Island of Icarus Page 3

  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.

  Chapter Eight

  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.

  Chapter Nine

  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.