Demon Spirit, Devil Sea

by Charlene D'Avanzo

  With a tight smile, Anna nodded. “That would be great.”

  “It’s too late now. I can call him in the morning. On one condition, though.”

  “Yes?”

  “You must promise to accept his decision, even if you don’t like it. If Knapton says he wants nothing to do with these plants, that’s the end of it. Okay?”

  Anna’s “Okay” was a little too quick. I got the idea she was confident Knapton would be very interested in her plants.

  Personally, I didn’t think so.

  When I got back to the longhouse and told Harvey what I’d found, she sat cross-legged on her sleeping bag and tapped a finger on the end of her nose. She did that sometimes when she was thinking. “False hellebore? Sounds vaguely familiar, but it’s been a very long time since I studied plants.”

  Ted leaned back on his arms, legs sprawled out in front. “But lots of plants have nasty chemicals. Foxglove has digoxin, poppy morphine. For apple seeds it’s cyanide. The hellebore’s toxicity probably means nothing.”

  Stretched out on my bag and pad, I closed my eyes for a moment. My day had included a scuba dive with a bizarre ending, a two-plus-hour Environmental Council meeting, Gene losing it on the gambling boat, and staring at dried plants through a magnifying lens for too long. I was bushed.

  I sat up. “You’re right. But Anna was so determined, it seemed like she’d go off on her own. This way, the RCMP get the information and decides what to do. Not me and not Anna.”

  The storm had begun to make its mark on Haida Gwaii. Rain battered against the skylights, and wind lashed trees around the clearing. A bout of rain sounded like marbles smashing into the skylight.

  “Thank goodness the rain wasn’t too bad on my way over. So, what did the travel agent say?”

  “There were only two seats on the ten AM flight from Sandspit to Vancouver day after tomorrow,” Harvey said. “Ted and I have tickets for that. She put you on the noon flight. If that’s not okay, one of us can take the later flight.”

  “Actually, that’s good. There’s a little museum in Sandspit I’d like to visit.”

  I didn’t want to say I’d have a little more time in Haida Gwaii to look into William’s death.

  “What about the trip home?”

  “No problem. We’re all on the same red-eye, just the next day.”

  Rain pelted the windows on the side of the building.

  Cross-legged near the lantern, I cast a long shadow in the empty room. “This sounds like a hurricane.”

  Harvey slid into her sleeping bag, rolled onto her back, and put her hands behind her head. “Aren’t typhoons the same as hurricanes?”

  Ted rifled through his duffle. “They are. Low-pressure center, strong spiral winds.”

  “So this one might do some damage,” I said.

  “Hadn’t thought about that,” Harvey said. “I wish this was our last night here. It’s been a fascinating few days, but I’m ready to jump on that plane and head back to Maine. Tons of work to catch up on.”

  “Then there’s Connor, of course.”

  At the mention of her lover’s name, Harvey grinned at the ceiling. Lit by the lantern, in profile, she looked like a human version of a contented Persian cat—perfect, sleek, and smiling.

  She turned her head in my direction. “Sure you’re okay to leave a little later?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll look around.”

  She smirked. “Oh, lots to do in Sandspit, population one hundred.”

  “No, seriously. I looked online before we left. There’s a museum next to the visitor’s center.”

  Harvey sat up. “I’m wide awake. Any ideas what we can talk about?”

  “We could go through our list of suspects again,” Ted said.

  Tired as I was, I rallied. “Let’s do it.”

  “Who first?” Harvey asked.

  “Wish I had my whiteboard,” I said. “Let’s see. Anna accuses Lynne. But there’s no direct evidence.”

  Ted walked back and forth as he talked. “For Lynne, what evidence is there?”

  “Just plants Anna found in Lynne’s room. That’s pretty thin. And who knows how they got there.”

  “If Anna knows about Aaka, she’d be awfully angry,” Harvey said.

  “I can’t imagine Anna hurting William.”

  The possibility hung in the air.

  “That’s Anna and Lynne,” Ted said. “Who else?”

  “Caleb’s an angry guy,” Harvey said.

  “Motive?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What about Aaka?” I asked.

  “Like Anna,” Harvey said. “Can’t imagine her killing anybody.”

  Harvey rubbed her eyes. “This is making me tired.”

  “Let’s go with Occam’s razor and then to bed,” Ted said.

  Harvey and Ted talked about what awaited them at home. I rummaged around in my duffle for my toilet kit and ran through what I missed in Spruce Harbor. The picture-perfect little harbor with lobster boats swinging on their moorings. The Neap-Tide, my favorite hang-out eatery, on Water Street. Foggy mornings when I got wet walking down the street, screeching gulls overhead.

  Then there was my little cottage at the end of a dirt road that overlooked the sea. Angelo de Luca, my godfather, had helped me fix up that treasure.

  Angelo. God, how I missed him. A widower with overflowing Italian generosity and love, Angelo had opened his arms and heart to me when my parents died. Angelo would meet us at the bus station. I smiled at the thought of his bear hug.

  By the time I finished brushing my teeth and hair, Ted and Harvey were both nestled into their sleeping bags. I switched off my flashlight, padded over to my bag, and slid in. Ted was beside me. I reached over to touch his arm. He didn’t stir.

  In the dark, I lay on my back and listened to Ted’s steady breathing. Deep down, I knew he could be the love of my life if I let him. But something I couldn’t name or express held me back. Something more than needing time alone. Overwhelming loneliness came over me, and I blinked back tears. I desperately needed to talk to someone.

  In the fifteen years since my parents had died, I’d perfected personal traits that served me well in grad school and at the Maine Oceanographic Institute—independence, self-confidence, hard work. I’d studied like crazy at MIT, and proved to my male colleagues a woman could be a damn good oceanographer. I’d followed my parent’s professional path, like I was born to study the sea. Nothing got in my way.

  The personal costs of my stubborn independence had only dawned on me a couple of months earlier. That took a vicious attack in a parking lot and being kidnapped and nearly dumped a mile offshore. Those near-death horrors helped me understand what Angelo, Harvey, and probably Ted already knew. Trust people who love you with secret worries, and they can help.

  Out here on the Haida Gwaii archipelago, there was nobody I could talk to about Ted. I loved Harvey like a sister, but she was Ted’s half-sibling and couldn’t be an objective listener. Angelo. I needed to talk to Angelo.

  In Sandspit I’d be alone for a couple of hours. Wi-Fi connections were reliable there, and it’d be afternoon in Maine. I’d reach Angelo and tell him everything.

  With that resolution, I slipped into a deep sleep.

  17

  The storm swept past the archipelago during the night. By mid-morning, the sky was cloudless and air smelled cool and fresh. Other than branches and leaves that littered the clearing and puddles of water in low spots, nothing was damaged at the longhouse.

  We took the walkway to the dining building and peered into the kitchen. Empty. The path down to the water gave us an inkling of Kinuk’s severely battered shoreline.

  The day before, the gentle incline took us right down to the shingle beach. Now the path abruptly ended at a cliff half as tall as a house. As far as we could see up and down the beach, the unbridled sea had gouged out deep chunks of earth.

  Gene was on his hands and knees under the pier. It looked like he was inspec
ting the pilings. We slid down the dirt incline on our butts to join him.

  He got up and put his hands on his hips. “I’ve seen some pretty bad storms, but this one’s a doozy. Looks like the wind must’ve been worst at high tide.”

  Ted walked closer to one of the pilings. “These look okay?”

  “Yes, thank goodness. Let’s go get some breakfast, coffee. I’m starving.”

  On our way back, we scrounged around for logs and planks that had washed ashore. Gene directed the construction of a makeshift inclined walkway up from the beach to the eroded path. Energetic as always, he didn’t act one bit like a man with a hangover. It was hard to believe he was the same person we’d seen at Haida Queen’s roulette table the night before. Gene cooked up a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast with homemade blackberry jam, and coffee.

  I filled my mug with more coffee from the pot. “How often do you get a food delivery?”

  “Caleb brings over fresh fish at least twice a week. Salmon, ling cod, whatever’s out there. Once a week, he brings staples—fresh vegetables, milk, that type of thing, from Skidegate or Old Masset. Most people live in those towns.” He winked. “You worried there’s not enough food?”

  “You’ve taken excellent care of us.”

  “You bet. Speaking of Caleb, he’s doing damage survey and needs help. Usually, William goes with him. You folks up for it?”

  “Damage survey?” Ted asked.

  “In the park, we have to keep track of erosion, debris buildup on the beach, oil leaks from ships, that kind of thing.”

  “Gene, Caleb’s a pretty rough character,” I said. “We don’t want to spend the day with someone who’ll be nasty to us.”

  “No question, Caleb gets carried away. He’s obsessed about this iron project, so you’ve seen him at his absolute worst. Today, you’ll see a completely different side of the man.”

  Ted, Harvey, and I looked at each other.

  “You’re sure, he’ll be, um, pleasant?” I asked.

  “I do,” Gene said. “And you’ll find his ecology disaster excursion very interesting.”

  Caleb’s boat, the Spirit of Tanu, was already at the dock when we got down there. Instead of his grubby fishing gear, Caleb wore an official-looking khaki shirt and matching pants, along with the usual black rubber boots. Without the scowl, his coarse features gave him the look of a friendly lobsterman you’d see on the cover of a Maine travel magazine.

  Gene was right. A very different Caleb welcomed us like an obliging neighbor. “Hey, glad for the help. Step aboard.”

  We pulled away. Caleb motored slowly in shallow water so we could assess the damage to Kinuk Island. The erosion was impressive. Despite the protection of Augustine Island, Kinuk’s westward-facing shoreline hadn’t escaped the scouring action of the angry sea. Caleb snapped photos. At the end of the island, he set the motor at trolling speed to keep the boat from rocking.

  We crowded around the chart table in the fishing vessel’s cabin. Caleb pointed to our position. “We’re right here between the tip of Augustine and Kinuk. I’ll head for Sga’nguai—Ninstints. Any erosion there’d be a disaster.”

  The image of Haida Gwaii’s spectacular totem poles dangling on their sides over a crumbling cliff face was sickening.

  “Are you worried about the poles?” Harvey asked.

  Caleb put a stubby finger on Ninstints Bay. “They didn’t put the village in a place exposed to storms. It should be okay. But we have to check.”

  Caleb opened a notebook and recorded what he’d seen on Kinuk.

  I asked, “Are you already seeing impacts of climate change out here?”

  “It’s hard ta sort out, but we’re pretty sure.”

  “Why?”

  “Last spring, some scientists from UBC came out here for the week. We showed ’em around, and they did a workshop for us. They said warming on the BC coast is the fastest in Canada. In Queen Charlotte Sound, they’re seeing temperatures at the ocean’s surface going up five times faster than what’s happening in the whole earth.”

  Huh, I thought. Gulf-of-Maine temperature where we lived had also increased at an unprecedented rate, partly because the melting Greenland ice sheet shifted Gulf-Stream water north. Warmer waters pretty much ended Maine’s shrimp industry and led to explosions of green crabs that decimated clams. I knew little about warm-water impacts off BC but suspected salmon were at risk.

  “Warmer waters means rising sea level and bigger storms. Think you’re seeing that now?” Ted asked.

  “Yup. Both.”

  Rising sea level and massive storm surges. In the not-so-distant future, a significant portion of the Haida Gwaii archipelago was going to wash into the sea. The Haida nation would have to adapt, or disappear with the land.

  Harvey, Ted, and I were out on the Spirit of Tanu’s bow when we rounded the headland and motored into the calm waters of Ninstints Bay. The totem pools looked exactly as we’d left them. I let go of the railing I’d been gripping.

  Caleb put the motor into neutral and joined us. “Like I said, people who lived here knew exactly what they were doing.”

  “So, what’s the drill?” Ted asked.

  “Looks like there’s no erosion, but we need to see. That means taking measurements from the poles to the edge of the berm.” He gestured over his shoulder. “I got boots you folks can use in that big plastic box in the cabin.”

  As Caleb motored closer to shore, we looked through the storage tote stored under the chart table. He had an assortment of gear for his fishing clients—waterproof jackets, bibs, hats, and gloves. Boots were in the bottom of the box. There were even a couple of pairs for smaller feet. I kicked off my hiking shoes and pulled on boots.

  Caleb called over his shoulder, “When we anchor is when you can get off. Transom’s down low.”

  He was right. I stepped off the stern, and water didn’t even wash over the top of my boots.

  Caleb had a couple of those big yellow measuring-tape reels foresters use. We worked in pairs to stretch the tape from the base of each pole to the edge of the berm. Caleb recorded the data in his notebook.

  I paired up with Harvey and avoided what I’d secretly named “the weird feather spot” by picking poles farthest away.

  Back on the beach, Caleb took the reels. “Now we go to the west side of the park. There’ll be damage out there for sure.”

  We followed the same routine for the next four hours. Caleb motored close to shore, we jumped out with the equipment, and Caleb anchored in deeper water and waded in. At intervals along Moresby Island’s western coast, we measured the height of the scoured bank plus distance from the eroded berm straight back to the nearest large trees. At each site, Caleb got the GPS coordinates with a handheld device, recorded the data, and took photos.

  Washed-up debris littered the beach all along the coastline, but the volume and variety of debris at one site was astounding. In addition to the usual plastic bottles and pieces of netting, we saw shoes, ripped pieces of clothes, lots of soda cans, plus kitchen paraphernalia such as plastic plates and jars.

  There was a pile of plastic dolls in perfectly good condition. I picked one up. “How does something like this get here?”

  Caleb took the doll and looked at her face. “Container ships. You folks must know about that oceanographer who tracked toys kids use in tubs for, what, twenty years? From a wreck in Alaska all the way ta Scotland and Maine.”

  “Sure. He and the yellow rubber ducks were famous. Helped people realize how much junk gets dumped into the ocean and where it goes.”

  Caleb waded back to the boat and returned with a cooler of food and drinks. The chicken salad sandwiches made with bakery bread were delicious, and ice-cold soda hit the spot. Clearly, Caleb knew how to take care of his rich clients.

  Sated, I lay back and closed my eyes to enjoy the warm sun on my face. There was a light offshore breeze and waves gently sloshed up and down the beach. I tried to imagine we were on an unspoiled Caribbean island, but
when I opened my eyes, the piles of trash said otherwise.

  I sat up and brushed sand off my arms. There was more in my hair, but that tangled mess required a hairbrush. “Caleb, is environmental patrol a regular job for Watchmen?”

  “I do most of it, lots more then I need to.”

  “All this debris on your beautiful beaches. Do you get discouraged?”

  “It’s hard to look at, but there’s nothing I can do. Big successes like the cannery keep me going.”

  Harvey sat on a log the storm had dumped on the high-tide line. “Cannery?”

  “Lots of Haida used to work in canneries owned by rich people on the mainland. But that was a long while back, and fish stocks are way down now. That’s why this iron thing’s so important. Anyways, we—there’s a group of us—blocked this new cannery. That was a big, big deal.”

  I waited for him to say more about the iron project, but he didn’t. “Tell us about the proposed cannery.”

  He shook his head. “First of all, it made no sense with fish numbers way down. And they wanted to build right near an old village site.”

  Caleb was an unexpected teacher, and we needed to understand the iron fertilization scheme in a larger context.

  I kept him talking. “Did the Haida environmental movement come about because of overfishing?”

  “That happened way back in the seventies. Guy named Gujaaw took on a logging company that was supposed to clear-cut a big tract right here on Moresby Island. As a kid, Gujaaw hunted and such on Moresby, so it was special.”

  “Did Gujaaw win?”

  “Took ten years for changes. It was the late eighties, I think, when three elders dressed up in red and black blankets. They stood in the middle of a logging road on Lyell Island. Got arrested.”

  Harvey leaned forward on her log. “Did they go to jail?”

  “Nah. Too hot for the government. Polls showed BC folks on our side for once. Charges got dropped when no new cutting permits were allowed.”