Fathom (2 page)

The broken clod looked like an injury, there on the ground.

“It isn’t clay,” his companion said. “It’s iron.”

Edward nodded. “Iron,” he echoed. “Through and through. A small mountain made of it, and God knows why. But this is the place, you say?”

“This is the place. Build it here, as tall as the earth will stand it. Send it into the sky. Make it a sanctuary.”

Edward tugged at his collar, wiping at the sweat he found underneath it. He gazed across the landscape and then back down at his feet. He did not look over his shoulder. It was one thing to hear that voice made of gravel and mulch; it was another thing to see the speaker, both oddly shaped and terribly misshapen.

Edward found it easier to listen than to look. “And you’ll be here? You’ll stay here, I mean?”

“I’ll stay, and I’ll watch. I’ll wait in your sanctuary.”

“I like the sound of that, yes. A sanctuary. I’ll buy out the land as far as we can see from this point, and we’ll reshape it. I know a man who does great work with landscaping.” Edward was warming to the idea, building momentum as he pushed it around in his head. “We’ll make it into a proper garden. We’ll plant orchards. We’ll have birds, and butterflies, and how do you feel about swans? We should have at least a pair of them. There’s plenty of water to keep them happy, and we could import fish, too. Do you like fish?”

For a long moment, there was no answer. “It depends.”

Edward was afraid that he’d asked an inappropriate question, but his escort did not offer a formal objection or complaint. “Well,
all of that—the fish, the swans—it’s all a ways off yet. This will take several years, if not longer.”

“A man with your resources should be able to speed things up considerably.”

“Money can accomplish only so much. You’re talking about tons upon tons of stone and metal. I’ll need to hire workers, arrange for the transport of materials, and contact my friend the landscaper—and that will only be the beginning. I’ll do my best, I assure you. But I’m only human,” he said. “Perhaps there’s something that
you
could . . .”

“I’ll assist you any way I can. But my abilities are better suited to breaking things down than building them up.”

“But there are others like you, aren’t there? Is there someone else who can help?” Edward had always wanted to know, and here was a perfect window for asking.

His companion laughed, and it was a bitter, raspy sound. “Yes and no. There are none who would answer any call of mine, if that’s what you want to know. The ones who remain despise me. I chose this exile because I was tired of their scorn. I was exhausted by their contempt, and I would rather bury myself in the Iron Mountain than endure it another day.”

Edward Bok did not know how to respond. It had been several years since he’d first met his strange friend, and in that time he’d rarely heard anything so revealing or personal. He was acutely aware that he knew precious little about the creature that stood behind him.

But he was not a stupid man, and he’d inferred a thing or two. He’d gathered that the creature was alone, and that it was angry. He’d surmised that it was very old, and that it was suffering terribly as a result of some punishment. But the thing was selective about the questions it answered, and Edward had grown careful about what he asked.

“Exile,” Edward repeated, wondering how best to ask more.

“They won’t come after me here, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

Edward shook his head. “No, I’m not worried. I trust you.”

“Why is that?”

“I beg your pardon?” Edward wanted to turn around, but only shifted his head to peer over his shoulder.

“Why would you trust me?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Everyone has a choice. You have more at your fingertips than most people do.”

“Because of the money?” Edward frowned. “I do my best to share the wealth. I build libraries and fund schools. I—”

“Don’t defend your expenditures to me. I’m not your god, and not your accountant. I don’t care where or how you spend your funds, so long as we agree in this one great venture.”

“We agree,” Edward said quickly. “Of course we do. I gave you my word, didn’t I? I’ll build your tower, and I’ll cast your bells. I’ll make your sanctuary according to whatever directions you see fit to give me.”

“Don’t do it for me, you ridiculous man. Do it for yourself, and for your children and grandchildren. You have a grandchild now, yes?”

“I have two.”

“That’s twice the reason to build the tower, then. You’re building it for them, and for everyone else you love. You’re preparing to save the world, Bok. Don’t behave as if you’re doing me a favor.”

Edward withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to swab his forehead. The air was dense with humidity, and the sun felt too close; it cooked the sweat on his face and seared pink burns into his skin. “I didn’t intend it that way. I only wonder, sometimes, why you’re going to the trouble.”

From behind him, there came the muffled crackling noise of
rocks being tumbled in sand. And when he finally twisted on his heels to look, he saw no one and nothing there.

“All right,” he told himself. “I’ll get started.”

He began by purchasing fifty acres, including the Iron Mountain itself. He declared his intention to create a wildlife preserve; he arranged for the pipe-work and water system installation, and imported nourishing topsoil by the ton. The iron-rich sand and dirt could hold only so much life, and it had to be supplemented. The landscaper, Frederick Olmsted, would not even
visit
the site until that much had been prepared.

In 1924, once the groundwork had been established, Olmsted came down from Massachusetts with an army of gardeners, stocked with native and imported flora of every stripe. He believed deeply in conservation, and he applauded Bok’s plans.

Mr. Olmsted also wanted to save the world.

The landscape architect plotted the grounds, set down trails, and laid out the gardens. He arranged the oaks, pines, and geometrically styled orange groves. He planted date and sabal palms, papyrus, creeping fig, and hollies. Wafting up through the clattering ruckus of construction and digging came the sweet, light scent of jasmine and camellias.

So when the land had been cleared, and the pipes had all been laid, and the gardens were under way, Bok turned his attention to the sanctuary’s centerpiece: the Singing Tower. His friend Milton Medary designed it.

Medary drew his inspiration from the best of art deco and Gothic overindulgence. He looked to the great European cathedrals and he liked what he saw there; he wondered how it might be shaped to better fit the heat, the sun, and the shifting, sandy earth of the peninsula.

He brought cream and lavender marble from Italy and pink coquina from St. Augustine by the cartload, by the truckload, by any kind of load that would carry it deep into central Florida, through heat that could bake or kill anything that breathed.

It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t quick.

Foot by foot, year by year, the ornate tower stretched itself up to the clouds.

While the tower grew, and while the gardens sprawled, and while tidy rows of orchards were groomed around the Iron Mountain, sixty great bells were cast in bronze. Shaped like cups and designed to work with a special clavier, the bells ranged in size from sixteen pounds to twelve tons.

The largest bell could have hidden a horse.

On February 1, 1929, Calvin Coolidge dedicated the property as Edward Bok’s “gift for the visitation of the American people.” The ceremony was well attended and highly publicized, but only one spectator watched from the very top of the carillon.

It watched in silence, and in pain. The bells burned its skin, and the noise of the crowd made its head itch. But it watched, and it was pleased with the results.

Less than a year later, Edward Bok died. He was buried at the foot of the tower, directly in front of the big brass door, in accordance with his final request.

The Orchard and the Island

A
ccording to Marjorie’s letter, her daughter, Bernice, was not adjusting very well to the move. Marjorie was aware that Bernice and Nia had barely seen each other in recent years, but since they were cousins—and almost the same age—they might enjoy each other’s company for a few months.

And wouldn’t Nia like a break from working in the orchard?

She could come out to the island, where the new house was only a few yards from the beach. She could have her own room, and swim at her leisure. She and Bernice could even catch the ferry over to Tampa and see the Gasparilla parade if they liked. The city was not so far away.

Nia’s mother and grandmother balked at the idea, but Nia was tired of climbing ladders and picking oranges like a field hand. A sunny beach on a distant island sounded like a much better way to spend the summer than working for free on the family farm; and anyway, she was eighteen and she could go if she wanted to.

She didn’t remember much about her cousin. When she thought on Bernice’s name, all she could muster was a memory of someone small and fast with curly blond hair and a smile that could cut glass.

She knew that her cousin was beautiful, and that she’d been living in New York ever since Marjorie had remarried ten years earlier. She knew that her cousin was a little “wild,” or so her grandmother said with a tight little grimace bunched at the side of her mouth.

“Marjorie lets Neecy run too fast. She doesn’t keep that girl close enough,” Grandmother declared during the living room gossip session that began as soon as Marjorie’s letter had been read by everyone present. “She’s never whooped the girl, not even once . . . and Bernice has deserved it plenty more than once. Lord help me, but it’s true. If she came up here instead of tempting Nia down south, I’d do it myself. Better late than never.”

“She’s too big for that now, Momma,” Nia’s mother said. She twisted her lips around the sewing pins she held there while she worked. “She’s a couple years older than Nia, even.”

“She isn’t too big to beat. She’s just too far away.”