Fantasy Island and all associated characters (except mine and MagicSwede1965's) are owned by Spelling-Goldberg Productions, Columbia Pictures Television, Sony Pictures Home Entertainment. All persons described herein are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental. Copyright infringement is not intended.

Island Memories

Chapter 1: History Lessons

19 May 2014

The woman took a deep breath of the tropical air as she stood on the beach, gazing at the waves that rolled in their mesmerizing fashion. The ocean breeze whipped her hair and ruffled the casual outfit that she wore. She hadn't gone to the trouble of dressing up since she was only planning to stay for a short time. It had been far too long since she'd visited this place, and she had a feeling that this might be the last time she would ever see it in such splendour. The relentless march of progress was reaching even here, despite the careful stewardship of the remote Pacific island's proprietor over the years.

Smiling to herself, she turned and started to walk along the small path that led from the beach. Most of the paths on the island crossed the main road at some point, and from there she would easily be able to reach the house that she remembered so well. No creatures bothered her in the jungle; perhaps they caught her scent or otherwise sensed her, and they knew to stay clear. Or perhaps the very nature of this island protected the humans on it from the wildlife, with the exception of those who deliberately went looking for trouble.

The white siding and high gabled roof of the Queen Anne style house had barely changed since she'd first come here so many years ago; the bell in its tower swayed slightly in the breeze. Clustered under the palm trees a short distance away were several small bungalows in a similar design. Few people were around, but then again, it was during the week and visitors tended to be sparse at this time compared to the weekends. Confidently she walked up to the dark walnut wood door and entered the house, unerringly finding her way to the room that was used as a study.

When she knocked on the door, a male voice with an Irish brogue called from within, "Come in."

She entered the room, quickly noting that the layout of the interior had changed somewhat from what she recalled. However, the classic details were still in evidence: silky white drapes on the windows, elaborately designed furniture. But then her gaze landed on the people who were standing at the heavy mahogany desk. There was a pretty woman of average build and bright hair that was often described as strawberry-blonde. She looked younger than her actual age of late forties, tanned in the manner of someone who had lived in warm climes for a long time. With her was a tall man in his mid-thirties with jet-black hair and keen blue eyes. Both were dressed in light coloured clothing as suitable for the environment.

It suddenly struck her that something was wrong. Very wrong. She felt a void, a distinct lack of the entity whose presence should've dominated the place. She swept the house with her senses. The woman was human, although there was something different about her: a touch of power that no normal human would have. The man had a similar vibe to the person she wanted to see, but it wasn't as strong. There were no other non-humans in the immediate vicinity. "Please forgive the intrusion," she said with a smile plastered on her face to hide her concern. "I just arrived, and I was wondering if I may speak to Mr. Roarke?"

Both of them stared at her for a second before their expressions fell. The woman said sadly, "I'm so sorry, but he's… he left us," and raised a hand to indicate a framed portrait that hung on one wall.

She recognized the man at once. His hair was much whiter, but otherwise he looked similar to the way she remembered him. A suspicion rose in her that the portrait must have been altered, because she knew that he was no ordinary man and didn't age the same way humans did. Her attention was then caught by a small brass plaque affixed to the frame that read: Mr. Roarke, founder and father 1920-2010.

Her breath came in short gasps. It was impossible… she knew him, he couldn't die… but she could tell that the woman had spoken the truth, even though it wasn't the whole truth. Her heart broke. "No…" She raised a hand to cover her mouth and clenched her teeth; she would not cry here. How could she not have known? Why hadn't he tried to contact her at all? She slowly moved toward the portrait, taking in the details, wanting to remember it forever. "Oh, matua, why didn't you call me?" she whispered as she shook her head slightly in denial.

"Will you be all right, madam?" the man asked kindly.

She turned to him and cleared her throat. "I think so, yes, once I have some time on my own to process the news. I'm sorry to have troubled you." Inclining her upper body in a slight bow, she walked toward the door.

"Just a minute, please," the woman called. "That word you used… it's the natives' word for 'father'. Why'd you call him that?"

Without turning around, she explained, "The word also can be interpreted as 'master'. Long ago, he was my teacher and dear friend." She sighed sadly. "It seems I managed to get here just a few years too late." Grief closed her throat, and she left without saying anything further.

The two glanced at each other, and then the woman said, "Should I call him? If this woman knew him, I'd think he'd want to see her."

"That's up to you, lass," said the man. "Whether he can answer or not is anyone's guess."

She closed her eyes and brought the image of the person she wished to see into her mind, as he had taught her. 'Father, please come,' she thought strongly.

A few seconds later, they both heard a warm male voice. "Hello Leslie, Rogan. I wasn't expecting your call today." Mr. Roarke himself was standing in the room, smiling.

"I know, Father, and I'm sorry," said Leslie urgently. "But I thought this was important enough to call you down. A woman was just asking for you, and she got quite upset when I told her that you were no longer here, as it were. I thought that you'd want to know."

Roarke frowned as he rifled through his memory. "Did she give a name?"

"No," Rogan said. "We didn't have a chance to ask. But she did say that you once were her teacher." He shot a questioning look at Leslie. "What was that word that she used?"

Abruptly, Roarke stiffened in realization. Could it be…? "Was it 'matua'?"

Leslie nodded, dumbfounded at the eager expression on her father's face. She'd rarely seen him this way, and wondered who the strange woman was, to have such a pronounced effect on him.

"There is only one person who has ever called me that," he said in an almost reverent manner. "Come, we must find her before she leaves." He quickly turned and headed for the door, and his daughter and nephew followed.

She could've left right then, not wanting anyone to see her bereavement. But she decided that it would be fitting to return to Coral Beach, where she had begun her journey to power all those years ago, before leaving this place behind for the final time. She saw no point in coming back, since Mr. Roarke was no longer present. After she had walked down the path for a minute or two, however, she heard footsteps behind her.

"Andrea?"

The call of a resonant baritone voice halted her in her tracks, and at the same time she perceived a mighty and yet benign presence that she instantly recognized. She whirled, and the sight of the man standing a short distance behind her took her breath away. He looked exactly as she remembered: middle-aged with Hispanic features, tall and athletic with tightly cropped iron-grey hair, and wearing a white suit. On the surface he showed a manner of cultured charm; however, underneath that radiated a power that very few others possessed.

It had been thirty years and he hadn't aged a day.

"Matua," she whispered, and her heart leapt.

For his part, it was like seeing a dream come alive. The years had been kind to his former student. With an oval face, keen chocolate-brown eyes, and fair complexion, she could've passed for someone more than a decade younger, although her hair was grey instead of the sandy brown that she had once sported. The energy that she was holding under strict control was unlike any he had ever sensed, not even while she had been training under him.

Happiness suffused him, of such an intensity he hadn't felt for some time, and he strode forward. "Andrea, my dear child, welcome. Welcome back."

They embraced, as old friends reunited. It felt like coming home.

When Roarke released her, he said, "Well, I certainly can't call you 'child' any longer. You look radiant." The smile he gave her was genuine.

Andrea returned his smile, barely able to believe that he was actually present. "You haven't changed at all, matua. I'm so glad that you're well." Her tone became sarcastic. "That is, for someone who isn't supposed to be here."

The two people who were standing nearby glanced at each other ruefully.

Roarke's dark eyes twinkled with amusement. "There is much that you should know. Please, come back to the house, and we will explain what we can."

Once they were back in the study and sitting comfortably, Roarke began, "I believe some introductions are in order. This is my daughter, Leslie Enstad." His voice had an affectionate warmth to it as he indicated the woman.

Andrea was amazed. "You have a family now? Congratulations!"

He chuckled. "Thank you; that is a long story in itself. Her husband Christian is at work, I believe, and their four children are in school at this time." Then he gestured toward the dark-haired man. "This is my nephew Rogan Callaghan. He is married to Julie, my god-daughter and former assistant, whom you might remember."

She brightened. "I do, indeed."

Then Roarke moved behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. "May I present Andrea Trenton. She has a part in this island's history, and it's past time that you should be made aware of her background." His tone had been light, but Andrea knew him well enough to hear that behind the calm demeanour lay a serious issue. One that might explain why he had been silent for so many years. But she had the clear impression it wasn't the time to ask about that right now.

"Maybe Christian and Delphine should know this too," said Leslie. "I'll call his office and see if he can beg off work to get here. We'll have to tell Delphine later, because she's busy organizing some fantasies for next weekend. She's Father's other god-daughter," she added quickly.

"I'm aware, thank you," Andrea acknowledged. Although she'd never met the woman, she knew that Delphine was related to an Irish family named McNabb that possessed the power of telekinesis.

It didn't take long for Christian to arrive. He was broad-shouldered, chestnut-haired with a few streaks of grey, and had a quite obvious royal mien to him. When Andrea was introduced to him, she noted that his pleasant voice carried a distinct accent that sounded Germanic. He too had a mysterious touch of power about him, but she didn't ask about it. This was the time for her story, not theirs.

"When I first met Mr. Roarke, I was thirteen years old and experiencing much more than the normal changes that come with puberty. Quite by accident I discovered that I had the ability to manipulate certain energies." Andrea lifted her hand and summoned a brilliantly glowing silver spark in her palm, which caused all except Roarke to gape at her. Then she closed her fist and it vanished. "Over the course of a few months I had refined that ability somewhat, but it remained largely uncontrolled and I was having an increasing amount of difficulty keeping it hidden from everyone. Then I read about a place where visitors' wishes could come true."

25 September 1981

With her carry-on over her shoulder, Andrea hesitantly walked along the plane dock as she marvelled at the tropical scenery. Back home, the first chills of autumn were beginning, but here it looked like summer could never end. The change in environment served to temporarily dispel her fatigue from the series of long flights: first to Los Angeles, then to Honolulu, Samoa, and finally the small amphibious plane to her final destination.

A black-haired boy wearing a smart white suit was waiting for her at the end of the dock, but as she got closer, she almost did a startled double-take. His friendly smile and demeanour were definitely not child-like; this was no boy, but a man – a man who was affected by proportionate dwarfism. Even at first glance she could tell that he was comfortable in his own skin and didn't let his condition slow him down.

"Good afternoon, Miss Trenton," he said in a gravelly high-pitched voice that carried an unmistakable French accent. "Welcome to Fantasy Island. My name is Tattoo." He offered his hand.

She shook his hand and gave him a courteous "Bonjour, Monsieur Tattoo."

The man perked up considerably. "Parlez-vous Français?" he asked eagerly. "You speak French?"

"I'm studying it in school," she told him with a grin. "My parents believe it's a good thing to know more than one language."

"Très bien, very good," Tattoo enthused, and gestured for her to come with him. "I'm to take you to see my boss. He would have met you himself, but he had something come up."

"That would be Mr. Roarke?" she asked. "Judging by the letter that came with my plane tickets, he seems like a kind man."

"Oh, he is," said Tattoo staunchly. "He owns this island, but he rarely lords it over anyone."

They'd reached a low-riding red car with a striped cloth canopy for a roof; its driver was a native man dressed in a white shirt and Bermuda-style shorts. Tattoo quickly hopped into the back seat as if he was well accustomed to doing so, leaving her to slip into the front seat. "Main house, please," Tattoo instructed the driver, who started the car and navigated carefully between rows of palm trees to reach a red sandy road.

The short drive took them past some of the most beautiful views that Andrea had ever seen. Cerulean ocean waves tumbled against black volcanic rocks and pristine beaches. Lush jungle sprawled from mountainsides down to the sea. She was enthralled. "No wonder this place is called Fantasy Island," she murmured at one point. "It's gorgeous."

"The scenery isn't the only reason," Tattoo said from behind her, his voice coloured by amusement. "I'll let the boss explain it to you."

Eventually the car stopped at a white house that was constructed in the Victorian style, with high gabled roofs, a wraparound porch that sported elegant 'gingerbread' trim under the eaves, and a tower with a bell in the cupola. The place had an almost otherworldly charm. Speechless with awe, Andrea followed Tattoo into the house's entrance hall, taking appreciative looks at the elaborately tiled floor and stained-glass accent windows.

Her guide rapped on a closed door, and someone within called "Come in." The first impression that she had of the room they entered was of a classic study, with bookshelves lining the walls, woven Italian carpeting, and heavy wooden furniture. But then her total attention was commanded by the man who was sitting at the large mahogany desk on the far side of the room. Middle-aged, slightly greying sideburns in otherwise dark hair, clearly of Hispanic descent, and wearing an immaculate white three-piece suit with a black tie. "Ah, Tattoo, I see you've brought our special guest," he said as he rose with a smile and held out his hand. "I am Mr. Roarke. Welcome to Fantasy Island, Miss Trenton."

Noting that his voice was a mellow baritone, she shook his hand a bit nervously. Mr. Roarke had a firm but friendly grip, and she could see a keen interest in his dark brown eyes. "Thank you, sir, for sending the tickets for me to get here. I don't know how you managed to convince my parents that this was an invite-only weekend camp for promising young musicians. My piano-playing skills are far from stellar."

"That, Miss Trenton, was simply a pretext to get you here," he said as he moved around the desk to look the teenager over. "I'm certain that you know the real reason why I sent for you." He turned to his assistant. "Thank you, Tattoo, that will be all for now."

For a moment Tattoo looked like he wanted to protest, but when Mr. Roarke gave a small shake of his head, he capitulated. "Right, boss. See you later, Miss Trenton." He let himself out.

Andrea was impressed at Tattoo's obedience. "Wow," she couldn't help whispering.

Mr. Roarke chuckled and said, "Tattoo has been my assistant for many years, and understands when my instructions are to be followed." He nodded at her, his expression sobering. "Just as you must learn to do, if you wish to properly control the power within you. That is why you are here, Miss Trenton, is it not?"

"Yes," she said, feeling a little shy now. "But I read in the newspaper advertisement that this is the place where fantasies come true, which was confirmed by a few people that I asked while on the way here. You are the man who makes it happen."

"My dear child," he said gently, putting one hand on her shoulder, "this is not something that a fantasy can solve for you. Living with the power you have is your reality, and I will help you understand it. In order for me to do that, however, you must first trust me enough to obey my instructions without question. Are you able to do that?"

She gazed at him and thought it over for a minute. Mr. Roarke had done so much already, from answering her letter to bringing her here at what must've been a significant expense. And he was willing to teach her, an ordinary girl, to master this extraordinary ability she had. For a few seconds she thought she could see a sort of shining around him, a very subtle aura of goodness, and knew at once that here was a man whom she could completely count on.

"I will trust you, Mr. Roarke," she said with certainty.

"Good," he said, smiling at her again. "Now, I suggest you go to your assigned room and refresh yourself, since you've had a long journey. Tattoo will show you there. Would you meet me here in, let's say," he took a gold fob watch out of his waistcoat pocket and looked at it, "three hours?"

"Yes, sir. Three hours," she confirmed.

Mr. Roarke opened the door and saw her out.

Andrea spotted Tattoo outside on the porch after she exited the house. The diminutive man was offering nuts to a scarlet macaw that was perched on the railing, and the bird seemed quite comfortable with the interaction. "Hello, Miss Trenton," he said when he saw her. "This is my friend Pepper. Don't worry, he won't bite."

"Hello, Pepper," she greeted the bird.

Pepper eyed her and then very clearly said, "Good morning, boss," to her delight.

Tattoo grinned, and gave the macaw one more nut, which the bird contentedly devoured. "I'll show you to your room, you must be tired."

"Actually, I am," she admitted as she followed Tattoo along the sandy path that ran from the house toward the small lake that was behind it. "You were right earlier; Mr. Roarke is very kind to do everything that he's done for me so far. But there's one thing that bothers me."

"What's that?"

"Can you tell me just who Mr. Roarke is?" she asked. "I mean, he strikes me as being more than just an ordinary man."

Tattoo stopped walking and faced her. "Some people call him–" he glanced upward with his hands folded as if in prayer, "and some people call him–" then he glanced meaningfully downward.

That was an enigmatic answer if she ever heard one! "What do you call him, then?"

"Mr. Roarke," Tattoo said with an impish smile.