§ § § - December 8, 1980

"Ah, Mr. Pringle," Roarke greeted their first two guests as they alighted from the rover. "The daring young man has come back to earth with his snow bird. Miss Ferrini." Velda Ferrini nodded to him.

"We're both very grateful, Mr. Roarke," Pringle said quietly.

"Are you gonna go back to your traveling circus?" Tattoo asked.

Pringle grinned. "Just long enough to sell the popcorn concession."

"Then we join the rest of the family in Chicago for their opening," added Velda, "and our wedding."

"I wish you both great happiness," Roarke said with a broad smile, and they thanked him and made their farewells, heading for the plane ramp hand in hand.

"Another happy ending," said Tattoo with satisfaction.

"Just the kind you like," Leslie agreed, grinning at him.

"Indeed, Tattoo," Roarke remarked and smiled again. "A man never knows what he can achieve until he reaches for a star." Tattoo nodded thoughtfully, looking impressed by this little aphorism; Roarke and Leslie grinned, then turned to meet the second rover.

"Ah, Miss Winkler, Mr. Green...or is it once again Calpurnia and Brutus?" Roarke inquired teasingly.

Harriet grinned. "Well, either way, Mr. Roarke, my fantasy has come true."

"You too, Mr. Green?" Tattoo asked.

"Let's say the best thing that ever happened to me was going to the Hot Springs Lagoon," Morty told him, and he and Harriet shared a conspiratorial laugh. Once again they traded thanks and farewells, returning their goodbye waves.

"Ah," murmured Roarke. "As you have remarked, Tattoo, another happy ending."

"You're right, boss," Tattoo said. "A man never knows what he can achieve in a hot lagoon." He shot a look after Morty and Harriet. Roarke gave him a surprised look, then grinned, while Leslie snickered and shook her head.

§ § § - October 10, 2009

"This is Tattoo, the artist?" Anna-Kristina asked through her laughter as they wound up the narrative. "I have to admit, I never realized till now that he had another life before the art gallery he made so famous."

"Your father purchased a painting of his once," Christian told her. "It was over fifteen years ago when your parents bought some artwork in Paris, presumably from his gallery. One of them was by Tattoo, and it was the only one in the lot that appealed to me, so Arnulf tried to sell it to me for some utterly ridiculous sum. However, I don't know what happened to those paintings; I thought you might have some idea, Stina."

His niece considered it, then shook her head. "I don't know, really. I can't remember seeing them at all. I do remember Mamma and Pappa going to Paris and buying some art, but somehow I never saw it. Maybe we should speak with Uncle Carl Johan and see if he knows what happened to them. I would think Briella would have done something with them, but the only picture I can remember seeing in the royal suite was in the bedroom—the enlargement of the panorama that Daniel took for her down around Mossedal. Since we can't ask Briella now, we'll have to see if Uncle Carl Johan can find them."

Christian nodded. "That's probably wise. Tattoo's painting, at least, would be worth a fair amount of money, so it should receive the proper care." He looked at Roarke and Leslie, laughed suddenly and remarked, "But Stina's right. Hearing these tales of his antics while he was living here on the island paints a far different picture of him from the one he cultivated after returning to France. If you'll excuse the pun..." His grin was sheepish, eliciting a laugh from Roarke and a playful groan from Leslie.

"So what other good memories do you have?" Anna-Kristina asked, clearly taking advantage of the lull in the conversation. "You seem to have met quite a lot of famous people on this island. I always mean to ask if I can look through your autograph book, Aunt Leslie, and I never manage to remember."

Leslie grinned. "When you get out of the hospital, or when you've made it through the fifteen-day waiting period—whichever comes first—I'll be glad to show it to you. In fact, it's full now, after all these years, so Christian gave me another one for my birthday this year. Camille made me get it autographed by all the members of Shock Treatment when they were here this past summer, but I think she did it just so she'd have some excuse to come backstage with me and get the autograph she never got from that one guy." She and Christian both laughed; Roarke chuckled. "Anyway...funny you should ask; just two weeks after the fantasy we just told you about, we got another celebrity looking for a fantasy."

§ § § - December 20, 1980

"Smiles, everyone, smiles!" Roarke urged, as was his weekly habit, and motioned the band and dancers into action. Leslie had been running slightly late that morning and was still trying to get the black cuff on the sleeve of her weekend dress buttoned; Roarke, seeing her problem finally, reached over and deftly secured it for her.

"Thanks, Mr. Roarke," she said with a relieved smile. "That probably would've bugged me all day long. Oh...and who's that?" She had just spied their first guest stepping out of the plane's hatch and coming down the ramp with purpose, buttoning his jacket on the way.

"Boss, isn't that Mr. Culshaw?" Tattoo queried.

"Mr. Allan Culshaw, yes," said Roarke, watching the tall, squarely built man approaching them.

"I remember seeing his name on your list," Tattoo remarked, "but you didn't say where he came from." Leslie looked at him with some surprise; Roarke didn't always reveal the hometowns of their guests, so she didn't find this particularly unusual.

Even so, Roarke's response surprised her. "From a very long way off, Tattoo."

"He doesn't seem very happy to be here," Tattoo observed as Culshaw received a lei from one of the native girls but merely submitted, with a grim countenance, to her kiss on his cheek. He did refuse the drink, Leslie noted, as Roarke spoke.

"Mr. Culshaw has not had a single moment of happiness in an entire year. All he asks for now is peace of mind, and of the spirit."

"Some fantasy," said Tattoo derisively. "Boss, how're you gonna do that?"

"I'd think granting peace of mind would be one of the hardest kinds of fantasies there could possibly be," Leslie agreed. "What would you have to do?"

"I am arranging a reunion with three people from his past, and giving him an oppor-tunity to prove he is not what they think he is—a thief and a coward." At this, Tattoo and Leslie exchanged glances; this would be a difficult fantasy under any circumstances.

Now a blonde woman nearly as tall as Allan Culshaw disembarked from the seaplane and started down the ramp; she had a familiar face, and both Leslie and Tattoo lit with recognition. "Boss, I know that lady," Tattoo exclaimed.

"Me too," Leslie put in. "That's Susan Lohman, the singer!"

"She's a very big star," Tattoo went on before Roarke could comment. "Movies, musical comedy, records—she's a wonderful artist!"

Surprised, Roarke stared at him. "Tattoo, I had no knowledge of your interest in that kind of music!"

"Oh yes—I saw her on the stage in a wonderful show, Autumn Heart, by Edmond Dumont," Tattoo explained with a broad smile.

"Really, Tattoo!" said Roarke, impressed, trading a glance with an equally impressed Leslie. "You surprise me."

Tattoo shrugged and admitted with some reluctance, "Well, I was dating the wardrobe girl..."

"Should've known," Leslie grumbled good-naturedly, grinning.

With a mildly dirty look at her, Tattoo turned to his boss. "Miss Lohman...she's so famous, so rich—why does she need a fantasy?"

"Oh, everyone has a fantasy, Tattoo," Roarke reminded him. "And Miss Lohman's is to meet the composer whose music has enthralled her over the years and lifted her to the heights of stardom—Mr. Edmond Dumont himself."

"You mean she's never met him?" asked Tattoo in surprise.

"No, Tattoo. Very few have," murmured Roarke, gazing absently in Susan Lohman's direction. "I am afraid that Miss Lohman is about to undergo the most bizarre experience Fantasy Island has ever known." At this Leslie and Tattoo peered at him, then at each other, with some unease, before schooling their features as a native girl arrived with Roarke's wine flute and he raised it in toast.

‡ ‡ ‡

In about an hour Allan Culshaw met Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie outside at a small round white table in the yard beside the main house; a native girl brought out an elegant silver teapot and a tall glass of pineapple juice, mixed with ginger ale, for Leslie. Roarke smiled as she put the teapot on a tray in the middle of the table. "Thank you, Mahana." He picked up the pot and filled teacups. "Now then, Mr. Culshaw, let me see if I have the facts straight. You were the pilot of a private aircraft which crashed in a remote area, a wilderness. Three people who were among your passengers accuse you of abandoning them there, leaving them to die. Am I correct?"

"Yes, but it's not true," said Culshaw with quiet, flat calm.

"It isn't going to be easy to convince them," Roarke pointed out.

Tattoo nodded, adding, "You can't expect your enemies to take your word for it."

From a pocket, Allan Culshaw silently withdrew a burgundy-colored velvet drawstring bag, and removed three small objects from inside it. "White feathers?" Leslie asked blankly, staring at them as Culshaw gave them to Roarke.

"The traditional symbol of cowardice," Roarke explained to her, and she compressed her lips for a second or two, exchanging a glance with Tattoo.

Culshaw explained, "I've been carrying them all these months as a badge of shame, to remind me of what I must do. My enemies, as you call them, the three people who branded me as a deserter, were once my dearest friends, Mr. Roarke. I know that they'll believe me if I can just tell them, face to face, what really happened. And I'm gonna ask each of them to accept one of those as a symbol of my innocence."

"I see," Roarke said, settling back in his chair. "You say you will tell them what really happened. The problem is, Mr. Culshaw, can you be sure of that yourself? The plane crash occurred exactly one year ago today, and you were hurt—a head injury, a concussion."

"Yeah, well, uh...some of the facts are a little hazy," Culshaw conceded.

Roarke nodded. "Exactly. A concussion always involves a loss of memory." He paused for a moment, then trained his gaze on his ward. "Leslie?"

From her lap, where it had sat half hidden in her skirt, Leslie produced a small, round, gleaming silver box, which she set in front of her guardian. "Thank you," he said as she lifted its lid and withdrew a plain round brushed-silver pendant, larger than a silver-dollar coin, on a chain and handed it to him. "This pendant has special powers, Mr. Culshaw. It enables the wearer to recall past events of his or her life precisely as they happened." His voice slowed and lowered to a nearly hypnotic cadence; Culshaw's head tilted to one side as if he were reacting to being entranced. "To actually relive them—and most importantly, to share the experience with others."

Tattoo rounded Roarke's chair, taking the necklace from Roarke and going to loop it around Culshaw's neck. "All you have to do is to wear the pendant."

"Concentrate on it," Roarke concluded, "and you will have total recall."

Culshaw glanced down at the pendant as Tattoo fastened the chain and murmured gratefully, "That's fantastic."

Roarke shifted in his chair and studied their guest intently. "I must remind you of the one condition which I am obliged to impose: no physical violence. No matter what happens to you, whatever dangers you find yourself in, however much you are provoked—you are not to strike back, or your fantasy will end instantly."

Culshaw considered this for a second, then nodded and said placidly, "All right, I accept that condition." As Roarke acknowledged this, Culshaw almost grinned. "Now where can I find my friends?"

Roarke smiled back, while Tattoo gazed on with that sphinxlike expression Leslie had learned to despise on him because it was such an excellent concealer of anything Tattoo was thinking or feeling. Chuckling slightly, Roarke said, "Be patient just a little longer, Mr. Culshaw. Why don't you go to the bar, have a refreshment, huh?"

"That's not a bad idea," Culshaw noted, rising. "Been quite a while since I had a good belt." This struck Leslie as odd, since Culshaw had not touched his teacup the entire time they'd been sitting there, though she herself had nearly finished her own drink. Shrugging mentally, she decided tea must not have appealed to Culshaw, and watched as their guest shook hands with her guardian. "Mr. Roarke, I'm very grateful," he said simply, and with that and a quick smile at Leslie, departed. The trio looked at one another in silence; Leslie wondered why Roarke and Tattoo both looked so concerned.

Before she could ask, though, Roarke checked his gold pocket watch and snapped it closed, replacing it in his vest pocket. "Well, it's time for us to meet Miss Lohman. Leslie, I suggest that if you intend to obtain the lady's autograph, you get your book now." He grinned indulgently at her as she jumped to her feet and dashed into the house and up to her room to retrieve the autograph book.

Susan Lohman turned out to be cheerful, enthusiastic and outgoing, a very personable and friendly sort who willingly scrawled her name in Leslie's book and laughed when Leslie told her that her middle name was Susan. "Your mother had good taste," she said, gently teasing, and Leslie giggled. "Well, Mr. Roarke, I'm ready—no use in stalling."

"Very well," Roarke agreed, and with that they were soon on their way down the Ring Road to a point a bit west of the middle of the island. When Susan pressed Roarke for further details about their destination, Roarke hedged a moment before replying. "Miss Lohman, Mr. Dumont is a very private person. He's never seen in public, never photographed. Here on the island, Mr. Dumont has found the total seclusion he requires. Behind this wall is his private estate." They had come up a small, nearly invisible access road a few miles west of the Old Swamp Road that connected the northern and southern arms of the Ring Road, and after another mile or so of driving, pulled to a stop in front of an eight-foot-high boundary wall made of stone, topped with spirals of electrified wiring.

"I've sung every song he's ever written," Susan mused with an odd longing note in her voice, "and I've been wondering about him for years. I can hardly believe I'm gonna meet him at last—he must be a very beautiful person."

"Judging from his music, I'd agree with that," Leslie remarked, and Tattoo nodded.

Roarke smiled at their comments, then nodded once, and he and Susan stepped out of the car in front of a heavy double wooden door as tall as the wall it was set into. Susan took her bag out of the back as Tattoo and Leslie watched; they looked at each other once, neither especially eager to get out of the car.

Susan rounded the back of the car and stared at the wall and the forbidding door. "Well, I...I see what you mean about total seclusion," she remarked with a surprised smile, gazing along the wall and at the wire lining its top.

"Yes," Roarke said, "and remember that you are Mr. Dumont's first and only guest." Susan nodded understanding. "He may not observe the usual protocol."

Again Susan nodded. "I'll remember. Thank you." She shouldered her bag and took a step, then hesitated, catching herself. "Let me ask you one thing, Mr. Roarke..."

"Of course," prompted Roarke warmly.

"Do you believe it's possible to...to fall in love with a person be-because of his art?" asked Susan, as if laying bare a very secret thought she had never dared share with anyone else, no matter how close. "Are a man and his music one and the same thing?"

"You must answer that for yourself, Miss Lohman," was all Roarke would tell her, but it was all he could tell her, Leslie realized. Susan got it too, for she nodded a little, then approached the door and peered through a small, dark, barred window while Roarke got back into the driver's seat and turned to give Leslie and Tattoo a particular signal that gave them a particular warning. As Susan searched for some way to announce her presence, Tattoo and Leslie grabbed the backs of the seats in front of them and closed their eyes.

"We're here," said Roarke after a mere few seconds, and they opened their eyes to find themselves and the rover sitting serenely in front of the main house. Tattoo blew out a breath and relaxed so totally that he fell against the back of his seat.

"I really hate that," he said with a look of mostly feigned irritation at Roarke.

Leslie looked at him in surprise. "You do? It's funny, it doesn't really bother me. I mean, I always expect to feel something when he does that, but I never do—not even any wind or something. It's like we were here all the time."

Tattoo grunted and muttered, "Well, I still don't like it. Come on, let's get out of this thing before the boss decides to send us someplace else in it...without him along for the ride." Leslie and Roarke both laughed, and they all got out of the car.