That was why Raven wondered if he were imagining things. Few people had either the skill or the foolishness to take on the west side of the Charlottes in an open rowboat. Yet it was possible that one of the Haidas from Old Masset or Skidegate had chosen to make a personal pilgrimage to Totem Inlet. The descendant of people who had routinely raided as far south as Oregon in their dugout cedar canoes wouldn’t hesitate to put out to sea in a rowboat in order to reach Totem Inlet at the first stirrings of dawn.

A corner of Raven’s mouth curled into a faint smile. Of course it was possible that a Haida had come to the legendary inlet for personal reasons. That was what he was doing. He had come here in his season of discontent as though he could fish satisfaction from the dark veils of the past just as he had fished silver salmon from the green veils of the sea.

Yet satisfaction had eluded him.

With the ease of years of practice, Raven put his own personal needs aside and concentrated on listening to the wind’s flexible voice. From the faint, fitful sounds that had awakened him, he knew that the boat was beyond Totem Inlet’s mouth. Unless the motor had started again, the man would be forced to row against the wind and tide in order to reach safety.

Unconsciously Raven flexed his big work-hardened hands around the binoculars. If he were the man in the boat, he would be rowing right now, pulling hard on the long oars, feeling the power of his body sweeping down through the wood into the heaving sea. The boat would be cutting through the waves with deceptive ease, sliding closer to the inlet with each movement of the oars through the water.