Island of Icarus (3 page)

I awoke the next morning feeling remarkably refreshed, and found my host absent. Not wishing to abuse his trust, I sat quietly at the dining table and flipped through one of the displaced books, a well-worn volume regarding the anatomy of flight. At intervals I stepped outside to survey the landscape from the doorstep. The foliage was lush and verdant, quite unlike anything I’d ever seen. Without walking more than a foot from the door, I could already distinguish at least three different species of ferns beneath a crowding of green trees and coconut palms. A path leading from the door that disappeared around the little house. I noticed a cooking pit several yards away and recalled last night’s roasted fowl.

It was late in the morning when Marcus returned. I was sitting at the table reading a passage on the implausibility of a bee’s flight when he came through the door, flushed from the sun and heat. The blond hair was tousled and his eyes were bright, as if they had captured some of the sunlight. He shouldered a wicker bag to the ground, and I saw gnarled pieces of driftwood.

“Well, hello!” he puffed, slightly out of breath. He piled the driftwood beside the stove with quick, economic movements. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” I said. “Much better. Thank you.” I pressed a hand lightly against my ribs where they still smarted whenever I took a deep or quick breath. And there, too, was that fluttering in my stomach again, probably triggered by guilt for having been found reading a book from his personal collection. Or perhaps I was awed and overwhelmed by the elemental force with which he blew into the room, all sweat and lean muscle. It jarred my image of him as a gentleman surgeon and engineer. Here was something wilder.

From a satchel at his waist, he produced two handfuls of eggs and an assortment of exotic fruits. This became breakfast. “As you can imagine, I don’t entertain many guests,” he said as we finished. “Typically I subsist on a diet that mainly consists of discovery and distraction. Say, would you like a small tour outside? Are you feeling well enough?”

“Yes, on both accounts,” I said, relieved to find some other outlet for my nervous energy and attention. “I am anxious to see just how many new species of fern I will be able to discover and describe. This accident may prove to be a blessing in disguise,” I added, with a timid grin.

“That’s the spirit!”

He led me down a narrow path through a thick, vibrant forest. Perhaps it was good that I did not have my notebook and watercolors with me, for I stopped every few feet to gawk at some new flower or fern, and would have spent hours detailing them.

“Oh, the Galapagos are just lizard-infested rocks compared to this island,” Marcus assured me, patient with and amused by my frequent, excited stops. “You won’t find these rainforests there.” He walked with sure, long strides, apparently confident with the environment and himself.

Quite abruptly the thick cover of trees and foliage cleared away, and I found myself standing on a curving stretch of beach. The sun was just at its zenith, and I began to understand how my host had earned his swarthy complexion. The beach seemed to sit back in a relatively small, protected alcove. To either side of us, the coast rose into dramatic sea cliffs. Over these, tumbles of lush forest nearly spilled down into the water. It was a breathtaking scene.

I walked in a slow circle, noting ocean, beach, forest, and a swell of mountains. Marcus paused, allowing me a long minute to take it all in. Perhaps he had once had a similar reaction. “It must be volcanic,” I said of the island. “And not terribly old, at that.”

He nodded. “Yes, I drew the same conclusion. I will show you samples of rock, sometime. It is black and porous. And the mountains are magnificent. There are forests up there, in those clouds. I have walked the circumference of this island, but I’ve never made it up one of those peaks. One of these days. Soon. Very soon.”

A large dark shape marred the otherwise perfect white stretch of beach. It was a makeshift wooden platform, and on it stood several barrels and cords of driftwood. I also spied an assortment of poles and a scattering of detritus that was drying under the sun. “You’re a salvager,” I said.

“I make by with what I find, yes,” he said. “I was shipwrecked myself, you see.” I must have seemed surprised, for he said, “I didn’t end up on this island by design. Like you, I was marooned. The entire ship went down. I drifted onto this shore with pieces of the ship. I spent months salvaging that wreck. It covered not only this beach, but all of the island’s northern shore.”

“And you’ve remained?” I asked, surprised.

“Like you, I was on my way to study in the Galapagos. Besides prosthetics, I have an avid interest in birds. Honestly, I needed a break from society. Here, I have birds and solitude in plenty. I’ve seen no reason not to stay.”

His words struck an odd chord with me. We shared a significant glance, perhaps recognizing something familiar in each other.

From the beach, Marcus led me back under the cover of the trees, inland to a crystalline river that he used for cleaning and, upstream, for drinking. It ran fresh and fast, fed by the large amounts of rain that the island received. Downstream, the river ran into a small, shallow lake that he used as a bathing hole. It was fringed with ferns and protected from the sun by thick foliage.

By the time we had returned to the cabin, not far from the river, the equatorial heat had baked me into a stupor. Marcus fed me leftover fowl and bid me to nap. At first I protested, but he kindly insisted. I was abashed to find myself quickly drifting asleep.

For the second time that day, I awoke to find my host absent. However, the other door in the living room now stood open, and at the sound of the bedroom door closing behind me, Marcus appeared in its threshold. “Feeling better?” he asked.

“Much,” I admitted, though pain lanced through my ribs when I spoke.

He may have noticed my wince, for he said, “Come join me and have a seat. Let me look at that bandage, and perhaps, if you are feeling up to it, I can examine your arm.”

I followed him into a study with a beautiful mahogany desk in one corner and a wall almost filled with books. “You salvaged…all of these?”

“Oh, no. Certainly not. I was fortunate to capture the attention of a ship several months after my shipwreck. We developed a sort of trade agreement. Fruit, smoked meats, animals, and my marvelous creations in return for books, the occasional canned delicacy, pipe tobacco, and parts.”

A devilish question came to me. What did the man do for female companionship? But that was certainly no proper thought for an English gentleman. “You are very industrious,” I murmured politely.

“I keep myself busy enough. What else am I to do?” He drew me to an armchair at the far end of the small room and bade me to sit in it while he took the ottoman. I felt a fluttering of nervousness as he scooted close and took my leg in his hands. I held my breath as he unwrapped it.

Marcus peeled the thick dressing away slowly to reveal a laceration that ran the length of my calf. My stomach twisted at the sight of it. Bits of tender new skin stuck to the dressing where it had dried against the wound, and fresh red blood welled up and ran in trickles down my shin and the curve of my calf. He grimaced. “Sorry about that,” he said, catching the trails of blood. “This looks good. It’s healing well. See?” He chuckled at the sight of my face, which I am sure had gone pale. “It will be fine,” he reassured me. “This bright red tissue means that it’s healing well, and all signs of infection are gone. I’ll put a simple dressing on it this time.” He took a clean strip of linen from a small trunk beside him, coated one side of it with honey, placed this against the gash, then wrapped it in place.

At his words, I relaxed. When he was finished placing the new bandage, I flexed my leg, pleased with the lighter, less bulky dressing.

“Is there anything else you would like me to look at?” he asked.

I hesitated, but only momentarily. This man was a physician. “My ribs. Right here. They pain me when I breathe deep, or move a certain way, or sometimes when I—” And here, I winced with real, sudden pain, “—talk.”

He nodded. “I see. May I take a look?”

“Certainly,” I said, then was surprised when he continued to look at me expectantly. “Yes?”

He smiled. “I need you to lift your shirt.”

“Oh. Of course,” I said, a hot flush spreading over my face. I rolled the shirt up carefully. It had been easy to pretend he was merely a medic, a professional stranger, as he changed the bandage on my leg. The top of his head and his shoulders as he leaned over his task had been comfortably impersonal. Now, I looked away from the intense expression of concentration on his face as he scrutinized my chest. I worried what he might think of my gut, which had begun to round out. After Cara left, I had willingly fallen into neglect.

I nearly hissed as his fingertips pressed against my skin, gently exploring my bruise—but not because it hurt. On the contrary, it was because his touch was unexpectedly pleasing, almost overpoweringly so. I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe. It had been more than half a year since I had been touched so intimately by another human being. Even my surgeon and nurses had barely made physical contact with me, and when they did, it was brief and economical. Now I almost began to weep as he knowledgably traced the circumference of the bruise and began to press against it tenderly, a world of care in that educated, humane touch. In fact, I relaxed so deeply into the sensation that I cried out when he found a tender spot. I opened my eyes and was surprised and dismayed to discover they were moist with tears.

“Ah ha,” he said. “Sorry about that. Are you all right? You’ve been bruised badly here. You might have sustained a fracture, but of course we can’t tell without a shadowgraph. However, I don’t feel anything out of place. If you take it easy, it should heal just fine.”

“Thank you, I will,” I said, lowering my shirt, grateful for its privacy but yearning for his touch. I shook my head imperceptibly. No, that was not an appropriate response or desire. I was stranded, distressed, longing for companionship, and very grateful for this man’s care. It was nothing more than that. I avoided his direct gaze, and I hoped that he would not notice the tears that rimmed my eyes.

He paused, seeming to hesitate, then asked, “Are you well enough for me to examine your arm, or would you like a break?”

In truth, I really did need the time to regain my composure. But I had already rested enough that day, and did not want to appear weak or faint. I said yes for this reason, and not, I assured myself, because I was reluctant to leave his company.

“Good,” he said, his smile reaching his eyes. “I’ll try to be brief and gentle. Just follow my directions, and let me know if you feel anything untoward.”

Untoward, like what? I wondered, dryly. My eyes still itched with the tears that threatened to swell up and roll down my cheeks.

Fortunate for me and for my dignity, he did not look long at my face. “Clasp your hand,” he told me, full attention on my prosthetic. “Yes. Now the other. Hold them out together so that I can compare. Yes. Just like that. Ah. Now, extend each of your fingers as if you were counting one to five. Now, each separately, please.”

He watched the arm intently as I performed these exercises, his head cocking this way and that like a curious bird. “Hold on,” he said, and disappeared from the room. I took the chance to dab my eyes dry and take a deep, settling breath. When he returned, he opened a roll of tools on the ground beside his low perch and began picking through them. “Just some slight adjustments,” he muttered, taking my forearm in his grip.

It was an odd feeling, watching another human hold that clockwork hand while instinctively expecting to feel his warmth and flesh. With no nerves there, I registered none of those sensations, only a feeling of pressure and movement to my upper arm and elbow as the forearm was gently drawn downward. A tickle of sensation communicated into my upper arm as he tinkered at the finger joints with a miniscule screwdriver. I was startled when suddenly he gripped my upper arm with one of his hands above the prosthetic, and suddenly I could
feel
his grip. It was firm and sure, unlike the tender exploration of his fingers on my chest, and his skin was hot. His fingers curled around the curve of my triceps.

This time, I was not caught so emotionally unprepared. I fancied my entire arm a machine, and he a mechanic, and in this way I distanced myself. Yet after all I had been through I could not help but begin to relax into that grip. On he went, eyes focused on the wrist of the prosthetic, muttering simple commands to me. And if the room suddenly felt warmer as he scooted the ottoman closer and lowered his face very close to the arm—still without releasing that strong, sure hold—he did not seem to notice. The moments dragged on while sweat beaded on my lip. I was barely breathing.

“Wiggle your fingers now,” he said, and I did. “Again,” he said, barely more than a whisper, an intimate level of voice that only served to remind me of his proximity. “Yes. Okay. There, we have it.” As he sat back and released his grip, his fingertips slid down my arm—softly, like a woman’s caress. Only a happenstance, yet I could not dismiss the trailing sensation of his fingers against my skin. I had often prayed Cara’s touch would affect me so.

“Are you all right?” asked Marcus, suddenly.

“Just fine,” I said. I managed to smile as I shifted ever so slightly in the chair. Inappropriate warmth was spreading through my groin, and—I was afraid—over my face. “Just a bit flushed from the heat. I am still acclimating to the tropics.”

“I see,” he said, nodding. “And I understand. I’ve been there before.” His gaze lingered on mine for a moment. Was that a true gleam of understanding there, or simply friendly sympathy? He said, “You should find that the hand responds better now. Perhaps even better than your left. I would suggest practicing with it.” With that, he stood.

“Of course,” I said as I flexed the hand experimentally. As I followed him from the office, I noticed an alabaster statue on his desk. It was maybe two feet tall, smooth, and represented a naked man as beautiful as a god. It was done in the style of a classical Greek carving. Every muscle, every curve, every feature was perfectly realistic. I was immediately entranced by it.

Marcus noticed the object of my distraction. Hurriedly, he said, “Oh! You’ve noticed my art. I have a taste for the classics. Please excuse me. As I said, I’m not used to entertaining guests…” He flushed.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I…I like it.” The words left my mouth of their own volition, and I was surprised at myself. I met Marcus’s gaze with slightly widened eyes, not sure what I had meant.