wireless connectivity for Eric’s iPad, along with a fully equipped kitchen that had brought a huge grin to his face.

  The building had more windows than solid walls, many of them overlooking the broad channel of False Creek, across to the skyscrapers of downtown Vancouver and on to the snow-capped mountains beyond. Last evening, despite the chilly early May air, Eric and I had climbed up to the roof garden to enjoy one of his scrumptious dinners while enjoying the magical view.

  Despite the houseboat’s land-based amenities, I was frequently reminded that we were floating on water. It rocked slightly whenever a large boat passed. The line of sight rose and fell with the tides, along with the floating walkways that took us out of the small community of ten houseboats and onto the dry land of Granville Island. The invigorating sea air was also a constant reminder, as was the water surrounding the building; though on one side it was masked by a boardwalk that served as the street. Fortunately, Matt’s houseboat was at the end of this “street” of four houseboats, two on either side. This premium location provided an unobstructed view of beautiful Vancouver. Two of his neighbours had sizeable sailboats moored beside their houses. Not a bad life, eh?

  I couldn’t fathom why Matt didn’t live in this fabulous house, until I learned from Eric that he lived in one of those quintessential multi-storied West Coast cedar homes built into the side of a mountain overlooking Horseshoe Bay. Little wonder that Vancouver real estate prices were the highest in the country.

  I crawled out of bed and slipped on the ivory silk kimono my mother had given me as a bride’s gift along with a slinky silk nightgown that invariably slid to the floor before the night was over. Sadly, Mother’s weak heart had prevented her from coming to the wedding, but my sister Jean and her family had driven the seven long hours from Toronto to attend the simple ceremony in the Migiskan Reserve’s tiny wood-frame church. They even bunked in with Eric and me at Three Deer Point in the rambling Victorian cottage I’d inherited from Great-aunt Aggie.

  I would say this about Jean: although she had a heightened view of her place in society and didn’t hesitate to remind everyone that she was a judge and the daughter of one of Toronto’s Establishment families, she was as gracious and as friendly with our friends as she was with her own. She readily accepted Eric’s bear hug, even going so far as to kiss him longer than I would’ve liked. A couple of months later, during our stay at their ski chalet in Collingwood, she took me aside and told me that marrying Eric had been one of the best decisions in my life. I heartily agreed.

  I tripped down the stairs to the stainless steel kitchen wondering how to spend my day. Eric didn’t think he’d be free until late afternoon. Until then, I had the day to myself.

  Last fall, after Eric resigned as band chief of the Migiskan Anishinabeg, he was hired as a special advisor to the Grand Council of First Nations, the nationally-based organization that served as a focal point for bringing the interests of the many different First Nations in Canada under one umbrella. Many viewed this as a stepping-stone for Eric’s eventual election to Grand Chief. Dan Blackbird, the current incumbent, wouldn’t be running again when his term was up next year. He was putting his support behind Eric.

  The plan this year was for Eric to get to know the issues facing First Nations across the country and for them to get to know him. Before coming to Vancouver, we’d been in Yellowknife and several remote communities in the Northwest Territories meeting with Dené chiefs and elders. I loved this chance to explore Canada and meet the people inhabiting its many diverse wildernesses.

  Sadly, one of the reasons I was able to join Eric was the death of our much-loved Sergei. His last days had been painful not only for him but also for us. It was with mixed feelings that we made the heartbreaking decision to have him put down. We were all devastated, especially our dog’s best buddy, Jid, the boy he had saved several winters before. Although both Eric and I wanted to get another dog, I was reluctant. I needed to properly mourn Sergei before I could accept another bundle of squirming fur into my heart.

  I smiled when I saw that Eric had primed the coffee maker before heading off. All I had to do was press a button. After one too many of my decidedly inconsistent pots of coffee and similar food-preparation disasters, he had taken over the cooking duties, which was fine by me. It meant that I did dishes detail, which wasn’t exactly my love either. But at least I did a better job of keeping the dirty dishes at bay than my husband did.

  Husband. I loved saying that word. Although I rather liked the sound of “Meg Odjik,” Eric had suggested I keep my maiden name, Harris. Traditionally, Algonquin women didn’t change their names when they married.

  This morning he also left me a bowl brimming with chunks of melon, papaya, and mango, along with a container of plain low-fat yogurt and some homemade granola picked up at the Granville Market. Eric was trying to change my eating habits. I tended to favour calorific foods like cream-filled doughnuts, poutine, cheeseburgers, and the like. And my body showed it. So he was bringing healthy foods into my life: leafy greens, fruits, vegetables, fish, and game. To tell the truth, although I’d initially feigned resistance, I didn’t mind at all. In fact, I was gaining a real appreciation for their natural, unprocessed flavours, while my body was gaining a familiarity with thinness. So far, I’d lost ten kilos and was able to get into clothes I could only dream about before, like the slinky black dress Eric bought me for the Assembly’s Closing Feast.

  A glance outside told me the rain had stopped. Worried it wouldn’t last long in this city of changeable weather, I gulped down my breakfast, threw the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, and got dressed. Though the clouds were breaking apart by the time I stepped onto the walkway, I still wore my rain jacket. Several times yesterday, Eric and I were surprised by a sudden shower despite the skies being more blue than grey.

  With the tide out, it was a steep climb up the ramp to terra firma. I followed a path bordering the shore toward a group of buildings. A rainbow-coloured water taxi bobbed past, and then another. Looking more like rubber duckies than boats, they darted back and forth, ferrying passengers to various points along False Creek. It looked like a fun ride.

  I decided to check out the Emily Carr University of Art to see if it was worthy of the name of this famous Canadian artist. Carr’s name alone conjured up images of swirling green and cathedral forests. But at the sight of the boring monolithic buildings with their corrugated metal and concrete walls, I felt she would be shuddering in her grave at the lack of artistic imagination.

  On the other hand, I knew she would let out a belly laugh at the cement trucks parked in the grounds of a nearby factory. Giant spears of green asparagus covered the drum of one of the trucks, while enormous red apples covered another.

  I was about to turn back to the school to see if its
interior was more promising, when a crowd of onlookers caught my attention. They were standing in front of a building cordoned off by yellow police tape. Next to them were parked several police cars and a forensics van. Curious, I joined them.

  Four

  The police tape blocked off a single-storey building that resembled the Haida longhouses we’d visited at the museum yesterday. Massive timbers supported a low-pitched roof, which appeared to be open to the elements, since I could see the metal struts of a bridge through it. But the debris that seemed to be floating on air suggested it was made of glass or acrylic. Three of the walls were open, with only wire mesh to keep out intruders, while the back wall was solid wood except for two narrow windows. The mast of a sailboat drifted past one of them.

  Several cedar logs of varying length and thickness were stacked near the back wall. Along one side of the vast open interior stretched a workbench with an assortment of tools, large sheets of drawing paper, and pieces of wood scattered over its surface. Nearby stood a short, partially carved totem pole, while another much longer length of timber extended horizontally over a couple of wood supports. Black outlines of various exotic creatures were sketched along its smooth surface. Several appeared similar to those we had seen yesterday carved into the ancient poles.

  My attention, however, was riveted to the middle of the room, where a set of empty wood supports stood as if waiting to be put to use. I felt a chill at the sight of a pool of blood on the ground next to them. The blood flowed out from the upper torso of a yellow chalk outline of a person with arms flung out. Several numbered plastic tent markers radiated from the outline. A man clad from head to toe in a white forensic outfit stood next to it snapping pictures, while a woman, similarly clad, dusted the surface of a nearby table and the tools spread over it. Another forensic investigator was consulting with a man dressed in street clothes, who acted as if he were in charge.

  “I guess someone was killed,” I said to the boy standing next to me.

  Sporting a bulging knapsack, he was the only person in the group of mostly teenagers and early twenty-types not plugged into an iPod. “Yah, yesterday,” he replied.

  With a sense of foreboding, I asked, “Was it a man?”

  “Yah, I think he was a student at my school.”

  “Do you know if his name was Allistair?”

  “Yah, you know him?”

  “No, but I was with his girlfriend yesterday when she received the news.”

  The poor girl.

  At that moment a young woman wearing the de rigueur student uniform of skin-tight jeans with plenty of bare midriff forced her way through the crowd to a small park next to the building. Her curly hair was the same flaming red colour that had prompted my friends to call me “Carrot Top” at her age. Clutching a bouquet of wilting flowers, she knelt in front of a squat newish-looking totem pole (judging by its reddish colour). Bunches of flowers lay at its base. She bowed her head for a few minutes as if in prayer then placed her carnations next to a drawing of a stylized bird propped against the pole. The creature reminded me of the eagles painted on the mortuary boxes.

  “That’s his memorial,” the young man said.

  “Did you know him?”

  “Not really. He wasn’t in any of my classes, but I’d sometimes see him here carving, usually at night when I was on my way home. I figured he was in the native arts program.”

  “Do you know how he died?”

  “Some kid said his throat was cut. Awful way to go, eh?” The student winced. “That blood’s probably his. And the outline’s got to be where they found his body. Fuck, this is just like CSI.” His voice quivered with excitement.

  I cringed at his insensitivity. But he was barely out of his teens, and seeing something that reminded him of a TV show was likely more exciting than respecting the memory of the murdered boy.

  A short, barrel-chested man who’d been standing in the park staring intently at the shrine walked up to the mesh wall of the building and called out. With his slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair and his broad face seamed from life’s trials, he looked to be a good thirty or more years older than most of the other onlookers. The pained expression on his face suggested that he wasn’t exactly indifferent to Allistair’s death.

  The plainclothes cop approached. The two men conversed for several minutes, until the first man broke away, saying angrily, “I have a customer waiting for that pole.”

  He stomped back through the park and took up station next to the totem pole with the makeshift shrine. He crossed his arms with annoyance and glared at the world at large.

  “Do you know who that man is?” I asked my informant.

  “Ernest Paul. He’s the owner of the carving shed. He’s a famous Haida carver. I guess he’s ticked off ’cause he can’t use his studio.”

  “Surely he’s more concerned about the boy who died.”

  My informant merely shrugged. Then, muttering “Got a class,” he turned his back on death and made his way through the crowd.

  Ernest Paul paced back and forth between the makeshift shrine and another older pole, silvered with age. Each time he reached the older pole, he would slam his hand against one of its eroded animal carvings, whirl around, and stomp back to the newer one, its carvings almost jumping off the wood. He would stare at the growing pile of flowers for a few seconds, then whisk back around and return to the other pole.

  After several minutes of this restless pacing, he shouted. “Hey, what are you doing about my log?”

  “What log?” the detective yelled back.

  “The one the kid was working on? That red cedar cost me a fortune and now it’s gone.”

  Questioning glances passed between the forensic cops, as the detective motioned Ernest to come inside. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?” he asked, pulling out his notebook.

  Before the carver had a chance to explain, a silver BMW squealed to a stop behind us. A well-dressed middle-aged woman with her blond hair more out than in a ponytail jumped out of the car and shoved us aside. She burst through the police tape and ran straight to Ernest. Pummeling his chest, she cried out, “How could you?”

  The carver winced but made no attempt to stop her. Instead he planted his feet as she continued hitting him.

  “You killed him!” she shouted.

  The detective approached. “Please, Mrs. Zakharov, you shouldn’t be here.”

  At that point a grey-haired man dressed in boardroom attire came up behind her and pulled her away.

  “Oh, Dmitri, our son is dead.” She collapsed wailing into his arms.

  The man led her back to the BMW, where he coaxed her into the passenger seat. He then walked to the Mercedes parked behind it and spoke to the chauffeur before returning to the driver side of the BMW. In tandem, the two cars drove away.

  Only then did I notice the slim figure of Becky, our guide from yesterday and the girlfriend of the woman’s dead son, standing forlornly at the side of the road where the cars had been parked. I couldn’t remember seeing any interchange between the two women or any acknowledgement by the grieving mother or the father that this young woman who had loved their son was also grieving.

  Biting her lip as the tears trickled down her cheeks, Becky’s eyes followed the cars until they disappeared behind a building. Her gaze then turned to the studio. She took a few hesitant steps in the direction of his shrine but stopped and glanced helplessly around as if uncertain. I was about to come to her aid when the young blond woman who’d brought her the dreadful news ran up and draped an arm around her friend. Watching Becky collapse in front of the flowers, I ached for this young woman who no doubt thought her life had come to an end too.

  The carver, his arms hanging limply by his side, his face a mask of stone, remained rooted where the woman had accused him of killing her son.

  Five

  The Right Log

  He parked the logging truck behind a warehouse but within sight of the dock and clambered up onto the back to make sur
e the pole was secure. The log’s fresh smell brought back good memories of other red cedar poles he’d carved. The wood tingled as he ran his fingers over the smooth surface. The grain was good, straight, with no visible knots. And the milling was perfect. It was ready for carving. His hand trembled at the thought of slicing into its buttery wood.

  The totem pole was already calling to him. He could feel the figures wanting to come out and how they would flow one into the other. But it was too soon. He didn’t know the full story. Although he knew the ending and the beginning, there were parts in the middle he had to work out.

  He was sorry he had to move the kid’s body from his first totem pole. It would’ve made a fitting deathbed. After all, it was the boy’s heritage, as it was his own. They both came from a long line of master carvers or Gya k’id ll Gaay Ga, as he liked to call himself. If only he knew how to pronounce it properly. It wasn’t easy twisting his tongue around these strange Haida words, words he should’ve spoken since birth.

  He traced his finger over the dark area of the stain. It was still moist where the boy’s blood had flowed into the groove. Over time, the stain would blend and become one with the wood. It, too, was part of the story. As was the silver trinket he’d seen fall. He’d almost forgotten it. But when he spied it glimmering on the ground next to the body, he remembered. He tucked it away in his pocket for when it would be needed.

  He’d barely had the energy to remove the heavy log from the shed. Thanks to Salaana, the right equipment had been close at hand. Now he had to get the log to Haida Gwaii so he could complete the story.

  Six

  The lumbering dark clouds that had been threatening to release their drenching load throughout most of the day finally let loose just as I was preparing to join Eric for dinner. He’d called an hour ago to suggest that we join a group of his colleagues at a restaurant in Gastown. Although I wasn’t keen — I felt like a fifth wheel at such gatherings — I knew he wanted to, so I agreed.