§ § § - January 23, 1982
Having sent Julie off with the kittens whose mother she had previously failed to find a home for, Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie set off for the plane dock, where their first guest turned out to be someone very recognizable. Tattoo instantly knew who the blonde woman in the cowboy hat, denim skirt and bright-red masculine-styled shirt was. "Oh, I know that lady. She's Sara Jean Rawlins."
"Quite right, Tattoo," Roarke said. Leslie, who wasn't into country music at all, gave Tattoo an impressed look.
"Who is that man with her?" Tattoo asked.
"Her manager, Mr. Sam Treacher. Ms. Rawlins traveled the country-western circuit for some years with a very gifted young guitarist; they were very much in love. His name was Billy Williams."
Tattoo looked thoughtful. "Hmm…I remember him. He died in an automobile accident," he mused.
"Yes, Tattoo. And now she is here to record a new song that both she and her manager feel will be her biggest hit. Ms. Rawlins' fantasy…" He paused long enough to get Tattoo's and Leslie's full attention, then concluded, "…is to have Billy Williams accompany her on the recording session."
"But how could he?" Leslie protested, astounded. "I mean, after all, he's dead!"
Roarke merely allowed his gaze to settle on the country singer, without moving a muscle or changing expression. Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other, then shifted their attention when they noticed Roarke shift his stance. The guest this time was a somewhat older man, somewhere in his late forties or early fifties, wearing a powder-blue suit and carrying a leather-bound tome in one hand. "Who's that, boss? I hope he didn't come here to bury his nose in a book."
"Hardly, Tattoo," said Roarke, amused. "Mr. Ralph Rodgers is an English-history buff, and that book happens to be Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court." He winked at Leslie, who was a "Connecticut Yankee" herself by birth, and she grinned.
"I get it, boss," Tattoo said. "He wants to visit Camelot."
"Close. More precisely, Mr. Rodgers' fantasy is to meet in person the legendary King Arthur himself." His expression suggested that this was going to be a fun fantasy, which suited Leslie just fine. She always enjoyed the lighter fantasies.
With that, Roarke toasted their latest guests, who all looked happy enough to be here; but there was a sadness lingering about Sara Jean Rawlins, and there was something vaguely sinister, Leslie thought, about Sam Treacher. Well, they'd find out soon enough.
‡ ‡ ‡
"Now look," Treacher was saying stridently a little over an hour later in Roarke's study, "I believe this whole business of Sara Jean comin' here, expectin' Billy Williams—a dead man—to be playin' at her recordin' session is just a whole lotta baloney."
"Sam, don't," the country singer protested plaintively. "It's my dream. It's all I have to hold on to."
"Now Sara Jean, I just don't think it's right," Treacher insisted, "him leadin' you on like this." He gestured dismissively at Roarke as he spoke.
"I am curious, Mr. Treacher, please forgive me," Roarke broke in then, looking amused at Treacher's protestations. "But which concerns you the most—Ms. Rawlins' personal feelings, or your own financial enrichment?" His gaze grew chilly as he drove home the last few words; silently Leslie cheered him on.
"Now you look here, Mr. Roarke—" Treacher ground out.
"Sam, please!" snapped Sara Jean. Treacher caught himself, and she glared him into at least a moment's submission before turning to her host. "Mr. Roarke, now that I am here, what am I supposed to do now?"
"First," said Roarke, taking the chair Treacher had disdained, "do you have any questions, Ms. Rawlins?"
"Can you really make it happen, Mr. Roarke?" she asked.
"I can make it possible for Billy Williams to accompany you at your recording session. But you must listen very carefully to what I have to say. It is of great importance. You must believe—deep within yourself—that your fantasy will come true. That is the only way I can make it possible."
"I'll try real hard, Mr. Roarke," Sara Jean said solemnly.
He nodded and smiled a little. "Very well," he said, rising. "Then please proceed with your plans. Keep that faith firmly in your heart, huh?" They exchanged smiles, his of encouragement, hers of hope; then she turned and left the study. Roarke caught sight of Treacher then; the other man sighed with annoyance, but to his credit, he departed without another word. Roarke watched him go only till he'd climbed the steps to the inner foyer; then he withdrew his pocket watch to check the time before gesturing out the French shutters behind the desk. Leslie got up from her chair and accompanied Roarke and Tattoo out and down the path to the small lane where the bungalows stood.
"I really don't like that Sam Treacher," she ventured after they'd been walking a few minutes in silence.
"Neither do I," concurred Tattoo, as if relieved she'd spoken up.
Roarke glanced at them and smiled. "You may have good reason not to like him," he allowed. "The events of the weekend will bear out your suspicions, should they have merit. For now, I suggest you turn your minds to Mr. Rodgers' fantasy. I think you'll both like this one very much."
"I'm not sure how," Leslie admitted frankly. "I mean, Mr. Rodgers is the one going back in time, not us, and we won't get to see what happens and whether he actually meets King Arthur and all that. See, we were studying King Arthur a couple of months ago in my English class at school, because of the stories and legends that surround him, and Mrs. Wayborne says that he probably never really existed. So how can you send Mr. Rodgers back in time to meet a nonexistent entity?"
Roarke cast her a look askance; Tattoo riposted, "The same way he can bring forth old Greek gods and goddesses for Greek-mythology buffs to meet." Leslie shot him a dirty look, which left Roarke chuckling for most of the rest of their walk.
Ralph Rodgers, a slight, gradually balding man with a perpetually hopeful look about him, let them in with a cheerful greeting. "I can't wait to get started."
Roarke smiled. "I certainly hope your expectations are fully realized, Mr. Rodgers, and now, will you join us on the terrace, please?" He led the way out to the back of the bungalow, through the open dining area, where there was a small patio bordered on two sides by the dining-room window and the matching one in the bedroom. Most of the little corner terrace was taken up by an elegant round white table topped with smoked glass and ringed by four matching chairs. "You are, of course, familiar with the legend of Arthur's magic sword, Excalibur," he said a bit questioningly, bypassing the table and pausing in front of a large fern that partially hid a good-sized boulder.
"Oh, yes, yes, of course," Rodgers said in a somewhat halting voice, as if he were shy or trying to control a habitual stutter. "He…he pulled Excalibur from a stone…a feat no one else could accomplish…and became king of all England." His eyes lit up as he spoke and he lost his hesitancy; it was plain that this must be his favorite subject in all the world.
"Precisely," Roarke said with a smile. "Tattoo?"
Smiling broadly, Tattoo went to the fern and lifted aside the heavy frond, revealing a gold hilt. "You recognize it?" he asked Rodgers.
The guest lit up and drifted toward it. "Excalibur!" he breathed.
"Yes, Mr. Rodgers, it is Excalibur…and if you can draw it from that stone, your fantasy will begin." Roarke smiled.
Rodgers' face lit up even more and he took a deep breath, shooting all three of them a few anticipatory glances before venturing to the rock, making a production out of getting a good grip on the sword handle, and tugging. At first he grunted softly, trying to overcome the resistance the sword gave him; but then all at once it slid out of the rock, and as it did, there was a brilliant golden flash and a cloud of white smoke. Both man and sword vanished completely, leaving silence.
"Well, I guess that's it," Leslie said a little wistfully.
Neither Roarke nor Tattoo had time to react before there was another flash, this one smokeless, and Rodgers stood before them again, looking startled. "What happened?"
As if in response, still another flash, accompanied by a sort of minor booming sound, made all four of them turn to find themselves staring at a gray-haired man in a full suit of armor, sans helmet. He stared down at himself and glanced around, then snarled, "Merlin, you muddlehead!" in an aristocratic British accent. "What have you done now?"
Tattoo's eyes grew wide and he peered at Roarke. "Uh-oh, boss!" he exclaimed.
Roarke hurriedly threw him a quelling look and warned, "Sh!"
The armor-clad man glared at Roarke. "What manner of sorcery is this? Who are you?" Then he saw Rodgers, still standing there with the upraised sword, and got even angrier. "Who dares to touch my sword?" he demanded, striding toward the alarmed Rodgers, who hastily turned it blade-down and handed it over.
"Uh, here-here you are, I…" Rodgers gave up and turned to Roarke in bewilderment. "What happened? I was there, I saw Camelot. All of a sudden I'm back, with him!"
Roarke approached him while Leslie and Tattoo watched avidly. "I'm sorry. Somehow the polarity reversed itself." He demonstrated with palms facing each other before drawing them close and past each other, crossing his wrists. The armored man sheathed the sword with a loud clang and began to pace. Roarke went right on talking. "No harm done! Your fantasy is, after all, to meet King Arthur—and here he is!" Leslie took a second, harder look at the newcomer. That was King Arthur? Why was he wearing armor instead of a crown and royal robes trimmed in fur?
Rodgers began to protest, but Roarke silently shushed him and nodded reassuringly, then turned to the king and said expansively, "Your Majesty! I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island." He bowed, making Leslie wonder if she should curtsy, even though Tattoo simply stood there gazing on in fascination.
"I am Arthur, king of all England!" their latest guest snapped out, and instantly Roarke, Tattoo and Rodgers lowered their heads in deference. Leslie gasped and belatedly curtsied; though she knew it was a clumsy movement, she felt it better not to draw undue attention to herself. She must have succeeded, for Arthur blustered on, "I haven't time to dally. I have scheduled a meeting of the Round Table, and that cursed Lancelot will be romancing Guinevere, my queen!"
Rodgers hastened forward, trying to mollify him. "I-I'm afraid it's all my fault," he blurted, grasping Arthur's arm, then just as hurriedly releasing it when the king glared at him. Rodgers composed himself and gazed reverently at Arthur. "But knowing how things turned out, I think you'd be better off here."
"I am better off when I am where I wish to be, knave," the king bit out, then looked hard at Roarke. "I will find a horse, to take me from your island—back to Camelot!" Having delivered this announcement, he strode away into the nearby jungle.
Rodgers' head swiveled back and forth between Arthur and Roarke several times before he decided to confront the latter and said, more or less firmly, "This-this-this…this isn't what I wanted. See, I was thinking of—of knights, and ladies, and Camelot."
Roarke corrected him, "Your fantasy was to meet King Arthur, and you have done so."
"Can…can we start over?" Rodgers wheedled hopefully. Leslie stifled a giggle.
"May I point out that, until I can return him to his Camelot, his safety is your responsibility," Roarke told him. "Now I would suggest you get started immediately." He gestured after the departed Arthur.
"My responsibility!" breathed Rodgers in disbelief, but he didn't argue the point; he did throw several uncertain glances between Roarke and the vanished king, then finally scuttled away into the foliage in Arthur's wake.
"Oh boy," murmured Leslie. Roarke only partially managed to tamp down a smile, but when Tattoo stared up at him with upraised hands and a what're we gonna do? look, he just shook his head and smiled as if to reassure him.
Tattoo looked at Leslie, who made a face. "I wouldn't be so sure," she said. "Imagine all the trouble he could get into."
"Well, you heard the boss," Tattoo said with a fatalistic shrug. "It's not our problem, it's Mr. Rodgers'."
"That doesn't mean we couldn't get complaints from people about him," Leslie said.
Roarke smiled. "Wait and see, Leslie. If Mr. Rodgers truly wishes his fantasy to play out as he originally envisioned it—or at least, in a manner fairly close to that—he'll work very hard to be sure it does so, and to minimize the inconveniences." He suddenly seemed to think of something and checked his pocket watch. "We need to make a few rounds, and I'm overdue already. We'll have lunch, and then we will drop in on Ms. Rawlins."
Sara Jean Rawlins had commandeered the theater in Amberville for her rehearsals, so that was where Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo went after the noon meal. They settled in seats in the first row; Sara Jean was at a microphone, and Sam Treacher sat nearby wearing a pair of headphones and following Sara Jean with a copy of the song's sheet music. A piano stood at stage right. After some conferring, they began the rehearsal; the song turned out to be a slow, melancholy piece, made all the sadder by Sara Jean's voice, which seemed faintly tinged with some lingering sorrow. Tattoo listened raptly; Leslie, feeling oddly depressed by the song in some way, slouched a little in her chair, compressing her lips.
Sara Jean began to get visibly lost in the tune, gazing into space as she sang, glancing around her as if playing to an invisible audience. At one point, as she was holding a note, her eyes drifted up toward the rafters—and then she broke the note and gasped so loudly it echoed throughout the entire theater, covering her mouth with one hand and backing away from the microphone. All eyes followed her gaze; on a catwalk high over the stage stood a man with a horribly disfigured face, holding a large stage light by a rope and clearly preparing to drop it.
Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie bolted out of their seats; Roarke managed to spring out ahead and leaped onto the stage just as Sam Treacher finally seemed to sense something was wrong and looked around, then up. The second his gaze rose, the man on the catwalk released the stage light; Roarke seized Treacher's arm, scattering sheet music everywhere, and yanked him out of the way a mere half-second before the light crashed onto the stage, smashing the chair Treacher had just been sitting in. Sara Jean screamed and stumbled back into the scenery behind her.
They heard footsteps overhead, and Roarke looked up just in time to see the figure on the catwalk disappear off one end. Tattoo hurried over to Sara Jean; Leslie stood at the edge of the stage, staring in shock at the broken chair and the damaged light.
Roarke crossed the stage to Sara Jean and embraced her for a moment; she dissolved into frightened tears. "His-his face," she sobbed. "It was horrible! Mr. Roarke, who was that, and why would he do such a thing?"
Roarke shook his head, glancing overhead once more, then spent a couple of minutes calming Sara Jean down before turning to Treacher, who for once looked decidedly shaken. "Do you wish to stop rehearsal for now, and take a break?" he asked.
Treacher nodded, to Leslie's surprise. "Yeah, I think it's a good time to stop awhile," he muttered, tossing a skittish glance at the remains of his chair. "C'mon, Sara Jean, I think you better come on back to your bungalow. C'mon back with me, an' we'll talk about what we wanna do with this song."
"What song is that?" Leslie ventured, partially in the hope of restoring a somewhat more normal mood, partially because she was actually curious.
Sara Jean brushed at her tear-streaked face and thanked Roarke in a low tone before turning to Leslie, visibly trying to pull herself together. "It's called 'Shadow Games'," she said. "It was written by a young songwriter down in Nashville—Sam bought it from him. I heard later he drowned in the bottle. Somethin' about the words and the melody line…well, they make me think of Billy Williams." She winced and hung her head. "Brings back a lotta memories…some good, some bad. But I just had to record that song."
Leslie nodded. "Oh. Is that why you want Mr. Williams to record it with you?"
"Yeah, I guess so," Sara Jean murmured. "I guess it is." She dragged in a long breath and lifted her head, letting it fall back for a few seconds before drawing herself erect and giving Leslie a forced little smile. "If it ain't a hit, it'd be just a cryin' shame. Song's too good not to be a hit."
"What I heard of it sounded good," Leslie offered shyly.
Sara Jean actually laughed. "You don't have to make nice on my account, Leslie," she said. "I saw you out there, I know you're not really into country music." Leslie's face heated up instantly, and she ducked her head, deeply embarrassed. Sara Jean put a hand on her shoulder. "Not everybody is, and that's okay."
Leslie looked up, cheeks afire. "No, seriously," she said, miserable. "I honestly think it's a good song. You have a really pretty voice. Just right for country…sad and wistful." Now mortified at her own words, she let her head fall again and half turned away. "Oh, geez, will somebody get me out of here before I start eating my own foot?"
At that everyone laughed, and several hands landed on her shoulder, patting. "I think it's time we left Ms. Rawlins to take a break and calm herself for a time," Roarke said. "I will check in on you again later, if that's all right."
"That's fine, Mr. Roarke, thank you," Sara Jean said, and with that Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo departed the theater. The breeze felt good on Leslie's hot face, and she trudged along behind her guardian and his assistant, hoping without much conviction that they'd let the incident pass without comment.
Sure enough, Tattoo teased her, "So that's your idea of a compliment?" Leslie stopped short on the sidewalk and covered her face with her hands.
Roarke chucked. "I think that'll be enough, Tattoo," he said. "The poor girl is embarrassed enough already, don't you think? By the way, Leslie, I saw Ms. Rawlins' face while she was talking to you, and believe me, she appreciated your comments, however clumsily delivered you may think they were."
"I'll probably never live it down," Leslie grumbled. "Can't we go home so I can do something else and get my mind off this?"
"If you insist," said Roarke, laughing. "Perhaps you'd do me a favor and come to the pool with me so that we can check to be certain the bar there is well stocked and that our vacationers are happy."
It was at the pool that they met Ralph Rodgers, alone and looking a bit disillusioned. He was standing near a table staring into the sky, frowning and shaking his head. Roarke led the way over to him and inquired, "Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Rodgers?"
Rodgers started violently and shook his head so hard Leslie was afraid it would fly right off his neck. "Oh, Mr. Roarke…didn't see you there," he said and favored Leslie with a sheepish smile. "Hi there, Leslie."
"Hi, Mr. Rodgers," she said. "Where's King Arthur?"
"Got mad at something I said, then rode off somewhere and left me in the lurch, without even a horse to ride. I had a feeling if I tried to talk to him or even keep an eye on him, he'd just find some way to throw me into a dungeon somewhere." Roarke and Leslie looked at each other with amused smiles, while Rodgers sighed and shoved his hands into his pants pockets. "He's nothing like I thought he'd be. King Arthur—he's vain, he's stubborn, he's…"
Rodgers would have gone on, but Roarke broke in. "Oh, now, come, Mr. Rodgers, you're speaking of King Arthur, your idol! Why, you must remember he's a stranger in a strange land."
"Strange," Rodgers repeated, nodding and eyeing him. "That's the word."
"You'd have been just as much a stranger in a strange land in Camelot," Leslie said.
"Not so much," Rodgers protested vehemently. "I've read everything I can find about Camelot and all its denizens, and let me tell you, I'd have been prepared!" He snorted. "With him here, instead of me there, well…this whole thing's just going right down the drain."
"Well, you did the best you could," Roarke said matter-of-factly. He put a hand on Rodgers' shoulder and guided him toward the nearby table. "Now, I suggest you have a seat over here…" He pulled out a chair and Rodgers took it, while Roarke signaled at one of the young native waitresses at the bar. "…and have a nice, cool drink, huh?" A blonde decked out in bikini top, sarong skirt and lei came over and put a red cocktail napkin and some sort of potent-looking tropical decoction in front of Rodgers. "Perhaps you can strike up a conversation with someone and relax," Roarke offered genially, then headed elsewhere.
Leslie drifted uncertainly after her guardian, glancing back at Rodgers and watching him pull a cherry-bedecked toothpick out of his drink. Then Roarke called, "Mr. Rodgers…"
Rodgers had just eaten the cherry and looked around in surprise. Roarke was standing at another table at which was seated a slim blonde woman whose face boasted a sort of haughty beauty; she wore a blue tank swimsuit under an open, loosely knotted white blouse. "Relax!" He cast one glance at the blonde, as if sending a message, then signaled at Leslie and headed away from the pool.
Still throwing looks back at Rodgers and the blonde by turns, Leslie followed him. "What on earth was that all about?" she wanted to know.
Roarke smiled at her and paused near the edge of the concrete, without speaking; Leslie stopped and looked back in time to see Rodgers get up and head for the blonde at the other table, carrying his drink. "Um…do you mind?" he asked, indicating a chair.
The blonde looked up. "Oh, not at all," she said, in what sounded like a vaguely British inflection. Rodgers took the chair, looking happier.
"My name's Ralph Rodgers," he offered.
"Ah," she said, studying him. "You may call me…Gwen."
"Gwen," he echoed and shook hands with her. Roarke smiled broadly once more, then settled a hand on his ward's shoulder and guided her away.
"There's something about her…" Leslie mumbled.
"Oh?" said Roarke, very amused. "Do let me know when you've thought it all through, will you? In the meantime, I have some work to do at the house, so if you don't mind sitting for a while and going through the mail, that will be a big help to me."