Part 1 (of 3)
Mr. Roarke gathered his staff dutifully and walked with them to the dock. "Smiles, everyone," he prompted, as he considered his new guests. What had Fisher been thinking? One guy just wanted a weekend away from work, a waste of his unique talents. The other wanted quality time with his adopted daughter, was this a hint? If so, it was a rather cruel one, even for Fisher. Oh well, he thought, we all had our roles to play. It helped relieve some of the boredom of his exile.
"Good day, Mr. Stone," he greeted the first guest. The man, underdressed even for a tropical island, looked up with weary eyes. Roarke had guessed his name correctly. Ezekiel Stone took his cocktail eagerly and toasted his host with a cautious smile. Ariel began to comment, but Roarke stopped her with a barely perceptible wave of his hand. The next guest was disembarking.
A young man looking barely in his twenties stepped gracefully out of the plane. The dock's pitching motion didn't break his stride in the slightest, as though he had calculated its angle and compensated effortlessly. "Good day, Mr. Rose. Gentlemen, welcome to Fantasy Island!" Ariel took Stone by the arm and led him to his bungalow. Cal offered to carry Rose's bags but he refused, instead allowing him to lead him to his appointment with Mr. Roarke in his office.
Ezekiel Stone could not believe his luck. The travel agent had assured him that his boss would not find him here, no matter how persistent a boss he might have. Further, despite having maybe enough money to buy himself dinner, Mr. Fisher booked the flight to this island and had only charged him one dollar. One dollar! He was waiting for the Devil's punch line, but his tormentor had been conspicuously absent. He wasn't the shuttle driver, he wasn't the pilot, he hadn't even inserted himself into his dreams when he'd taken that nap on the plane. The place just felt right. The air was clean and his escort was beautiful. Surrounded by paradise, he relaxed his shoulders and held his head high.
Hunter Rose sat across the desk from Mr. Roarke, keeping his single piece of luggage close by his side. He sat sideways in the chair, a challenge implicit in his posture. He had the lean, athletic body of a young man and the face of a child surrounding an intense pair of royal blue eyes. He smiled as Roarke fussed with some papers, feigning busy.
"Mr. Rose," he began, "the information the travel agent provided was a little sketchy. He told me you wanted to spend some time with your daughter, but I didn't see her on the plane."
"I call her my niece. She's in the hospital, Mr. Roarke. It was this fact that reminded me of the precariousness of life. I'm in a high risk line of work." He paused a minute to see how this was received. He could see that Roarke knew more than he let on. "I have every reason to believe that I will not live to see her grow up. While I have to face this fact in life, I might escape it in fantasy. Do you understand?"
"I see." While Roarke's mind had been working at a furious pace, he didn't miss a beat in responding. He knew that Hunter Rose was duelling with him verbally, that a pause would be seen as weakness. "So you would like your niece to grow up before your very eyes. Your very young eyes." He eyed Hunter critically, hoping the scrutiny would yield some secret. "Are you sure you're prepared to see her as an adult?"
"Not right away..."
"Of course not! Part of the joy of raising a child is seeing the steps she takes along the way. Very well, Hunter. I may call you Hunter?" He waited only a beat for the young man to nod assent. "Cal will show you to your bungalow, and your fantasy will begin shortly thereafter." He stood and offered a handshake.
Hunter rose, smiled, and returned the handshake. Cal appeared. "Mr. Roarke, have you read any of my novels?"
"I'm sorry I haven't seen them, but then I don't get out much. Good day sir." He wondered what prompted Hunter to ask such a thing, but kept his thoughts to himself.
Ezekiel Stone heard a knock on his bungalow door. He tensed briefly, then relaxed when he heard Mr. Roarke's voice call to him. "Come in."
Mr. Roarke opened the door and took a seat next to Stone's king sized bed. "So, how do you like your vacation so far?" Stone smiled in disbelief. He stammered a few adjectives but couldn't put together a sentence to describe how good he felt. Roarke was pleased. "I'm glad you like it here. But, what are you doing hanging around in your bungalow? There's an entire island out there for you to enjoy." Roarke had taken the time to read Stone's dossier, and had instructed his staff to be extra diligent in meeting his needs. "There's a beach blanket in the closet along with an umbrella, towels, swim trunks, a change of clothes (I hope they're to your liking) and above the nightstand there's a bell for room service." He gestured expansively around the place. "I even took the liberty of putting a baseball bat and glove under the bed." It was everything Stone could do not to cry, for sheer happiness. Roarke waited indulgently for Stone to regain his composure. "But there's something else?"
Stone lowered his eyes, looking at the wedding ring still on his hand. "I'd like to see her again, sure. But I want that to be real. Absolutely real. You can't do that, can you?"
"I'm afraid I can't. In the meantime, though, you can have a restful vacation. No phones, no paperwork, nothing to distract you from a luxurious good time. On the house." He received Stone's handshake gracefully, and left the room with a light step.
Hunter checked through his bag to make sure it was all still there. The black fleece pants and matching shirt, two sets, check. White boots, calf length, check. White gloves with the special buttonholes in the left one, check. Stocking masks, one plain, one Grendel, check. All kept carefully repaired in the secret compartment underneath his daily clothes. He put the gloves on and adjusted the buttonholes over the heel of his hand. Bending his left hand back he willed to work the strange power that his time in Hell had brought him. Shhhhk! The fork appeared, as though an extension of his forearm bones. With his right hand he pulled it free of his left and held it upright. A staff grew from the fork's base to the ground, completing the weapon. --thock! Jacosta would be proud.
"Uncle?" He spun around, fork poised to strike. In perfect confidence stood nine year old Stacy. As he lowered the weapon she ran to hug him. He returned the hug warmly. "Hello, darling. Would you like to fence or play chess?"
Sunset found Mr. Roarke and the tourists gathered around the patio lounge off the main building. A set of young fantasy-seekers had wanted to play with Glenn Miller, so the music tonight was swing. The fantasy Glenn Miller had worked them mercilessly hard, but they were coming together well for all of it. A little glamory and they made a fine evening's entertainment.
Ariel chose a seat next to Roarke to watch the band. "People watching?"
"As always, dear. It can be very entertaining, as well as a tool to help fulfill fantasies."
"You need to loosen up sometimes."
Roarke played at being horribly offended. "You have room to talk, Ariel. I am responsible for all these poor souls here, to see that their dearest dreams come true. I'm not doing too badly either! Like that couple over there." He gestured discreetly to Hunter and Stacy, now in her preteens, dancing happily. "He's convinced he'll die young. And that other guy," he gestured toward a thin man exchanging jokes with a buxom lady, "he's a prison warden, lost over a hundred prisoners. And yet look at them! You'd think they hadn't a care in the world."
"And you are not having any fun." Her eyes twinkled mischievously.
He stood and offered his hand to Ariel, all grace and innocence. "Shall we dance?" They stole the dance floor, and the crowd applauded at the end of the number, making Roarke blush.