The Water of Life

3. Elizabeth, Lighthouse Point

3. Elizabeth, Lighthouse PointWhen she passes in front of the lighthouse again, Elizabeth waves her hand; this gesture is an automatic reflex instilled in the days when her uncle, the former lighthouse keeper, lived there with his family. Even though the lighthouse has been automated and its residence empty for twenty-five years, Elizabeth can’t stop her hand and its useless wave. Maybe her uncle or her paternal grandfather replies, in their own invisible way.

As she enters the channel behind the point on which the lighthouse stands, Elizabeth guides the boat without having to think, narrowly avoiding the many reefs hidden underwater. Fifteen minutes later, she cuts the motor and lets the boat drift into its slip next to the dock, like a horse returning to the stable.

She fastens the mooring lines and climbs the ten steps that lead to the house, a rustic building perched atop a rock, with a view over a large bay leading to the open water. Going inside, she puts on a CD of Cuban jazz, drops into a rocking chair and lets her eyes wander around the room. This house, the first building erected on Massassauga Bay, was built by her great-grandfather in the 1890s. Successive generations have grafted new rooms onto this very rudimentary, functional structure, without the slightest consideration for aesthetics. “And what am I going to add to it?” Elizabeth asks herself.

Rocking to the frantic rhythm of the music, Elizabeth remembers the last time she danced, the last time she felt a warm body against her own. Thirty-nine years is too young to have memories that already seem so distant. And yet …

She hesitates again. What if the mysterious voice was wrong? She climbs down the steps to the cellar cut from the rock. Digging into the granite of the Canadian Shield is difficult, and to make a hole in the rock, her grandfather had learned to use dynamite by trial and error, one explosive blast at a time. This room, built to store perishable foods, hides something else.

Elizabeth pulls a key from her pocket and sticks it into the padlock. This is only the second time she’s been down here. The first, ten years ago, was just for a cursory inspection. With the padlock undone, she still hesitates to open the door. What exactly is she afraid of now, finding a skeleton?

Suddenly, the phone rings. She turns around, but stops herself. “I can’t turn back, not now.” After five rings, the answering machine kicks in, and she regains her calm. She pulls the door open and stretches out her trembling hand towards the interior wall. A rush of apprehension chills her, as though she were about to steal something. And yet what she’s come here to take is rightfully hers.

The naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling gives off a gloomy light that silhouettes several wooden barrels and cases of bottles. Inside one of the cases, her fingers brush against smooth, curved glass. Pulling out the bottle, she studies her loot in the dim light.

Her Uncle Edward’s voice echoes in her head: “Along with the house, your parents left this to both of you. It might be worthless, but keep it safe, and above all, don’t mention it to anyone …”

Did her uncle really say this to her? She’s starting to doubt it, even though the memory seems so real.

Like a tomb robber, Elizabeth abruptly shuts the door, closes the padlock and quickly climbs back up to the kitchen. She puts the bottle down on the table and pours herself a large glass of water. At this moment Elizabeth is absolutely certain that her parents drank this whisky and, what’s more, that if they had lived longer they would be with her tonight, offering her this dram. She calmly uncorks the bottle.

Strong fragrances flood the room. Elizabeth’s nostrils react—out of joy or horror, she can’t say which. The scents of the sea, of the north wind and of Georgian Bay swim in the air dominated by this powerful smell of water transformed through its contact with rock, peat and heather.

Five minutes go by. Elizabeth pours a long draught of the liquid into a triangle-shaped glass, a promotional item from the Glenfiddich distillery, and then begins to agitate it. On the side of the glass, the decal face of William Grant, the founder of Glenfiddich, sporting his Glengarry army cap, smiles at her.

Around her, the room pitches like the deck of a sailboat running from a storm in the open sea. This smell of water, so familiar and so alien at the same time, won’t stop bombarding her. The glass brushes her lips when, suddenly, she remembers an essential element is missing: fresh water. A few drops of Georgian Bay water will draw out the natural oils of this whisky, aged like no other on Earth. She runs a drop from the tap and catches it in her glass. The reaction is immediate.

A sparkling patch, like an oil stain, shines for a brief moment and disappears. Elizabeth recoils in horror. She has the clear impression that she saw a woman’s face in that stain, a stranger’s face, but nonetheless familiar.

She grips the glass tightly in her hands; all she sees now is the very dark, straw-coloured liquid. After a long moment, she succeeds in controlling the shiver running up and down her body. Could she be reliving Doctor Jekyll’s experience, venturing into a forbidden realm? Does this whisky have the power to transform her? And if so, will it be for better or worse?

A deep doubt gnaws at her. The solitude and the isolation are taking their toll on her; she can no longer deny it.

She doesn’t have a choice anymore; she has to see this through to the end. The soul of the released spirit is commanding her to drink it.

The whisky enters her mouth. She suppresses an instinct to spit; she’s never tasted liquor this strong. This whisky comes to her from another century, from a marriage, from a legendary crossbreeding, in fact. The fireworks exploding in her mouth spread through all her limbs, reaching her heart and her brain at the same time. This euphoria, both so sensual and so cerebral, makes her moan. Her heart pounds wildly. Flashes of enlightenment fill her head, one after the other. Oh, yes! The whole world will know this ecstasy, this sweet bliss, thanks to her—or rather, thanks to her, and to the three generations of Legrands who came before her, and to … Her thoughts stop short.

She takes another swallow. This time she feels only gentleness and comfort.

“And thanks to the mystical powers of Georgian Bay,” she says to herself. “Yes, in order for this whisky to be reborn, I’ll have to tell the story of how it came to be.” Elizabeth is the only one capable of doing it. “And what’s more, its saga will continue through me.”

She notices, with surprise, that her glass is already empty.

“One is enough, two are too many, and three are not enough,” she recites aloud, remembering the Scottish proverb.

Without hesitating, she pours herself a second glass. The whisky has waited more than a century for its odyssey to add a new chapter to the annals of Lighthouse Point. And this chapter won’t be the last. The secret of the past will be sacrificed in order to ensure a future.

“Slàinte to you, Glen Dubh!” Elizabeth cries, clinking her glass against the bottle.