A campfire within is the main source of light, and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. As I look around, I remember once going to a park with re-created Iroquois longhouses. That really is what this reminds me of. Down the center is a workspace, where women sew and children play and men whittle. Bunks line the walls, three high. Drying herbs and vegetables hang from the ceiling.
At the back sits a group that I’m guessing are the “elders,” since they’re talking, rather than working. The eldest is in her sixties. That makes sense, given that the Second Settlement launched in the seventies.
At the First Settlement, we’re always met with a combination of curiosity and hostility, emphasis on the latter. It’s saber-rattling. They want us to know how strong they are, how well defended. A pissing match that we must engage in, or we’re the submissive wolf rolling over to show our unprotected belly.
In the Second Settlement, we get curiosity tempered by caution. While Tomas’s daughter ran out to see us, her brother held back, and that’s what many of the adults do. They withdraw, physically and emotionally, stepping backward to let us pass, their faces blank. Even in their caution, though, there is politeness rather than aggression. You are welcome enough here, but please don’t stay long.
Others are more like Tomas and his daughter, the friendliness outweighing any reserve. They smile, and they nod as we pass, and I do the same in return. Storm’s presence lures a few of the children closer, especially when they see Tomas’s kids petting her. I get her to sit a few feet from where the elders wait, and the children surge in, with adults supervising.
There is another thing I notice as we walk. Signs of … well, the words I consider and reject are “religion,” “faith,” “ritual,” “belief.” It’s not as if I’m seeing crucifixes or dharma wheels or anything I recognize, yet my brain still identifies them as signs of a ritualized faith. There is what appears to be an altar built of stones and filled with dried grasses that add a sweet, pleasant scent to the campfire smoke. Other stones line the walls, each carved with an unfamiliar symbol. I see ones that look like stylized versions of wind and rain and snow. I also spot animal carvings, too many to be mere toys. And the sleeping berths bear more carvings, some symbols and some animals.
I struggle not to draw conclusions from what I’m seeing. Take in the data and store it for processing once I have more information.
I don’t get more information on this by speaking to the elders. Well, I do … and I don’t. It’s not as if they extend a ritual greeting or ask that we all bow our heads in prayer before we speak. But there is a calm here that reminds me of a church, a hush and a peaceful contentment, and a reverence in the way Tomas addresses the elders. I may not see religion and ritual, but I feel it.
The conversation itself is a ritual I know very well. We have been presented to the leader—Myra—and she welcomes us, and we extend our greetings and explain our purpose. She expresses sadness at our news, gratitude for our attempts to find this woman’s people, and promises of cooperation. It’s like when I’d dealt with crimes involving an organization of any kind, social or political or business. “Yes, this is a terrible crime, and of course, we’re here for anything the police need to solve it.” Honest intent or empty promises? That’s always the question, and if I was to hazard a guess, based on my experiences, I’d say that
the Second Settlement isn’t going to actively block my investigation, but they’re not going out of their way to help it either. Ellen isn’t theirs, and since she’d been shot—and they forbid guns—her death isn’t theirs either.
The meeting lasts about fifteen minutes, and it’s nothing more than a formal exchange of information and promises. As we leave the longhouse, the women at the cooking pit press food into our hands, fresh stew in beautifully carved wooden bowls and hunks of warm bread. They give some to Tomas, too, for himself and his wife, and we all thank them as we depart.
When we’re out of the longhouse, Tomas quietly offers to switch bowls with us.
“In case you’re at all concerned about the contents,” he says. “I spent a lifetime with my paranoid brother. I would understand if you’d prefer to eat what they gave me.”
We assure him we’re not worried, and he passes his bread to the kids, who trail along after us with Storm.
“I’m going to ask you two to go back into the big house,” he says to the kids. He looks at us. “May they take the dog?”
“Of course,” I say.
The girl starts to give Storm her bread, but Tomas pulls her hand back. “Never feed an animal anything that she might not normally eat. It can upset her stomach. Ask Josie if they have bones instead. Big bones, from caribou or moose. The dog will like those better.”
I motion for Storm to go with the kids, and she gives me a careful look, as if to be sure she’s understanding. Then she lets them lead her back into the longhouse.
Tomas takes us to what seemed like a storage building, small and round. As we approach, I see smoke rising from it.
“As much as we believe in communal living, we also understand that sometimes, privacy is required, and in the winter, we can’t just head into the forest to find it. This is our alone-hut, for individuals and”—he winks—“couples. Nancy will meet us in here.”
It’s a hide-covered structure, and he pulls back the flap. We have to duck to go inside. It’s brighter than the longhouse, though. There’s a fire and a hanging lantern. A woman sits on the floor. She’s about my age. Tears streak her face, but as soon as the flap opens, she jumps up to greet us. Tomas waves her back inside. We enter, and he hangs back, as if uncertain. She tugs him in, and his face relaxes with relief. She takes one bowl from him and sets it down on the ground, and they sit, her hand entwined with his.
We introduce ourselves.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, and down south, that would be a cliché, but it really does say what needs to be said, all that can be said when talking to a stranger.
Nancy’s eyes fill. Tomas grips her hand tighter, both hands wrapping around it. She sees we aren’t touching our food, and says, “Eat, please. I won’t, but you should. It’s good stew, and the bread is even better.”
We take a few mouthfuls, and both are indeed excellent. Once I’ve had enough to be sure my belly won’t rumble, I say, “I’m not sure how much Tomas told you. I was a homicide detective down south.”
She frowns and glances at Tomas.
“Nancy hasn’t been down south,” he says. “She was born in the Second Settlement.” He quickly explains what a homicide detective is, and her brows furrow, as if she’s struggling to understand the need for such a job.
I say as much, lightly joking.
She nods and says, “I know it’s different down there. There are so many more people. It’s good that they have people to do that job. But Tomas said Ellen was killed by accident.”
“We hope so,” I say. “Right now, I’m trying to piece together her final days. She had something with her. Something I need to return. I’m sorry I can’t say more than that.”