The Obsidian Chamber

44

Diogenes, resting in his second-floor sitting room, heard Constance quietly descend the back stairs, open the rear door, and walk across the veranda. She moved very lightly, but his hearing was unnaturally acute, and he was able to follow her movements by sound alone. He rose and looked out the window, and a moment later saw her walking along the pathway to the south end of the island.

She was, he understood, in many ways like a wild animal: a tiger, perhaps, or a mustang. The taming of such an animal had to proceed with infinite patience, gentleness, and kindness. And as with the taming of a tiger by her handler, the forcing of any issue could be fatal. He was still amazed he had conquered her, at least in part, coaxed her out of the Pendergast mansion, where she had lived almost the entirety of her long life, and succeeded in bringing her down here. It was the fulfilment of what were now his dearest dreams, his most cherished fantasies. But the taming wasn’t complete by any means. Now was the most delicate time — the point where, at the slightest thing, the animal might bolt.

The most important point with wild animals was to give them their freedom. Never corner or cage one. The taming was imposed from within, not without. It was a seduction, not a conquest. Constance would willingly weave her own bonds, her own restraints, and impose them on herself — that was the only way it would work. He did, of course, have the ultimate lure — the arcanum. When she began to feel its rejuvenating effects… that, he hoped, would be the turning point.

Now that she was out of the house, he turned to the platter Gurumarra had brought him, on which was placed a single letter that had arrived at the post office box he maintained in Key West. Taking up a mother-of-pearl letter opener, he neatly slit open the larger, remailing-service envelope and removed the smaller envelope inside. This he slit open in turn and removed a single page of cheap paper. The letter was written in a tiny, precise, spiky hand. There was no salutation, he was glad to see, nor signature at the bottom, nor return address — but he knew very well who it was from.

Diogenes read the letter twice, a frown marring his face. The importuning tone of the letter was concerning, and it only reinforced an uneasy feeling he’d had for some time. He rose, taking the letter and envelope to the small tiled fireplace, tore it into pieces, struck a match, and set it to an edge of the paper. He stood, watching, as the pieces curled up and were consumed. When it was done he took a poker, stirred the ashes once, and then again.

Constance strolled along the sandy path through the mangroves, which fell away, opening up to a meadow on the southern end of the island. She had long since passed by the “gardener’s cottage,” Mr. Gurumarra’s bungalow, tucked away in a grove of sand pines. It was a beautiful meadow, fringed by low dunes and palm trees, terminating in a sweep of white beach that ended in a curving spit at the key’s southern tip. She could see some structures set amid the waving grass, clustered around a thick-limbed, half-dead gumbo-limbo tree.

They were old Victorian outbuildings, constructed of red brick, weathered and crumbling. One had a smokestack that went up perhaps twenty feet, choked in vines. Curious, she followed the path toward them. The first and largest building, the one with the smokestack, had an old sign set in the brick façade, much faded, in which she could make out the word DYNAMO. She approached a shattered window frame to look inside, and a group of swallows flew out the broken door with much noise. Peering in, she could see the remains of machinery, draped in vines. This, she realized, must have been the old power plant for the island, now long abandoned. Beyond that stood three rows of sparkling new solar panels, and next to that a new windowless building with a metal door.

Curious, she went to the building and tried the knob, found it unlocked, and opened it. Inside was a single room full of racks of batteries with thick bundles of wires — the island’s new source of power.

Backing out, she closed the door. There was another small brick building nearby, very old, with a green copper-sheathed door. A slanting roof led into the ground — this door led to some subterranean chamber. She went over to it. Painted on the door was the word CISTERN. She tried it and found it locked.

Putting her ear to the keyhole, she listened and heard the faint hum of machinery and the distant sound of running water.

Walking past, she went to the point of the island. Here, two gorgeous beaches met in a long sandy spit that extended into the turquoise water. She felt tired from her walk, and curiously listless. A refreshing dip in the water might help revive her. She looked around. There was nobody about, of course, and the house was at the other end of the key, hidden behind mangroves, with only the tower poking above. There were no boats.

It was as if the water before her, all the way to the horizon, was her private bath.

Feeling a surge of independence, she took off her shoes, unhooked her dress, slipped it off, and in a moment was standing naked, her toes in the water. Again glancing around furtively, she waded into the water, going out quite a way before it became deep enough to immerse herself. She lay on her back, staring up at the blue sky, and trying to calm her mind and simply exist, with no thoughts, no misgivings, no fears, no yammering inner voice.

In the tower of the main house, his eye to the lens of a telescope, Diogenes stared at her white figure floating in the green-blue water. His breath came fast and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest, and with a great effort he tore himself away from the scope.