Island of Icarus (4 page)

Mortified by the encounter, I feigned exhaustion so that I might retire to the bedroom. For a while, I sat up at the table in the room, staring at the finches. Their vain fluttering seemed to reflect my mental state—the useless excitation, the agitation without an outlet. I moved to the porthole window above the bed to watch the sun set, then lay down when it became fully dark. I slept fitfully that night, and then woke to early morning sunlight. I stood, pleased to find my strength had returned despite the difficult night. I walked through the empty living room and out onto the doorstep to take a deep breath of tropical air.

The still, quiet forest scene was broken only by the occasional
tink
of metal on metal. I surmised that my host, who I had thought perhaps asleep still, was crafting something. I followed the sound to the back of the little building. There, I found an open workshop built out from the back wall of the cabin. Two long wooden tables stood underneath the tin roof. One was empty save for a spread of tools. The other held a large, complex apparatus that gleamed in the morning sunlight. Marcus was there, bent over the thing with the same singular intent with which he had regarded my arm the night before.

“Good morning,” I said after a long moment, hesitant to disturb him, especially after last night’s embarrassment over the statue. As I watched him work, I could not banish the image of the perfect white curves of the stone man, nor of Marcus’s blushing face as my eyes fell upon them, as if I had stumbled upon some shameful secret.

He looked up and gave me a ready smile. “Good morning!” he said. “How do you feel?” He appeared to be his usual bright and friendly self, as if nothing had transpired last night.

I relaxed a bit. “Better.” I approached the end of the table and closed my clockwork fingers around a hammer. “This arm is amazing.”

He beamed. “Thank you. I’m glad it suits you.”

“And what is this?” I asked, gesturing to the metallic apparatus that almost threatened to swallow him.

“Oh! This is my pet project. My pride. Wings.”

At first, I didn’t understand, but once I stared at it, the lines and shapes and struts and joints materialized into a brass skeleton and overlapping rows of neat steel feathers. It was a pair of human-sized wings, half-folded on the table. Spread to their full width, they would easily span fifteen feet or more. “Real wings? Functional?”

“Real wings? Decidedly not
real
, but hopefully quite functional. Real in their intent, certainly.” He rubbed a hand down one of the struts. “I’ve been studying the form of bird wings. Vultures, primarily. Gliding still appears to be the best option for human flight, and that is something vultures excel at. But vultures can power themselves into the air and maintain their flight, which I must figure out how to do. And that is where I run into a problem. I’ve worked on compact steam engines, although they can’t sustain propulsion for long. Langley’s aerodrome didn’t last a mile before it lost fuel, and that was catapulted into the air, at that. I worked with electricity, which led to my side project with wireless electricity and the finches. You are familiar with those. Now I am toying with clockwork. Your arm is the working prototype for a new system I’d been developing. Not the first
official
prototype, mind you.” He laughed, obviously recognizing the flicker of dismay on my face. “I obviously can’t keep you on display in my workshop or take you to the World’s Fair. No, that’s what this is for.

“Say,” he said. “Care to join me for a walk? I like to scour the beach every morning. I’m rather in the mood for eggs.”

How the two correlated, I wasn’t sure, but I joined him. I was rather in the mood for eggs, myself. We walked down to the water’s edge and picked over the sand. Now and again he would stoop to examine a piece of beach detritus, turn it in his hands, and toss it away again. “Nothing today,” he said. “But then, it hasn’t stormed. That is when I can be out here for hours.” He paused, straightening, and looked out to sea. He raised an arm to point. “There is a large reef system out there, surrounding most of the island. Very dangerous in a storm. It’s what shipwrecked us, and it’s what keeps most ships from passing close. When they stop to trade, they must lay anchor beyond the reef and take the jolly boat up. Frankly, I’m fortunate they take the risk at all.”

We walked a while longer along the surf. He glanced at the sky and said, “We’re lucky it hasn’t rained. Usually, there’s at least a short shower every day.” He turned to face inland and pointed up, where the land swelled up into a peak. “I believe there is a rainforest on the top of that mountain, hidden and kept constantly moist by the clouds. I’ve heard descriptions of cloud forests. That’s the first place I’m going when I’m up in the air on those wings. A man has to have aspirations, eh?”

I nodded. It was an impressive goal. Something he had said stirred my curiosity, and I asked, “You referred to ‘us’ when you mentioned you had been shipwrecked. If you don’t mind me asking, were you the only survivor?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. His tone took on a somber note. “No, I was not. There were seven of us that came to shore. Two died of malaria in the two months before we could hail a ship. The other four left on that first ship. Only I remained.”

“I see,” I said, softly. “Excuse me for asking.”

He looked at me. “No, it’s all right.”

We walked in silence for a while. He led us inland on a different, smaller path. It took us through thick forest to a small pond, where I was surprised to find a colony of common ducks. These, he explained, were his fresh source of meat and eggs. They had been shipped here at his behest, then encouraged to breed. The ducks, along with three crates of rabbits, were set loose on the island. He kept two cages of common finches at the cabin for his experimentation. “All of this lush greenery, and no mammals,” he said. “Every creature that lives here is a transplant from the mainland. No mammals ever reached here, nor amphibians. None that I have seen.”

“A fascinating ecology,” I said. “It will be interesting to see how the rabbits have come along.” I surveyed the duck population and nodded appreciably. I would return to record details later—the starting population, the current population, time elapsed.

True to his word, Marcus found eggs, and we took these back with us. I felt more comfortable this morning with my host. The friendly, academic dialogue did me good. I felt most at home when engaging in scholarly pursuits. Marcus’s intelligence and skill were remarkable, matched only by his humility and honesty when admitting that which he did not know. He showed great interest and attention as I identified plant genera and lapsed into a casual lecture about botanical identification, and he expressed delight when I showed him an edible fruit he’d avoided until then.

After lunch, I dared to ask him for a tour of more of the island. My ribs were feeling well in spite of our morning walk, and I was eager to test my limits. We spent the afternoon ducking through brush and climbing over rock outcroppings in search of rabbits. It was a damp, exhausting business, but I was flush with the pursuit and with the friendly attention of my companion. We returned to the cabin late in the afternoon. My ribs were tender and my leg smarted, but I was content and we had rabbit meat for supper.

We did not say much over the meal, but that was just as well, for my mind was busy digesting all of what I had observed that day. Afterward, Marcus kindly provided me with clean paper and a pen, and I disappeared into the room to detail my observations. For a time, I lost myself in the scratch of the pen on paper and the flow of my thoughts onto the page. I wrote until my hand cramped any my eyes grew bleary by the lamplight, and I had only to tumble into to bed to fall blessedly, deeply asleep.

The next morning I woke feeling damnably sore and as stiff as a corpse. I rather smelled like one, too. With no soap or towel or clean clothes to change into, I winced my way out to the bathing lake that Marcus had shown to me. I blundered only briefly in the wan early morning light before I found the sound of running water and followed it to the lake.

I found a thick fray of ferns to hide behind—silly, on a remote island, but habits die hard—and gratefully removed my sour clothing. I wadded it up, having made the decision to clean it as I bathed.

I stepped from the privacy of the ferns and cried out loud in alarm. Marcus was sitting in the water less than a dozen feet away, naked torso disappearing into the black water and one arm draped casually over the bank. Surprised, he looked up.

My arms darted down to cover my nakedness with the ball of clothing. “Pardon me!” I exclaimed, face flushing hot. I began to back away.

His surprised expression quickly changed. “Don’t be silly!” he said. “Join me. You only startled me.” He slid sideways in the water, making room for me at a bare stretch of the lake’s edge where the foliage had long since been trampled clear.

It was a simple accident, blundering onto my bathing host and newfound friend. But we were both men, were we not? And he had seen me nude before, for all that I had been unconscious. Yet I was frozen where I stood, afraid to move, for the heat from my face had traveled straight down to my groin. Under the concealing bunch of clothing, my cock stirred.

Marcus read the dismay on my face as shyness, and he turned his face away with a good-natured laugh. “There. I’ll look away. Be careful with that arm. Hold it up as you get in, then I will show you what to do with it.”

I approached the lake stiffly and stepped in gingerly, sucking in a breath at the unexpected coolness and then hissing with the sudden pain in my ribs. Only when I was submerged to my chest did I release the clothing, which billowed to the surface and began to float. I pushed it aside and propped my arm up on the bank.

“Ready? Good,” said Marcus, floating closer. “May I?” He indicated my arm.

I nodded. The unexpected coolness of the water had distracted me somewhat from my embarrassment. Now I attempted to focus my attention on what he was about to demonstrate with my new arm—not, I told myself, on Marcus’s naked form or my startled appreciation of his lean arms and shoulders.

He took the prosthetic in one hand and gripped one of the struts of the brace with the other. “Like your old arm, you can detach the prosthetic at the stump. The release for the brace is here and here. Grip the arm firmly, like this. The brace will fold down, and then you must press here and here. Pull firmly, and—here we are—the prosthetic disengages from the tendon hooks.” He lifted the entire right arm and placed it gently on the bank, leaving me with the clean, flat stump.

I was lucky, my surgeon had told me, lucky that part of the arm beneath the elbow could be saved. The intact tendons there had been fashioned with hooks that poked up from the healed flesh of the stump like savage talons. The three of them were able to articulate with the levers that controlled the prosthetic, allowing for movement that was almost natural. It was a very clever bit of technology, but the naked stump looked absolutely ghastly, and I had guarded it fiercely from view since my discharge from the hospital. No one besides my surgeon and nurses had ever seen it, save Marcus now.

“Excuse me,” I muttered, hiding the whole eyesore under the water and looking away.

“It’s quite all right,” he said. “
I
am not offended by your arm.”

“I am,” I said, darkly, and reached for the floating heap of clothes. I propped my leg against the rock, then used it as a scrubbing board to mash the clothes clean with my good hand.

“I have soap,” he offered in a mild voice, and soon I had lathered my entire body and the clothes while Marcus rested casually against the bank, soaking with closed eyes. His wet hair lay sleek against his skull, and I found myself admiring his features. No doubt the young doctor could have his pick of female companionship.

My hand lingered as I soaped my groin under the water. I found that my cock, though no longer erect, remained in a state of semi-arousal. Even the faintest touch set my nerves on fire. My fingers trailed against my soft but rapidly firming flesh of their own accord. Just as my eyes began to slide shut with pleasure, his opened and met my gaze.

An electric jolt of alarm and guilt coursed through me. What on God’s earth was I thinking? “Your soap,” I said quickly, placing it on a flat rock between us. I began to gather the clothing with my one hand, but he said, “Don’t worry about that. When I leave, I will take it. You can leave it to soak there.”

I shifted uncomfortably against the edge of the lake, keeping my traitorous hand tucked behind the small of my back where it could perform no more scandals. With a stirring erection and no clothing to cover me, I was trapped under the water until Marcus retired from his bath. The more I fretted over my absurd and inappropriate behavior, the more my cock swelled. Meanwhile Marcus relaxed in the water, making no move to leave.

I leaned my head back and stared at the canopy above, imposing the image of Cara on my mind’s eye. The curve of her waist, the luscious breasts, the trim ankles—so perfect. She was what any man would want. Yes, what every man should want. My eyes wrinkled as I thought of her, and the remembered pain tamed my cock to stillness. It reminded me that I was a gentleman biologist in polite exile, alive by the grace of my host.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Marcus said gently, “how is it that you lost your arm?”

“It was an accident.” I supposed it was only fair for him to ask. After all, I had inquired about his own misfortune. In truth, I was glad, because it was a relief to talk the whole nonsense out to a sympathetic ear. “An engine accident at the institution where I am employed. I was distracted with a matter in my personal life. A matter about a woman. Her name was Cara, and we were engaged to be married. The wedding was to be in a month. She left me.”

My voice fell silent, and Marcus murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, not as sorry as me,” I said. “I didn’t sleep for more than a few hours in that first week. I was a mess. I was running a set of calculations through the library difference engine, and I wasn’t thinking. My cuff caught in the gears as it ran. It snagged me firmly. I hadn’t the energy or reflexes to pull myself free in time. It chewed my hand and forearm to a pulp, gummed up the whole works.” I turned my head aside, ill at the memory.

His expression turned grim. “I’m terribly sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

I shook my head, miserable with the whole thing. “No, it’s all right. I just try not to think about it. If it weren’t for the entire bloody mess, I wouldn’t be here now. I would have two working arms, the chance to be tenured, to publish papers. Two manuscripts wilt in a box in England, simply waiting for review. They will never go further than that. And neither will I.”

Marcus said nothing into this silence. Pitying me, I thought. I realized then that this island life was a holiday for him, a quiet respite while he perfected his research, safe from the distractions of society and the peering eyes of less innovative imitators. When he was through, he would publish his research, take his work back to the Americas, and live comfortably on his established reputation. A tenured professorship would be waiting for him, I was sure, and a busy private practice in mechanical prosthetics. And I? I was a ruined man, destroyed by my affections for a woman. I was a convenient test subject, an object of pity.

There was a splash of water, and I turned to see Marcus swiftly tying a towel about his waist. I avoided his eyes as he stepped close to take the wet clothes from the lake. “If you care to wait a minute longer, I will bring you a towel and clothing.”

I didn’t see that I had a choice, but civilly kept that comment to myself. It occurred to me that choice was just one thing I hadn’t had much of for the last year. I needed to resign myself to that.

Marcus frowned and passed a troubled gaze over me. My story had disturbed him, then. I turned my eyes to the black surface of the lake and stared bitterly at my own reflection.