'Never mind. What happened next?'

Anawak poured himself some orange juice. 'He was locked up. While he was in prison he read up on conservation and whales, and when he got out he decided that that's what he had to do. He went to see Davie, whom he knew from a visit to Ucluelet, and asked him if he could use an extra skipper. "Be my guest," said Davie, "just keep out of trouble." You know, Jack can be very charming when it suits him.'

Delaware nodded. 'But this time he wasn't charming.'

'Oh, he was fine for a while. We had a sudden rush of female tourists. Everything was perfect – until he punched a guy.'

'A passenger?'

'Right.'

'Oh, Jeez.'

'Yeah. Davie wanted to fire him, but I begged for him to have another chance. But three weeks later he pulled the same trick again. So Davie had to fire him. Wouldn't you have done the same?'

'I'd have thrown him out the first time,' said Delaware, softly.

'Well, at least you know how to look after yourself,' Anawak said cuttingly. 'Anyway, if you stick up for someone and that's how they thank you, sooner or later your patience runs out.'

He gulped his orange juice, choked and coughed. Delaware reached over and thumped him on the back.

'Then he totally lost it,' he wheezed. 'Jack's other little problem is that he doesn't know what's real. At some point during his frustration the Spirit of Manitou came upon him and told him; "From now on, let your name be Greywolf, protector of the whales, defender of all living things. Go forth and fight for them." Well, obviously he was mad with us, so he convinced himself that he had to fight against us. On top of every thing else he still thinks I'm on the wrong side and I just haven't noticed.' Anawak was seething with rage now. 'He doesn't know anything about conservation or the Indians. They think he's hysterical – except the ones whose lives are washed up too: kids with nothing to do, guys who can't be bothered to work, drunks, people looking for trouble… They think he's great, and so do the grey-haired hippies and surfers who want to get rid of the tourists so they can laze around in peace. He attracts the scum of both cultures – anarchists, losers, dropouts, militants, extremists chucked out by Greenpeace for sullying its name, Indians whose clans have disowned them and crooks. Most of them don't give a shit about the whales. They just want to run riot. But Jack doesn't see any of that, and seriously believes that the Seaguards are an environmental pressure group. He even finances them. He earns the money as a lumberjack and a bear guide, and lives in a hovel not fit for a dog. He's such a screw-up. How does someone like him wind up as such a goddamn failure?' He paused for breath.

A seagull was shrieking in the sky above them.

Delaware spread a slice of bread with butter, dribbled some jam on the top and took a bite. 'Good,' she said. 'I can tell you still like him.'

THE NAME UCLUELET came from the Nootka, meaning 'safe harbour'. Like Tofino, the picturesque town was situated in a natural harbour and had grown from a fishing village into a favourite spot for whale-watchers. Greywolf lived in one of the less presentable parts of town. If you turned off the main road and ventured a few hundred metres down a root-ridden track just wide enough for a car, the centuries-old forest opened into a clearing with a shack in the middle. No one was more aware of its lack of comfort than its sole inhabitant. When the weather was good – and Greywolf's definition of bad weather came somewhere between a tornado and the end of the world – he spent his time outside, wandering through the forest, taking tourists to see the black bears and doing odd jobs. The probability of finding him at home was practically nil, even at night. He either slept in the open or in the bed of an adventure-hungry tourist, who never doubted for a second that she'd bagged herself a noble savage.

It was early afternoon when Anawak got to Ucluelet. He'd made up his mind to drive with Shoemaker to Nanaimo and get the ferry to Vancouver. He had his reasons for not taking the helicopter. The official reason for stopping in Ucluelet was so Shoemaker could talk business with Davie – the station was preparing to branch out into land-based adventure tours – but Anawak had excused himself from the discussions. Whatever the future held, he sensed that his time on Vancouver Island was coming to an end. If he was honest with himself, there was nothing to keep him there. Now the whale-watching was over, what did he have left?

He'd spent years trying to distract himself. OK, so he'd written his doctorate and become a respected scientist, but it was all wasted time. In the past few weeks he'd nearly died twice. Something had changed since the plane crash. He'd felt threatened on the inside, as though an enemy from the long-forgotten past had sensed his fear and was on his scent. He had one last chance to get a grip on his life. The message was clear: break the cycle.

Anawak's path had led him up the track strewn with tree roots and now he was standing in front of the shack, wondering what he was doing there. He took the few steps up to the shabby veranda and knocked.

Greywolf wasn't at home.

He circled the shack a few times, feeling vaguely disappointed. He should have known it would be empty. His feet led him back to the door. He reached out and pushed the handle. The door swung open. Leaving it unlocked was nothing out of the ordinary here. He shivered with a memory. There were other places like that too, or at least, there used to be. Hesitantly he walked in.

He hadn't been here for ages, which made him all the more astonished by the sight that met his eyes. He'd always thought of Greywolf as living in dingy chaos, but although the room was plain it was cosily furnished, with Indian masks and rugs on the walls. Colourful raffia chairs surrounded a low wooden table. Indian throws adorned the sofa. Two shelves were packed with utensils and wooden rattles that the Nootka used in ceremonies and for traditional chants. He couldn't see a television, but there were two hotplates and a sink. A narrow corridor led to a second room, Greywolf's bedroom, as Anawak remembered.

He felt a fleeting temptation to take a look around, but he still wasn't sure what he was doing there. The house was pulling him into a time warp, taking him back further than he cared to go.

His eyes were caught by a large mask, staring right at him. He took a step closer. Many Indian masks portrayed facial features symbolically, overemphasising and enlarging them – huge eyes, exaggeratedly arched eyebrows, a beak-like hooked nose. But this was a faithful copy of a human face. It showed the calm countenance of a young man with a straight nose, full lips and a smooth, high forehead. The hair looked matted, but seemed real. With the exception of the pupils, which were missing to allow the wearer to see, the eyes were surprisingly lifelike. Their gaze was calm and earnest, as though the man were in a trance.

Anawak stood motionless in front of it. He'd seen plenty of masks before. The Indians made them from cedarwood, bark and leather, and they were popular with tourists. But this mask was different.

'It's from the Pacheedaht.'

He swivelled round. Greywolf was just behind him. 'For a phony Indian you're pretty good at sneaking up on people,' said Anawak.

'Thanks.' Greywolf grinned. He didn't seem put out to find an uninvited guest. 'Shame I can't return the compliment. For a bona fide Indian you're a wash-out.'

'How long have you been standing there?'

'I just walked in. I don't play games, you should know that.' Greywolf eyed him. 'Now, if you don't mind me asking, why are you here?'

Good question, thought Anawak. Without thinking, he turned back to the mask, as if it might answer for him. 'From the Pacheedaht, you say?'