“Actually, I know exactly how deep it is,” Thom said. “Thirty-seven metres. As a comparison, the Bay of Quinte where we ferried across is only seventeen metres at its deepest point.”
“Where does the water come from?”
“It’s speculative,” Thom said, “but they think it might come from Lake Superior.”
“But that’s hundreds of kilometres away.”
Thom nodded. “Scientists did some experiments releasing radioactive isotopes in the water, and that’s what they’ve determined.”
“It really is a mystery then.”
Sebastiano was glancing around. A panicked look had taken hold of him. “I don’t like this place. Bad spirits live here.” He shivered. “I feel it is haunted.”
Thom placed an arm across his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Seb. I won’t let them get you.”
Bill eyed them. “I think it’s boring,” he said. “Let’s go to town and find a drink.”
Dan rested a bronzed arm on the windowsill, hair bristling in the breeze, as the car wound away from Glenora toward Picton. All four looked ahead expectantly, following the route the Loyalists once used. There would barely have been a track back then as they hacked their way through trees and dense growth, alert for Native attacks. Anticipating their new homeland, far from the tyranny of mob rule in the newly emancipated republic to the south, four hundred men and women loyal to King George III were setting the stage for the then-unnamed country’s own tenuous path to independence.
Bill and Thom carried on a desultory conversation in the back. Sebastiano sat silently up front with Dan. He’d been spooked by the lake. Thom was used to its mystery and Bill hadn’t felt a thing, but Dan thought it odd how strongly the boy had reacted.
Up ahead, a steeple beckoned. A mast-filled harbour flashed by with a collection of tilting crosses, and suddenly they were there. They roared over a bridge just as the town opened up. One block further along a pub hailed them from the first floor of a grand hotel that had survived the times. It stood there, a displaced duchess keeping up her artifices and routines in a world that no longer sustained a belief in royalty. The black and gold frame above the door dated the premises to 1881, a bit past John A.’s tenancy, but significant nonetheless in a land where anything old was seldom encouraged to hang around.
The Black Swan, known to regulars as the Murky Turkey, was an old-world fade-into-the-woodworks establishment replete with stained glass, stained menus, and a permanent ethos of beer and cigarettes that repulsed the lively but enticed the world-weary in for more.
Where the Scots pioneer went, drink was sure to follow. A mutinous-looking collection of malts and mashes lined the darkly mirrored bar, sixteen taps at hand for the discerning drinker. For better or worse, tradition demanded fish and chips on every menu, with a selection of fine eats. This one eschewed such old-world delicacies as haggis and blood pudding, but made up for it with offerings of fatty fried foods and dishes featuring animal entrails. Steak-and-kidney pie topped the list. For an added touch, sausages and mash were on offer, wisely located near the bottom of the menu owing to the fact that most Canadians would never have heard of it.
Heads notched toward them as they entered — a cast of regulars whose sluggish responses and leaden pallor suggested they hadn’t moved or seen daylight in recent memory. The newcomers slid into chairs, their youthful voices and quick movements at odds with the room, bending their elbows against a table scarred with cigarette burns and the sweat rings from countless rounds of cheer. The look said vintage, though the exact period would have proved hard to determine.
Sebastiano had cheered up considerably since leaving Lake on the Mountain. He barely stopped talking as they doffed coats and settled in. “This is a good place,” he said, looking around. “I like it here.”
“It almost looks as though it might date from Loyalist times,” Dan said.
“So does the waitress,” Bill said, as a stooped spectre approached wearing a hesitant smile. He looked at her nametag. “Hello, Erma,” he said.
Her smile blossomed into an unkempt garden of teeth. “Hear the specials, love?” she asked hopefully.
Thom shook his head. “Just drinks.”
Erma’s smile faded. She took their order and soon returned balancing a tray that threatened to topple her. “Just passing through?” she asked, marking them with their glasses.
“We’re here for a wedding,” Bill chimed in.
“Oh? That’s nice. Whose?”
“His,” Bill said, pointing at Thom. “And his.” The finger went round to Sebastiano.
Erma nodded solemnly, as though unsure whether to take this news in jest. “That’s nice,” she said again. “Are youse from around here?”
“He’s a Killingworth,” Bill said, nodding at Thom before taking a slug of his drink.
Erma fixed her stare on Thom, as if imagining him in another setting. “From the other side of the harbour then.” She nodded to the far wall, as though looking directly through the brick and wooden beams.
“Yes,” Thom said quietly.
“I know the family,” Erma said, voice cautious. “Which one are you, love?” More than a tad interested now.
“Thom.”
“Thom. Thomas.” She mulled this over. “And was it your father who disappeared?”
Thom’s eyes betrayed annoyance. “Yes,” he said curtly.
“That was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Did he ever turn up?”
“No. No, he didn’t.”
Dan tried to recall if Bill had mentioned Thom’s missing father. It seemed odd given Dan’s occupation, though maybe people with bad hearts sat through entire meals with Bill without broaching the subject. It wasn’t the strange things that necessarily got talked about in people’s pasts. In fact, they were usually spoken of only on long nights over tall glasses of whiskey, with cigarette ash burning down to the knuckles, before anyone thought to mention them.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Erma said, as though he’d been recently bereaved. She picked up the tray and shifted her weight. Her eyes grew shrewd again. “You had a brother too, I think.”
“Still have,” Thom said, not looking at her. “He’s around.”
“Oh?” She looked vaguely disappointed, as though a missing father required a missing son as a complement. “Well, have a lovely wedding,” she said. “It’s supposed to be a nice weekend.”
“Thank you,” Thom said, still not smiling.
Erma left, tray at her side.
Bill held up his lager and looked across at Thom and Sebastiano. “Here’s to a lovely wedding,” he said, tipping his glass.
For a moment, Dan thought Bill’s smile betrayed some sort of amusement at
