Long before our oldest maps were drawn, a tower watched over a nameless harbor— No road reached it— No record named the people who built it. The stones were already old when the oldest citizens were young— At the top of the tower lived a Keeper— That was not a name. It was the work— Each night, the Keeper climbed one hundred and twelve steps to a room without a door— The room held a brass wheel, a bowl of dark water and a narrow opening toward the sea. It also held a

At first light, the land looked worthless. That was the consensus. Dust. Scrub. Stone. A dry wash cutting through the eastern side. Twenty-seven square miles of country that had produced nothing anyone could point to. No derrick. No pumpjack. No black stain in the dirt. No neighbor bragging about production.