Amanda and Tag spent the morning gathering material at the Pacific Rim visitor’s centre and hiking the short ocean trails around Ucluelet. Kaylee was thrilled to chase sticks across the flat sand and over the rocky outcrops. As the sun rose overhead, they stopped on a bluff overlooking the spectacular expanse of Long Beach. The pale sand glistened in the low tide, and jumbles of huge driftwood logs lay helter-skelter above the high-tide mark like a giant game of pick-up sticks. Although the beach was gorgeous, Amanda was dismayed by the crowds. Teenagers played Frisbee, and out in the ocean, surfers battled the huge, rolling waves. Lovers strolled hand in hand along the water’s edge, and children splashed and screamed in the shallows.
A day or two of playing at the beach might be fun for the group, but it was not a place to seek peace and intimacy, to build bonds away from the madding crowd.
Tag was watching a group of beginner surfers struggling to stand upright as the boards hurtled toward shore. A smile twitched on his lips as one of them pitched into the waves with a shriek. “I used to do that. Not sure I could do it now.”
“I tried it once in Thailand years ago, and it was really fun. It might be something for our group to try. Push their comfort zone and make them all learn together.”
He was wearing wraparound sunglasses and a ball cap pulled low over his shaved head, making his expression almost inscrutable. “It takes considerable upper body strength even to get up. Remember, most of the fathers are nearly twice your age.”
“Fair enough, but I’m keeping the idea in my back pocket. How can anyone come to Tofino and not try surfing?”
He grunted. “Let’s carry on. All this ocean air is making me hungry.”
“Okay, let’s go back to that café in Tofino, grab some lunch, and look over these hiking brochures. I want to ask the owner about that artist, Anonymous.”
“What’s with you and these artists? First AK and now this guy.”
“I love art, and I like to buy original paintings directly from the artists to remember the places I’ve been to. The house I share with my partner in Newfoundland is full of art from all around the world. Each tells me a story.”
He shrugged as if the idea were entirely foreign to him and turned to lead the way back toward the car. Back at the Java Bean, with Kaylee tied up on the patio, Amanda found herself standing in line with a perfect view of Anonymous’s yellow tree across the room. It was even more evocative from a distance.
Behind the counter was an older woman who seemed to be overseeing the food preparation. She had a broad, friendly face, a chipped front tooth, and a bird’s nest of wiry grey hair that she had struggled to tame into a braid. The owner, perhaps, Amanda thought. When she reached the counter, she caught the woman’s eye.
“Are all these paintings for sale?”
“Most. The prices are below.”
“What about that one by Anonymous?”
The woman gave a dreamy, broken-toothed smile. “Isn’t it marvellous? But no, that particular one’s not for sale.”
Amanda’s heart sank. “Why not?”
“Artist’s choice. Too personal.”
“I love it. It’s so raw.”
“Raw. That’s a good word for it.”
“Who’s Anonymous?”
“He’s shy. He only sells through his dealer.”
“And who’s that?”
“Me.”
“Oh!” Amanda laughed. “Well, how can I find out about his other work?”
The woman glanced at the line of customers growing restive behind Amanda. Her gaze came to rest on Tag, who was outside with Kaylee, and she stared. Squinted. For a moment, it seemed as if she’d lost her train of thought, but then she said, “Come see me at closing time. We’ll talk.”
When Amanda arrived at 9:00 p.m., the café was in shadow, with a single splash of light on a table in the corner. The woman was sitting alone at the table with a baguette and a spread of cheeses and fruit in front of her and an open bottle of Laughing Stock Syrah from the Okanagan Valley at her elbow. She had taken off her shoes and propped her wrinkled bare feet on the chair opposite. She gestured Amanda to a third chair and, without even asking, poured her a glass of wine.
“Laughing Stock,” she said, waving the bottle. “Mostly I just like the name, but it’s a damn good wine. I know who you are. I’m a tremendous admirer of your work, and we were all very excited when we heard you’d chosen the Pacific Rim for your next Fun for Families adventure.”
Amanda sipped the wine, which was as smooth as silk. “We?”
“Just a bunch of old broads who cut our activist teeth on the Clayoquot Sound anti-logging protests in the nineties and who get together to plot mischief and keep the guys in power on their toes.” She wiped her hand on a brightly coloured napkin and held it out. “Nancy Rowley.”
Her strong, brisk handshake made Amanda smile. She liked this woman already. “Pleased to meet you, Nancy, and I remember my mother talking about those protests when I was growing up. Chained to trees, staring down the bulldozers. Those were wild times. My mother has carried a placard or two of her own over the years.”
“More than one or two!” Nancy exclaimed. “She’s one of the originals! In fact, I knew about her long before I learned about you. No wonder you turned out as you did. How lucky you were to have such a powerful inspiration growing up.”
Amanda chose her words carefully. She had heard this refrain often from people on the outside looking in. People who saw Susan as the brilliant scientist, never-say-never crusader, and fearless feminist. People who didn’t know Susan the mother who balked at kissing a scraped knee or hugging her children when they had a nightmare. A mother so high up on her own pedestal that everyone else in the family felt small.
Finally, she settled on a safe answer, the answer she had come by grudgingly over time. “Yes, she certainly taught me how to fight for what I believe in. This cheese is wonderful, by the way. Perfect with the wine.”
“Local sheep cheese.” Nancy cut her another slice. “I don’t lay on a spread like this for everyone, you know. But we want to support your efforts here on the Island the best we can. The Old Broads are at your disposal.”
Amanda laughed. “Thank you, that would be super. Maybe you can prepare picnic lunches for some of our excursions. I’m hoping to find some activities that are more off the beaten track so our group can connect without tripping over tourists at every turn.”
“Yeah, we’re victims of our own success here in Tofino. We get a million visitors a year in this area, and it’s getting harder and harder to avoid the crowds at the popular spots. But if you go north a bit, only a couple of islands up, you’ll be in wilderness. There are guides who can set that up for you, and I can connect you to them. The Wild Side Heritage Trail run by the Ahousaht on Flores Island takes you through some of their culture and heritage, which is fascinating. And yeah, I’d be honoured to collaborate with them on food.”
They sipped wine, nibbled cheese, and spent the next while discussing what islands were accessible, where the landing spots and trailheads in the backcountry parks were, and what special touches the First Nations guides might offer. Amanda felt her excitement rising as she jotted down notes. Finally, she thanked Nancy and sat back with her wineglass, which Nancy had filled yet again.
Nancy grinned. “Now you want to know about my mystery painter.”
“I do.” Amanda gestured to the painting of the exploding yellow tree. “That painting is so striking. Are there others like it?”
Nancy pointed to some smaller landscapes around the room. Brooding mountains in purple and black; towering ocean waves; tall, sunlit spruce. Amanda selected another slice of cheese, picked up her wineglass, and walked over to examine them. “They’re very competent and would look beautiful in any living room, but they’re not … alive like that one.”
Nancy chuckled. “Yes, well, they’re normal. They’re what he paints when he wants to be normal.”
Amanda turned, puzzled. “Is that a choice for him? You mean he takes hallucinogens to get this effect?”
Nancy twirled her wineglass and pursed her lips as if debating how to answer. “His name is Luke. I’m very protective of him. Many of us old-timers are. He … struggles to cope. That …” she gestured to the yellow tree, “that is more his natural state. He works hard to keep a lid on it. These other paintings, he does those to sell to make a living. They’re popular, and they help to keep him afloat. Plus, his needs are simple. He lives mainly off-grid and doesn’t have many expenses.”
Amanda walked over to study the tree. “Does he ever do any other paintings like this one that he does sell?”
Nancy hesitated and shook her head. “Rarely. Most people aren’t interested, and I think that wounds him. He’s private.”
“I’m interested. Can I meet him and talk to him about it? Is he here in Tofino?”
“He’s a bit of a recluse. Has been for decades. He lives on the northern part of Flores Island. That’s one of the more remote islands in Clayoquot Sound that I was talking about, where the Wild Side Trail is.”
“Would he come into town to meet me?”
“Nope. Not unless he needs supplies. And it’s not easy to contact him.”
“Can I get to his place by water taxi?”
“I’m not sure I …” Nancy rocked back in her chair and gazed at the star-sprinkled sky.
“I’m sorry,” Amanda said. “I shouldn’t put you on the spot. Maybe he’ll come into town sometime when I’m back here with the group.”
“He’s very special, that’s all.” Nancy shook her head as if to dispel her doubts. “I guess I’m protective, but I shouldn’t be. Not with you. You of all people will understand him. I’ll set up a taxi for you, and I’ll send some rice, sugar, and coffee up for him. He’ll be happy to get those, and it’ll break the ice.”
Amanda felt a rush of excitement at the thought of the adventure. “That would be great, and at the same time, Tag and I can check out possible remote hikes on the island.”
“Who’s Tag?”
“My co-leader, Michael McTaggart.” Amanda remembered her odd reaction to him earlier. “You saw him this afternoon. Big guy with a red beard?”
Nancy’s nostrils flared. “Where’s he from?”
“Victoria. Why?”
“It’s just … never mind. But I wouldn’t take Tag.”
“Why not?”
Nancy ran her tongue over her broken tooth as if weighing her words. “He’s imposing. Luke might get scared.”
Pim looked as if he had spent his entire life at the wheel of his boat, pounding through the waves in the ocean sun. His face was a maze of wrinkles. Layered in a combination of plaid shirt and faded windbreaker, with a tuque pulled low over his ears and a pair of fisherman’s boots on his huge feet, he stood in the little cab in the centre of the boat, hunched against the chilly spring wind and squinting through the spray at the ocean ahead.
The boat was an old, open-hulled ocean skiff made of steel painted many colours over the years. Even with twin outboards, it hardly looked big enough to handle the big water, but Nancy swore Pim knew the whims of the ocean currents and the coastal rocks better than anyone else on the west island. He chose his customers carefully and preferred to spend his days out on the fishing grounds rather than ferrying tourists around.
He seemed comfortable with his own company and barely spoke to Amanda as they drove up the inner coast of Flores Island. Amanda evaluated the route curiously. Because the passage was narrow, it was protected from huge ocean swells, and much of the land was wild, with towering stands of evergreens descending straight to the rocky shore. In the narrow coves, seaweed and driftwood were tossed up on the rocky beaches, but there was little place to land a convoy of kayaks or set up camp.
Along the way, they passed a salmon fishery that she studied with interest. Later, Pim slowed to weave through a narrow passage in the shadow of a looming mountain, and seals sunning themselves on a rocky shoal lifted their heads to watch them lazily. As the boat rounded the top of the island, the wind picked up, churning the waves. Kaylee flattened her ears, and Amanda pulled her tuque more firmly down on her head. Soon, Pim steered toward a small, protected cove tucked between two rocky headlands and barely visible through the trees. As they drew nearer, she saw a battered steel boat moored to a rough-hewn wooden dock. The tide was retreating, leaving gentle bubbles on the pebble beach, and a line of jumbled driftwood and kelp farther up the beach marked the high-water point. Pim guided his boat to a perfect docking behind the other and tossed the bowline up onto the dock.
Kaylee leaped out with relief and began to race around the shore in search of treasure. Amanda clambered out, stiff from the constant pounding of the boat, and secured the line. Looking around, she smiled as she breathed in the clear, fresh air. Seaweed, salt, fish, and spruce mingled with the lingering diesel from the boat. An old canoe lay farther up the beach, tucked under a sturdy spruce and covered by a tarp. Beyond it, a camouflaged path ducked into the trees and headed inland. Almost undetectable if you didn’t know where to look.
She stood still a minute, tuning her senses. The silence and isolation felt absolute, and at first she could hear nothing but the soft bumps of the boats against the dock. But as she listened, sounds began to separate out. The rhythmic swish of the waves, the drone of a seaplane, the call of shorebirds. Overhead, an eagle flashed white in the sunlight. In the distance, an animal grunted. A sea lion? Wolf? Cougar? In spite of herself, a shiver ran through her. She dug her bear spray out of her pack, hooked it to her waist strap, and took a deep breath, excitement overcoming trepidation. I can do this!
She glanced at Pim, who was tying up the boat. “What a beautiful place, Pim. Thank you. You don’t have to stay, but can you come back for me in four hours?”
He shook his head. “Too dangerous. We stick together. It’s a long hike up to his place. There are wolves on this island, and bears and cougars, so put the dog on a leash too.”
She didn’t argue. She was grateful for the company. She wasn’t sure why Nancy hadn’t wanted Tag along. Yes, the man was imposing, but was Luke really that easily spooked, or was there another reason? Amanda had been forced to give Tag a half-baked excuse about covering more territory quickly if they split up for the day. Tag hadn’t objected, saying he had some things he wanted to check out on his own. She’d left him heading south toward the beaches on his e-bike.
Pim started up the path with an easy, long-legged stride that left Amanda scrambling to keep up. They were immediately swallowed up by a dense forest of moss-draped hemlock, spruce, and massive red cedars with trunks thicker than the span of her arms.
“Amazing trees,” she said.
“Some of them are a thousand years old; one of the few old-growth forests left in British Columbia.”
“Was there any logging in here?”
He nodded. “For a while. Lots of my people got jobs in logging, me too. But it destroys the forest, the soil, the streams, and the salmon grounds. Our whole way of life. So, we’re going back to our traditional ways. Respect for the land.”
The path was narrow, choked on both sides by lush ferns and bushes with bright pink flowers.
Pim touched one tenderly. “Salmonberries. Delicious in August,” he said before turning to continue the climb. The fresh scent of cedar mingled with the damp, musty loam of the rainforest. The path meandered up and down around rocky outcrops and fallen trees, over rotting roots, and through mossy bogs, slowly climbing as they hiked inland, clapping their hands at blind turns to alert the bears to their presence.
There were no markings on the trail, but Pim kept up a steady pace as she clambered and slipped and scrambled in his wake. Once, she was sure they were completely lost, until they came across a crude boardwalk spanning a rushing stream. In the canopy high overhead, crows, ravens, and jays shrieked and flapped as they followed their progress. She was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily by the time they reached a small outcrop of windswept rock and paused to look out to sea. From this vantage, the ocean was a swirl of blue, green, and silver, and farther out, a long green tongue of land jutted south into the sea. Another island?
She looked at her watch. They’d been walking for nearly an hour. Surely, they should have arrived by now, but all around them the tall, dense forest loomed untouched. With no trail markings, did Pim really know where he was going? There was no internet or mobile coverage, only trees and a narrow path that drew him forward through the bush.
“Are we close?” she panted as she gulped water and offered some to Kaylee.
He glanced at her with a half smile. “His camp is just through the trees. Maybe a hundred metres.”
Pim was a big man. Intimidating, like Tag. “Okay, you wait here. I can manage from here.” She sensed his hesitation. “He might be scared by two people.”
“He knows I’m here.”
“How does he know?”
“This is his forest. But you’re safe.” Pim gestured to Kaylee. “Okay, follow the dog.”
The path was a faint thread weaving into the bush. Unnerved by the vast trees and the dark silence, she took a deep breath and clutched her bear spray and Kaylee’s leash, determined not to be afraid. In her heyday, she’d been in scarier jungles than this, but fear felt like her constant shadow these days.
With a nod, she plunged into the woods, letting Kaylee lead with her nose to the ground. Soon, up ahead, she glimpsed the diagonal line of a roof cutting through the trees, and gradually a cluster of cabins emerged. The largest was built of elaborately etched logs that glistened like honey in the sun. It had a peaked roof, a door, and two windows facing west toward her. In front of it was a clearing with a stone firepit, a chicken coop, and two sheds, and to the south of the cabin was a cleared garden with a fence and roof of chicken wire. Two chickens strutted around the yard, and a goat looked up in surprise. Everything looked hand-hewn, and both the door and the chicken coop were painted with brightly coloured nature scenes. The chicken coop had the playful saying Come in and Lay Awhile painted across it, and on the transom over the cabin door were the words Heaven’s Door.
Of all the odd features of the cabin, however, none was odder than the round wooden tower that rose above the peak of the roof. It reminded her of the widow’s walks on the old fishermen’s houses on the East Coast, where women would watch for their men returning from the sea. The tower soared about fifteen feet above the roof, with spiral steps carved out of the massive core and a perch at the top. From that vantage, could Luke see the ocean and his private cove? Had he seen them arrive? If so, he hadn’t come out.
She walked around the property, greeting the goat and the chickens, which were squawking at Kaylee, and studying the plants in his garden. They were just sprouting, but she recognized carrots, potatoes, lettuce, and various kinds of squash just beginning to flower. Other leafy greens were unfamiliar. Herbs, drugs, or home medicine? Wooden rain barrels caught the runoff from the roof and funnelled it into furrows in the garden, and another rain barrel fed a large clawfoot tub that sat in the yard.
For safety, she kept Kaylee on the leash, but the dog pulled excitedly as she snuffled in corners. Amanda called out a greeting. Nothing. She knocked softly on the cabin door, but there was no answer. Intrigue gave way to disappointment. Surely, he would have heard the animals, so unless he was fast asleep inside, he was not home. The main cabin door was secured with a wooden latch that held firm when she tried it. Across the clearing was a smaller cabin, which she’d assumed was a storage shed until she saw the words painted over the door: There but for fortune.
She felt a twinge of apprehension. The door itself was slightly open, and in spite of herself, she was drawn to it. She eased the door open farther and peered through the crack. The room inside was bathed in light from windows on three sides. She barely registered the easel, the wooden stool, and the shotgun hanging by the door, because the whole was overwhelming. Walls, ceiling, and floor were covered in paintings that blended one into another. Vivid reds, oranges, and yellows, softer greens and purples, angry shouts of black. Some paintings were wild explosions of colour that swept over the wall, others were intricate close-ups of a leaf, a moth, or a human hand.
She moved into the room to look more closely. The hand was dirty, its nails torn and bleeding. The red explosion on the wall looked like a human heart, gaping open and spraying blood onto a naked body purple in death.
Higher up, a human head, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open in a silent howl. And pressed to the temple, the muzzle of a gun.
Horror raced through her. She stumbled backward, and for a moment, terrifying memories flooded through her, of guns and screams and flames. She clutched Kaylee’s leash and turned to flee from the room, but as she reached the door, she spotted a man hiding behind it, peering around it at her. His eyes were wide, reflecting the fear she felt.
“Luke?” she managed.
He edged farther into view. “What? Who?” His voice was rusty, and he seemed to grope for long-forgotten words. Kaylee barked ferociously, and Amanda backed up, sucking air into her lungs as she tried to calm down. She had been prepared for unkempt hair and beard, ragged clothes, and filth, but not for this. His pure white hair fell in a neat braid down his back, and a matching beard in a braid hung down in front.
He was beginning to shrivel with age, but he was still a tall, powerful man. He was wrapped toga-style in a red-and-white blanket bearing a Haida design, which was an odd contrast to his blue eyes and pale, freckled skin. And beneath it, both his hands and bare feet were speckled with paint and mottled with purple and white scars. His face was a web of crevices, with more scarring on one side that twisted the corner of his mouth. A single teardrop was tattooed below his left eye. He looked like a new-age Moses coming down from the Mount.
Beside him, within easy reach, was the shotgun.
Through her own panic, she recognized the man was afraid. As afraid as her. She held up her hand. “I’m sorry,” she managed. “I don’t mean to … the door was open.”
His eyes filled with reproach. “This is mine. My place.”
“I know. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She groped for some way to reassure him. “Nancy told me where to find you. I am interested in your paintings. Not the touristy stuff at her shop, but … your real art.”
He stood in the middle of the room and looked around. Bewilderment chased the fear from his face. “What do you want with it?”
He kept his gaze averted, and instinctively she sensed that face-to-face contact was uncomfortable for him. She gestured to the paintings stacked against the wall. “If you are willing to share any, I would like to buy one.”
“This … this …” He swept his paint-stained hand around him. “This is not for sale.”
“I know. Because this is your own private hell.”
He stiffened and shot a glance at her. She felt as if she were teetering on a tightrope, with nowhere to go but forward. “I recognize it. I have my own. My name is Amanda, and I too live with nightmares like this in my head. Not exactly the same, because I don’t know where yours come from, but the feelings are the same. Terror and guilt and pain that are almost unbearable. The feelings are hammering to get out. This is how you get them out.”
He still didn’t speak, but he was quivering, and his eyes were glassy. “Let’s go outside,” she said, walking toward the door. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come in here. It’s too private to share.”
He backed out of her way, his head down. Once they were outside in the sunlight, she breathed a sigh of relief and moved away to give him some space. Kaylee had been pressed to her side protectively, but now she wagged her tail and crept toward him. At his feet, she rubbed against his knee. He reached down and stroked her silky fur with an awkward hand.
As Amanda watched, a calm settled over her. “Your paintings are unflinching. If you do want to sell any of them …”
“Where do your nightmares come from?”
She was startled, and doubts crowded her mind. He was so fragile that he didn’t need her horrors added to his own. But he had raised his head and met her gaze for the first time. His eyes, deep-set and webbed by age, were a pale blue. He seemed to be looking for a connection. But did she want to revisit that time, after working so hard to move past it? His painting of the face and gun had shaken her, and old memories were roiling.
“From Africa,” she said carefully. “I am — was — an aid worker working with Save the Children. Except one night, I couldn’t. The village was attacked …” She clenched her jaw and looked at Kaylee, longing to call her back but sensing that Luke might need her more. “Set on fire. The children were kidnapped, and the villagers —”
He stopped patting Kaylee and, feeling his imperceptible distress, the dog nuzzled his hand gently.
“The villagers died?” A bare whisper.
“You don’t need to hear this,” Amanda said. “I’m sorry. I’ll go. I’ll speak to Nancy about buying one of your paintings in the shop.” She picked up Kaylee’s leash and headed toward the path.
“You’ll come again?”
She turned to him in surprise. He stood in the middle of his clearing, a man safe only in his self-chosen exile, but inviting her in. It was no time to be coy.
“Yes.”