For those of you unfamiliar with the Talamasca, it is a secret organization, formed @ 758 C.E. for the purposes of collecting information on the paranormal. This includes psychic abilities, spirits and ghosts, vampires, witches, and other assorted things - such as the Bermuda Triangle...

*GUEST STARRiNG* in tonight's episode

Kate Mulgrew as "Vivian Greyson"
Jake Weber as "Hugh McGregor"
Alyssa Milanno as "Cherie McGregor"
Isabelle Adjani as "Scathach"
Charles Mesure as "Atticus"

Special guest appearances by Kevin Smith as "Ares"
and Nikola Tesla as himself

Antoinette Campbell, the Talamasca, and it's trappings are the intellectual property of ANNE RICE and are used without permission, and with apologies to Ms. Rice. No copyright infringement intended.

Sebastian is an original character created by Christa, many thanks to her for allowing me to refer to him.

The intercom buzzed. “Ms. Greyson has arrived.”

Antoinette Campbell leaned back uncomfortably in the Superior General’s chair. Since Joan Cross had vacated it, the Elders, still unseen and unknown, had set up a system of rotation among the senior members, each holding the position for as little as six months to as long as a year, at the whim of the Elders.

She took one last look at the open file on the desk, labelled ‘Greyson’, before hiding it away in the top drawer. Why did this come up on her shift? The double doors opened, and in walked a slender woman whose face and figure belied her forty years.

“Vivian, glad you could make it.”

“You’re the acting Superior General, Toni. It’s not like I could refuse,” she grinned.

Antoinette 'Toni' Campbell returned the grin as she sat down behind the mahogany desk, “We do like to maintain the illusion of free will.”

“I’m wondering why you called me here today,” the younger woman said as she sank into the leather chair by the window, her voice gently mocking.

“Did you know you’re the strongest telepath presently in the Order?” Toni asked abruptly.

Vivian grimaced, “Yes. That’s why I’m in recruiting. It’s ‘safe’.”

"Is that what they told you?”

“No, they told me it’s because I can weed out fakes so quickly. But I am the strongest telepath presently in the Order,” she smirked. “Too bad they don’t utilize me.”

Toni Campbell sighed. “That's about to change. We want you to look into this,” she said, pushing a thick file towards the closest thing she had to a daughter. Like herself, Janice Eliot had been raised by the Talamasca - an orphanage for psychics, they’d joked. They’d maintained their close relationship even after Janice married researcher Evan Greyson. After their deaths, Toni had taken a personal interest in Vivian’s life.

Vivian's eyebrows shot up as she read the file name, “Fantasy Island?”

“You’re familiar with it?”

She grinned and pulled her solitary braid over her shoulder before sitting back in the chair. “Twenty years ago. I had just become a full member of the Order and this was my first big assignment - my first failure. I couldn’t even get the people who made the original reports to talk.”

“That was because their memories faded away.”

“Yes, well, nobody told me that at the time,” her mouth curled wryly. “The file looks much thicker than what I had then.”

“You didn’t have the whole file. A few years after your ... assignment, the file went inactive. We’ve had no new reports for fifteen years and now, suddenly, a large number of cases are being reported. And it might be easier this time, they’ve got an office in New York City.”

“You’re not serious? What kind of office?”

“A travel agency, of course.”

Vivian shook her head, “Of course.” She stood up, smoothing the folds from her narrow skirt, “When do I leave?”

“Vi, they say that the people in the travel agency, as well as this Mr. Roarke, know everything and you know what that means.” Toni was trying to caution her without saying so. She still didn’t know what there was to caution her about, but this assignment didn’t sit well with her..”

“Actually, we don’t. I mean, that’s the point, isn’t it?”

She gave the younger woman a stern look, “It means, Vi, that they’ll know who you are, and why you’re there. They may not let you book passage unless you have a fantasy, or so our sources suggest.”

“I could try to block them.”

Toni Campbell shook her silvered head, “They’d know. Our sources would have it that they’re omniscient, but you know I don’t accept that. So it means that they are incredibly strong telepaths.”

Vivian frowned. “They’ve never learned to block out other people’s thoughts?”

“That's what I was thinking, yes." Toni smiled to soften the reminder; watched her blush as she realized what she’d done. “But that is essentially what we believe. Do you have a fantasy, Vivian?”

“You know that, Toni,” she said softly. “Who killed my parents, and why?” Only a hint of shadow passed behind her green-gold eyes, but Toni Campbell knew how deeply this preyed upon her mind. She, too, would dearly love to know the answer to that one.

“Very well. You’re booked out of Heathrow in three hours. Take this file. There’s been wishes being granted on that island at least as long as the order’s been around.”

Vivian merely raised her brows again, taking the file and walking out the door.

Toni Campbell sighed in relief and rubbed her temples. The Talamasca had been founded to study just such places as Fantasy Island, or rather, the magical things that reportedly happened there. To collect arcane and occult knowledge, from ghosts to vampires, to spirits and psychic phenomena. But this, this seemed almost cruel. She pulled out the file again and looked at the fax that fronted it. It was from Amsterdam, and it wasn’t signed, but it was unquestionably from the Elders.

It was so cryptic, much more so than any missives she’d seen from the Elders. It began with the phrase, ‘the time has come’, then suggested that Vivian’s history made her the perfect candidate to attempt to unravel the mysteries of Fantasy Island.

She yawned. It was an eight hour flight, and the file wasn’t that big. She closed in into her briefcase and sat back, falling into a doze and dreaming, about magicians and wishes....

Fisher sat, patiently staring at the hourglass. As Clia walked in the door, returning from lunch, he said in mild reproof, "You're late."

The Hourglass

Ignoring him, she stared at the hourglass. It was easily a foot tall, and impossible to miss. "Where did you get that?"

"Where do ya think?" He gave her a hard look.

"I guess it is about that time." She sighed. "I hate it when they do this. Does Roarke know?"

"Know what? What's to know?"

"What are you up to now, Fisher?" Clia asked suspiciously.

"Don't you have to change a typewriter ribbon or something?" he growled, keeping his gaze on the hourglass.

"Fine," she threw up her hands, "You don't wanna tell me, don't tell me. I'll find out when it all falls down around your ears."

The door opened again, and a violent gust of wind blew in an elegant, very British, woman. Fisher looked up from contemplating the hourglass. "Ms. Greyson. You're right on time," he said, just as she said, "Well, that was easy." He hated having such a great line run over.

"What do you mean, I'm right on time? You were expecting me?" She patted her hair smooth, and smoothed her slender skirt.

Well, at least she'd heard it. Still, it wasn't the same... he frowned. "You're from the Talamasca?"

Clia, sitting at her desk, had loaded a form in, and she protested, "Talamasca? Slow down, Fisher, I need a first name."

The woman, tall, late thirties, very ... British, looked from one to the other coolly. “What's going on? I am from the Talamasca, and my name is-"

"Vivian. Vivian Greyson," Fisher replied to Clia.

"Thank you."

Ms. Greyson looked annoyed, anger flashing in her green-gold eyes. "Stop ignoring me!"

"Oh, gods. She's a telepath, too," Fisher added, watching his guest, but speaking to Clia.

"Well, what did you expect, Fisher?" Clia paused to give him an exasperated stare.

"Ahem. Would one of you please tell me what is going on?" Ms. Greyson's voice was tight with anger.

"You're going to Fantasy Island," Fisher explained, "But then, you already knew that."

"What's the Talamasca," Clia asked, lighting a cigarette while typing one handed.

Fisher opened his mouth to answer but Vivian Greyson said insistently, "Please! Let me answer this one?"

He bowed mockingly, "Far be it for me to deny a lady."

Clia snorted as Vivian handed her a business card.

He jammed the missive into the pneumatic tube, and replied, "You would say that...."

The tubes arrived, thik, ta-thik, one after another, just as Scotty arrived at his open door, a hand truck full of cardboard boxes. Roarke picked out the first tube and said, “Just put it over there, beside the desk.”

“When you decide to embrace a new technology, Roarke, you sure don’t mess around,” Scotty’s tone was admiring, “This is real state-of-the-art stuff.”

“It had to fit the decor,” he replied absently, reading the form. He sighed.

“I could stick around, help you hook it up...”

Roarke gave the other man his full attention and smiled dismissively, “Thank you, Scotty, but the connections required are rather...sensitive. You understand.”

“Oh yeah, sure. Well, enjoy.” The island’s only supplier gave the boxes an envious look and left.

Roarke shook his head and opened the second tube. Talamasca? Never heard of it. But it seemed this was the historian he’d been expecting. Pre-cog was such an iffy thing. He set aside the forms and turned his attention to the boxes. Regardless of the exterior printing, the contents were not state-of-the-art, and wouldn’t be for another ten years or so.

Fortunately he had an expert coming to do the installation.

“Harry, Cal,” Roarke remarked in surprise, adjusting his cuffs as he stood on the top step of the hotel, “You’re early.”

“Sir, Cal reminded me - this is 1999.” His gaze flickered to where Ariel had emerged from the building.

Roarke followed his gaze. “Ah. You’ve been reading again. We’ll talk about this later, Harry.”

“Boss, you know what he’s talking about? He got all mysterious on me....”

“It’s all right, Cal,” Roarke replied reassuringly.

Ariel had a surprised look on her face, glancing from Harry to Cal. “I’m...late?”

Roarke chuckled, “No, my dear. But you may want to check the weather in a certain warm place. Shall we?”

The plane docked. “Smiles, everyone, smiles.”

First off the plane was a woman whose chestnut hair was lightly frosted with white, green-gold eyes marked by laugh-lines and dressed in dark khaki capri pants with a creamy short sleeved blouse, carrying a briefcase.

“Nice posture,” Harry remarked.

Roarke raised an eyebrow, but merely said, “Vivian Greyson, of the Talamasca. A secret group of scholars,” his voice belied amusement at the idea, “who study ‘unexplained phenomena’. This is a working vacation for Ms. Greyson, who has been sent by her ‘Order’ to study us.”

“What does she really want?” Ariel asked, curiously.

“There is ... ‘unexplained phenomena’ in Ms. Greyson’s personal past.”

Next came a couple, in their thirties; the woman, dressed in a red print sundress that complemented her dark hair and fair complexion, was a picture of suppressed excitement, while the man, fair haired, in beige shorts, a misbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and dark sunglasses, looked ready to relax.

“Cherie and Hugh McGregor. Mr. McGregor feels he owes his wife this fantasy, even though he never bothered to ask her what it was. For his part, he’s looking forward to basking on the beach.” Roarke said with ill-concealed contempt.

“What’s her fantasy?” Cal wanted to know.

“To be a priestess of Ares’.”

Harry failed to completely suppress a laugh, and cleared his throat to cover it. Ariel tried to look grave but had to turn away to hide a smile.

Roarke turned around, giving them both a very stern look, before turning back to his guests: “I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island.”

“Mrs. McGregor, are you certain you want to go through with this? I mean, what would your husband say?”

Scorn flashed in her big brown eyes, “He doesn’t care. Do you know what I had to do-?” she huffed in exasperation. “Every night after supper he’s on the computer playing games with his Internet buddies. I clear the table, wash the dishes, bathe our two children, read the bedtime stories and put them to bed. I don’t see him until next morning because I’m asleep when he finally comes out of the den. He bitches if I don’t have a lunch ready for him to take to work, he bitches if supper’s not ready when he comes home. Hell, he even bitches if I want to go out by myself for an evening, because he has to watch the kids.”

“So why don’t you just leave him?”

“He’s already gone,” her voice held defeat, “I’m already a single mom, this way I’ve more chance of getting money from him for food and clothing.”

“And this is what? Revenge?”

She laughed with true amusement, “For compensation - no-one told me that marriage meant the end of my life. For the past eight years I’ve lived for my husband, my children, my mother, my sister....everyone but me. This is mine, all mine. It’s not about revenge, it’s about selfishness.”

The buzzing of the intercom cut off whatever reply Roarke might have intended. Annoyed, he pushed the button and said, “Yes?” in a tone that said, this better be important.

“Mr. Tesla is here, sir,” came Harry’s voice, a note of curiousity evident.

“I’ll just be a few more minutes.” He thumbed the device off, and turned to Cherie McGregor. “Mrs. McGregor, if you talk to Harry, he’ll arrange for you to rent a small, glass-bottomed boat for a self-guided tour around the island.”

“Why would I-? Oh. Yes, of course,” she grinned, “Sounds like a wonderful idea.”

She went off with Harry and Roarke gestured the newcomer in. “Tesla. Good to see you again.”

“I can’t say I’m happy to be back here. I was having a very nice Afterlife.”

Roarke looked away, “That was hardly my fault.”

“You'll forgive me if I beg to differ.” He looked up from the boxes, “Now, where do you want this?”

He showed the deceased inventor where he wanted it and left him to it.

“Ms. Greyson, I hope you don’t mind talking as we walk. We’d have to come this way regardless, and I’m having a new computer system installed.”

“I understand. Computer programming was my minor in University. I tried to upgrade the Order’s system,” she grinned at the memory. They had emerged from the back of the gardens into a neatly mowed area consisting of several small outbuildings, one of which had a large metal tower topped with a copper ball emerging from the center. “What’s that?”

“The island’s power supply. We aren’t exactly on the ‘grid’, you know.”

She laughed, “I must be losing my touch. It didn’t occur to me to wonder about that.”

“Ms. Greyson, your fantasy isn’t easy.”

Vivian looked up at him sideways, “My fantasy? Mr. Roarke, I simply wish to study the Island. Observe. Interview you and your staff. How difficult can that be for someone rumoured to be omnipotent?”

“Hardly that,” he replied mildly. After a brief pause he said, “You were born to a woman raised by the Talamasca. The Order has played a large part in your life, Ms. Greyson. Although, with your strong telepathic abilities, you would have been drawn to it, anyway, I suspect.”

She was staring at him, utterly speechless. No-one had ever been able to read her mind so easily.

Roarke frowned, and after a pause, he added, “Your mother was an American?”

She blinked at the change of subject, “Yes, well, nobody’s perfect.”

“She was orphaned in a boating accident?”

“Her family had gone to Bermuda for a holiday; they’d rented a boat and well, Mum never really said what happened. A couple of investigators from the Talamasca happened to find her - they were probably investigating this place, now that I think of it,” she frowned; had she read that in the file with her? “- and when they discovered she had no living relatives, they brought her back to the Motherhouse with them. When she reached puberty, her TP ability came out.” Vivian’s expression and tone remained neutral, as if this were unconnected to her.

“TP? Your mother was a telepath as well?”

“Yes, although my ability far outstripped hers.” Unless her mother had deceived the Talamasca in that regard, as well.

Roarke looked very thoughtful. “And then your own parents were murdered on your sixteenth birthday, leaving you with no living relatives, either.”

She winced at his casual tone, raising a hand to her face as if to hide from the terrible memories. “The Talamasca is my family,” she managed to say stiffly.

“Did it ever occur to you that the Talamasca was responsible for the deaths of your grandparents and parents?” he asked bluntly, as if unaware of her feelings.

Taking a deep breath, Vivian turned toward the horizon, “Oh yes. I am not insensitive to coincidence. My grandparents, mysteriously disappear while on vacation in Bermuda. My parents, who took me to Bermuda for my sweet sixteen... and my first assignment-slash-test in the Order was Fantasy Island, hidden within the Bermuda Triangle.” She turned her green-gold eyes on Roarke. “But if they had a hand in it, Mr. Roarke, none of the members close to my family ever knew it.”

“Perhaps they blocked your mind-reading....”

She smiled wanly, “You, of all people, know better than that. Besides,” she said with a sidelong glance, “Isn’t it just as likely that it was -?” She stopped abruptly, unsure of what she’d been about to say as the world appeared to slip sideways for just a second. “Uh...what were we talking about? My fantasy?”

“Your real fantasy, Ms. Greyson, is not the mystery of Fantasy Island, but the mystery of yourself, your past.” He turned a piercing gaze on her. “Are you prepared for that?”

She took another deep, steadying breath and looked back at him calmly, “Would I be here otherwise?”

Roarke stepped up to the edifice in front of them. “Perhaps.” He opened the door of the outbuilding. “If you’ll just step in here, it is a beginning. And Ms. Greyson?”

Halfway through the door, she turned back, inquiringly.

“The way back will come but once.”

“Order and obedience,” Roarke muttered darkly under his breath, breezing swiftly into his office, letting the doors slam shut behind him. “Order and obedience.”

“Would you mind opening those? I’m done here.”

“Tesla. Sorry, I forgot about you.”

“You and the rest of the world,” he replied, with mild rancour. “It’s all set up, as you requested. I’m going to check on the resonance generator before I leave.”

“Would you take da Vinci’s calculating machine to the Hall?”

Nikola Tesla looked incredulously at Roarke. “I am not one of your flunkies, Roarke. Take it yourself.”

Roarke moved to examine his new computer, the smooth black screen blended well with the dark wood of the cabinet. The console was smooth, with two small eight-sided openings. “It wasn’t an idle request, Tesla.”

“It didn’t sound like a request at all.”

“How do you turn it on?”

Tesla moved back towards Roarke’s desk. “It’s motion sensitive, just wave your hand over the console.”

Roarke did. The console lit up, revealing very little. “No keyboard?”

“It’s a voice recognition system, you just speak to it. It will either respond verbally, or with text. Once it’s programmed, of course. What do you mean, it wasn’t an idle request?”

“There’s some assistance you can render in a fantasy. What do you mean, ‘programmed’?”

“I mean ‘programmed’, the code that tells the machine what to do, what you want it to do. Why didn’t you just ask me if I would help?”

“Because you would have said no. How long will it take you to program it?”

“Until hell freezes over - I’m not a programmer. And I may still say no.”

Roarke looked up, meeting Tesla’s eyes. “Will you please take da Vinci’s calculating machine to the Hall of Mirrors?” he said very softly.

The inventor sighed, defeated. “Order and obedience,” he muttered, brushing by Ariel as he left.

“Roarke? Who was that?” she asked curiously.

“That, Ariel, was Nikola Tesla.”

“Tesla? He’s dead, right?”

“It was an accident,” Roarke replied testily.

The sun was warm on the beach and Hugh McGregor waved languidly to his wife, several hundred meters from shore in a small glass bottomed boat.

“Ah, Mr. McGregor. Enjoying yourself?” Roarke asked coolly.

He looked up and held his hand to his eyes against the sun. “You bet, Mr. Roarke. This place is just perfect.”

“You didn’t care to join your wife?” Roarke’s voice was gently inquisitive.

“Nah. This is her fantasy.” He settled back in his chair, eyes half-closed.

“And you don’t want to know what that fantasy might be?”

“Nope. She’s a good woman, Roarke. If she wants this fantasy, well, it’s the least I can do, you know, let her have it, with no awkward questions.”

“You realize that your...lack of curiousity might be interpreted by your wife as another sign that you just don’t care.” Roarke said pointedly.

“No way,” McGregor scoffed.

The sky began to darken, and lightning flashed, striking the sea. “You’d better return to the hotel, Mr. McGregor, looks like a spot of bad weather,” Roarke remarked casually.

Hugh McGregor stood up, taking off his sunglasses. “But- Cherie’s out there!”

“Yes?”

McGregor visibly relaxed, “Oh I get it. Part of her fantasy, right?”

“Mr. McGregor, do you love your wife?” Roarke asked with asperity.

“What the hell kind of question is that?!” The sky was very dark, and he had to shout over the rising wind.

“Since you couldn’t be bothered to ask, you should know that your wife has chosen a very dangerous fantasy.”

“How dangerous can a fantasy be?”

“We make fantasies reality, here, Mr. McGregor.” Roarke smiled maliciously, “There is a very strong possibility that your wife will not be leaving Fantasy Island.”

And in the end, it was the staff that carried her to shore.

“Hey Harry. Roarke wants to see you, now. Are you in trouble?”

Harry sighed. “Perhaps, Cal. We’ll see.” He hurried in to Roarke’s office, to find his employer waiting. The door closed behind him of its own accord.

“Harry. Sit, please.” Roarke gestured to the chair where the guests usually sat for their initial interview. “I need to ask a favor of you.”

“A favor? Of me, sir?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes. Don’t say anything to Ariel just yet.”

“But sir, she’s already-”

Roarke held up a hand. “I am not unaware of her feelings, Harry, but that is not necessarily a condition for an heiress.”

“But you and Scathach-” he protested, only to be cut off again.

“Yes, yes, I certainly don’t need you to remind me of my mistakes.” Roarke sounded annoyed.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Now, I know she arrived last year, and I, too thought she was the one, but now I’m not so sure.”

“But sir, it’s 1999. Your tenure ends in three years, you must select and train a successor. Do you consider Ariel sufficiently capable to take over?”

“I’m afraid the PTB have not always been ... pleased with my actions. I’ve earned a bit of an extension.” Roarke’s tone was dry.

Harry didn’t know what to say, so said nothing.

“Don’t say anything to Ariel about this, not yet.”

It sounded more like an order than a request to Harry, but he replied with a sigh, “You can count on my discretion, sir.”

“Thank you, Harry. Was there anything else?”

“Well, actually....”

Vivian Greyson, standing just inside the Hall of Mirrors, almost believed she’d died. The small outbuilding, which she could have easily circumnavigated in short order, was inside a marvel beyond her capacity for words: before her stretched, as far as her eyes could discern, a hall, with walls that soared thirty or so feet up to support an arched ceiling that might have been skylights or might gleam with its own mysterious brilliance; too far away for her to tell. The walls were covered with tapestries, paintings, frescos and murals, shelves of small sculptures and books - oh the books! And evenly spaced along the walls on the floor were statues - of people, animals and creatures of myth and legends, interspersed with chests, bolts of rich fabric...she had thought that the archives at the Amsterdam Motherhouse were wondrous, containing treasures lost by the rest of the world, but it was only a pale shadow to this place!

The Hall seemed endless, and she felt she could spend the rest of her life right here. But she only had a week. Presumably Roarke had set her loose in here because Fantasy Island records were stored somewhere on those shelves.

She walked slowly to the first set of shelves, aware that the carpet beneath her feet was old, and that the metallic sheen came from real gold threads. The volumes on this shelf were obviously hand-bound, and, unfortunately, untitled on the outside. She sighed, a week was hardly long enough to find the history of the island through these books.

“There is an easier way.”

She whirled, to find a tall, dark haired man standing behind her, about her age, dressed in the fashion of a hundred years ago, with what looked a great deal like Leonardo da Vinci’s calculating machine in front of him.

Tesla

“It is indeed Mr. da Vinci’s machine.”

“You- How-?”

He bowed, “One of the advantages of being dead.”

“Are you a ghost?” She took a hesitant step toward him.

“A shadow of my former self? No, for as long as I’m here, I’m ... as real as you.”

He gestured toward the opposite wall but she saw only a tapestry, intricately wrought, that looked infinitely old, yet modernly abstract - a swirl of blues, greens and silver encompassed by an ellipse of blue and silver and a thin border of red. “Not very subtle, nor particularly accurate, but it is a beginning,” he said, lifting the edge to reveal a plain wooden door engraved with the number one.

She touched the door gently. “That’s what Roarke said, his exact words, ‘it is a beginning.’ Do I go through?”

“I wouldn’t, but the choice is, of course, yours.”

She looked up at him, startled, “You wouldn’t?”

He smiled, and the door opened onto a mirror, which seemed to reflect only light.

“Is it safe?” she asked, mesmerized by the sight before her.

“Safe, I’ve learned, is a relative term on Fantasy Island. I’m given to understand that Roarke doesn’t actively try to kill his guests,” he said dryly.

Vivian spared him a startled glance, then stepped through the door, and vanished.

In the Hall of Mirrors, Nikola Tesla winced at the plain panel of wood before him, and muttered, “I wouldn’t have done that.” Then he looked up and around, “Can I go now?” he asked with heavy irony.

Roarke, having found an unorthodox use for the black reflective surface of his new computer, snapped his fingers and watched the man who harnessed Niagara Falls disappear in a puff of smoke.

Cherie woke up thirsty, and with a headache so terrible, she couldn’t bear to open her eyes fully. Her entire body felt bruised, including parts she’d never known about. Then she forgot the concerns of her body - she was lying on a cot. Where? She struggled to sit up, fell back with a groan.

“She awakes.”

Two people came to where she lay, one on either side, and they blocked the blinding light enough for her to see - a man and a woman, both dressed in long, pale, softly flowing robes. The woman wore what appeared to be a corset of shimmery grey that cinched the robe tight from beneath her breasts to her hips. The man wore a scarf of the same material around his neck, the ends hanging down over his shoulders.

She opened her mouth to speak but her throat was too dry.

“She should not be here,” the man said, looking worried.

“The Oracle said, ‘What is washed upon my shore, bring unto me.’ We did as we were bid.” The woman poured water into a wooden cup as she spoke, handing it to Cherie, who sipped gratefully.

“Where am I?” she asked when she was able.

“This is the Temple of Kronos. I am Perses, keeper of the keys,” replied the man, “This is my wife, Asteria, a seer and record keeper for the Temple.”

“Kronos? Why am I here?”

“Where did you expect to be?”

“I, that is, well, my name is Cherie, and I was going, I was looking for Ares’ Temple.”

“Ares!” exclaimed the woman, exchanging a look with her husband. “You are worlds away from Ares’s center of influence.”

Cherie was too tired to hide her annoyance. “I appreciate the help you’ve given me, I really do. But if I could just have my staff, I’m afraid I have to go...” She tried to stand up and a wave of dizziness made her sit down heavily on the cot.

“You can’t go anywhere just yet, Sha-ree.”

“I don’t belong here,” she muttered. Why had Roarke put her here? ‘Worlds away’ from Ares’s temple?

“Let me explain,” Asteria began gently, “If Zeus knew of this temple, he would destroy it. And Ares...well, Ares is not what he used to be.”

“Not what he used to be?”

“Ares’ field is the field of war, now,” Perses finished quietly.

“I know,” Cherie said somewhat crossly.

The couple exchanged a startled glance. “Then why do you seek his temple?”

“I want to be a priestess.”

“You would serve War?”

“Any way he wants,” she replied fervently.

Asteria looked again to her husband and shrugged, before saying to Cherie, “Rest here. We will feed you and give you some clothing, that while not new, is not in tatters. I must become the Oracle, for it seems to me you were brought to us for a reason. Before we send you on your way, I must know why.”

Cherie, totally exhausted from the exchange, nodded and lay back on the cot, drifting away.

The light gave way to darkness, which, like smoke, thinned until Vivian could see. She took a cautious step, for although she appeared to be outside, on an island that looked pretty much like Fantasy Island, it looked ... misty, insubstantial. She couldn’t see what she walked on, but it was smooth and flat and definitely not the ground she saw beneath her feet.

Voices made her turn around. Behind her stood a stone building, like a fairy tale castle. In front of it stood a woman with long black hair, wearing a vest and knee length pants of leather, who stood with arms crossed and a frown on her face. This woman was speaking with a man, also raven-haired, except for a narrow white stripe from the front of his head to the back.

She walked over. “Hello?”

They ignored her. She tapped the woman gently on the shoulder. Or tried to. Her hand passed through the other woman’s body and she drew it back in alarm. Were they ghosts? Was she? Roarke doesn’t actively try to kill his guests. At the time, it had seemed like an utterly incongruous statement. Now she wasn’t so sure. “It looks fine, Scathach,” the man was saying, “As if my opinion matters to you.”

A gong sounded, deep, reverberating and melodious, and a man’s voice followed after: “Ship wreck on the east side! Ship wreck!”

“Let’s go, Merlin, company’s coming,” the woman called Scathach grinned.

In an eyeblink the two had disappeared, and Vivian had barely time to think, Merlin? before she was with them again. It was as if she were watching a 3D movie of some sort. Now they were on a beach, Scathach, Merlin, and a bald man of moderate height with a hawk nose - the gong sounder, presumably.

Washing up on the beach were two people - one of whom looked like a child - timbers, a chest, shreds of canvas, other flotsam associated with shipwrecks.

“Father and daughter,” Scathach said, “Funny, they weren’t scheduled...” She knelt by the man, felt his pulse, checked his eyes, then cleared his lungs of seawater.

“Scathach? The girl’s dead.” This from the hawk-nosed man, who sounded regretful.

Scathach winced, closing her eyes as she sighed. “I hate when this happens. I can’t wait to get off this curséd island.” She then turned to the ocean, and, waving her fist in the air, yelled, “Dammit, Poseidon! You’re supposed to bring them to me alive!”

To Vivian’s surprise, half the sea rose up, in the form of a crowned man with a trident, and said, quite distinctly, “I was told to bring them here. Nobody specified alive or dead.”

“You don’t care who dies, if it angers Kronos, do you? Bastard.” This last was muttered under breath as she turned away.

“Kronos,” the apparition chuckled, sinking into the sea, and the word bubbled as if a drowning man spoke it, sending shivers up Vivian’s spine. She longed for a camera, her tape recorder, anything.

The man Scathach was working on choked, and tried to sit up, “Hush now,” she said gently, “You’re safe.”

“What year-?” he croaked hoarsely.

She looked as startled as Vivian felt - it seemed a odd question. But Scathach replied, “It’s 1492.”

“Good. My daughter?”

Scathach paused, and Vivian felt her dispassionate observer mask slipping, her own heart heavy as the woman on the beach said, even more gently, “I’m so sorry.”

The half-drowned man groaned, and went limp. “Miranda,” he muttered, his voice sorrowful enough to bring tears to Vivian’s eyes, before passing out.

“Lets get him to the castle,” Scathach said.

“What about the girl?” Merlin inquired, looking sad.

Scathach sighed. “Bring the body. Wash it, dress it, wrap it and put it in the root cellar. If - when - this fellow recovers, he’ll want to see it, to give it a proper burial.”

The three set to their unhappy tasks.

Then, like a movie, the scene changed, and she was in a room - presumably in the Castle - with Scathach, the hawk-nosed man, and the shipwreck victim. A sudden flash of intuition told her the shipwrecked man’s name - Roarke. This was how he came to Fantasy Island. Not an auspicious beginning.

Roarke helped himself to the copy of the Talamasca’s file on Fantasy Island, feeling just a bare twinge of guilt for opening Ms. Greyson’s briefcase. But she intended to give him the file at some point anyway. Besides, he was curious.

It was a large manila folder with a post-it note stuck to the front that said, ‘photocopies of translations of the originals’. What surprised him was the thoroughness of the investigators. Until Ms. Greyson had come to the island, he’d never heard of the Talamasca. Now it seemed an organization worth learning more about, especially the mysterious Elders. From what he’d gleaned in Ms. Greyson mind, they bore an uncanny resemblance to the PTB.

Understandably, the first millennium of the island’s existence was covered in the file by about twenty sheets, all with stories of a mysterious island ruled by a sorcerer or sorceress - depending on when the tale took place - where wishes were granted, truths were revealed, etc. Most of the stories were actually about Fantasy Island. Some were not. It was interesting that they suspected Circe’s island of being Fantasy Island - it was - but they didn’t seem to realize that she had been it’s first ruler. Of course the one surviving story was so distorted by the time Homer wrote The Odyssey....

He flipped the pages. Stopped and chuckled. Brendan. He remembered Scathach telling him about Brendan, who’s ‘Voyages’ had long been published by the time Roarke had arrived. Scathach. It still hurt to think about her. He suspected that in some small part of his heart, it always would.

Crossly he turned to the lovely reflective surface of his new computer. Until it could be programmed, he’d take a look at how Ms. Greyson was getting along. But instead, he saw his own memories...

The arrangements had been hastily made. Mr. Columbus had been more than willing to shelter the refugees, so long as they were not on the same ship. Mr. Columbus was a very superstitious man, when it came to the sea. And everyone knew a woman on board a ship was bad luck. Even if this one was scarce ten years old. Still, she was only a child, and in danger - it had doubly swayed the intrepid explorer to giving aid.

Roarke’s brother, Sebastian, had burned the warehouses that had provided Roarke a living. Burned their home. Missed only by a quirk of fate killing both Roarke and Miranda. Sebastian, in a burst of foreseeing, wanted Roarke’s inheritance.

Funny, Roarke thought, was Fantasy Island really so desirable...? Fisher seemed to covet it, too...

But the images flashed on, and he couldn’t help but look, drawn in.

Miri, as his daughter and only child, was his heir - so Sebastian had wanted to get rid of them both. Having fled halfway across Europe, they’d found a refuge. Passage on a ship bound for India, but Roarke knew - even then, he knew - that Christopher Columbus wasn’t going to find India. He didn’t know what Columbus would find, but it would be a place to raise his daughter in safety.

The storm had come up suddenly, just as they’d cleared the weird, nay creepy, calm of what would be known as the Sargasso Sea. Their ship had already lost sight of the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria. The sky blackened, the wind rose, and howled through the rigging ominously. “Stay below,” a crewman had told them, and they did.

But the howling wind was too easy hear, and as the waves grew larger, the ship moved wildly in and out of the ever deepening troughs. Miri had kept a brave face, but her tight clench on his hand had told him how frightened she was. It did not occur to him be frightened.

Although no-one could have known at the time, having never sailed these seas before, the storm was not a natural one. Even then, Roarke had vaguely sensed that. Although Mnemosyne made certain that those with Divine parentage drank deep of the waters of Lethé before they went to live in the mortal realms, it could never be completely submerged.

But he had not known the unnatural storm had been directed at him.

It was the same incense burned in the outer Court, but within the unventilated Inner Sanctum, the sweetness became cloying, the thickness of the smoke burned her throat and eyes, and the bitter draught of Seeing only made her thirst greater. But Asteria, Time Keeper, had to know why the woman called Sha-ree washed up on Kronos’ shore if it was Ares she was intended for.

*you are dreaming awake, and I have come. she is dreaming asleep and I speak to her, as well. know and remember: of all possible futures there is one common thread. from the beginning it was the human way to question, ‘who am i?’ and from this question arose art, alphabet, trade, and the trappings of civilization. beginning now, and continuing onward, the question becomes, ‘what do i want?’, and when the first question has been sufficiently answered, this is a reasonable question to ask. but the first question is not being answered. in all possible futures, the first question ceases to be asked at all.*

Kronos had come quickly, Asteria knew this was important, she tried to stay focused. “I hear without understanding, trusting that understanding will follow.”

*i cannot allow this to happen.*

“But, my lord, you cannot act in this world anymore!”

*this island is mine. and this is the beginning. to this place they will come, by weather and wrack, and they will be asked, ‘what do you want?’ but they shall get the answer to the first question.*

“I am but a humble servant, my lord. But pray tell me, what role is the woman Sha-ree to play?”

*at the right moment, she shall close the circuit.*

“Then here is your staff, my child,” he’d said, handing her the scythe, which was now only her staff. “With the reverse of time, so too shall pass your hurts. You will awaken on the outskirts of Ares’ cult center. Guard yourself.”

Cal hummed to himself as he polished the last glass behind the bar. Of all his tasks upon the Island, this one was almost fun. He should have tried bar-tending before he died. And this was a great bar to tend, too - on a beach, gorgeous women in teeny bikinis...

He watched with some sympathy as Hugh McGregor sat down. “Your usual, Mr. McGregor?”

“Yes, please.” The fair-haired man didn’t look up.

“One Perrier with a twist of lime, coming up.” Although Mr. McGregor no longer looked like the easy-going, uncaring man who had arrived only two days ago, he still drank only water. Cal had to respect that, even if the guy was a total idiot when it came to his wife.

The small TV mounted in the rafters of the bar came on by itself, and Cal played with the buttons until Roarke’s ‘broadcast’ came through clearly. It was a report on the severity of the storm that had blown McGregor’s wife out to sea.

McGregor sighed and buried his head in his hands. “I don’t know what to do! Roarke won’t tell me anything!”

“What do you want to do?” Cal asked, genuinely curious.

“I want my wife back!” he exclaimed, slamming his hands down on the bar.

“Why?”

McGregor stared. “What do you mean, ‘why’?”

“Why? You didn’t seem to care anything for her. Roarke says you ignore her all the time, and ignore your kids. Is that why you want her back? To look after your kids?”

“Damn you! Come over here and say that!”

“Hey, I’m just sayin’ what it looks like. If it looks that way to me, to Roarke, don’tcha think it looks that way to your wife?” Cal pointed out.

Hugh McGregor slumped again, defeated, but apparently none the wiser. Cal shrugged, and then grinned as he spotted Ariel walking towards the bar.

“Hey, babe. Want me make you somethin’ with an umbrella in it?”

“Stow it, Cal, or I’ll make you something with an umbrella.” Ariel replied crossly. “Have you seen Harry?”

And he did - dragging a hand-cart across the sand, toward the bar. Cal pointed wordlessly.

Ariel turned, and the two of them watched Harry struggle across the soft beach. When he reached the shade of the awning, he mopped his brow, looking only slightly rumpled, and gasped, “Water.”

Cal obliged, and asked, “Whatcha doin’ that for?”

“Scotty has refused to deliver liquor here. It’s all delivered to the hotel from now on, and we have to move it ourselves. Thanks,” he added, sipping the water.

“Harry?”

“Yes, Ariel?”

Ariel looked from Cal to Harry and proceeded, “What were you talking to Roarke about?”

Exasperation crossed Harry’s face, “I talk to Roarke on a regular basis, Ariel. To what specifically are you referring?”

“You know, that secret meeting behind closed doors. Don’t pretend it was a disciplinary thing, you make no bones about grumbling over those, on the rare occasions it happens. But this time - nothing.” Ariel was clearly annoyed, and her fingernails tapped staccato on the bar.

Patiently, Harry explained, “It had to do with Island business, Ariel. Old Island business, before you, or Cal and I, came here.”

“Then,” Ariel said slowly, not looking at him, “Why can’t you tell me the specifics?”

“What is this?” Roarke’s voice cut through them. “My staff congregating at a bar during working hours?”

“Working hours,” Ariel snorted. “I’m totally out of the loop, this time, Roarke. Why?”

He looked at her with that frosty, imperious look, and said, “The flower beds need weeding.”

With a frosty look of her own, she sniffed and walked away, aware that all three men watched her.

“Harry, Ariel is a very persistent woman. Try to avoid her until the end of this week. I promise, just that long and no longer.”

Cal couldn’t help pricking his ears - did Roarke owe Harry something? But Harry’s resigned expression made it look more like a burden. In that case, he didn’t want to know.

Miri’s mother had just been some woman. She hadn’t cared much for Roarke beyond the physical, and it was mutual. When she got pregnant, Roarke had every reason to doubt it was his child. She’d tried to get rid of it, but to no avail. After the baby was born, she left it on Roarke’s doorstep with a note.

It was love at first sight. He’d named the pink, wrinkled girl-child Miranda, and changed his salacious ways to be with her, to protect her. He would have done anything to keep his daughter safe. It hadn’t been enough.

When he woke up on the beach, staring into the most incredible green eyes he’d ever seen, he had to know - “What year is it?” - for it had seemed that centuries had passed since they'd boarded ship.

And he had been sure that those same green eyes had filled with sorrow as their owner told him Miranda was dead. He had survived the wrack for this? He had failed to keep his daughter, his beloved Miri, safe. He collapsed back into unconsciousness, uncaring now if he lived or died.

Roarke sighed, and rubbed his eyes. Why now, after all these years, were these memories now coming to haunt him? Perhaps he needed to face his past, before he could have his future.

So be it. Sinking back into the deep leather chair of his office, he closed his eyes. Let it come.

“He’s coming around.” The voice sounded far away.

“Finally.” This, a woman’s voice, relief evident.

He opened his eyes and quickly closed them again. Open or closed it hurt. “Am I dead?” he croaked. He felt a cool hand on his forehead, the lip of a cup pressed to his mouth.

“You’re not dead,” the woman’s voice said gently.

The water eased his throat. “But my precious Miri...”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I-”

Roarke opened his eyes as her voice cut off. It didn’t hurt quite so much. The woman was beautiful, and scandalously underclothed - wearing what appeared like a leather waistcoat and breeches. Her hair was long and dark, her eyes that green he remembered. Once, her physical attributes might have stirred him, but that was a long time ago. She seemed at a loss. He felt as if his heart had been ripped out. “Why did you bother to save me.”

He didn’t want an answer, but he expected she would offer one. She did not. “Hawk,” she said, addressing the owner of the first voice he’d heard, “Try to get him to eat something. Tell him...” she hesitated. “Well, tell him only if he asks.” She looked at Roarke, her expression unfathomable. “I have guests. I’ll check on you later.”

He didn’t bother to reply. He didn’t care. Miri was dead, his golden girl with sparkling brown eyes and a million questions. She who had made the world new for him again. Gone. Nothing else mattered.

The man, Hawk, moved into his line of sight. “I know you don’t feel like eatin’. I guess that li’l girl was everything in the world for you. But if revenge is what it takes to keep you alive, then I guess I’ll do it.”

“What are you talking about,” he said listlessly.

“It was Poseidon himself brought you here. It was him what got your li’l girl killed.”

“What are you talking about?” he repeated, suddenly very interested. “Poseidon? What kind of a name is that?”

The man - bald, muscular, with a nose that matched his name - glanced around hastily. “Don’t be sayin’ that too loud, ya hear? I’m just sayin’ - it warn’t an accident.”

Roarke felt something dark take root in his soul then. “Sebastian,” he muttered, “He must have something to do with this, the bastard. Where is your Lady?”

Hawk snorted laughter. “If you mean Scathach, aye, she’s the mistress of the Island, but she is no lady. She’s a warrior, if ever I seen one.” He leaned closer, “They say she was an Amazon, come up on the Ninth wave to train the Fianna.” He stood back, pointed at a tray. “Here’s some food to get your strength up. I’ll tell Scathach you wanna see her.” Hawk left the room.

For the first time he wondered - Where the hell am I?

Cherie awoke in the pre-dawn light in a nest of leaves, her staff by her side, and wearing only the undergarments of the day - a loin cloth about her waist, her breasts wrapped closely in linen - the equivalent of a sports bra. Beside her was a chiton and wide leather belt, and two leather wrappings that seemed destined for her legs. It occurred to her that boot-making was yet to be invented.

Before dressing she lept and stretched and ran her hands down her lovely seventeen year old body, and she laughed joyously. Could it get any better than this? She hoped so...

She blessed the obsessive mind that had sought out all knowledge on this time period, dressing herself easily and put her hair into two plaits,

Cherie McGregor

coiled crown-like around her head and held by a couple of short, straight twigs in lieu of hairpins.

Cherie picked up her staff with confidence - she’d taken extensive lessons on the quarterstaff and knew how to disable - and kill, if need be. A small, angry part of her hoped she would have to kill someone. And she knew this was the part of her Ares would want.

She walked south, hoping that whatsisname, Father Time, had taken into account her sense of things. Sure enough, she soon found a large encampment, what looked like an army. Oddly enough, although dawn was on the verge of breaking, the camp was still, the fires banked or extinguished. Beyond the camp stood the Temple, and as she watched, the sun crested the horizon and bathed the temple in a red glow.

Her eyes locked on the Temple, she began a deliberate and careful walk directly through the camp, muttering to herself, “I will follow you through Fire, I will follow you through Death...” over and over, like a chant.

Slowly around her the camp came to life stirred by the sun’s rays. Eyes turned her way, and seemed to see her as an apparition at first. Then came the catcalls and comments.

Cherie ignored them, intent on her goal. But she remained aware of them and held her staff lightly, ready. She stopped as her direct path was impeded by a man, taller, better dressed and less dirty than the others. “Pretty lady, where do you think you’re going?”

“To the Temple,” she replied calmly, staring as if she could see it through him.

He laughed, “And what do you think to do there? Serve Ares?”

She smiled, the same distant look in her eyes, “Yes.”

“Then serve us,” he suggested with a smirk, “for we are His.”

His remark was followed by several vivid descriptions by his men of the type of service they’d like of her.

“You’re between me and my god,” she said, calmly, “please move, or I shall move you.”

He laughed again, as did the others who’d heard her. “Try, please, little lady, it will be a pleasure to watch you.”

She was ready, he was not; he was knocked off his feet before he knew what happened and Cherie walked on, steadily, chanting, unwavering. And swung the staff back to catch the man in the diaphragm as he lifted a sword toward her back.

Oddly enough, she was almost at the Temple before anyone seemed intent on stopping her. She had been told that when you acted as if you had a perfect right to be somewhere, people believed it. It was strange to see it in action. But another kind of action took up her attention, and she battled her way slowly toward the entrance of the marble building before her.

A great calmness descended, taking away her initial terror as she realized she wouldn’t be facing one at a time. Her staff moved in almost mechanical precision and she felt satisfaction at the unmistakable sound of breaking bones.

As she mounted the first step, those who wanted her to stop and play fell away, for Ares maintained peace on his premises, if nowhere else.

Cherie entered the Temple and reality struck, she trembled in shock at what she’d done. Supporting herself against a cool column, only now realizing that she had not escaped unscathed. Blood flowed sluggishly from several shallow cuts on her arms. There was a bruise on her side, where the broad belt had deflected a blow.

A tall, regal woman came through a curtained doorway. “So you want to be a priestess, do you? He was watching you, and watching over you, else you would not have survived. You know that, don’t you?”

She realized it had to be true. That was a professional army out there. This was not television. She began to shake even harder but fought to regain her composure, breathing deeply.

The older woman pointed to a white calf being led in from another door. “He directs you to perform the sacrifice,” her tone indicated that she thought Cherie was being set up for failure - how could she know the procedure for a sacrifice when she had never been trained?

“They come to Ares asking for victory. To live, something must die. Alas, human sacrifice is not permitted anymore.” The priestess grinned coldly, “They make you into priestesses now instead.”

Harry had made a promise to not say anything to Ariel. But he couldn’t help believing that forewarned was forearmed. After spending the day performing his routine tasks half-heartedly while struggling with what he believed to be right and what his boss wanted, he decided to obey the letter of his promise - he would not say anything to her about it.

He caught up with her in the hotel lobby. “Ariel? Can I speak with you about the flower arrangements for the dining room?” He asked, in case anyone was listening.

She nodded wearily.

“I have rather extensive ideas and suggestions, perhaps we should discuss it in my room?”

She gave him a stern look, “Harry, are you making a pass at me?”

He blinked in surprise. Yes, he supposed that had sounded rather flirtatious. “I wouldn’t presume, Ariel. Where you are most comfortable, is fine.”

“Here,” she said, sinking into a deep white loveseat.

He sat on the chair opposite. “Ariel,” he said quietly, “Have you ever read this?” He pulled out a book from his pocket. The History of Fantasy Island.

She took it curiously. “I thought you wanted to talk about flowers...”

“If anyone asks, we are talking about flowers,” he said.

“I haven’t read it, no. Why? Should I? That guest, Ms. Greyson - this has to do with her fantasy?”

Harry sighed. “I made a promise, Ariel. Read the book, and don’t ask me anything. Please?”

She gave him a penetrating stare. “Ms. Greyson’s fantasy has to do with the matter I mentioned at the bar...”

“Please?” he repeated, clasping his hands worryingly.

After another long look, she said softly, “Done. Thank you, Harry.”

Then for another half minute they discussed flower arrangements, so that nobody would need to say anything that might not be true.

Vivian did not know if she was sitting or not for this ‘movie’ - the more she watched the drama playing out before her, the more she’d lost sense of any physical self. She just was, and watched keenly as the dark-haired leather clad woman named Scathach dropped in on a much-recovered Roarke

“I’m glad to see you looking so much improved, Mr-?”

“Roarke.”

“Mr. Roarke. Welcome to Fantasy Island.”

He sat up on the bed, dressed in a night shirt. “I need to go home.”

Scathach looked rueful. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Our ship has disappeared. Again.” She tilted her head in a way Vivian recognized as a trait of her own, and asked, “Why are you here, Mr. Roarke? You weren’t scheduled - our scheduled guests are picked up by our ship within the Stillness - that calm, eerie part of the ocean.”

He frowned, “I thought you would know the answer to that.”

She frowned right back at him. “Normally I would. That I don’t is something else that bothers...me. Oh.” She looked him up and down, and sighed. “Your father wouldn’t happen to be named Kronos, would he?”

“No,” he answered immediately, then frowned.

If Vivian was sitting, then she leaned forward, unable to say why. Kronos. She missed Scathach’s comment, but heard Roarke reply, “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember your father’s name. Great. Just great.” Scathach stood to go.

“Hawk told me.”

She looked startled at the change of subject. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to get the bastard who did this.” His voice and expression was fierce.

Scathach scowled, “About the body.”

“Huh?”

“You said Hawk told you. That we have your daughter’s body... oh, shit.” She cursed as she realized that what Hawk had told Roarke had nothing to do with the small corpse in the root cellar.

“You have Miri’s body?” he asked in disbelief.

“We thought you might want to ... do something.” She shrugged, “The last funeral I attended, we built a pyre and set it off with the tide, but you know. Things change.”

Roarke was staring at her. “How long have you been on this island?”

Scathach’s laugh was short and humourless, and even Vivian could see the shadow in her eyes. “Too long.”

Suddenly, Vivian saw before her, superimposed on the couple she was watching, a dolmen or doorway. Inside her mind, she heard a voice say, The way back will come but once.

Rats, she thought, just when it was getting interesting.

“Ms. Greyson, all your questions will be answered. At the proper time.”

Cherie had never killed anything larger than a June bug. She knew what to do with the calf, but she hadn’t known until she’d held the knife whether she actually could do it. But it was holding the knife that had told her the part the books left out, the part about being a priestess that no book can tell you.

And what she hadn’t expected was the feeling of being one with the calf. It was as if she’d cut her own throat, and held it bleeding over the basin. At that moment, she understood ‘sacrifice’ in a entirely new way.

But it had been done, not with neatness or efficiency, but with the correct protocols and procedures, as far as she knew. It had seemed to dismay the older woman, and that had looked promising.

Until Cherie discovered that this was the High Priestess of the Temple. The woman who would be training her. She had worked very hard to remember who she really was, to quell the uncanny confidence that she had acquired since being here, that was certainly not her normal self.

With eyes downcast, she said, “Mistress, I have found favor with the god. I am sorry this displeases you. Could you please tell me why?”

“You will know, soon enough. Well, there’s nothing for it, you must be trained properly. It’s the least I can do.” Her voice was bitter and resigned at the same time.

Time passed quickly, days flew by. Cherie understood that time must flow differently here than on Fantasy Island. But she learned the ways of the Temple, the preparations that must be done in their specific order, the ingredients of the incense, the proper times to burn it - all the rituals.

She learned that War is not evil, but necessary to the betterment of humankind. Chaos served evolution, by enforcing the survival of the fittest, by culling the weak from the race. To Cherie this sounded like eugenics, the kind of reasoning Hitler might have used. But from her perspective of almost three thousand years, it seemed that the greatest accomplishments of the human race had come from war... Hadn’t they? There seemed to be a fallacy in the teachings, but she was not a philosopher to find it, nor was it in her best interests to do so.

Still one thing seemed to be hidden from her, and she had yet to meet Ares himself. In the flesh. So to speak.

Outside the Temple, the army had long since passed, been replaced, and the grounds abandoned for days, disturbed only by an occasional mercenary.

Finally, “You are ready to be initiated. Ares grows impatient, as impatient as you. You have been a quick student. Now mind this: through this door you will see what those outside consider our greatest service to Ares. This is a test. Fail and you shall be put forth from the Temple for all time. Probably in the midst of an army, for Ares would see you do unwillingly what you may refuse to do willingly.”

Inside, Cherie did not understand at first what she was seeing. A small band of mercenaries had come to the encampment outside the Temple a few days ago. Most of them were in here, intimately involved with several priestesses. What truly repulsed her was that the men were so...dirty. Dust and mud seemed to have been ingrained in every place the skin creased. But the priestesses were either very good actors or they were enjoying themselves immensely.

The High Priestess smiled tightly, intuiting her thoughts. “Yes, Ares treats his priestesses well, we all enjoy doing our duty by him. He...sends a portion of himself into each supplicant, and makes sure the right ... strokes are given.”

Quietly, she replied, “This seems so...well, more like...” she didn’t know the Greek equivalent to Astarte, whose Temples resembled nothing so much as brothels, with spiritual overtones - perhaps Demeter?

“Like?” the older woman prompted.

“Like a fertility ritual than a war ritual,” she said, finally.

“Considering Ares’ roots, does that surprise you?”

“No, I guess not. I had forgotten he started as a fertility god. Although I suppose that was the attraction in the first place.” She couldn’t help a grin, in spite of what she was seeing. Then she realized that, after her initiation she would be expected to perform this duty as well. “Uh, how long do I have to think about this?”

“As long as it takes for me to finish speaking.”

“Uh,” Cherie thought fast - maybe Roarke would end her fantasy after her initiation? She couldn’t count on that. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. But wait, a promise made, that required her to be in Ares service. And the High Priestess had said something about her being put in the middle of an army to do unwillingly... “I’m in, I accept, this is okay by me.”

Ariel was annoyed. Roarke had locked himself in his office again. He was ignoring Hugh McGregor, who finally seemed ready to go after his wife, and he was ignoring her. Roarke had not even granted her a part in either fantasy, except as a messenger. And he refused to tell her why.

She suspected it was all connected. Roarke keeping her out of these particular fantasies - although that implied some connection between them, and that didn’t seem likely - Harry’s peculiar behaviour... And just where was Ms. Greyson, anyway?

Since Roarke expected her to fill her days decorating and weeding, she decided to use her personal magic to do these mundane tasks, and settle in with the book Harry had given her. She’d never been much interested in history. She hoped Harry had bookmarked the significant passages.

She flipped through. Nothing marked. Figures. The first pages concerned the creation of the Island, as a place for redemptive, or preventative fantasies, general wish-granting, and so on, circa 1000 BCE, by Kronos. She had known it was Kronos’ island - that was one of the reason’s she’d come here. Seeking sanctuary, in a way. She’d lived a life as a mortal - albeit a brief one - made some sacrifices along the way, and gone to her mother in the Otherworld. But she had too much of her mortal father in her to be content there for long. Fantasy Island was perfect, halfway between this world and the next. Safe.

Hmm, now this was interesting. Each ruler of the island had a tenure of approximately five hundred years, and the island always passed from female to male to female. That meant Roarke had replaced a woman, and would be replaced by a woman. She wondered - how long had Roarke been here?

She lay down on the bed, rolling onto her stomach, the book propped on her pillow. She flipped through the pages - yes! - there, at the end. Roarke had taken over from the warrior-witch Scathach in 1502. He was due to be replaced in three years.

Ariel understood why a book claiming to be the history of an Island populated, as it were, for three thousand years could be so slim. No juicy details. For instance, how was rulership of the island transferred? What were the requirements?

She closed the book thoughtfully. Roarke didn’t need her here. She had an irresistible urge to speak with her mother.

With a smile, she placed an impulsive kiss on his mouth, light and swift as a butterfly. Might as well give him something to think about while she was gone. She snapped her fingers and disappeared in a golden shimmer.

Hugh McGregor could stand it no longer. He would pound on Roarke’s office door until the man gave him some answers - and preferably his wife - or he would call the FBI or whoever was in charge this kind of stuff.

So he stood there pounding, rhythmically and repeatedly, with little hope of being noticed. At least by Roarke. His senior staff - the pretty brunette Ariel, the hotel manager Harry, and the bartender Cal each gave him a curious look as they passed him, over the course of the twenty minutes he’d been banging at the door. Not one of them had said anything, though, and that didn’t help his mood.

As he continued pounding he ran over in his mind everything Roarke had said that day on the beach, the last time the man had said more than “Not now, Mr. McGregor.” His wife thought he didn’t care about her.

He did care, desperately. But he hadn’t shown it very well, had he? The realization threw his rhythm off. Why had he not shown it? He stopped pounding altogether.

The door opened, “Ah, Mr. McGregor, there you are. Please come in, I think it’s time we had a little talk.” Roarke’s voice was smug and condescending.

Numb, he followed his host inside and took the proffered seat.

Roarke sat gracefully in the deep leather chair behind the desk and leaned forward, lacing his fingers together on the desktop. “Well, Mr. McGregor. To what lengths are you willing to go to show your wife how you feel? If she has done something you disapprove of, how will you react?”

Tortured, Hugh stared, feeling like a jack-lighted deer. “Is she having an affair?” he asked hoarsely.

Roarke chuckled, seemingly vastly amused, but said only, “I need an answer, Mr. McGregor. If it will make it easier for you, Mrs. McGregor claimed she sought her fantasy out of selfishness, not revenge.”

Not revenge? He stared hard at Roarke. Damn if the man wasn’t deliberately goading him. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Roarke. Hell, I know I don’t understand. I want a second chance to tell Cherie - to show her - how much I love her.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Mr. McGregor,” Roarke stared curiously at Hugh.

“I, well...whatever she’s doing, it doesn’t matter, okay?” Hugh ran a hand across his thinning blond hair.

Roarke stood up swiftly, “Then, Mr. McGregor, if you’ll just step over here...” he opened a bamboo slatted door and Hugh could see white stucco buildings through it. “Your wife is in this city, it is up to you to find her. I suggest you look in the Temple, but be wary, Mr. McGregor. Things are not always as they appear.” Roarke’s voice as he gave the warning was almost mocking.

Hugh glared at Roarke, certain that his host even now did not believe that he had seen the error of his ways, turned a new leaf. Then he ran through the door, before Roarke could change his mind.

He walked slowly to Ms. Greyson’s room and knocked softly. When the door opened, he nodded formally, “Ms. Greyson? I believe I shall...reflect with you, this time.”

“What do you mean, the body’s gone?” Scathach wanted to pull her ebony hair out in clumps, but she settled for glaring at Hawk and Merlin.

The two men exchanged a helpless glance. “We did as you requested, Scathach,” Merlin ventured, “We washed the body, anointed it with sweet oils, wrapped it in linen - the whole funerary procedures. We put it in the root cellar to keep, er, cool.” His face betrayed his distaste. “When I offered to help out until you get a new employee, I hadn’t realized it included mortuary duties.”

“Don’t try to change the subject, Merlin. How could a body in my root cellar disappear?” But she meant it as a rhetorical question.

Hawk asked, “Is he gonna be staying on? Working here?”

Scathach sighed, tugged at a strand of hair. “Roarke? Worse. Now go look for that body!”

Merlin and Hawk fled discreetly. Scathach in a temper was worse than a Fury. When they were well out of her hearing, Merlin said, “It isn’t here. I know of no way that body could have disappeared unless it got up and walked. Which,” he held up a finger as Hawk opened his mouth to speak, “I am not discounting. Anything is possible, here.”

Hawk closed his mouth and then tried again, “I think they took it.”

“They?”

“The Powers That Be.”

“The Powers That Be,” Merlin snorted skeptically. “Mr. Roarke said something about some gent named Sebastian, do you think he might have taken it?”

Hawk shook his head slowly. “Accordin’ to Roarke, that fella wanted them both dead. So what would he want with the li’l girl’s corpse? ‘Sides, how would he get here? Fantasy Island ain’t exactly on the beaten path.”

Merlin looked askance at the piratical man. “You’re sure she was dead?”

“I ain’t stupid, Merlin. She warn’t breathin’ and her heart warn’t beatin’. I pumped the water outta her lungs - nothin’.” Hawk sounded bitter. “You helped with the washin’ of her, did you hear a heart beat, feel a li’l breath?”

Merlin shook his head.

“She ain’t walkin’ around, neither.”

“How do you know? We are.”

Hawk stopped abruptly, and Merlin turned to face the other man. “It ain’t the same. A kid like that, why’d she be in need of redemption?”

Merlin shrugged, “I’m just an inmate. Should we look? Maybe take a peek in the Atlantis fantasy?” He sounded hopeful.

Hawk rolled his sand-colored eyes upward. “Go ahead, Merlin. I know you’ve been enjoyin’ that one. I’ll look for the li’l girl.”

And now. This man, most likely her replacement, had lost the only thing he’d cared about. It wasn’t fair. Why did the PTB - or was it Kronos himself? - feel the need to do this to them? Her own imminent release from it felt like ashes, in the face of these depravities. She hugged her knees to herself and wept. For her husband, her children. For Roarke and his daughter. For all those who had ruled before, and those who would come after. Order and obedience. Would it never end?

Hugh McGregor found himself standing in a market square. He wore a tunic that perhaps had been white, once, tied at the waist with a thin belt of leather that also held a small, heavy bag. His feet were bare and dusty. The market consisted of stalls formed of thin bare logs draped with shabby, but brightly coloured cloth. Rough tables beneath these temporary awnings were filled with fruit, jewelry, bolts of cloth. One table bore a pile of smelly fish. He wondered idly how long the vendor would let them sit there, before the heat of the day forced him to throw them away.

And it was hot. The small leather bag hanging from his belt seemed to contain coins, he wondered how much money it was, in this economy. Wandering around, keeping a hand on his bag - purse, his mind whispered - he found a cantina. Five steps led down to a room that ought to have been dark, but wasn’t - one wall, about four feet in height, was almost entire open to the day, facing away from the heat of the sun. The other three walls were thick, solid, insulating. The roof was barely high enough for him to stand in. At five foot ten, he was a tall man, here.

The place had the sour-sweet smell of spilled ale, and he shuddered a little as he breathed it in. But it was hot... He ordered a mug of ale - just one, he told himself - and was a little disappointed that it wasn’t ice cold. But then, he reminded himself, refrigeration had yet to be invented. He sat down, and took a long, slow draught, savoring the flavour. It was the first alcoholic beverage to pass his lips since he’d met his wife. A twinge of guilt was pushed away by reminding himself of what he’d given up for her - drinking with his buddies - he was not an alcoholic - his band... and for what? A woman who didn’t appreciate him? What the hell was she doing here, anyway?

Hugh bit back a comment that might’ve seen his guts kebob’d on a sword. It seemed he wasn’t that anxious to die.

Vivian Greyson

“Did Poseidon kill my grandparents?” Vivian Greyson asked quietly, unable to see Roarke inside the mirror.

She heard him sigh. “Yes.”

“Why?”

No response. Before she could press, he said in a voice tight with emotion, “They never did find the body. She offered me a job...but you figured that part out already, haven’t you?” Sorrow and bitterness flavored the words.

“Why did you accept?” she allowed the change of subject, certain that he had a reason for it.

“I didn’t really have much of a choice, did I? The ship that served the island wasn’t exactly in this plane of existence, which was not within what you call the Bermuda Triangle. The Triangle did not exist, at that time. The ship disappeared and reappeared seemingly at will. It was more reliable after ...” his voice trailed off. “See her there, crying....?”

“It fooled me, too.”

“Atticus, why are you doing this?” the soldier protested as he drove Hugh to his knees once more without even a hitch in his breathing. “Ares must be laughing his ass off at us, training this,” he nudged Hugh with his leather clad foot, “this weakling. Or he’ll be mad as a hornet.”

“Ares?” Hugh gasped, clutching his ribs. He had bruises on bruises, and only lived to drink more ale when the day was done. Since they’d taken his purse for ‘training expenses’, he was living, such as it was, solely on Atticus’s largesse. And he didn’t like it, but he had no choice.

“Ares. God of War. Our patron. Worm.” Each sentence punctuated with a kick.

And he still had it in him to marvel at the casual use of the mythological god’s name. That was it! These people worshipped those mythological gods, that was why Cherie had wanted to come here! She was into that whole new paganism shit. Finally, after two bloody weeks, he had a clue. “Can’t wait,” he forced out between gasping breaths, “to attend a service.”

“Attend a service? Not only is he soft in body, he’s soft in the head.” The soldier stomped off in disgust, leaving Hugh with Atticus.

The mercenary general hunkered down, “You really are pathetic, you know.”

“Thanks.” Even through his pain, he managed a dry answer.

Atticus

“What does it take to offend you, make you angry? You take everything my men give so laconically.”

“Is’at another word your priestess taught you?” he muttered.

Atticus grinned and pulled Hugh to his feet. “Yeah. She’s something special. Makes a man think of marriage, can you believe it? Except that she has this fixation on water. Always washing, herself, the other priestesses, me...” He chuckled. “She told me I was a fine looking man under all that dirt. Never had a woman so fussy before. I heard she managed to convince Ares to let her bathe all the men she serves in his name.” While he spoke he led Hugh to the cooking fires, walking slowly to match the slighter man’s stumbling pace. “I never thought a bath could be so much fun.”

Hugh picked up a battered tin plate and let the camp cool slop a spoonful of stew on it. He moved away from the heat of the fires and sat, gratefully, leaning against a tree. “How does one get to these lovely ladies of the temple?”

Atticus laughed heartily. “You? I doubt you’ll ever see the inner delights of Ares’ Temple. The outer court, any fool can go and make offering. But you’ll as likely see the older priestesses than the young ones.”

“Oh. I wasn’t raised religious, I don’t know too much about it.” Hugh commented.

The mercenary gave him a look. “Your family ignored the gods altogether? And nothing bad happened to them? You expect me to believe that.”

“It just wasn’t a big thing. I’ve never been inside a, a Temple, in my life.”

Atticus looked aghast. “What sort of heathen place are you from?”

Hugh grimaced, “It’s called ‘Hamilton’.” When Atticus did not look enlightened, he added, “We flew into La Guardia, then caught the flight to Fantasy Island from Long Island. New York,” he added, as if talking to an idiot.

After a long moment, Atticus asked, “Is that in Britannia?”

“No,” Hugh said, exasperated, “It’s in-” He stopped, realizing that as far as Atticus was concerned, there was no such place as North America. “Christ,” he swore. “Never mind. I thought you were like an actor.”

“An actor? Where have you been? Are you an idiot? I am the captain of a mercenary army, I kill people for money. I serve Ares. Which part of that did you miss? Do you see anyone here,” his gesture indicated the whole field, “who looks about to don a wreath and spout poetry in an ampitheatre? Anyone who looks remotely like a follower of Dionysus?”

“Will you relax,” Hugh glared, “You must be pretty insecure to get so ticked over such a little thing.”

“It is an insult!”

“Well, I didn’t mean to insult you, okay? Chill out. I mean, relax. It was just words.”

“Words. You have no idea. Words have power here. Think before you speak.” The speaker of this wisdom startled Hugh - it was a woman, an older woman dressed simply in white robes with scarlet cords trimming it, and where they hung from her waist, they ended in red tassels.

Atticus had risen to his feet, an attitude of great respect on his face. “You honor our camp with your presence.”

“This is not a formal visit, Atticus. Ares awaits you in the Temple.” Her words were simple, straightforward.

Hugh gaped. “Ares? Himself? He’s real?”

Atticus rubbed the bridge of his nose, obviously pained.

The woman just stared at Hugh. “I had heard you had picked up a new...stray, Atticus. No-one mentioned he was an idiot.”

“My apologies, Holy one. I’ll leave him here, of course.”

“Of course.” The woman’s tone was cool.

Ariel coalesced from a soft golden shimmer into herself in the hotel lobby and immediately began walking briskly to Roarke’s office. She needed to talk to him right away. Something in the air made her steps slow. The air was filled with an aura of...desertion.

Roarke’s office was empty. The check-in counter was deserted. She walked out and around to the outbuilding where Cal and Harry stayed. Half clean and tidy, half disaster area, as usual. Neither man was in evidence.

In the old building that had once upon a time been a carriage house, all three golf-carts were lined up neatly in their places. The driving range was habited only by birds. The beach was a crystalline length of waves and seagulls. The bar was stocked, polished, empty.

Where the hell was everyone?

She walked behind the bar and poured a wine glass half full of Pinot Blanc, and topped it with soda. Taking a seat on the shady side, she muttered, “They have to come back, sooner or later.” She could wait.

A moment of intense concentration and The History of Fantasy Island appeared in front of her on the bar. She was curious to read more about Roarke - the first demi-god she’d ever fallen in love with. According to the book, his most notable achievement had been the creation of the Bermuda Triangle... She read, fascinated:

“In 1503 a ship of humans, who had no business on the island, made landfall. They were Spanish explorers, with greed their driving goal far more than knowledge. Roarke, Hawk and long-time resident Merlin surrounded the intrepid explorers with frightful noises, rustlings and other things, half seen, half heard and almost felt. Things meant to drive them away, to put the fear of the very Devil himself into their Catholic hearts, so that they would never come back.

“Roarke took the logical next step to ensure such a thing did not happen again. Mustering all the resources available to him, and with Kronos’ help-”

Ariel stopped reading. Kronos’ help. That must have been tough for Roarke to ask for. Her mother had told her that Roarke blamed Kronos for his being on Fantasy Island. She skimmed the rest of the last chapter, noting with amusement that Leonardo da Vinci had stayed for a few decades after his death in 1514. The commandeering of the abandoned Marie Celeste in the early nineteenth century to serve as a passenger ship for the island. Nothing had been added to the book in a hundred years. Who had written it?

The sound of the waves breaking on the beach and the cry of the gulls was interupted by the sound of an engine, and soon after Scotty’s diesel jeep pulled into view, Cal, Harry and Fisher in the back, Harry attempting to keep his tie from flapping in his face.

“Sorry, gentlemen,” Scotty was saying as he dropped them off, “I appreciate you coming to tea, and trying to work this out friendly-like, but I have contracts. You know how it is.”

He drove off in a cloud of kicked up sand, and Harry waved it away. And it went, Ariel noticed, amused. Cal sputtered, and Harry frowned. With a brush of his hand across the larger man’s shoulders, the sand disappeared from him, too. None had dared land on Fisher, who was smiling amicably.

“Ariel!” Cal called, trotting over to the bar. “Where you been?”

“Away,” she said absently, staring at Fisher. “Fisher, what are you doing here?”

“Hello to you, too, Ariel,” he grinned.

She took another sip of her drink and waited.

“I figured since you were gone, and Roarke was gone, I’d better come and keep an eye on things.”

Harry caught her eye, gave her a concerned look. She nodded reasuringly, and he said, “I’ll be at the hotel, if anyone should care.”

“Hey Ariel, can you do that finger snapping thing? I could use some customers.”

“What sort of customers, Cal?” she asked amused.

“Any sort. But if half of them were beautiful girls in bikinis, I wouldn’t object.”

It wasn’t the answer she’d been expecting, but she tried it, anyway. About thirty people surrounded the bar, half of them women. She knew Fisher was watching her carefully, but didn’t know why. Did he know-?

Cal looked around happily. “Thanks. Say, you couldn’t make this a topless beach, could you?” he leered.

With a smile she snapped her fingers again. Except for the three of them, every other person disappeared from the waist up. Both men flinched and covered their eyes, making sounds of disgust.

“Okay, okay,” Cal said, “Forget it!” He peered out between his fingers. His customers had torsos again. “Jeez, Ariel. You don’t have to be so literal.”

“Looks like I may have underestimated you, Ariel,” Fisher remarked.

“Good for you, Fisher. And your opinion means ... what?”

“Now, now. No need to adopt Roarke’s attitude, dear girl. No matter what he’s told you, I’m not that bad a fellow. And since we’re going to be working together one day...”

“What’re you talking about?” Cal frowned at Fisher.

Ariel, still looking at Fisher, replied, “Cal, didn’t you know that Roarke’s been training me to take over for him?”

“Great. Get rid of the dragon for the dragon-lady. At least you’re better lookin’,” he groused.

“Ariel, you know that Roarke’s driving goal since inheriting this island has been to leave it?” Fisher said, his expression serious for a change.

“Yes,” she sighed. “What will he do when he does leave it, I wonder? What then will be his goal in life? Where is he, anyway?”

“Hall of Mirrors,” Cal said, serving a customer.

“He’s ghost hunting. And helping Ms. Greyson with some family history.” Fisher added cryptically.

“I didn’t know she was into genealogy,” she said mildly. Her father had told her who Ms. Greyson was. It had been surprising, in a rather painful way. Worse to think she hadn’t figured it out on her own. It hadn’t been that long...

Fisher returned to the Travel Agency to find Clia snuffling over a cheap romance novel with a lurid cover.

“Why do you read those things?” he asked, disgusted.

She blew her nose loudly and lit a cigarette. “What would you know about it, anyway.”

“Bah. Sentimental nonsense.”

Clia tossed the book down. “Isn’t there a traffic accident you could go look at?”

Ignoring her, he went over to the coffee machine and started making a fresh pot. Clia sighed, looking at the book. A considering light came into her eye, and she looked at her typewriter. She wound a blank peice of paper in.

“We don’t have any clients, what are you doing?” Fisher demanded.

“Personal typing, okay?” she asked, sarcastically.

“Is that company paper you’re using?”

Clia rolled her eyes, but instead of dignifying his question with a response, she asked, reflectively, “What if ... what if Roarke and Ariel fell in love?”

Fisher snorted laughter at the suggestion. “Roarke’s last experience with that emotion got him stuck on Fantasy Island. I don’t think that’s such a bad deal, myself, but he took it badly.” He snickered again. “Ariel is set up to be his successor. You think he wants to do to her what was done to him?” His expression changed completely, from derision to thoughtful contemplation. “That’s not a bad idea. You go on, Clia. Type away.”

Scathach reread the thick curling paper that had been in the cylinder attached to the raven’s leg, and crumpled it with a disgusted sound. “Order and obedience,” she muttered darkly. “Any means necessary. Oh gods! I hate this job.” She glared at the wadded ball of paper, and it burst into a swift-burning flame, that vanished as quick as it appeared, leaving nary an ash behind.

She liked Roarke. But he wanted to get on that ship and she couldn’t let him do that. “Sacrifices,” she ground out between gritted teeth. “For the greater good. Understanding is not required. Only obedience.” She screamed, just once, a deep sound of rage that startled a flock of brightly colored birds from the castle eaves. It made her feel marginally better.

She could just incarcerate him, that would be easier. She winced, imagining how he would feel. Not much like learning anything from her. No, she couldn’t be direct. She had to deceive. She spat out the window. It was not a warrior’s way. But it had to be done.

She left the tower room that was her office and went up another round of stairs to the very top, her personal living space. My ivory tower, she mocked herself. Her wardrobe was much as it had been when she’d lived on another island, teaching men the art of war and a code of honour - leather breeches, leather vests. True, her husband had found her leathers attractive, but he had been a warrior. Roarke was a merchant, a scholar. A gentleman.

She turned to the ancient mirror of burnished copper that hung beside the wardrobe and asked aloud, “Show me the world, mirror. What does a woman my age wear these days?”

The Warrior-Witch Scathach

The shining surface immediately blackened.

She waited. When nothing further happened, she said, “Very amusing. A woman my apparant age. A single woman. Clear enough?”

The mirror resolved into a picture: A woman with her hair down, held back with a simple circlet. A dress of green - velvet? Not on this island! - trimmed with black at the deep square neckline and cuffs. Close fitted sleeves that covered the tops of her hands. The dress was long, held up in one hand to keep from trailing on the floor, with an even longer train in the back. Scathach sighed. It seemed like an awful lot of cloth to wear on a tropical island.

She snapped her fingers and found herself dressed identically to the woman her mirror had shown her. It was just a simple mirror, now, and she examined herself minutely. Then she started making alterations - a single snap to make the sleeves of lace, another to make the dress of texture-patterned linen, a third to shorten it to floor length in the back and just above her ankles in the front - she wasn’t about to trip and make herself feel more foolish than she already did! One last snap to adjust the neckline several degrees lower.

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest one of all?” she murmured. But of course, the mirror did not answer.

Crossing the courtyard, she saw Hawk. From his comments on various guests, she figured he could give her an honest opinion on how she looked, from a man’s point of view. He was sitting on a bench, mending what looked like a leather-bound codex. She stopped walking when he stopped working, knowing that he’d seen her in his peripheral vision. She would wait for his reaction.

His eyes travelled up and stopped just below her neck. Then back down. The frankly appreciative expression on his face was all she needed. Then he looked at her face and his eyes widened as his jaw dropped in amazement. “Scathach?”

“Yes?” She made her tone a warning.

“I, uh, it’s only that...” he sputtered. “I never saw you dressed like a woman before!” he blurted.

“It’s a special occasion.” She dared him to ask what. He was smart enough not to. But she was pleased to note that he kept looking at her. She supposed that to Hawk, she’d never been a woman, only his employer. Hopefully it would have the same effect with Roarke. He was a fine looking man. Tall, lean. Piercing blue eyes. Long, elegant fingers. More of a crossbow type than a swordsman. It wouldn’t be such a hardship to take him to her bed.

When she swept into the dining room, both he and Hawk jumped to their feet. Roarke stared openly and she actually blushed. “My lady,” he said finally, with a courtly bow. “I did not know we were to dress for dinner.”

For the first time in centuries, Scathach was at a complete loss for words. And if that were not enough, she found herself blushing like maiden. All this brought on by a simple change of clothes.

His fingers moved down her neck, and lower. Her breath caught. I had forgotten, she thought. When he kissed her, it was with a hunger and fieirce desire that echoed within herself.

The stone dolmen appeared, beckoning the watchers to their own time. As Vivian and Roarke walked out of the Hall of Mirrors, she shot a sidelong glance at his profile and asked, “So then what happened?”

Without looking at her, he replied, “I, too, had forgotten. I hadn’t known a woman intimately since Miri landed on my doorstep. The ship sailed without me.” Roarke did look at her, then, and his expression showed confusion. “She was going to let me go. But... in the end, she betrayed me. She did,” he emphasized, as if trying to convince himself.

Silence descended as they entered the gardens. The air was heavy, moist, and redolent of the rich perfumes of the flowers. Vivian did not know what Roarke contemplated in that silence, but she finally had to ask, “What does this have to do with me?”

His glance at her was measuring, cool. But instead of answering her question, he said, “When I was convinced that I loved Scathach, she sent me into the Hall of Mirrors. To see the truth, she said. What I saw was how Scathach herself had come to the island, the shipwreck, Posiedon’s involvement, and how she stayed to become the island’s mistress because she had nothing left in the outside world to live for anymore. It is sad to say, that only now do I see the truth she expected me to see.” He frowned into the distance, and said vaguely, “I hope you have better vision, Ms. Greyson.”

“I see...” What did she see? “Patterns,” she said thoughtfully. “Mr. Roarke, is it possible to ring London from here?”

“Yes,” he said guardedly, “Sometimes. Why?”

“I need to get someone at the Motherhouse to run a program for me.”

“Why?” Roarke repeated.

Vivian smiled, “I can be every bit as mysterious as you, Mr. Roarke.”

Ms. Greyson’s comments had confirmed Roarke’s suspicions that she was indeed a qualified replacement for himself. Particularly in view of her parentage. It pleased him for a reason he didn’t quite understand that Ariel would not be martyred to the Island. Now... now he could contemplate doing something about that kiss... his smile was vulpine.

If Ariel was not his replacement, she could never come to hate him. More importantly, he would not be duplicating in any way the patterns Ms. Greyson dimly perceived.

“Roarke! There you are, I-”

“Ariel!” he interupted her, “You’re back. Did you have a nice visit?”

“Uh, yes. But I want to-”

“Why don’t you tell me all about it over dinner tonight, my dear?” he smiled suggestively.

Ariel stared, speechless for a moment. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

He pretended to consider this before replying, “Yes, I believe I am.”

After another disbelieving stare, she said in an incredulous tone, “Yes. It’s a date.”

“This phone I’m using isn’t connected to anything. I’m sorry. I’m keeping careful notes, and I’ll try to make sure the Talamasca gets them, but don’t expect to see me again this go around, Aunt Toni.” She hung up quickly, to beat the threatened tears. Antoinette Campbell was the one person she would miss.

Hugh dreamed about Cherie that night. Dreamed her mouth hot against his, the length of her body pressed against him, her hand skillful and creative below his waist. Dreamed wet kisses down his body, her mouth on him. Oh god, he thought, it’s that kind of dream...oh god, oh my god, I’m going to...

Hugh McGregor

And he did. “Cherie,” he groaned, burying his fingers in her hair. That was odd. When did she cut her hair? Fully awake, he opened his eyes, surprised at how much he could see in the firelight.

Atticus disentangled Hugh’s fingers from his hair. “What did you call me?”

Hugh scrambled as far from Atticus as he could, speechless with horror. “I thought you were my wife,” he croaked.

Atticus chuckled knowingly. “This time. Next time you’ll know better.”

Next time? Next time?!? “Wh-wh-what about your priestess?”

The mercenary sat up, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Yes,” he murmured, “Odd that my favorite priestess and your wife should have such similar names...”

“WHAT?! This is a nightmare! ROARKE!!!”

And he did, until she screamed with pleasure...

Cherie did not walk away from her private audience with Ares. She was drunk on the sensations of the flesh, and lolled indolently on the cloth-of-gold covered pillows, a silk sheet pulled around her. It was the pinnacle of her fantasy.

But as the heady liqueur of sexual satiation wore off, she felt strangely ... empty. My god, she thought, stunned, I miss my kids. It wasn’t the first time she had thought of them since she’d been here - it had seemed like months, maybe even a year since she’d washed up on Kronos’ island. Yet she knew that back in the real world, her week wasn’t up yet. But for the first time she really, deep down, missed them.

Having felt so trapped by the constant caring for two children over the past seven years, she had not thought she would feel this way. It was strange. She ran her hands over her body and could not restrain a sigh of pleasure. This body had never borne children. It was a shame she couldn’t keep it.

Because she realized something else. She could live quite well without Hugh McGregor. Two kids and all. A seventeen year old body would come in handy for a single mom. She giggled to herself. Maybe, if she was really, really nice to Mr. Roarke...

“Only one?” he asked, his voice heavily ironic, and she started to laugh, something closer to hysteria than humour.

Vivian Greyson went to the Hall of Mirrors alone. As she stepped into the shimmery glass, she had a strange sensation, like deja vu, but not. Like pre-cog, although she had never had a precognition before in her life. The familiar scene formed around her out of silver mist - the jewel tones of the island, the fairy-tale castle, the lovers, Scathach and Roarke.

“I love you, Scathach,” he whispered in her ear, as they stood in the gardens.

“You mustn’t,” she replied, pulling away from him, obviously distressed. She was wearing another dress, seemingly she had abandoned her leathers. “Go the Hall of Mirrors, Roarke. See the truth.”

Vivian couldn’t help but wonder....had he known Scathach was pregnant...?

“Good morning, Mrs. McGregor.”

Cherie looked up from the offering bowl, startled to hear her married name, startled to see Mr. Roarke. Then she smiled. “Mr. Roarke! I’ve had a wonderful time! I’ve learned so much...about myself, I mean.”

He smiled, “Your pleasant experience has been in no small part due to your willingness to ... keep an open mind.”

She giggled, “And open legs.”

He cleared his throat, glancing around uncomfortably. “It is time to go, Mrs. McGregor.”

“Oh no, I can’t, not yet, Mr. Roarke. I still have something to do.” It was her turn to glance around, looking uncomfortable. “You know. You caused me to wash up on Kronos’ island.” She whispered this last.

“What?” Roarke was clearly startled. And it was then he noticed what she was putting in the offering bowl. “Is that wheat?” he asked, appalled, “You’re offering Ares wheat?!”

She grinned, “I’ve discovered that I like living dangerously... Good thing, too, since I’m going to kick my idiot husband out on his ass.”

Roarke was off-guard, and incredulous - how did this straightforward fantasy take such a wild twist? Kronos’ island? What did his father have to do with this? “What exactly are you planning?”

“Ares used to be the Harvest god, you know? Death and regeneration? Dionysus is doing that these days...whatever ‘these days’ are,” she grinned again.

“I am aware of the history of the Greek gods, yes,” he said, trying to keep the irony out of his voice.

“Well, Father Time - Kronos - needs some of Ares’ passionate blood to ... to make something,” she frowned, “I can’t quite remember what, but that’s not important I guess. I promised. In return for this body. Nice, isn’t it?”

He examined it critically. “Quite. However, I can’t leave without you. Besides, your husband is looking for you.” He looked around the Temple again. “Ares doesn’t like me much, I’m afraid.”

“This isn’t your doing, is it?” She peered at him, then laughed.

“Forget you promise,” he urged, “think of your children.”

“I’d rather my children had a dead mother who kept her word than a living one who broke oath. I’m funny that way. You can wait outside, if you want.”

But as she spoke, the Temple doors burst open, and there stood Atticus, with a disheveled Hugh in his wake. Cherie looked from one to the other. “Oh my god. He’s the one you were telling me about?” She howled with laughter, clutching her sides. “Oh, Atticus! I thought you had better taste...”

“How is it you’re his wife?” Atticus demanded. “Temple priestesses are not permitted to marry.”

“It’s a long story...”

“It can wait.” Ares himself appeared, muscular, leather-clad, dark of complexion, dark of expression.

Ares

“What is the meaning of this, my precious one? Wheat? You know how I feel about grain...” his voice was mild. He turned to Roarke. “You. Spawn of Kronos...”

“Nephew...” Roarke acknowledged the god, his tone equally mild.

Ares held up his hand and a red fireball shot towards Roarke, who ducked easily, letting it strike the Temple wall behind him.

“Jesus H. Christ!” a very clipped British voice swore, drawing everyone’s attention. “What the bloody hell was that? It damn near took my head off!” Vivian Greyson looked very shaken. “What is everyone staring at? Doesn’t a lady have the right to swear if she’s just had a near miss with a fireball? Bloody hell!”

“Ms. Greyson?! What are you doing here?” Roarke asked, astonished.

“That’s what I’d bloody well like to know. Where the hell is ‘here’, anyway? I went to the Hall of Mirrors, hoping to finally find out who the bloody hell killed my parents...”

Ares glared at her. “If you don’t mind, we’re kind of busy now.”

Vivian couldn’t remember being so frightened. And when she was frightened, she was defensive, defiant. “Who the bloody hell are you?” she demanded, unable to keep from swearing, now that she’d started.

He moved to stand only inches away from her, his darkly handsome face above hers, holding her with only the strength of his eyes. “I am Ares,” he began, only to be cut off in midsentence by a deep rolling voice that said, “NOW!”

Cherie swept up her staff, only to find it had become Kronos’ scythe once more. “In Ares’ name, I harvest the grain. Ares will die, and live again.” she chanted, swinging like a professional reaper, taking off both Ares’ and Vivian’s heads in one swoop. Blood flew everywhere, and she laughed, throwing back her head. She almost missed Atticus’s sword swinging at her from behind. Almost.

“You killed Ares!” he was incredulous.

“Nonsense,” she caroled, “He is a God, I just...harvested him.”

“Ms. Greyson is not a god,” Roarke remarked crossly. No blood had touched him.

Atticus came at Cherie again, and again she fought him back. She sneered down at Hugh. “Well? Aren’t you going to defend me?”

Hugh McGregor was huddled on the floor, covered in blood, terrified. He did not know this woman, who fought with Atticus as an equal. Who had loved with Atticus as an equal. Unlike himself.

Roarke picked his way over to the bodies, his mind shrouded by a strong sense of unreality. Ares stirred, sitting up. He picked up his head and put it on. “I’m going to kill all of you!” he roared, flames sizzling from his fingers.

Roarke and the McGregors tumbled off their feet in the calm, crisp air that was Fantasy Island. A tall, smooth-faced woman with green-gold eyes, her long dark hair held back from her face in an elaborate braid, held an hourglass lightly. “Welcome to Fantasy Island,” she said, smiling, “I am Circe, your host.”

Hugh just stuttered, and with a negligent wave, Circe transformed him into a pot belly pig.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Cherie said, with a broad grin. “Thank you, Circe.”

The sorceress bowed, a wry smile on her face.

“Circe. I appreciate your quick thinking,” Roarke said, “But we are out of time, we belong to Fantasy Island of some two thousand years hence.”

“I know, my dear Mr. Roarke. I know everything,” she smiled again.

“Bloody awful, isn’t it?” he grumped, before asking, “Then why-?”

“Your father wants to talk to you.” She handed him the hourglass. “You can give this back for me, please. I’ve no further use for it,” regret tinged her voice.

Circe smiled.

Roarke looked at the old man behind the large white desk, not fooled by his appearance. He set the hourglass down. “Circe asked me to return this.”

“Lovely girl, isn’t she, your niece?”

“Circe’s my niece?”

“Sit down, my boy, it’s been ages since I’ve seen you.” Kronos waved to a chair.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stand. I wouldn’t have thought you’d want to see me. Knowing how I feel about you. Daddy.” Roarke said coldly.

Kronos gave him a stern look. “I normally don’t explain myself, particularly to my children, Roarke. But you’re going to find out a few things that will put you in such a tizzy as to screw up another great romance.”

“What are you talking about?” Roarke asked in exasperation.

“Your pretty assistant Ariel, of course.”

“She’s not my sister...is she?” he asked warily.

“No,” Kronos chuckled, “Her father was human as your mother. Because her mother is a goddess, she was raised... differently. To different standards. She has advantages no other...but I’m getting ahead of myself.”

“Ms. Greyson is dead.” Roarke said abruptly. “What does that do to the succession?”

“Ah. Yes. Well. That’s the sticky bit, isn’t it? The pattern Ms. Greyson saw, but did not have a chance to tell you ... Poseidon,” Kronos scowled as he spoke the name, “took it upon himself to kill Scathach’s family, your daughter, and Vivian’s grandparents. The key is that her grandparents were killed. It’s her mother who is to replace you, my boy. Not Vivian.”

“Seeing as she’s dead,” Roarke began.

“She is not dead, fool. She is mine, she is here, she is Circe.” Kronos frowned impatiently. “Do you treat the apparent deaths of all your guests so calmly?”

Roarke frowned, “Few of my guests die, and since getting upset wouldn’t change anything... But I thought Ms. Grey...Circe’s mother was dead?” Circe? Ms. Greyson was Circe? “The whole thing with decapitating Ares, that was to make Ms. Greyson into Circe?”

“Yes, and to create this place. I can’t actively manipulate the outer world you know, I need to find people willing to act for me. Cherie McGregor was brilliant, a very strong, bright woman.” Kronos sounded very pleased with himself. “As for Circe’s mother...well, she knew her daughter was fated to come back in time, the Delphic Oracle told her. She was trying to save her from it. She’s a demi-goddess, too, you know, so she was able to prevent her own true death. But you can’t beat prophecy.” He chuckled.

“Her mother probably will not be thrilled to take my place on Fantasy Island, knowing that you stole her daughter away,” Roarke remarked, wondering why Kronos thought any of this had to do with himself and Ariel.

Kronos sighed and stared at his son. “Sometimes, boy, you can really be obtuse. Go on. Try to remember what I’ve said, at the appropriate time.”

“Time,” Roarke sighed. “It always seems to come down to that, doesn’t it?”

Kronos grinned.

Roarke saw Mrs. McGregor off by himself. He had found an air travel cage for her pot belly pig. Out of curiousity, he asked her what she remembered.

“I remember everything!” And she had gushed about her fantasy, and how wonderful it had been. She did not remember washing up on Kronos’ island. She did not remember decapitating Vivian Greyson and the God of War. She remembered Circe, only because of the pig. She knew the pig was her husband. “Someday,” she said, eyes twinkling, “Maybe I’ll tell the kids the truth about the pig...”

He returned to his office, feeling drained. It had been a tough week. In his office he was surprised to find Circe - with the hourglass. “Circe - what are you doing here? I thought you were done with that.” He gestured to the hourglass.

She looked at it, then back at him. “Last time I saw you,” she said, “I was about to get my head chopped off by one of your guests. So this must be my first time travel paradox.” She sounded absolutely delighted. “Wouldn’t the Talamasca love it?”

Roarke could not resist. “Remember the blonde man cowering in the midst of the chaos at the Temple?”

“Yes?”

“He’s a pig, Circe.”

“Mrs. McGregor’s husband?”

He nodded solemnly.

She smiled quizzically, and looked about to inquire further.

“Why are you here?” he asked quickly, forestalling her question.

“To see my mother. Kronos told me...” her eyes flashed pain. “It’s my birthday, today. I’m forty.”

Roarke gave her a sweeping look. “You don’t look a day over twenty, Circe. Ms. Greyson.”

A quick knock and Ariel breezed in without waiting for a reply, “Roarke, I- oh!” She stared at the young woman before her. Roarke was surprised to see a look of recognition in the shape-shifter’s eyes. “Vivian.”

“Circe, now.” the sorceress replied softly, tugging on her much more elaborate braid.

Ariel frowned. “Vivian Eliot Greyson! How many times have I told you, don’t pull on your hair like that! You’ll be bald by the time you’re-” she stopped abruptly.

"Forty?" Circe burst into tears, and flung herself at the shape-shifter, crying, “Mum, oh, I’ve missed you so much...”

Tears filled Ariel’s luminous brown eyes. “I’m sorry, baby.” She hugged the sorceress tightly, “Happy birthday, baby.”

Circe’s mouth formed a trembling smile, “It’s really not so bad...and as you see, I’m not bald...”

Roarke watched the two women, clinging to each other, weeping and laughing at the same time. Kronos’ words came back to him, this must be the appropriate time. Obtuse. Yes, he had been obtuse, not wanting to know. Ariel was Circe’s mother. Ariel was his replacement. He groaned in frustration.

The two women, mother and daughter, did not hear. The pulled back from each other, looking at one another with tear-streaked faces, but did not let go. “I wish,” they said simultaneously, and laughed. “I have Kronos’ hourglass,” Circe suggested.

Ariel smiled sadly, “It’s too late, baby. I made the wrong choice. Are you sure ... it’s really not so bad?”

“Truly, Mum. Pity we can’t visit back and forth...” Circe smiled wanly.

“You have always lived in my heart, Vivian,” Ariel said softly, embracing her daughter again, for the last time.

Circe pulled out, sniffling, and said, “Could you please make sure the Talamasca gets my notes, the ones I made before...? I don’t think they need to know who Circe was. Is. Was.” She hefted the hourglass, “It is a happy birthday, Mum, I get to see you, one last time, when I thought I never would. I love you...” She started to fade away.

“Take lovers!” Ariel called, “Lots of them!”

Like the Cheshire cat, the last thing they saw was her smile.

After a respectful pause, Roarke said, “Take lovers? That’s your motherly advice?”

She grinned at him. “The best I could offer.” She threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, Roarke, my daughter! I got to wish her a happy birthday one more time...”

Roarke gently disengaged her arms. “You are to replace me here, Ariel.”

She stared blankly. “Yeah. So?”

He stared back. “You knew?”

“Yes.” She tilted her head quizzically. “Why? Is it supposed to be a secret? Everyone knows - heck, Fisher knows.”

“Ariel, we can’t...our relationship can’t continue.” Roarke said, wondering why she didn’t see it.

She stared at him, trying to glean his thoughts. Something about patterns and betrayal. “Wrong. I waited too long for this, Roarke, I am not letting you back out on me, now.”

“But-”

“End of discussion, Roarke. You said, and I quote, ‘I wanted to ensure that you were not trapped or feeling coerced’. I am not trapped, or feeling coerced.”

His mouth took a stubborn line, and Ariel grinned in delight. She took a step towards him. He spun around and sat down in his chair, drawing up to his desk. She kicked off her heels, slithered across the desk. “Do you really think you can deny me now?” she asked huskily.

Roarke stared at her, entranced by the warm glow in her eyes, the slight part of her lips, the luscious curves displayed on his desk. “You know what’s in store.”

“Sure,” she replied saucily, “I read the book.”

The History of Fantasy Island fell out of the air as she spoke. It distracted him momentarily from contemplating her beauty. “Where did you get that?”

“Roarke,” she said, taking his face in her hands, “I swear this, by all that is, was and ever shall be, I will always be true to you. In my fashion.”

“Which means...?” He asked, curious, lost in her luminous eyes.

“I’m a shape-shifter, daughter of the goddess of physical love. Don’t expect me to quit my day job.”

“I can’t make you any promises, Ariel... but I will try not to hurt you,” he said slowly, unable to look away from her eyes. “Did you love Evan Greyson?”

“With all my heart. And before him, there were others. Love is not something we have in measurable quantities, Roarke. It is infinite, and many people are worthy of it. Even you,” she smiled mischievously.

He opened his mouth again, but Ariel had grown impatient with his questions. She kissed him before he could speak.

“How do you always turn my words back on me?” Fisher demanded, exasperated.

[fade out. In the darkness, as the credits begin to roll, a disembodied voice says, "Send a fax to Antionette Campbell. Tell her that Ms. Greyson is serving in another capacity."]

Don't get chocolate fingerprints on the forms...