Island of Icarus (2 page)

The ocean tossed and tugged me mercilessly. How I came to land, I cannot remember. How many minutes or hours I tumbled like driftwood, I cannot fathom.

The next I can recall, all was silent, and dark and dry. I was cocooned in soft warmth. There was a curious feeling of
lack
, and then I realized I was absolutely still. No gentle rocking nor lively rolling of waves. Absolute stillness, and clean linens and my own breath, soft and steady.

At length I stirred. Every muscle complained, and my left leg ached madly, but I took heart that everything moved—shoulders, legs, toes, fingers, neck. My left hand slid across the mattress over the linens, fingers splaying. But my right arm… My heart sank. If it hadn’t been destroyed by the water already, the remaining salt would surely deteriorate it. My right elbow felt like a club was attached to it, and it was sore at the place where the metal met flesh. I did feel the press of the prosthetic’s harness around my upper arm. This meant that the prosthetic itself was still attached, never mind the condition it was in.

And where was I? Had this all been some nightmare?

I caught an unfamiliar floral fragrance. This certainly was not home. I began to turn in bed. My eyelids, stuck together and now unused to being open, struggled apart. Soft yellow light.

“Slowly, friend,” said a voice. Male, flat accent. American.

He only startled me into moving faster. My eyes came all the way open and I saw the owner of the voice, a pleasant-seeming gentleman with straight, honest features. He sat near the bedside, watching me. A fringe of dark blond hair framed his face as he leaned forward with his arms propped on his knees. The posture suggested he had been waiting there for some time.

I realized that under the linens I was naked. I knitted my eyebrows and struggled to find my voice. When I did, it was rusted and not at all mine. “Clothes?”

“I had to cut them from you,” he said. “You were unconscious when I pulled you from the water. I needed to inspect you for injuries. I bathed you, as well.”

A pang of embarrassment helped bring me back to myself. The memory of the trip and the storm came back to me. “There was a storm. I fell overboard.”

“You’ve been unconscious for three days. It’s truly a miracle you are alive.”

“Water,” I croaked.

He stooped where he sat and a moment later he slid his hand under my head and brought a cup to my lips. I groped for it with my good hand. As I did, I choked, and water sprayed across my benefactor and the bed. Instantly he had me up, clapping me on the back.

“You have to swallow, man!” he cried.

“I think I’ve forgotten how,” I said raggedly between coughs. When I’d calmed down, I glanced at him. “I’m terribly sorry.”

He chuckled and dabbed himself with a handkerchief. “It’s all right. Now that you’re sitting up, take this and drink it slowly. I can’t have my guest choking to death on a small glass of water after fishing him from the ocean.”

I managed to appreciate the irony and grinned wanly in reply. I did as he told me. As I finished, my eyes came to rest on my right arm, which I now realized was bandaged to the elbow. I swallowed and steeled myself. “My arm?”

A flush of excitement seemed to come over the man. He licked his lips. “I’m sorry to inform you it was badly damaged by your experience.” I closed my eyes at the news. “However if you believe you can handle a bit more of a shock right now, you can unwrap it. I think you won’t be disappointed.”

He took the cup from me and watched with anticipation as I unwrapped the muslin from my arm. As I did so, a picture show flashed through my mind. I imagined that my arm was mangled, or repaired but unsightly, or replaced with a wooden peg. My chest tightened with the same dread I’d felt when the surgeon had first revealed my mechanical arm to me more than half a year ago.

The last of the wrappings slithered from my arm, and I don’t think anything could have prepared me for what I found: sleek polished brass, a slim hand, five slender digits tipped with steel. A new arm. A new arm, better than the last.

“What do you think?” asked my host, looking anxious.

“I…” I lifted the arm and slowly flexed my new fingers. They responded to me easily and curled naturally, fluidly. “You did this?”

“Well, yes,” he said, almost sheepishly. “I took the liberty of first dismantling the original. It was some impressive engineering. I improved upon it.”

“Improved. Yes.” I lifted my hands in front of me and flipped them back and forth, wonderingly. For the first time in over three months, my arms were the same size and shape, and both were equally responsive. I found myself mesmerized by the turning of a miniature gear just below the bend of the elbow.

“How does it feel?” he asked eagerly.

“It feels wonderful.” I gripped my left hand with my right. The hand was strong, but it was a controlled strength—unlike that of the previous arm, which frequently crushed objects at random.

My host leaned toward me with obvious excitement. “Now that you’re awake, I can have you perform a battery of tests for me. Strength, flexibility, dexterity, precision, accuracy. Once properly calibrated, it should work as well as a natural arm. Well, better, actually.” Hastily, he added, “Once you are clothed and comfortable, that is.”

“Yes, please,” I said, rather gratefully. I flexed the hand again, and shook my head in wonderment. “How did you do this?”

“Join me for dinner this evening, and I will tell you all about it.” He smiled, rose, and left me alone with a clean, worn set of clothing and a basin of water.

Alone, I sat up slowly and dangled from the side of the bed, a much more difficult task than I had anticipated. Every muscle protested, and my body’s responses felt rusty. I gasped aloud from the pain and clutched my smarting ribs as the world spun and the floor threatened to heave up and meet me. I sat like that for some time, long after the dizziness had abated. I was in no hurry to discover the extent of my injuries.

Eventually, I pulled the sheet from my body, and with much trepidation, explored my trunk and limbs for signs of injury. A bulky bandage covered my left lower leg. Underneath this bandage lay the source of considerable pain. Save for that leg—and a scattering of bruises and scratches all over my body—I was remarkably whole. I wondered if the inside of my body had remained as unscathed, for I felt as if I had been trampled by a herd of cattle. Every breath pained me. A fractured rib seemed the likeliest culprit.

For some minutes, I sat and looked at my new prosthetic arm. The clockwork was largely hidden behind plates of brass and steel, making it seem somehow more whole and less vulgar. The plates had been pounded out flat and shaped with a hammer, then polished to a shine, all with obvious care and skill. It was practically a piece of art, this arm—functional art. I barely heard a sound as I curled each finger, wonderingly, one by one. I grabbed the air and made a fist, waved it in front of my face and flexed it, and touched the skin of my face with the slender, cold fingertips. Truly a marvel.

Gingerly, I donned the clothing that had been left for me. A simple shirt, one size too large, and a pair of pants that I strained forward to fold at the cuff. Both were thin and soft from age and use. The basin of water had been left on a stand against the wall several feet away. Standing to reach it was a feat in itself. I went slowly, clutching onto furniture, and splashed water over my face. Four days worth of beard rasped under my fingertips. When I felt stronger, my first task would be to beg a razor from my host and groom myself back to the image of civility.

The room was a strange combination of elegance and improvisation. The walls were of a dark wood planking, and the whole place smelled like the cabin of a ship—that peculiar, pleasant scent of wood treated by salty air. The lacquered wooden table across the room was accompanied by mismatched chairs—both upholstered—and the walls were decorated with an eclectic collection of paintings and cross-stitched pictures.

An oil lamp burned on the table, casting buttery light across the room. I spied only one window, and that was just above the bed. When I drew aside the thick curtain, I discovered that it was, in fact, the porthole from a ship. Through it, I spied a rich, green landscape that was completely unfamiliar to me. The sun hung very low on the horizon.

Laid out on a large bench were several dissected birds whose wings had been splayed open. They seemed to belong to one of the thick-billed finch species described by Darwin. Great skill and care had been taken in dissecting them. Individual wing muscles had been separated and painstakingly pinned to the board onto which the birds had been temporarily mounted. One pair of wings had been stripped of every muscle down to the bones, yet every jet-colored flight feather remained intact and spread for display. Some of the anatomy had been labeled, as if this mount was being prepared for daguerreotypy. Next to this macabre display, grouped together on the remaining bench space, was a scattering of tarnished mechanical parts. With a start, I realized that these belonged to my previous arm—in fact, they
were
my previous arm.

The low sound of birds chirping drew my attention to a gilded bird cage above the table. At first, I had thought it only decorative, but I looked toward it and discerned movement. Upon further inspection, I found two finches hopping about inside. They were common yellow finches, but had a glittering wing plumage that I had never seen before. Curiosity piqued, I took the lamp and held it up to the bars. To my surprise, the feathers of their wings were actually delicate slivers of metal foil. The entire wings were mechanical—miniature prosthetics so sophisticated that their movement seemed entirely natural. They furled, unfurled, and fluttered exactly like real wings. I noted at once that they were not steam powered, and I did not see any signs of clockwork. How, then, did they work?

Curiosity compounded upon curiosity. I set down the lamp and quietly opened the door, intent on finding answers from my mysterious host.

The living area I entered was hardly larger than the room behind me and continued the theme of makeshift, yet pleasing, decor. A dark, artfully inlaid table was the centerpiece of the room. Teetering on the floor at its farthest end were piles of books, papers, and crates, as if someone had hastily cleared the table of work. Given the nautical nature of the dwelling, I surmised that the little cabin had been built from the remains of a ship. I spied two other doors leading from this main room, each of a different size, style, and kind of wood. And tucked into one corner of the room was a cast iron stove that looked like it rather belonged in a galley, fat and black with its pipe poking haphazardly through the ceiling.

The smell of wood smoke was pungent in the air, though I spied that the stove in the corner was dark and cool. It did not remain a mystery for long, for at that moment the door across from me opened and in walked my host, carrying a long, charred spit. Two fowl were skewered on this, cooked golden and crisp. With him came a stronger smell of smoke and the mouthwatering aroma of roasted meat.

“Ah,” he said when he saw me. “You’re up! How do you feel?”

“Like a freight train ran me over,” I said, honestly, with a wry smile. I struggled to control a waterfall of saliva.

He responded with a sympathetic smile. “Are you hungry?”

“Quite,” I said, quickly and with a flood of relief, then just as quickly bit my tongue at my frankness.

He only chuckled. With a wave of his hand he bade me to take a seat, then took one of the birds to a small table near the stove and chopped it apart with quick strokes. As he plied the knife, my gaze rested on the pulse of his triceps, then traveled down to the curve of his toned calves. I mused that he must be a quick runner and fast with his hands.

We supped on the fresh fowl. Though it was unfamiliar to me, I found it quite agreeable, especially as it was the first meal I’d had in over three days. Only when I was finished did I realize that I had forgotten myself. Juices covered my hands and mouth. I looked apologetically to my host, who pleasantly pretended not to notice.

“Thank you,” I said, once I had wiped my mouth and hands. “I see that you can cook, as well as craft prosthetics. Oh! My name is Jonathan.”

“And I am Marcus. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ll admit I was beginning to worry for you. It was beginning to seem like you would never wake, so it pleases me to see you up—and with such a healthy appetite.” His smile was kind. He took a polite bite of his fowl, and then continued. “You asked how I fixed your arm. I am a mech surgeon. I received my education in Maryland and practiced there for five years. However, the clumsiness of the technology frustrated me, and so I left my practice to study experimental new technology.”

“I saw the finches,” I said.

His eyes lit up, and he continued excitedly. “Ah! I am proud of them. They are a new technology using Tessla’s wireless electricity. It’s a pity they can’t fly, though. A—Well, that’s a different subject altogether,” he said, seeming to catch himself. “Your arm is a different sort of technology. An advanced clockwork system, something I have been developing for another project of mine. The electricity would not work unless you had an independent supply of power, which is feasible, but not practical in the least bit.” He paused only a second before continuing. “I will admit you are my first human subject with this new technology. You were rather a Godsend, really. There aren’t many people—much less optimal subjects—around here. Of course, I would have asked your permission,” he added. “However, you were in no shape to answer, and the prosthetic you had needed to go, lest you lose the whole arm. It seemed a pity to leave you without a replacement. So, here you are. And there it is. I wasn’t jesting about those tests, by the way. When you are feeling up to it, I would like to test and tweak the arm. I have a feeling that what you are experiencing now is only half of what the arm is capable of.”

I reeled from this onslaught of information. “Are we in the Galapagos?”

“No. We are on a small island north of them. Is that where you were headed?”

“Yes,” I said. “I was to catalogue fauna. I’m a biologist.”

“Wonderful! Wonderful. Well, it looks like you undershot your destination. Ships pass this way every few months. You should be able to find passage aboard one. Of course, you are welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

I was struck by the sincerity of his offer. Relaxed now with a full stomach, I finally took full notice of him in the lamp light. He was of a medium height and build, compact, with sloping shoulders. The worn, loose white shirt he wore only accentuated their solid musculature. His dark blond hair was bleached to a golden hue that bespoke many hours in the sun, and it framed a high forehead and triangular jaw. The lamplight pooled in his hazel irises and made them appear almost green. Those deep-set eyes and the straight brows just above them gave him something of a brooding look, even when he smiled.

I felt a fluttering in my stomach. I had felt it before in the presence of other distinguished men, and always dismissed it as nervousness. I considered myself merely a standard specimen of the male sex, and as for intelligence, I was content with remaining a grunt of the academic world, so to speak. I was no great theorist myself, no Darwin in the making. I was simply a man with an education, a sense of curiosity, and enough grasp of the English language to communicate what I discovered. Certainly no great surgeon or mechanical engineer.

I cleared my throat. “Well, I am not sure how you learned to cook, but that was very good.”

He smiled at me as if I had made a joke. “Necessity breeds ingenuity.”

My pain, briefly forgotten in my frenzy of hunger, returned suddenly with a vengeance. Sheepishly, I excused myself.