§ § § -- February 9, 1999

In the week between the shutdown of the island's primary business and the arrival of the man who claimed to be Roarke's cousin and Rogan's father, Leslie had taken on the tasks associated with everyday household operation, as well as the occasional dust-up that exceeded the ability of the regular staff to resolve; and atop all that, she was taking diligent care of her father. She had learned to measure out precisely five milliliters of the tonic per dose, once a day, and went back and forth frequently for water and assorted medical items provided to her by Fernando. Sometimes Tabitha delivered them, bringing her twenty-month-old daughter Cristina; she and Leslie would visit for a few minutes, and Tabitha would collect an update on Roarke's condition and walk out looking sad. Leslie hadn't seen the rest of her friends in all that time; she had begun to wonder if they were afraid to come, for fear Roarke's disease was contagious. Only Tabitha seemed to know better. They probably depend on her for all the gossip, she thought, knowing she was being uncharitable but too tired and too worried about Roarke to care.

Unbeknownst to her, but obvious to Tabitha, Leslie had begun to look perpetually weary. She always seemed to have the shadows of dark circles under her eyes, and she was beginning to lose weight from her fear and its resulting sleeplessness. Mariki fussed over her and made her eat, slinging all manner of half-serious threats at her till Leslie caved in and ate just to make her shut up.

But she never noticed her own condition; it was Roarke's that consumed her every waking moment. Sometimes she wasn't sure it was really her father in that bed. He, too, was losing weight, and he looked quite frail and fragile, lying there in the bed barely able to hold her hand when she sat with him. Leslie tried to hide her tears over his gradual wasting away, but she suspected he knew, in that inimitable way of his. She might cry in private, out of his sight, but she often had red-rimmed eyes when she saw him: and he never missed anything. But he pretended not to notice; at least, he refrained from mentioning it.

Late that afternoon she came up with a fresh pitcher of cold water for him, carrying for herself a glass of orange juice that Mariki insisted she drink to keep herself fortified. His smile was faint but discernible when she opened the door and slipped in, till he noticed the juice. "And what would that be?" he asked, his voice sounding nearly normal for a change.

"Mariki said I need to drink this," Leslie told him, setting the pitcher onto the nightstand and lowering herself carefully onto the bed. Roarke's amused eyes followed her movement. "It's probably calcium-fortified, and I wouldn't put it past Mariki to have ground up a couple of those horse-gagging vitamin pills and mixed them in to sneak even more nutrients into my system."

He grinned at that, and she relaxed fractionally. "She's merely taking care of you, Leslie, since you seem to be obsessed with caring for me," he observed.

"Well, you need taking care of," she said. "I won't let you go without a fight, and I'm going to give this miserable disease the biggest fight I know how. By the way…some guy who claims to be Rogan's father and your cousin showed up on the island this morning. I don't trust that man as far as I can spit at him."

"Not H.R.!" Roarke exclaimed, looking astonished.

Leslie's hand halted on its way toward the orange-juice glass. "You mean…he was telling the truth? He really is your cousin?"

"Yes, he most certainly is, my child," Roarke said, "although it's been decades at least since I last saw him. And he is indeed Rogan's father. H.R. and I haven't been on speaking terms for far longer than you've been alive, so I find it nothing short of miraculous that he has come here."

"I find it morbid," Leslie commented with a scowl, lifting the glass. "He had one heck of a nasty attitude when he came here. If you ask me, he's here for a death watch, in the hope of taking over the island after…after…" She shook her head violently and left the sentence in the ether, taking a long draft of the juice.

"After I die?" Roarke suggested gently. "There is the very real possibility of that coming to pass, Leslie, and you must try to face it, even if you can't accept it."

"I don't want to talk about it," Leslie said stonily; then her face changed. "Father, Rogan said there's a cure, and that his father is the only person who knows it."

Roarke went absolutely motionless, his dark eyes sharp and intense on her. They filled with a shocked light that seemed to suffuse his entire face. "There is a cure?"

"According to Rogan, yes. But if your cousin with the attitude doesn't tell us what it is, it won't make a bit of difference." Leslie glared unseeingly out the window through a mist of tears. "I think that man's despicable for withholding something so vital. I don't care who he's related to. It's just plain unconscionable."

"I agree with you there," observed Rogan's voice from the doorway, and Roarke and Leslie both focused on him. "I don't mean to intrude on you, but I came up to let you know that Da's here. Seems Leslie beat me to it."

Roarke smiled a welcome and asked, "Tell me, Rogan, do you have any idea how H.R. happened to find a cure?"

"Supposedly he found it himself, through a lot of chemical experiments that probably included amakarna," Rogan said. "Since amakarna is a palliative for the bone-eating disease, it stands to reason that it could contribute toward a cure—at least, that's my reasoning. I'm sure Da thought along those same lines. But there obviously was something missing, and if he's found it, he refuses to share it. I don't know what he's waiting for."

"Unfortunately, that sounds like the H.R. I last spoke with," Roarke said regretfully.

"What's the H.R. stand for?" Leslie wanted to know.

Roarke only smiled, but behind her Rogan said, "Personally I think it stands for Hellraiser, and he's never said anything to disprove it." Roarke and Leslie both laughed. "Well, I've a dinner date with Julie this evening, so I'll just be on my way. Be well, uncle." He gave a casual wave and left the room; they could hear his whistling fading as he trotted down the steps and left the house.

"Not without that cure," Leslie muttered, the tears returning all at once. Roarke reached up with supreme effort and caressed her cheek with one finger.

"Shh, child," he coaxed her softly. "You've reached the limits of your endurance; I can see it. You need to sleep, Leslie, and I won't tolerate any argument from you. Your emotions are right on the surface, and you're swaying on your feet. Finish that juice and then lie down—right here on the bed. I don't even want you to expend the energy it would take you to go to your own room."

She smiled a little and docilely drank the rest of the orange juice, then replaced the glass on the bedside table and curled up atop the blankets beside Roarke. In scant seconds she had dropped into a deep sleep; Roarke stroked her hair in slow, feeble motions, his mind moving at lightning speed, processing the revelation his daughter had thrust upon him.

"Well, well, what have we here? What a sickly-sweet scene of domestic tranquility," mocked a voice from the doorway, a voice Roarke had not heard in unimaginably long. He focused on the sneering man who had just come into the room. "My God, P.Q., you look like utter hell."

Unexpectedly Roarke began to laugh quietly. "P.Q.! No one has called me that since I was a child. Well, H.R., and what brings you to my island?"

"Your island, indeed," H.R. snorted. "I suppose this little piece of heaven just fell into your lap, like so much else across the years."

Roarke eyed him in speculation, recalling that his cousin had somehow developed an inexplicable grudge against him and long ago stopped speaking with him. There were not many members of the extended Roarke clan left on the planet; in fact, as far as he knew, he, H.R. and Rogan were the only ones remaining. "I hope you haven't come to pick another fight over nothing," Roarke said.

H.R. peered back at him, his frown thunderous. "How typical of you to think it's nothing, P.Q. You certainly have made a name for yourself. Where did you come by this island, anyhow? And just what have you been doing that you can't seem to produce any children? Too busy, or don't you have the ability?"

"Quite nosy, aren't we," Roarke remarked. "My apparent lack of offspring was a choice, not an affliction. In any case, I have Leslie."

"Oh, that little mortal girl." H.R. studied Leslie with a contemptuous gaze. "Is she really the best you can do? At least I can boast Rogan, even though he seems to have turned into rather a renegade. I never see the boy anymore. Who on earth is going to run your island after you're gone, cousin? That child lying there by your side can't do it. She isn't one of the clan, and you know it's impossible for any ordinary Earth human to do it. Why, for the most part, they don't even believe in it. It's a wonder any of us have survived to the present day. When I think of how many of the clan were burned at the stake as witches by ignorant, stupid humans, I want nothing more than to go back in time and give them the same treatment. And I could, too…which is almost enough in itself."

"But you wouldn't," Roarke murmured.

"Wouldn't I? You can hardly imagine how often I've been tempted. The fates know Ariel's tried often enough to talk me into it."

"So what stopped you?" Roarke parried. "You've always struck me as the type who simply rushes in without thinking. Perhaps that's the reason we are in our present respective positions. Don't think I'm unaware of what has been occurring recently. I know full well you tried your hand at fantasy-granting, and it appears you have been less than successful, particularly since you are standing here now."

H.R. rolled his eyes and looked away, and Roarke smiled inwardly. "Maybe, cousin, I still have some conscience left. Drat the thing anyway." He gave his head a shake and focused on Roarke again. "But you haven't answered my question. What's the fate of this island after you're gone? My son could take over, I suppose."

Roarke observed, "I suspect that's your goal, now that you're convinced I am dying. I might remind you that if I do pass on, it should weigh on that conscience you claim to still possess—since I am told that you've managed to find a cure."

H.R. cocked an eyebrow. "Hmm…so that little girl of yours found out and spilled the beans to you, did she? What would you give to have it, I wonder?"

"I won't beg for it," Roarke told him quietly. "Should I die, Leslie will inherit the island, and if she chooses to continue to run it in its current capacity, I will see to it that she knows how. She is my sole beneficiary, and that is how the situation will remain."

H.R. had been gawking at him. "You won't beg for your own life? You truly are a strange one, cousin. I'm sure your daughter would willingly get on her knees and beg for the cure, if I told her to." He smirked. "It's quite lovely to have the power for a change."

Roarke shook his head a little, thoroughly bewildered. "I fail to understand why you think there is a rivalry between us, H.R. You insist that I have had, and I quote, 'everything handed to me'. You're wrong, so very wrong that it pains me to realize it, but I won't bother trying to convince you. You've persuaded yourself somehow that you've been cheated out of things that have apparently come to me. I have worked for a great many years to obtain what I have, and there is a purpose to the work I do. And before you ask, I should inform you that Fantasy Island was originally not my idea. When I first acquired this island, it was with the intention to use it as a retreat from the rest of the world. It was in a time of great superstition and persecution, when anyone even suspected of witchcraft was killed in the cruelest possible ways, and I knew this place was so remote that it would be safe from detection for some time. And that is in fact how I lived for quite a few years, until I was approached about turning it into the business that I currently run."

"Who approached you?" H.R. asked.

Roarke closed his eyes briefly; when he spoke again his voice was perceptibly weaker. "It's not important that you know that. I will tell you, however, that the idea appealed, and I have found it most rewarding."

"Really. And where does that child come in?" H.R. pressed.

"She is an orphan with no living relatives, and came into my care as a young teenager. Leslie was merely my ward for several years, but I formally adopted her after she graduated from high school. Tell me, H.R., why are you so scornful of my daughter? It's my understanding that you also have an adopted daughter, so I can only assume this is spite. I doubt Miranda is any more endowed with our clan's abilities than Leslie is."

H.R. glared at him, but Roarke seemed not to notice. "No, she's not," H.R. growled. "But my son is, and it seems to me that he's the logical choice to inherit this island once you've shuffled off this vale of tears."

Roarke was silent for so long that H.R. actually came farther into the room and leaned over the end of the bed to scrutinize him more carefully. "If you think you will gain control of my island so easily, you had better think again," Roarke said at last. "As I told you, Leslie is sole inheritor, and no court in the world will support any attempt by you to contest my wishes. I cannot stop you from watching me die, but I certainly can stop you from taking over my property. For that matter, I can have you removed from the island altogether, since this is sovereign territory."

H.R. looked astounded. "You are your own country? Bah! You're saying you can deport me, then! I suppose that was a provision given you by whoever 'approached' you about this business of yours."

Roarke merely smiled at that. After a moment he suggested in an almost inaudible voice, "Tell me about your business. Despite your covetousness in regard to my island, you don't seem to have actually enjoyed granting fantasies."

Grudgingly H.R. admitted, "No, as a matter of fact I hated it. I just wanted a retreat, the same as you. I also wanted someone to do the heavy chores for me, so that I could live a life of leisure…thus Cal and Harry. But we all found ourselves in service to someone, or something. Perhaps the same someone, or something, that came to you. Quite frankly, though, my enterprise never did come anywhere close to yours for sheer popularity. Rogan probably put it best. He said that my customers were forced to come to my island, whereas they eagerly sign onto a waiting list to visit yours. In any case, Harry and Cal seemed more than happy to leave last week. All I have left is Ariel." He smiled faintly. "Dear Ariel… Would you like to know more about her, cousin?"

He waited for a response, but Roarke was silent. In fact, as H.R. shortly ascertained, his cousin's strength had given out and he was as sound asleep as his daughter. For a long time he stood there staring at Roarke and Leslie, battling a very unwelcome attack of sheer envy. Miranda had a terminal case of amnesia, and Rogan chose to steer clear of him; so it was a bitter pill to swallow to see how close Roarke and Leslie were. At last, with another muttered "Bah!", he wheeled around and left the room.