The Water of Life

4. Scotland, 1534

4. Scotland, 1534After thirty years of contemplative life, facing the confusion of the dirty, busy streets of Edinburgh was a shock for Ewen Ban. A year ago, the Statutes of the Realm decreed by King Henry VIII had forced him to leave monastic life. This decree had disfranchised the monasteries, allowing the English sovereign to distribute their lands to his followers. Now in his early fifties, Ewen had lost his purpose in life. With the closure of Lindores Abbey, he had been thrown out onto the street, and it was for this reason that he found himself in the Scottish capital, searching for his salvation, or at least for a way to live out, with a clear conscience, the few years left to him in this world before moving on to his eternal life in the next.

“St Giles’ Cathedral?”

The passerby Ewen had just stopped looked him up and down with a scornful glance before pointing the way with a finger. “You’re already practically there.”

Ewen had barely understood what the gentleman had muttered to him before disappearing. He continued on his way, reassured that he had achieved his goal, at least his first one. To start with, he must pray. After that, he would seek out Iain Fearmòr’s blood brother. He had to at least try to keep the solemn oath made to his old teacher. Only then could he go back, with complete peace of mind, to the land of his childhood, to where he had lived before the monastery.

In front of St Giles’ Cathedral, a colourful mob of merchants boisterously hawked their wares.

“Drink aqua vitae.”

This exhortation from one of the vendors attracted the ex-monk’s attention. The merchant, who was in fact a barber-surgeon, was catching fire about his goods.

“Moderately taken, aqua vitae slows ageing, fortifies youth, helps with digestion, lightens the mind, cheers the heart, heals strangulation; it keeps and preserves the head from whirling, the tongue from lisping, the guts from rumbling, and the bones from aching.”

Despite himself, Ewen stopped for a minute at the barber-surgeon’s stall as he continued proclaiming the virtues of his product.

“It can even perk up an old man like you.”

For a long moment, Ewen eyed the flasks of aqua vitae under the vendor’s suspicious gaze. “May I have a sniff?” he asked.

The barber-surgeon uncorked a small flask and held it out to the former monk clad in simple peasants’ clothes. “All right. But it’s a penny for a taste.”

Ewen moved closer to the open flask. His nostrils covered the neck and breathed in noisily. This deep breath and the smell that came with it made his head spin, transported him to a world possessing its own distinctive flavours, aromas and murmurs that made it both spiritual and very carnal.

“So, old man, do you want a taste?”

The seller’s question pulled Ewen out of his pleasant daydream. Dumbfounded, he could only shake his head and dash briskly for the door of the cathedral. “Prayer, yes, prayer.” He absolutely had to ask for divine counsel.

Inside the stone building, his eyes adjusted to the gloomy candlelight. This heavy atmosphere, designed to crush the average believer before the greatness of his God, had the opposite effect on the aged monk, accustomed to decades of daily prayer. The cold and hardness of the stone floor against his knees gave him a feeling of wellbeing. Comforted, he threw himself enthusiastically into prayer and meditation.

The smell of the aqua vitae still lingering in his nostrils, he watched the thread of his memories unroll before him. Ewen was twenty years old again. He was keeping a close eye on the fire under a still as the monastery steward, friar Iain Fearmòr, explained his wishes.

“I will share all my knowledge with you, but on one condition. If I am unable to pass it on to clan Fearmòr before my death, you, brother Ban, will have to do so in my place. Swear before me and before God …”

That had been in 1504. Ewen had been living at the monastery for a year, and friar Fearmòr had been initiating him into the art of distilling aqua vitae. With the years, his mentor had succeeded in refining the techniques of distillation, thus increasing production and ensuring a greater share of aqua vitae for the monks of the abbey, who used it to successfully to treat a number of illnesses. The friars charged with milking the cows even coated their udders with it, claiming that it improved the yield and quality of the milk. Like a good student, Ewen had himself soon become an expert in distillation and, when friar Fearmòr died five years later, the monastery had entrusted him with the responsibility of producing their aqua vitae.

But now the abbey no longer existed, and Ewen still had to fulfil his promise.

In front of a statue of Saint Columba, the first to spread Christianity in Scotland, he prayed. Had this missionary also brought the science of distillation from Ireland? No one could prove it, but Ewen believed that he had.

Revitalised, he left the cathedral, determined to seek out Tam Fearmòr, but afraid that the man would refuse Ewen his help in fulfilling his dead brother’s vow.

* * *

Ewen recited the Lord’s Prayer as he watched white smoke rise over the fire. Although the sky was starry on this November night, he saw nothing but the darkness filling the space under South Bridge, the most discreet spot he had been able to find. The heat of the fire he shared with the still, a damaged vessel it had taken him a long search to acquire, was starting to permeate his numb limbs.

He would never have imagined himself one day simultaneously invoking the Divine Spirit through prayer, and alcoholic spirits through distillation, in a place like this. Since Tam had unequivocally refused to entrust his fourteen-year-old son, Niall, to the ex-monk so he could become his apprentice, Ewen saw only one way to convince the recalcitrant father: let the uisge beatha plead in his favour.

He had successfully traded his services as a scribe against a few bushels of good-quality barley. After malting it for two weeks, he was now finally able to move on to distilling the wort. However, he remained unsure of what the results would be. The water he had drawn from the Water of Leith, the little river that snaked across Edinburgh, was of mediocre quality, just like the few pieces of dried peat that he’d been able to scrounge for fuel. At least all the essential elements were gathered and, with the Lord’s help, he would succeed in drawing true aqua vitae from them.

Approaching the fire and its acrid smoke, he examined the vapour finally starting to form inside the coil. He wouldn’t have to wait much longer. For a moment he thought of Niall Fearmòr—a sturdy young lad, at least by the look of him, and quick-witted too. The memory of Tam’s voice cast a shadow over this thought.

“It’s illegal! The barber-surgeons are the only ones in Edinburgh allowed to make uisge beatha.”

Exactly, Ewen had argued back. That’s why he proposed to take Niall far away from Edinburgh, to the Highlands, to a valley that ran along the river Spey. In his native region, all the ingredients necessary for aqua vitae were of high quality and easy to procure. There, Ewen could initiate Niall into the art of distillation in complete peace and quiet, with no risk of imprisonment.

Since this argument hadn’t been enough to persuade Tam, a desperate Ewen had evoked the gloomy prospects awaiting Niall in Edinburgh. In this city one had to fight for jobs, each as mediocre as the next, against tens of unemployed people. What kind of future could a young man like Niall hope for in this city overpopulated with shabby, miserable wretches?

Despite being unable to answer the question, Tam hadn’t given in.

Drops were starting to form in the coil, and Ewen busied himself gathering them. The aqua vitae would have to succeed where Ewen had failed. Once the still had given up its spirits, Ewen let the fire die down. The night had been long, and dawn was already coming. That evening, the fate of uisge beatha, or at least of its passage into the Fearmòr lineage, would be decided.

* * *

Tam Fearmòr stared suspiciously at the glass in front of him: was this damnable man of God willing to go so far as to poison him in order to get his son? Ewen tried to reassure him by telling him that if he tasted the aqua vitae, he would understand why Niall had to learn how to make it.

“So why don’t you drink some first?”

The question surprised Ewen who, despite hesitating for a moment, reached out to pour himself a glass.

“No, take mine,” said Tam, pushing the vessel in front of his visitor.

It finally dawned on Ewen why Tam was ordering him to drink first. Rather than taking offence, he decided to laugh about it, bringing the glass to his lips to take a long gulp, exaggerating the gesture so far as to let a trickle of the liquid flow into his white beard. He finished off the scene with a sigh of satisfaction and an air of such total rapture that Tam was impatient to have his drink.

A few seconds later, all the troubles of the day vanished as the aqua vitae set the walls of his throat ablaze and re-energised all his limbs.

Glasses of whisky, along with stories, followed one after the other. Tam told Ewen about his misfortunes, and about his grief at living in destitution. At last, he agreed that Ewen should take Niall far away from the infectious poverty here. In this valley where Ewen was proposing to bring him, this Gleann Dubh, Niall couldn’t do worse than in Edinburgh.

“I’ll entrust him to you, but on one condition.”

Ewen’s eyebrows gathered in a question—a simple movement which, at this moment, required an enormous effort of concentration.

“Before leaving, you’ll fill ten small casks with this uisge beatha for me.”

Ewen raised his glass in agreement, emptied it in one go and then let himself fall to the ground, giving in to a deep sleep. He could sleep in peace. His promise would be kept, and the science of distillation of the monks of Lindores wouldn’t be lost. The weight that had just been taken off his shoulders would be carried by others: the Fearmòrs. However, for this, he should have called upon a race of giants—for the task would prove to be not only great, but completely superhuman.