*GUEST STARRiNG* in this Episode:
Frost, Rhys and Salonica are property of R.L.Wyer. No copyright infringement intended. The rhyming couplets at the beginning of each chapter are from The Wiccan Rede by Doreen Valiente. The poem in the Dream Sequence is from La Belle Dame sans Merci by John Keats. Both these poems are believed to be public domain, but if otherwise - no copyright infringement intended. "Marion" image is Tonia, ©Vision4 Photography.
“When the hurly-burly’s done,
When the battle’s lost and won.”
Macbeth, Act I, sc. I.
Fisher muttered to himself as he realized neither Clia nor the temp was coming in today. He’d have to type those damn forms himself, from his own handwriting. His typing style was the ‘hunt-and-peck’ method, and gleeful chuckles interspersed his efforts as frequently as grumbled curses.
“Too many Wall Street types, eh?” he chortled as he stuffed the canisters into the tube, one, two, three. The last one disappeared with a satisfying ‘whoosh’. “He’s gonna love these, then.”
Fisher’s satisfaction was so great, he almost forgave Clia for not showing up.
1.one
"Live and let live,
Fairly take and fairly give"
Harry, immaculately dressed, as usual, frowned at his room-mate. “Come on, Cal, we’re going to be late.”
“Jeez, Harry, gimme a break!” Cal fumbled into the last of his clean uniforms.
“Why don’t you plan ahead, do laundry, that sort of thing?”
“Because I have better things to do.”
“Like 70’s reruns on television. Much better.” Harry rolled his eyes and adjusted his tie for the upteenth time.
“Okay, I’m ready, can ya stop sneering now? We’re in this together, ya know.”
Harry looked critically at his companion. “So you keep saying, as though our fates were joined at the hip. I don’t know that I believe it anymore.”
The two men trotted to catch up to their boss, Mr. Roarke, and his beautiful assistant, Ariel.
“Gentlemen,” Roarke murmured, “so good of you to join us.”
Harry glared at Cal before replying, “Sorry for the tardiness, sir. It won’t happen again.” Something in his voice made Roarke actually look at him a moment, but it passed. They were at the dock, the passengers were about to deplane.
“Smiles, everyone. Smiles.”
First off the plane was a young woman, mid-twenties, thick auburn hair tied up and to the side, falling over her left ear, the modern version of cats-eye glasses. She wore a severe skirt and close-fitting jacket: “Ms. Marion Dakana, a librarian and fan of the occult.
She wants to meet Merlin, whom legend claims taught King Arthur. She has it in mind to be his Niniane.”
Ariel asked softly, “Didn’t she ever wonder why the original Niniane trapped him in an oak tree?”
“She’ll find out soon enough,” Harry muttered.
Next, a dark haired man, flashing green eyes, in blue jeans and crisp white shirt: “Mr. Steven Talbot, a cab driver and sometime fantasy writer. He wants to live the plot of his present ‘work’.” Roarke’s tone indicated his opinion of the Mr. Talbot’s writing.
Ariel grinned, “I like playing Queen Mabh.”
Cal opened his mouth to comment but Harry elbowed him discreetly.
Last off the plane was an older man, grey wings sweeping back from his temples, dressed conservatively in neutral colors. He looked lost: “Father Michael O’Connor. A Catholic priest who has dedicated his life to helping the poor, the sick, the homeless. He is tired
of it never ending and wants to go to a world where these things don’t exist.”
“They don’t exist here,” Cal offered, determined to say something.
“True, Cal, but this is one island, not a world.” Roarke stepped forward, smiling benevolently. “Welcome to Fantasy Island. I am your host, Mr. Roarke.” He raised a glass in toast and set it back down on the tray without drinking. “Mr. Talbot, my colleague, Ariel, will see you checked in,” he nodded to Ariel. “Ms. Dakana, Harry here will take you to Camelot, and see to your bags. Harry,” he leaned close to speak confidentially to the other man, “after Ms. Dakana’s checked in, will you find Merlin, make sure he remembers he’s to be himself this fantasy?”
Harry, surprised, replied quietly, “Of course, sir.”
“Cal, will you take Father O’Connor’s bags to the hotel?”
“Mr. Roarke," the priest addressed him gravely, "I have my doubts about your ability to succeed.”
“Really, Father. You of all people, a doubting Thomas?” Roarke gently scorned.
“My faith is in God, Mr. Roarke, not you.”
“Yessss,” he drawled condescendingly. He had something very special in mind for the good priest.
At the hotel door, he said, “Cal will check you in, show you your room. I’m afraid I won’t be able to further define your fantasy with you for forty-five minutes or so...”
“Patience is a virtue,” the other man replied, sounding very much like he did not believe it.
Roarke inclined his head slightly, and with a sardonic smile, said, “Thank you.”
Marion Dakana looked around the room that was hers - all hers! - for the duration of her fantasy. It was perfect! The stone floor was covered with sweet rushes and strewing herbs, the bed was huge and curtained with inner drapes of mosquito netting and outer velvet draperies. Two tapestries hung on either side of the window, which
was tall, narrow and glassless.
The castle itself was half in ruins, Harry had explained that it had been that way when they got it (she wondered, did all old artifacts wind up here?). It didn’t matter, she didn’t want to live the King Arthur story. She wanted to meet, and study with, Merlin.
Harry had said that Mr. Roarke would introduce her to Merlin, she couldn’t wait! She decided to unpack her clothes into the huge armoire in the room. But when she opened the doors, what a sight!
Gown after gown, in simple medieval style, of every color of the rainbow. Were these for her? She pulled one out and held it against her, staring into the full length mirror provided on the inner door of the wardrobe. It seemed to be her size... she quickly tried
it on, and began to dance around the room, humming Blue Danube. A knock on the door brought her hastily to herself and she called, “Come in, it’s open.”
It was Mr. Roarke.
“Ms. Dakana, good. I hope the accommodations are to your liking?”
“Oh yes! I take it these are for me?” A wide gesture indicated both the open armoire and the gown she wore.
“Certainly! Merlin has not been....in the world much of late. He wouldn’t understand modern fashions,” he paused, “You do understand that the real Merlin is not exactly as the legends portray?”
“Oh I know, Mr. Roarke. But - to know what he knows!”
“Yes,” Roarke replied dryly, “Very well. If you’ll come with me?” He led her down the winding stair to the ruins below, saying, “Your meals will be delivered to your door, in keeping with the manner of Camelot in its prime. You have, of course, the run of the castle, save what Merlin should forbid, but do be careful, won’t you? Ah, here we are.”
They stood at a set-in wooden door with heavy metal fixtures set into a rounded wall - the base of a tower. Roarke handed her a large skeleton key with a triskelion design in the handle. “Merlin’s chambers are at the top of the stairs. Have a nice day, Ms. Dakana,” he nodded in farewell. The open door hid him from her view, but she’d
already forgotten him.
The stairway was cold, dark, wet. Marion held up the long skirts of her gown carefully, in one hand, for the other was needed to hold the damp wall. The tower was tall and she was out of breath when she arrived at a doorway hung with a shabby black velvet curtain,
tattered at the bottom edges, threads dangling from once gold embroidery. She paused, relishing the moment. Behind that curtain was Merlin, the greatest Wizard in all of Britain. Ever.
“Come in, child, come in,” a deep, impatient voice called.
“Mr. Roarke will be here shortly to start your fantasy, Mr. Talbot,” Ariel said, handing him a key. “You’ll be in a cottage...” she turned a large book around on the hotel counter and passed him a pen, “If you’ll just sign here.”
Steven leaned forward, resting his arms on the counter. “Tell me, what’s it really like, there, the Otherworld of the Faery?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Talbot, but as I understand it, your fantasy is to live the story you’re writing, so you must tell me - what’s it like?”
“Roarke can really do that? My faeryland?”
“Really, Mr. Talbot,” Roarke’s voice came from behind, “If I can get you to the Otherworld, why not your particular version of it?”
“Well, if it’s real, then there’s only one....”
Roarke smiled wryly, “Mr. Talbot, this is Fantasy Island. I see Ariel’s given you your key?” he looked at her.
“Cal’s already taken his bags ahead,” she confirmed.
As Roarke walked with Steve Talbot, he said conversationally, “You realize of course, that this is quite real, including all the ‘nasties’ you’ve created.”
Steve nodded vaguely, blinking as the trees turned from palms to oaks and pines. The cottage they were rapidly approaching was small with a steep thatched roof , leaded windows. “Th-th-this looks like-”
“Well, you didn’t expect to find faeries in the tropics, did you?”
He held up the key Ariel had given him. It was no longer an ordinary key but had grown into a large skeleton key, decorated with three spirals. It fit the large lock on the cottage perfectly.
“Inside, you’ll find all that you’ll need - a sword, and nails of iron; a stout quarter-staff, tipped with iron; a well-stocked larder of food, and labeled jars of herbals. Here,” Roarke looked at the blue sky, “it is Beltane eve, tonight is the night of the Wild Hunt. It
will pass by where we stand now, at some point. Be ready, Mr. Talbot.”
“I will,” his voice was vague and he never realized that Roarke was not there to hear him.
Back at the hotel, Roarke nodded to Ariel. “Mr. Talbot is all yours.”
She grinned, then waved towards the patio. “Mr. O’Connor is over there...”
“Ah, yes,” he said, as if he’d forgotten, “And it’s Father O’Connor, my dear.”
Ariel chuckled softly, “He’s not my father.”
Roarke grinned at her, “We’ll try to keep your pagan soul a secret for now, shall we? I just remembered - I need to take a walk on the beach. A Summoning is in order.”
“A Summoning? Not-?” she pointed down.
“Oh no, of course not. Father O’Connor is going to get exactly what he wants.”
"Smiles, everyone."
Roarke walked down the beach with a light step. It had been fifty-two years since he’d seen Frost of Salonica, she was due for a visit, so he didn’t feel guilty about Summoning her.
A Guardian of some sort, she’d come around every fifty years or so since he’d been Master of the Island, ostensibly to ensure that in the process of granting fantasies, Roarke didn’t overstep some boundary of space/time. Her first visit, they had disliked one another intensely. On her third, they’d become lovers of a sort. ‘Lovers’ didn’t seem an appropriate name for two people who saw each other one or two days every half-century.
She had confessed eventually that her first visit was inspired by the Island’s existence - it was like a reverse nexus, she said, and Roarke had no idea what it meant. She was a time-travelling alien from outer space, and he never asked her to explain things like ‘reverse nexus’ or ‘Guardian’, having learned that such questions garnered replies like, ‘I can’t tell you that’ and ‘it’s too difficult to explain’.
She would be angry when she found out why he Summoned her. He would save that. Besides, he had a personal reason for calling her. Ariel seemed to be much on his mind of late; Frost was just the woman to drive all thoughts of anyone else from his head.
Marion Dakana twitched back the curtain, and stepped hesitantly into a sunny room, shimmery with dust motes. She deferred looking at the man silhouetted by the light in favor of examining the other interesting things within - an ancient looking telescope, a thickly barred cage hanging from the ceiling, containing a giant egg, a huge table against one wall covered with papers, a large mortar and pestle, and lined with jars labeled in Latin. A shelf above it contained a rainbow row of flasks. Finally she dared to look at Merlin himself. And she gasped.
He had moved out of the sun’s rays and she could see him clearly. “What are you staring at, girl? Have I grown a third eye?”
“You-you’re....I expected someone...older,” Marion stammered.
He flicked open a sealed letter, and read it, “Hmm, Marion, is it? Roarke sent you, did he? I don’t trust him. Do you?”
“Trust Mr. Roarke? Well, yes, I suppose I do.”
“I don’t. Be yourself, he says, and sends his lackey to say it again. I was the greatest wizard in all of Britain, and he treats me like this.” He stopped his rant to stare at her, his eyes taking in every detail of her appearance. “Let’s get one thing straight right from the beginning. Wizardry is eight parts showmanship and two parts skill. You want to be a wizard, you learn the showmanship first, because that’s your reputation, your livlihood.” He gave another intense stare and she realized his eyes were emerald green. He really
was a striking man. “Did he give you that gown?”
Marion looked down at herself, startled, “Why, yes. A closet full of them.”
“He hates me, I know it,” the greatest wizard of all Britain muttered turning away.
“Excuse me, but ... you don’t seem anxious to take me on.” She was anxious, she didn’t want him to not want her....
Merlin turned back to look at her again and said, “My last apprentice locked me into an Oak tree, and I ended up here. You’ll forgive me if I’m not anxious to repeat the experiment.”
His tone brooked no further inquiry, but Marion was intensely curious - what had the relationship between Merlin and Niniane really been? Why did she turn on him in the end?
Steve Talbot had packed all that he thought he might need, then repacked, again and again, leaving more and more behind as he realized he would actually have to carry it. It was a lot heavier than he’d thought.
Sleeping blanket, cookpot, slingshot. So far so good. Knife. What about a fire? There were no matches, although the cottage had candles and oil lamps. Tinderbox. That’s what he’d written. Now, what the hell did a tinderbox look like and how did you use it?
He strode toward the fireplace to look for it, and almost tripped on the sword belted around his waist. He touched it fondly. It was beautiful, the first real sword he’d ever seen. He found the tinderbox, and after several attempts, lit a few candles. It was harder than it looked.
Finally, bag packed, sword on, staff in hand, he was ready.
The unearthly horn blasted through his slumber and he jumped up, scarce able to believe it was really the Wild Hunt. The Wild Hunt!
Steve Talbot ran outside, and just missed being trampled by a white stag. Hot on its heels were hounds of a size he’d never seen, eyes glowing red, with howls that brought shivers to his spine. He backed up slowly. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, what did a cab driver know, after all? Then he saw her. Seated side-saddle on a white horse in a blue gown and matching cloak, riding fast but still seeming at her leisure. Her hair was fire, her eyes were icy, sea-water green. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, more beautiful than he’d imagined. And she was about to ride right by.
“Lady, wait!”
The white steed halted and she looked disbelievingly at him. “Who dares cry ‘wait’ to the Wild Hunt?”
“I am-” he stopped. Dafydd Ravenfeather, the name of his character sounded too...fake. He couldn’t possible call himself that! Besides, he wasn’t exactly sure how to say Dafydd....
“Don’t you know who you are?”
“Steven, my lady,” and he bowed, the pommel of the sword driving into his belly as he’d forgotten it. He hoped she hadn’t noticed his grunt of pain.
“And why shouldn’t I set my hounds on you, Steven? The stag,” her eyes glittered and she licked her lips, “he is mine, sooner or late, it is inevitable. But the hounds can always use more meat in their diet. Give me a reason to spare your life, or forfeit it.”
He struggled to remember his speech. “Great Lady, I am a lowly human, unworthy of your slightest regard. But I offer you my service...”
The auburn-haired beauty laughed, “What sort of service could you possibly be to me?”
“I offer you my sword. I would be your champion.” Steve said the words, the words he’d written, and realized with horror that he had no idea how to use the sword he was offering, had no fighting skills at all. And he heard the echo of Roarke’s voice, “this is quite real, including the ‘nasties’ you created.”
“Now you look as a human ought when he’s seen the Wild Hunt.”
He dropped awkwardly to his knees. “Forgive me, my lady. I am possessed. I have no sword skill, I should not have spoken.”
“That’s true enough. Take him,” she called to those who rode behind her, “he might be entertaining for a night or two.”
For the first time he noticed the Lady’s court. None were plain or ordinary. They were either of great beauty or great ugliness, but no in-between. He forced himself to remember that these were the ‘good’ guys. Or so he’d written.
He was about five and a half feet tall, and so much younger than she’d imagined, than she’d - well, younger than popular literature had suggested. No more than 45, if that. His raven-black hair had a
wide, startlingly white streak from forelock to, well, probably to the nape. Instead of the silver-starred robe she’d more than half expected, he wore a deep blue tunic over black leggings and brown, knee-high leather boots.
Out of thin air appeared not one as he’d expected, but three people, all just a few inches above ground, and they fell together in an ungainly heap upon the beach. He had never Summoned Frost before, but she’d always come to the Island alone. With an inward sigh, he supposed that there wouldn’t be any more wild nights. Pity.
Roarke strode forward and offered the Lady his hand, noting her companions were indeed both male, he hesitated only fractionally before pulling her into his embrace and kissing her thoroughly. It was important to maintain tradition.
When he finished saying hello, the two men had brushed the sand off each other, and were standing patiently, Mona Lisa smiles on their faces. Of the same height and build, one had black hair, the other white as Frost’s own. Both were dressed in differing combinations of black and white.
When he saw that his casual claiming of the Lady bothered neither of them, he asked, her, one arm still around her waist, “Are you going to introduce your friends?”
She stepped out of his embrace, “Rhys, Mi’k, this is Mr. Roarke, master of this lovely island, and he who diverted us from our destination. Mr. Roarke, my husbands, Rhys and Mi’kala.”
“Husbands?” Roarke’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Husbands,” he repeated thoughtfully, then laughed. “Welcome to Fantasy Island,” he bowed, “You simply must join me for dinner.”
They had taken his sword, his staff and his pack. He sat, hands tied behind his back, in front of a faery lord on a horse that was not quite a horse. This was not exactly as he’d planned - he had thought he would be the hero, had thought that somehow the knowledge of swordfighting would have been magically implanted in his brain, and his admittedly underworked muscles. Still, to be taken alive by the Hunt was a positive outcome, once he’d realized that reality was going to have it’s way with him, regardless.
He tried to keep the auburn haired beauty who could only be his Mabh in sight but it was hard.
“The Stag!”
A horn sounded, an ululation to chill the very soul. And her voice rang out: “He’s mine. Take the prisoner back to the hill and prepare for the feast.”
Marion sighed deeply and rubbed at her nose with green-stained fingers. She had just finished explaining her eyeglasses to Merlin, who seemed to think them a marvel of wizardry.
He’d been showing her how to make flash powders, and other smelly, caustic formulas for spectacular pyrotechnic effects. It was very interesting, but more what she’d call ‘alchemy’ than wizardry. She accepted that real wizards couldn’t wrinkle their noses or wave a great staff and rearrange reality. But surely there was more to ancient magic than this?
“Now this, my dear...are you paying attention?”
“Yes, Merlin.” She tried to keep her voice neutral.
“This is the invisibility formula.”
Her interest perked, then her nose wrinkled. It smelled awful. “Does it make you invisible or just drive everyone in smelling distance away?” she said before she could help it.
He sighed like a man much put upon. “It works. Has to do with reflection or refraction or some silly notion of light. A demonstration?” She nodded. “Take off your clothes...”
“Not without dinner and a drink,” she said blandly.
He looked at her, startled, then considered their recent exchange. His expression changed again as he looked her up and down. “The terms are acceptable,” he said, putting the jar down.
2.one
“When the wind comes from the South,
Love will kiss thee on the mouth.”
“Good morning, Ariel. You look lovely, as always.”
She smiled and nodded gracefully, pleased with the compliment. She sat down at the
table and he poured her a cup of tea, which she accepted gratefully.
“How is Mr. Talbot this morning?” Roarke asked sardonically.
Ariel’s grin was more mischievous. “Mr. Talbot may consider himself a fantasy writer,
but he’s really a romantic. He fancies himself in love with me. Or with Mabh, I should
say. He seems to think she’ll protect him.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Exactly,” she agreed in satisfaction.
“You realize that what he really wants is Mabh? All the rest...”
“Of course. Don’t worry, Roarke, I’ve got everything under control.” She had
practically begged to be allowed to handle this one all on her own. She wanted to show
him that she was a capable woman in her own right. She did not understand the
uneasiness that had flashed in his eyes when she spoke of becoming an equal partner,
handling fantasies on her own. She knew he found her attractive in both body and mind.
She finished her tea and smiled warmly at him, “Time is different in the Otherworld. I’m
afraid I’ve got to hurry back and give him a chance to prove himself.” Impulsively, she
kissed him on the cheek before turning into the flame-haired ruler of Stephen Talbot’s
Faery land.
When she was gone, Roarke touched his cheek reflectively. Perhaps Ariel had been
playing too many romantic roles lately. Which did not explain the sudden lightness of
his mood. Most odd.
Marion awoke in a beam of soft sunlight, motes dancing and sparkling like gold dust.
She grew aware of Merlin’s intense gaze upon her and she turned to him. This close she
could see him well, but she wondered vaguely where her glasses had gone.
“This was probably a bad idea,” he said softly.
Startled she asked, “Why?”
He lay back, pulling her close to him, stroking her soft auburn hair down, over her
shoulders. “Because you’re pretty; and intelligent. Because I like you. Because, in spite
of everything I’ve told you, you’re still waiting for me to be someone else.”
She raised her face to him, to protest, and he silenced her with a gentle kiss.
“You are a librarian, yes? A keeper of shelf upon shelf of books, in a world where
practically everyone can read and write. When I was in the world, power was obtained in
three ways - by money, by force of arms, and by knowledge.
“Knowledge was the most powerful of the three, for a common man of low descent
could, with will and cunning, grow to walk among kings. As I did. Books were rare, and
rarer still the one who could read them.
“And when the word of mouth tales were finally recorded, long after the deeds had been
done, they recorded the stories told by those without knowledge. And what is so strange
is that you, who come from a world so rich in knowledge, should yearn for ignorance.”
Marion pulled herself away from him indignantly, “I don’t seek ignorance! I seek
knowledge!”
Merlin tugged her back into his embrace. “Lets argue about it later,” he murmured.
An amazing banquet had been spread and consumed in that clearing in the forest. Steve had eaten well, his bonds released - they must have known he couldn’t get away. Or that if he tried, something would stop him beyond the bounds of the firelight. “Bring me the prisoner!” the Queen demanded imperiously.
He was dragged to stand before the Queen, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head.
“Oh, stand up, silly human, stand up,” the fae beauty said impatiently, “I’m certain of your regret, and desire to beg my forgiveness, and all that. I have a question.” She took hold of his chin and stared into his eyes, “Why do you love me?”
“What?” He was taken completely by surprise. “What makes you think I do?”
“Come now, you dared stop the Wild Hunt on Beltaine Eve, of all times, because of me. You recognized me, somehow, though I’ve never seen *you* before. Now why else would a mortal human soul dare such extremes but for love?”
“You have a point,” he said thoughtfully, thinking of his story. But in the story Dafydd sought to be the Faery Queen’s champion. But why? Because Steve Talbot had fantasies about a red-haired, green-eyed woman?
“And your answer?” she prompted.
“I created you,” he said.
She laughed incredulously, and the Court within earshot also laughed.
“I’m a writer, you see. And I created all of this. Sort of.”
Wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, Queen Mabh said, “So, creator of all you survey, what comes next?”
He frowned, but still decided that honesty was the best policy. He was getting an idea, now if only he could get his hands on some paper and a pen... “A riddle contest, I think.”
“Riddles? We are supposed to bargain for your life over riddles?”
Her derisive tone pulled him firmly back to the here and now. “My life? My lady, I want you, not my freedom.”
Mabh looked completely speechless. “Well. Well. There’s honesty in that. Let me educate you in a few things, creator. We have lived here always. There’s not a riddle we haven’t heard. We can do your contest but you’ll lose.”
He stared into her sea-green eyes. “My lady, I will do whatever you ask of me, just to have you for one night.”
She returned his stare, taken aback by his intensity. “Why?” she asked again.
“Your face and form have filled my dreams, haunted my days and tortured my nights. I wove this fantasy around you, the beautiful, the unattainable, that I might touch you at least once before I die.”
She paused, “Hmm. A little on the purple side, but not bad.”
He sensed this was a back-handed compliment. This close to her, he could barely resist, and one hand moved to her face, stopping before he actually touched her. “Please, my lady. Tell me what to do,” he said softly, quietly amazed at how much more confidence he had as himself, than when he’d been trying to be someone else.
She took his hand, placed in on the creamy skin below her throat. “This you must do. While we have dallied here this night, the Wheel has turned half-way around and now the Wild Hunt must ride again. We call together the dead, and invite them into the mortal realm for one night, to renew ties with loved ones, to exact revenge, to remember. But more things than Human or Fae walk this Samhain eve.” She kissed him twice, once upon the forehead, and once on the lips. “That is my mark upon you, that the dead will not bother you. The rest you must survive by your wits. You have the Key. Find it, use it, and we will meet again, in a place that is not a place, and a time that is not a time...”
She vanished. During the brief, but enchanting time of her speech, the entire Court had packed up and disappeared. He stood in the dark, alone, and felt the cold wind that harkened winter.
Father Michael O’Connor had slept badly, a night filled with dark dreams - endless rows of sick, dying people holding out hands to him, as if he could somehow save them. The diocese had sent him away on vacation, and the Lord knew he needed it. But a flashy resort seemed wrong - that he should be so comfortable while millions world-wide suffered direly. So he had put it off until a flyer had lured him here. He wanted to see, if only for a few days, a world without hunger, disease, and poverty. And deep in his heart of hearts, he wanted to stay there.
So great was his wish, he did not ask himself whether the fantasies granted here were from the Devil or God. Although he suspected the former.
Mr. Roarke met him midmorning in the sunroom off the lobby. “Father O’Connor.”
“Mr. Roarke. When will my fantasy begin? Surely this isn’t it?”
“Your fantasy is a bit more complicated, Father. There are a limited number of places in the Universe where what you seek exists. I’ve had to call in a specialist.”
Father Michael waited. He was good at it.
“You understand that if you go, you won’t be able to come back?” Roarke spoke almost hesitantly, but with a certain smugness.
Heaven, he must be speaking of Heaven. To get to Heaven, he knew, you had to die. And death was a journey from which you didn’t return. Roarke expected him to back out. “If that’s the only way, so be it. I’m so tired, Mr. Roarke, so tired.” He rubbed his eyes, tired physically from his rough night.
“See that woman over there?” Roarke pointed through the glass walls to the garden, where a pale woman dressed in a long flowing blue-grey gown had just sat upon a bench. “She is the key. If you have any questions, just ask.”
She looked rather ordinary, but, “Is she an angel?”
“She can be.”
Michael turned at the soft reply that did not seem to be directed at him. Roarke’s usual cynical expression had been replaced by a look of nostalgia. It vanished quickly. “No, she’s not an angel in the sense you mean. She is from a place called Salonica, which means Sanctuary.”
Michael was startled, “Not Heaven?”
“We’re not in the habit of killing our guests, Father O’Connor,” Roarke replied blandly.
The night was cold and the wind played eerie music among the bare tree branches that, only hours ago, it seemed to Steven, had been freshly spring-green.
He was in possession of all his things, and he quickly went through it all, tossing aside the sword as useless. All the weapons were useless, except perhaps the staff. As a cab driver in New York, he knew how to use a gun, but since he didn’t have one, that knowledge was useless.
Survive by your wits, she’d said, you have the key. And he suspected that he knew what the key was - writing. If he as a writer had created this world, then he, by writing, could alter it, and maybe save his butt long enough to know Mabh in the Biblical sense.
A spine-chilling howl rent the air, close, as he scrambled through his belongings looking for something, anything, to write on and with. Finally he found something - the food bundle he’d packed and not eaten was wrapped in a thick, pale-colored cloth. That would do for paper.
He looked around, hoping to find some charred remains of the faery fire that could suffice as a writing medium. But the knoll he stood on was not in the realms of the fae, and no fire had ever burned here.
Steven grabbed up the cloth and the tinder box and tried to find a place of relative safety. He dashed around the knoll and nearly fell off a short drop. He eased his way down and realized it was a mound entrance of some sort, cave-like. Still open to the creatures of destruction running with the night, but a place to shelter a fire, long enough to make charcoal, he hoped.
He never saw the door behind him, until it was too late.
“Merlin,” she asked shyly, “What really happened before, you know, with-” she couldn’t quite say the name, “With your last apprentice.”
He looked up from the salve he was preparing, “Are you making careful notes?”
“Yes.” She sighed. “She was like you, in a way. Only she started out ignorant and resisted becoming knowledgeable. You know, and want to believe the illusions.” He shook his head, sadly. “I thought she loved me. I was wrong.”
A long silence followed, until Marion finally ventured, “Maybe she thought so, too.”
When Merlin looked at her again, she saw, not so much pain as fear. “You still do not understand, do you? And now I’m half afraid to tell you, that you might-” he stopped and looked away. After a long moment of staring down into the mortar before him, he picked up the pestle and spoke while he worked. “Do you know where I spend most of my time here on this island? Over on the other side, there is another castle. Unlike this crumbling one, it is whole and of a colour to match my eyes. It is my doom to play wizards in castles. I am Oz the great and terrible, the man behind the curtain. Ironic, isn’t it?”
Marion stared in shock, not quite understanding.
“It’s smoke and mirrors, dear Marion. It was always smoke and mirrors.” His voice was bitter, “The greatest wizard of all Britain. And it was true. Knowing how to use smoke and mirrors was a power then, a power over men’s minds. Now it’s something to be ashamed of.”
Marion Dakana
Roarke walked into the dining room purposefully. He saw Frost sitting alone and went to join her. “I’m sorry we haven’t had much of a chance to catch up. How did you come to acquire not one but two husbands?”
She grinned, and shook a finger at him, “Now, don’t try to distract me this time, Roarke. You brought us here. Why?”
“I confess. And I’ll tell you why, by and by. So while we wait for that glorious time, why don’t you tell me?”
After a pause, in which she visibly decided he wouldn’t be budged, she told him. She had a knack for story-telling, although he could tell this was the ‘Reader’s Digest’ version. As she finished, he shook his head in wonder. “And you’re here on your anniversary, you say?”
“Well, ‘here’ wasn’t exactly the destination we had in mind,” Frost said pointedly.
Then her husbands came into the dining room. There was no mistaking the sudden light in her eyes. However odd it might seem to him, that she loved them both greatly was perfectly evident to anyone. They both enwrapped her, effectively hiding her for long moments as each greeted her with a deep, intense kiss. All three sat down again, with him.
“I’ve never seen a marriage quite like yours,” he remarked to them all.
“A triad?” Rhys of the white hair asked.
“A working triad. You are all obviously very happy. And you’ve been together how many years?”
“Ten. More or less," Rhys replied.
“Ten,” Mi’kala confirmed, “The more or less doesn’t add up to a full year,” he told Rhys, then turned to Roarke, “The success of our marriage rests with our Lady, who manages to ensure that everybody gets what they want.”
“Indeed?”
He was interupted by the arrival of Michael O’Connor. Right on time. “Mr. Roarke?”
“Father Michael. Do sit down, won’t you?” Roarke noticed a certain gleam in Frost’s eye and glared warningly at her.
“If it’s not an imposition...” he said, glancing at the other three, now on their best behaviour.
“Not at all,” Rhys said graciously, sending a questioning look to Frost.
“This is the Lady Frost of Salonica, and these are...” Roarke trailed off.
“Rhys dar Treian,” said Rhys, “and my brother, Mi’kala.”
“Also of Salonica,” Roarke added.
“Salonica,” Father O’Connor said, sitting down. “Roarke tells me that’s another word for Sanctuary.”
“For some, yes,” Frost replied guardedly, looking daggers at Roarke.
“What sort of charitable works does ‘Salonica’ engage in?”
Frost considered, her head tilting to the side, “If I understand you correctly, sir, none.”
“None. No soup kitchens? No shelters? No food bank, no drop-in centers?” At her head-shake, he asked, “Why not?”
“There is no need.”
“Really? I find that difficult to believe.”
“Then do not believe,” she said irritably. “Roarke? Your purpose?”
“Father O’Connor’s fantasy is to live in a world with no poverty or hunger.”
Frost’s expression matched her name, “No. First, one can only come to Salonica by asking, even Rhys and Mi’kala had to ask. Second, Sanctuary is out of Time - once there, that’s it. No turning back. Third, one must swear to do as one wants so long as none are harmed. We do not grant ‘fantasies’.”
“I don’t believe Father Michael intended to return to the real world.”
The man in question was staring in open disbelief. “Your world truly has no hunger or poverty?”
“Truly,” Mi’kala said absently, staring at Roarke. “Salonica is a real world.”
Roarke waved dismissively, his attention on the disillusioned priest. “You’ve heard the terms, Father. But Frost, you must also tell him about the, hmm, state religion,” he grinned wryly.
“State religion?”
“There is no state religion as such. But there is a popular religious expression of the holidays.”
“It is not mandatory to participate or belong or believe?”
“No, absolutely not.” Frost spoke emphatically, again glaring at Roarke.
“Ask what you will, Father O’Connor,” encouraged Roarke with a laconic wave.
“My lady, I request Sanctuary. I swear to do what pleases me, so long as it harms none.”
A shimmer filled the air. “You have sworn Oath, Mr. O’Connor. You cannot break it now. Are you quite certain you want to go? If you should dislike it, there’s no turning back, only learning to live with it.”
“I am certain, my lady.”
“So be it.” The air shimmered again. She sighed, “Well, my loves, so much for our anniversary. Next time we can secure some vacation time I’ll aim us for a nice spot, perhaps in the Paleozoic,” she paused. “Mr. O’Connor. Would the morrow be soon enough to be away? It is our anniversary and we’ve had but one night...”
He coloured slightly and nodded assent.
As the three walked away, the priest asked Roarke, “She is married to one of them?”
“Oh, no, Father O’Connor,” Roarke replied, relishing the moment, “She is married to both of them.”
Merlin had disappeared after she’d shrieked, “WHAT?!” leaving Marion Dakana a lot of time to think.
At first she’d been angry as hell, without even knowing why. She felt cheated, somehow, as though she’d been owed some real magic. Roarke had magic, didn’t he? How else did he get the ruins of Camelot on this island?
But being alone had given her time to think. She hadn’t asked for real magic, had she? She’d asked to study with Merlin. So she couldn’t be angry at Roarke. He’d even told her that the real Merlin was not as legends portrayed. He had neglected to mention that Merlin ‘played’ at being a wizard on Fantasy Island.
So she was mad at Merlin. But more thinking made her realize that one of the first things he’d told her was that wizardry was mostly showmanship. He had not decieved her, she had deceived herself. He as much told her so - you yearn for the illusion. Not the illusion of magic, the illusion of Merlin.
That made her angry at herself. For being a fool, to ignore every evidence in favor of illusion, to ignore the real magic in front of her - love. For hurting him. Again.
Roarke found Merlin sitting among the ruins of Camelot, looking glum. “Having a rough day?”
“Roarke. Why am I still here? Your term is almost done and I think I shall be the only dead man to stay here through three rulers.”
“But Merlin, this is the first chance at redemption that you haven’t rejected.”
Merlin looked up, surprised. “It is?”
“Yes, of course. You’ve been so afraid, you’ve pushed everyone away. How did you expect to gain redemption?” Roarke was matter-of-fact, and sat down beside the disheartened wizard.
“Another woman that, that I care about, hates me. At least this one can’t kill me. Does that redeem me? Being able to hurt all over again?”
“Not of itself,” Roarke said mysteriously, and vanished.
Consciousness was slow returning to Steve Talbot. He could hear voices, but opening his eyes was out of the question.
“I told him he had the key,” he heard Mabh say irritably, “He was right in front of the damned door, how obvious did I have to be?”
“You did just fine,” was that Roarke? “He just wasn’t expecting you to be so literal.”
“If he was expecting it, it wouldn’t have been a challenge, would it? Humans.” That last was uttered with disgust.
“I told you it was harder than it looks.” It was Roarke. That was reassuring. It suggested he was alive. The key, the door. There had been a door, he’d seen it just before...before what? And he had had the key, the triple spiral key Ariel had given him. Too late, alas too late. The darkness overtook him.
Ariel, as Mabh, stood with Roarke in the infirmary, watching over Steven Talbot. She felt angry at him - for not proceeding according to plan. And angry at herself for not foreseeing his actions. Humans, she thought again, startled to find herself thinking for the first time, of them and us.
“The guests have a way of doing what they will, no matter what. It is human nature - a wiry, stubborn streak that will not conform to the best laid plans.” Roarke probably meant this to be reassuring.
Ariel was not reassured. She had so wanted to succeed at this, and she’d nearly gotten her assignment killed. She stopped berating herself suddenly. He had survived, hadn’t he? Not exactly by his wits, but she could still ensure he got what he wanted. And she suddenly knew just how to do it. She hadn’t completely failed. Yet.
Steven Talbot
3.one
“Where the rippling waters go
Cast a stone and truth you’ll know”
Roarke stood in his office in front of the mirror, checking his tie before opening the doors to the ruckus he’d created. This was his favorite part, where everyone was riled and blaming him for giving them what they asked for. He grinned at his reflection. “Showtime,” he whispered, darkly ironic.
“Harry? Who’s first?”
First was Michael O’Connor. Roarke was very happy to see him. Father O’Connor was not happy. “You don’t have to go, Father O’Connor.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘there are few places in the Universe’. Why this place, Roarke?”
“It was easiest,” Roarke answered mildly, “Frost is an old...friend.” He paused deliberately, accepting any opening.
“I’m a priest, Roarke, not a prude. Your liasons are none of my concern. So why?”
“To demonstrate to you some errors in your thinking. Believing that what you seek can only exist in the Afterlife, for instance. Your incorrect suppositions of what causes poverty and famine. You consider the Lady’s marriage to be unnatural?”
“It does seem to go against the laws of man and God.”
“But she is not human, and not subject to the laws of men. What laws of God apply to them, I cetainly am not in a position to say. But if you go, if you go, you may find that God manifests quite differently there.” Roarke repeated laconically, “If you go.”
“Next”
Harry, taking on Ariel’s duties without question, showed in Marion Dakana. She was a remarkable young woman who had survived her fantasy quite well, and stood before Roarke without being angry at him. Very impressive.
“Ms. Dakana. Your fantasy is progressing well, I trust?”
She grinned self-deprecatingly and admitted, “I got what I asked for. I have to give you that. Now,” she leaned forward, “I want to ask for a little more...”
Roarke was very pleased with Marion Dakana’s request, it was just what he’d been hoping to hear. Now, he ought to see how Ariel was doing with Mr. Talbot - her solution to the problem was unique.
In the infirmary, Steven Talbot dreamed...in a place that is not a place, in a time that is not a time...we shall meet, know, and remember...
Where are we, he asked, but could hear nothing.
You already know. She smiled warmly, You survived. Not exactly by wit...
We humans have an uncanny abiltiy to overlook the obvious, he said, walking, or at any rate, moving, towards her. She seemed very familiar, in a context outside of his fantasy. Do I know you?
She looked startled at first, then smile again. It is the nature of dreams that truth is revealed. But what truth? What do you want?
He wanted her, and it did not matter that this was a dream, it seemed right. She was the beautiful, unattainable, perfect woman. La belle dame sans merci.
Tell me.
You are a romantic, she said, and pulled him into her elfin grot and wept and sighed full sore...
Ariel?! Roarke blew gently on his tea, and smiled with satisfaction.
The sunlight seemed diffused, soft, golden, as much in the grasses and flowers of the meadow as in the sky. Mabh stood, dressed in a gown of the same sea-green as her eyes, surounded by a halo of light, that seemed to come from the fiery blaze of her hair. Butterflies danced around her, around the flowers, around him, he realized.
“I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery’s child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
“She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
With kisses four.
“And there she lulléd me asleep,
And there I dreamed - ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dreamed
On the cold hill’s side.
“And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake
And no birds sing.”
“What’s the deal, Harry? What did you do to piss Roarke off?” Cal was only half interested, watching the television instead of his room-mate’s face.
“What makes you think he’s angry at me?”
“Well, he’s got you running around all over the place, doin’ all Ariel’s work.”
“Yes,” Harry replied absently, raising an eyebrow at the large stack of paperwork sitting in his ‘in’ box.
“Are you listening to me?” Cal leaned his head back, not quite taking his eyes from the TV.
“Yes, Cal, it’s impossible not to.”
There was a knock at the door, and Harry sighed quietly. “Come in,” he called. It was Ariel.
“Hey, babe, come to see how the other half lives, eh?” Cal smirked, teasing.
“Ri-iiight,” she said, then looked at Harry. “Is that the requisitions or expenditures?”
“Both, someone left the window wide open all day, scattering papers everywhere; I haven’t had a chance to sort them all, so I’ve been sorting them as I go.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Cal interjected.
“Let me help.” She gestured and the pile rose up and sorted itself into two piles, which sank back down to the desk. “Now. Do you want expenditures or requisitions?”
Harry, surprised, stammered: “Uh, expenditures.”
Ariel grinned and grabbed up the other pile. “Great. See you later, boys.”
The two men stared at each other. “Did she just take half your work? Are you being audited?”
“Why would Roarke audit me? He knows I keep meticulous records. Most of the time,” he added, giving Cal a significant look.
Cal looked unrepentant. “You think he knows everything even without his rat ratting on us?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you never wanna talk about getting off this rock anymore?”
“Not exactly, Cal,” Harry’s voice was patient. “I’m trying to earn my way off.”
Cal shut the television off, unable to quite believe what he was hearing. “So you’re just gonna be Roarke’s yes-man, do whatever Roarke wants.”
“As opposed to doing whatever you want? At least I have some kind of guarantee with Roarke that I will, eventually, leave. Can you give me that?”
“Aw, c’mon,” Cal wheedled, “We’re in this together, you know.”
“I know, but what we make of it, well, that seems to be up to each of us individually.”
“So you’re gonna work your way up and leave me here at the bottom?”
“You could work, too, you know.”
Cal snorted and turned back to the television.
Harry wondered if Cal would ever figure out that he worked harder at evading work than any task Roarke had ever set him.
Father Michael was trying to find one of the Salonica trio, and eventually he succeded in finding Rhys, the tall white-haired gentleman. “Mr., uh...”
“ ‘Rhys’ will do. You have questions?”
“Yes, I do. Roarke said that God manifests differently in your world. What does that mean?”
Rhys frowned, “I am not the best person to answer that, as I do not know how he manifests in your world.”
“And He approves of your...marriage?
Rhys looked startled, “We never thought to ask in advance, but he, uh, was present at the ceremony...” Understanding dawned in alien blue eyes, “You do not approve?”
Michael O’Connor sighed. “A few hours ago, I would have said unequivacally that it was wrong. Now I’m not so sure. Human laws do not apply, Roarke says. God manifests differently. It seems wrong and unnatural to me, but I am a product of my culture.”
Rhys gave him a brief stare from pale blue eyes before saying softly, “That’s a convenient excuse. I recommend you open your mind before accompanying us home. Salonica is not a human world. You cannot apply your standards.”
O’Connor felt incredibly foolish. Because he had assumed it was a human world. “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” he quoted softly.
Rhys smiled briefly, “The universe is not only stranger than we imagine, it is stranger than we can imagine.”
“I think, I think..." the priest sighed deeply, and continued, "I think I need to go somewhere and think.”
Mi’kala emerged from the shadows. “Was I ever like that?”
“No, but then, you were a telepath who’s best friend was a werewolf. It makes a difference.”
“Harry? Um, could you tell me which way to the Emerald City?”
Harry, only mildly surprised, pointed Ms. Dakana in the proper direction. Some fantasies had the weirdest twists.
“There you are.” Marion’s legs ached from the long walk, she’d wanted to move quickly, especially when she noticed the path beneath her feet was yellow brick...
Merlin turned away from comtemplating the Emerald palace. “Why did you come here? To make fun of the fool?”
She stopped, surprised. “You? or me? I think I’ve been the foolish one. Will you come back with me to Camelot?”
It was the wizard’s turn to look surprised, even hopeful, “You...want me to come back?”
Marion grinned shyly and pushed her glasses up. “Yeah. I want to know who you really are.”
She learned a lot on the return walk, a much slower, more leisurely journey, with pleasant diversions along the way. When the ruins of Camelot came into view, the shattered towers were painted with the scarlet of sunset, and they were both famished. And Marion was absolutely certain of what she wanted.
Steven Talbot regained consciousness in a dim room. “How are you feeling?” a low feminine voice asked.
“Ariel?”
A lamp was switched on and he saw her, the shapely brunette who had checked him in. “How-? What-? I mean, what happened?” He sat up slowly.
“That thing - how did you ever conceive such a horrible creature, anyway? Well, it seems your writing idea worked, at least partially. You lived.”
Nothing seemed broken, he didn’t even seem bruised. Of course not, it hadn’t been that kind of creature. What had he been thinking when he created that monstrosity? “I mean, you. You were Mabh? How is that possible?”
Ariel allowed him to witness the shape-shift to Mabh and back. “It’s a gift. My dad’s a Titan.”
“Uh huh,” he stared.
“You wanted her to be insubstantial, unobtainable. And so...” she shrugged.
He got out of the bed shakily and took her hand. “You’re right. Absolutely right.” He kissed her hand and released it. “Thank you.”
“Ariel, my dear. Excellent job on Mr. Talbot’s fantasy,” Roarke’s praise was strained. “Thanks, I think. Why don’t you want me to do this?” Ariel was pensive.
Roarke looked like he wasn’t going to answer her, then he changed his mind. “Do you see the faces of Frost, Rhys and Mi’kala? They have a certain innocence to them. You have this innocence, too. And when we stood in the infirmary and you said humans in just that way, it was the first swipe at that innocence.”
He reached out and took her chin in his hand, gently. “Ariel, I don’t want to see that quality destroyed in you.”
He didn’t say but she could almost hear: As it has been in me.
She looked deep into his eyes, seeing something gentle in the blue depths, and dared not speak as he revealed more of himself in that moment than he had in all the time she’d known him.
His hand slipped gently away; the moment passed. Roarke walked away and she could only whisper in his absence, “I love you.”
~finale~
“Ever mind the Rule of Three,
What thou dost, comes back to thee.”
“Merlin,” she began idly, “if you could leave Fantasy Island, what would you do?”
The wizard opened his mouth to speak then closed it with an audible snap. He ran a hand down the white stripe in his hair and shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. I am dead, you know. I suppose if ever I leave it will be to be reborn, spun out into world again.”
Dead? She had forgotten that. But Roarke had said... “If you could come back with me, would you?”
He knelt on one knee before her, “My lady, if I could, I would follow thee to the very end of the world.”
She grinned, “Does that mean yes?”
“Yes, you silly woman, it means yes. But why do you ask this question? You know...”
“Know what, Merlin?” Mr. Roarke’s voice cut through the air, startling them both.
“Miss Marion knows I cannot leave Fantasy Island.”
Roarke sent a puzzled look from Merlin to Marion, then said decisively, “Ms. Dakana knows no such thing.” He looked at Merlin, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “You will have to change your name, I suppose.”
“I don’t know,” Marion said, getting into the spirit of the game, “New York can probably handle a man named Merlin.”
Merlin gave them both a look that suggested they had gone crazy. Marion couldn’t stand it anymore; she knelt down, to look him straight in the eye, one hand on his knee, “Say you’ll come with me, please.”
“I- yes.” He looked to Roarke, bewildered.
Roarke nodded, “Yes, Merlin, you're free. Good luck.”
“Harry.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You covered Ariel’s duties so well, I barely realized that I didn’t have to ask you to do so. Good work, Harry. I do hope there was no ulterior motive in your actions?” Roarke’s voice was deceptively mild. “No, sir,” Harry replied quietly, “Thank you.”
“Why the change of heart?”
“I plan to leave Fantasy Island. One day.”
Roarke gave him an impassive stare. “I appreciate your co-coperation, but it isn’t me who controls your fate.”
“Perhaps not. But I’d rather seek redemption under pleasant circumstances than not. If it’s all the same to you.”
“Cal does not share your...change of heart?”
“Cal would rather work hard to avoid hard work.” Harry cleared his throat to avoid cracking a smile.
“He’ll figure it out,” Roarke assured him.
In a shady corner of the garden, hidden from casual eyes, the trio from Salonica stood arm in arm in arm, waiting for Father Michael O’Connor.
“Will he come, do you think?” Mi’kala asked.
Frost grinned. “He swore an Oath, the keeping of which will sooner or later mean the breaking of his priestly vows, an he comes or stays. But I don’t think Roarke ever intended that Mr. O’Connor should leave this earthly realm, only discover a new way to think about it.”
“Then why do we wait?”
“Because neither we nor Roarke are omniscient. Mr. O’Connor has yet to choose.”
The words were no sooner out of her mouth when both men appeared, from different directions.
“Ah, Father O’Connor. I just came to see you off.” Roarke said mildly.
“Thank you, Roarke,” he turned to the trio, “But I’m afraid I won’t be going. If that’s acceptable, my lady?”
“May I ask why?” Roarke inquired, asking the question Frost had been about to pose.
He looked askance at all of them. “After speaking with you all, and dealing with my prejudices, I remembered something I’d read. A man - like myself, no doubt - cried out, ‘Oh God, there is such suffering in the world! Why don’t you do something?’ and God replied, ‘I did. I sent you.’ Running away is reneging my duty. But I tried to bear the sorrows of the whole world, when all He asks is that I help the street children in my city. ‘Think global, act local’.”
There was a long pause, then Frost said, “Guess what, gentlemen? We just got our vacation back. Roarke, you’ll pardon us for spending it elsewhere? We have a nice little place picked out, no sentient beings for a million years...” The three closed circle, Rhys and Mi’kala linking arms, and with a shimmer and a loud popping sound, they were gone.
“H-how did they do that?”
Roarke stared regretfully at the empty space. “Interdimensional teleportation. Did I mention that they were time-travelling aliens from outer space?”
Father Michael stared a long moment, then said equably, “If they’ve eliminated hunger, poverty, and war, they must be doing something right.”
“You realize your quest is fruitless.”
“Mountains must crumble, one particle of sand at a time. Thanks for the vacation, Roarke, it turns out the Bishop was right; it was just what I needed.”
Roarke sat on the hotel veranda enjoying a cup of hot tea, a glorious sunset, and Ariel’s presence. He could no longer deny he had feelings for her. The question was, what to do about it. Well, he had time enough to worry about it. Time enough.
~finis~
Don't get chocolate fingerprints
on the forms...