Island of Icarus Read online

  He paused long enough before responding that I thought he had fallen asleep. He said, “Being foolish.”

  “Hm.” I shook my head. A sudden thought struck me. “Were there no bodies?”

  “No. It wasn’t a fresh shipwreck. From the looks of it, it must have been something the storm tore up from the bottom. It may have sitting in the reef for months or years.” He combed his fingers through my hair idly. He asked, “What would I have done without you?”

  I could find no words to describe the depth of the terror that had seized me when I thought I might lose him, so I simply took his hand and kissed it tenderly.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning, I found Marcus fixing tea at the stove. A freshly-drawn bucket of water sat at his heel.

  “Just what do you think you are doing?” I asked. “You need to be in bed!”

  “What I am doing is fixing tea. You were asleep and I was up. Good morning to you, too,” he responded mildly. And then he cracked an egg over a skillet on the stove.

  “Where did you get those?” I asked, noticing the basket of eggs. He did not say anything, only met my eyes over his shoulder briefly with an unapologetic grin on his lips. I frowned. “You belong in Bedlam.”

  “First it’s bed, then it’s Bedlam?” he asked, his back to me as he attended his sizzling egg. “In which do I belong?”

  “Both!” I cried. “In bed, in Bedlam! But since we haven’t a way to get you to Bedlam, you ought to simply be in bed.”

  “In bed, like an infirm!” He waved me off with his good hand, and in doing so, he jostled his injured arm. He winced.

  “See!” I said. “You belong in bed so that collarbone heals correctly!”

  “Nonsense,” he said, giving the egg one last stir before setting aside the fork and depositing it on a plate. “I’m a doctor. I know my limits.” He smiled at me. “Come on, then. Have some breakfast.” Then, he kissed my lips—a simple but effective way to quiet me.

  The next week was a nerve-wracking one, for Marcus found every excuse and opportunity to remain active, and I was kept busy following him. I barely had time for my own thoughts, much less thoughts of London. Foraging, rabbit hunting, hiking, cooking, moving stacks of books—I could hardly keep up. However, in all of his puttering, I noticed that Marcus did not care to touch or discuss his wings. It was almost as if the project simply had never existed.

  Finally one night I could take Marcus’s fidgeting no longer. He had spent the last three hours reorganizing and reshelving the entire book collection in his study, and had just begun to pull the books of one shelf out again. I said, “Why don’t you spend some of that energy on your wings? You haven’t touched them for an eternity!”

  He winced and sat back, placing aside the book he had just pulled out. He said, “I wish it was that easy, but I am stuck. I haven’t a clue what I should do next. The wings will not fly yet, but I don’t know why. I’m missing something, but I don’t know what.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Have you tried flying the things?”

  “Well, no. How can I fly them if they can’t fly?”

  “That’s lunacy!” I cried. “How do you know it can’t fly if you have never tested it?”

  “Because they simply won’t be able to. They haven’t the proper structural integrity. The wings would collapse in the air.”

  “Show me,” I said, sure that the only cure for his endless fidgeting was work on his project.

  He seemed as if he would protest, but then got to his feet and led me to the workshop. We stood staring at the complicated leather, wood, and metal apparatus in silence. I hadn’t the faintest clue what was what or what did what, and I began to wonder what I had planned to accomplish by directing us out here in the first place. So, with nowhere else to start, I asked, “How does it work?”

  “Well,” he began. “The struts here are like the bones of a bird’s wings. They’re jointed here, and unfold quite like real pinions. The feathers here are adjustable. Remember what I told you about air speed. There’s a tail back there to steer. The harness, to hold the wings to the body. It’s supported by a brace that fits to the back. The controls are here. These for the hands control the wings. Those for the foot control the tail.”

  “Have you decided how to power it?” I asked. “Is that what you mean when you say it won’t fly?”

  “No, I’ve solved that problem. I’ve finished the clockwork motor, the design of which is similar to your arm. I believe it will work well. It will rewind itself as the body moves naturally, so if piloted correctly, the wings can theoretically stay aloft…well, indefinitely.”

  I was confused. “So, what is the issue, then?”

  “Here,” he said, lifting at part of the harness. “The wings themselves are quite heavy. Given that they are fully jointed, they aren’t well supported when extended. They would collapse in the air.” In attempting to extend one of the wings as illustration, he upset the entire machine’s balance and it tipped over on the table. The wing slipped from his grasp, sending a jolt to his injured arm. He winced and placed his hand over his shoulder.

  I sighed. “Do you see? Your arm doesn’t have the support of your clavicle. You shouldn’t be lifting things, even with your good arm.”

  He paused, then looked at me with a puzzled expression. “What did you just say?”

  “Your clavicle is broken, so you haven’t the full support of your shoulder girdle. You’re a doctor. You should be familiar with this.”

  He stared at me for a very long moment, then looked back at the wings and ran a hand over the length of one brass strut. “Of course,” he said, almost absently. “You’re right, I should have thought of this myself…” He looked up at me with bright eyes and said, “Jon, you are a genius.”

  “Forgive me, but I’m confused,” I said.

  “Birds. Remember, birds have the support of fused clavicles—called a furcula, or wishbone—to help support their wings in flight. That is the thing I am missing. A furcula. A proper shoulder girdle for the wings. So very, very simple!” In his excitement, he grabbed me by the back of the neck and planted a hard, fast kiss on my mouth that left me reeling. “You’re a genius!”

  “Pace yourself, now,” I said, wondering suddenly if this had been a good idea at all. “You can’t go building anything now because of that arm.”

  “Oh, I need to design the thing first, so you needn’t worry. Besides, I have other things to occupy me while I wait.”

  “Oh?” I asked, heart sinking somewhat at the prospect of Marcus spending another week of long days and late nights flipping through books and rendering plans.

  “Quite,” said Marcus, approaching me with a sly grin. “I still have one good hand, after all, and there are a variety of terrible, wonderful things I can do with it. Like,” he said, unbuttoning my trousers with one hand and slipping his hand down to cup me, “this.”

  My cock responded instantly. I swallowed and said, “I feel morally obligated to object.”

  “Then don’t,” he said against my lips.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I need you to promise me something,” I said to Marcus that night. “If you are to work on your wings, I need you to promise you won’t pick up anything heavier than a book from your shelves, and to use common sense for everything else.”

  “I’ve been a real pain, haven’t I?” he asked. I could not disagree, so I wisely said nothing at all. He gave me a sheepish apology and a promise to behave, then warned me, “I will put you to work. I did not build that arm for nothing, after all.”

  And put me to work he did. The next morning, and for every day following, I became his arms. I pulled stacks of books from the shelves, cooked food as he worked, rooted through crates of metal parts, and held the wings up in every possible position while Marcus regarded them with pursed lips. Together we studied the bone structure of his dissected birds, noting the shape of the tiny wishbones. His design for the new parts went through several revisions. The qu
estion of which material to use posed the greatest question. He hadn’t any metal beams in his collection of the correct length or thickness, so after several days of our searching through the trees and foliage, he settled on a kind of sturdy, but flexible, wood. I was the one who wielded the axe and the knife, chopping branches, stripping leaves, and bowing the naked wood to test its limits, but I did not mind. It made me feel competent and useful and kept Marcus out of trouble.

  We dragged several promising specimens back to the workshop, where Marcus showed me how to clear away the bark and make the first shaping cuts with the knife. My first attempts were crude but encouraging.

  I found myself learning handy skills unfamiliar to me until then. Despite the hungry glow in his eyes and his expressively gesturing hand, Marcus proved a patient teacher. And, somewhat to my surprise, I proved an able student. I found the activities stimulating to both body and mind, and the dark cloud of homesickness lifted from me.

  For the majority of my life I had focused on intellectual pursuits. Even as a boy, I took to reading while the other children played games in the street, or I went searching through my mother’s garden for interesting insects and weeds. I had rarely tried tasks that used my hands’ dexterity rather than mental dexterity.

  We made the wood slender and curved like a bird’s wishbone. It took several tries, as either the wood grain was wrong, or the piece fractured as we worked it, or it did not fit between the sockets that Marcus had fashioned on the wings to receive it.

  One afternoon, we found the perfect fit—a supple young branch that yielded under the knife like soft soap. We bent it like a bow to fit into the wing’s slots. It gave easily, and sprang back readily. I stepped back from the wings, which were on the floor for this occasion, and wiped sweat from my brow. My arms were sore, but pleasantly so. I was happy with how my body had begun to grow trim and well-toned.

  Marcus stood with me to admire the wings, which suddenly seemed quite graceful with the addition of the furcula, as if they might glide right off the floor of the workshop. He knelt and ran both hands over the smooth wood. By that time, his wound had healed to a pink slash and was well on its way to forming a scar. His clavicle, though not strong enough to support heavy weight, had healed well enough that he could move his arm without pain and perform gentle tasks.

  “It will fly now,” said Marcus. He ran a thumb over the slick brass shoulders of the wings and fondled the leather harness. “We should take her on a test run. A test flight.” His face, which he turned to me, was illuminated with a bright inner light.

  “Hold on, now!” I said, gesturing for him to slow down. “Remember that arm. It’s barely healed! All it needs is the slightest bit of trauma to refracture. What if you’re in the air when it does?”

  He sighed and appeared to deflate. “You’re right. I was getting carried away. We can’t just send her up into the air, anyway. We’ll need to find the proper place to launch her. Proper wind, proper setting. And then, of course, this collarbone of mine. You’re right.”

  The next week was spent healing, cleaning, organizing, and writing. We spent great lengths of time together without speaking, only being in each other’s presence. I felt that we had reached some deeper level of understanding, one that transcended words. It was a trust born out of working together, out of learning each other’s habits and movements.

  Our time together passed like a pleasant dream. I enjoyed it, but worried that I would eventually have to wake up from it to my life in London once more. I would have to return to the social masquerade, the dirty streets, and the dismal weather. Sometimes, my gaze fell on Marcus, and the idea of leaving him made my thoughts freeze. I could not imagine a world without him. Yet, neither could I imagine a life without the city I had always known.

  One afternoon, as we sat together in the lake, I asked, “What do you plan to do? Now that your wings are complete.”

  “Well, they haven’t been flown yet, but after they have?” He paused to consider my question. At length, he shook his head and said, “I’m not sure. I have no other ‘pet’ projects. Not yet, in any case,” he added, dryly. “I suppose I could compile my notes and experiences with flight into a publishable manuscript.” He tilted his head toward me. “I am sure you could do the same for your adventures on this island.”

  “Write?” I asked, dubiously. “Perhaps… I hadn’t given it much thought.”

  “Are you jesting?” He laughed. “It’s all you do!”

  I stopped for a moment to think, then grinned. “You’re right.”

  On many days, Marcus went out to the beach simply to stand and lift a wetted finger into the air. He explained that he was observing which times during the day provided the best wind conditions.

  “You are going to launch on the beach?” I asked. “Have you no better place to test this? Perhaps somewhere with a less fickle wind?”

  “No,” said Marcus, shaking his head. “This entire island is a forest. This is the only place suitable to take off. The trees are still some way off, and I’ve the ocean to fall into in the other direction.”

  “Delightful.” I eyed the waves. I did not savor the thought of having to swim out on another rescue.

  He seemed to read my neutral look. “It will be fine. After all, I have you.” He patted me on the backside.

  “Yes, and that’s what I’m afraid of,” I said dryly.

  How I loved that dangerous smile he sent me!

  Chapter Eighteen

  I suppose I had no need for concern, as persistent rain kept him inside. When it was clear, the wind was hard and unforgiving. The days streamed by like the rivulets of rain that snaked over the bedroom window—running, winding, aimless. We played dice and cards by lamplight and shared stories as we lounged together.

  “You are so marvelous,” he said to me, smiling. We were facing each other in bed with our legs intertwined while he caressed my chest, my abdomen, my face, my arms. I had begun to visibly regain my shape again. My stomach had lost its softness and my arms were well-defined. Marcus seemed pleased with the transformation, for his fingers lingered over the firm, flat plane of my stomach and over the swell of my biceps. I soaked in his attention, memorizing the feel of his fingers on my skin and cataloguing the planes of his face. I wished to remember us just as we were, always.

  Lingering memories of London haunted the edge of my thoughts, but I pushed them aside and grinned. “All of me? You seem to be ignoring a spot.”

  “No,” he said. “I am merely saving the best for last.” His fingers trailed down my chest and over my thigh, which he stroked slowly. I shivered and began to grow hard.

  “You’re teasing me,” I said after a moment of delicious torture. His fingers lingered only inches from my groin.

  “No, I am perfectly serious. I think you are marvelous. Every inch of you. Especially,” he added, “your cock.” At that, his hand brushed over my growing erection. He massaged me until I was completely firm and watched with devilish delight as my head rolled back and I made a noise of pleasure.

  He turned in bed and showed me with his mouth just how marvelous he thought I was, first kissing down the length of my shaft and then licking his way back up to the head. His mouth slid down over me, and he sucked exquisitely while his hands gripped the soft meat of my arse.

  His own member tantalized me from inches away. Though it had taken me days to take him into my mouth for the first time, I was shy no longer. I had, in fact, grown addicted to the taste of his flesh and to his deep groans as I drew my teeth up the velvet length of his cock. Now I licked the head where it quivered in front of me, and he flexed his hips forward. I drew him fully into my mouth.

  His moan shot straight to my groin like lightning. He quickened his rhythm until I groaned around his cock and came. The orgasm washed across me in a shuddering wave, and I groaned again in both ecstasy and in dismay. It had happened so very quickly. Marcus was still hard inside my mouth, but presently he drew away, leaving me hungry for him. Then,
he was leaning over me on all fours, his eyes lustrous. He paused there for a moment, looking into me. In a low voice, he said, “I want you, Jon. I want you so very, very badly. Will you let me?”

  I was confused at first. Then suddenly, I knew what he was asking for. “Go gently,” I said, uncertain at the prospect, but trusting in him. I had gone that way in Cara once—the back way, because she had asked me to. I had enjoyed it then, but I had not been on the receiving end.

  “Are you sure?” Marcus asked, and suddenly I could see concern and desire warring in his eyes.

  With a surge of force, I flipped him over and sat atop him. “You had better take me before I change my mind,” I said, and began to lower my face to kiss him.

  I had not made it to his lips before Marcus flung me off of him and onto my stomach. My cheek pressed into the covers. The bed dipped as he shifted and slung his leg over to straddle me. I bucked against him, but he shoved my hips down with his, causing my cock to grind against the bed. Thrills of sensation shivered down my thighs. I struggled briefly, but he planted his hand between my shoulder blades and then caught my wrists one by one, pinning my arms. In seconds, he had anchored me firmly in a prone position. “Quick enough?” he asked, leaning his weight forward and off my hips. As he did, he slipped his feet under my legs and swept them open. Cool air wafted against my thighs. I’d never felt so open and…vulnerable. My skin tightened and my pulse raced as I anticipated his next action.

  The bed rocked as Marcus leaned to the floor. He sat up with a bottle in his hand so that he was kneeling just behind me, his cock lying hard over my sacrum, teasing.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “Olive oil,” he said, as he uncorked it. I was about to ask what it was for, but as he began to pour a thin stream of fluid onto his hand, I realized its purpose. Cara hadn’t needed lubrication because she had provided her own. Nervous sweat prickled on my forehead. What if I did not like it? Or worse, what if I disappointed him?