§ § § -- October 12, 1981

Now in eleventh grade, Leslie had more homework than she'd had in previous years, and found herself reduced to the level of spectator too often for her taste. About all she had time for anymore was going through the daily mail and scheduling fantasies for Roarke. She tried not to complain to anyone; but her friends still had the habit of asking her every Monday at lunch about the fantasies over the past weekend, and she could no longer tell them quite as much as she used to.

So on October 12, well into the new school year, Leslie merely shrugged when the other girls asked what kind of fantasies they'd had the previous weekend. "Nothing all that exciting," she said. "Only some woman trying to get over her old boyfriend so she could get on with life with the new one, and a guy who wanted to be a star basketball player so he could impress the girl he had a crush on."

"There could be some real stories in there," Maureen remarked while the other girls looked at each other, "but you managed to make it sound uninteresting. Are you getting bored with what Mr. Roarke does?"

Leslie stared at her. "You must be joking," she said.

"Then why'd you just brush off whatever you did this weekend?" Myeko asked.

Leslie's mouth quirked in sudden exasperation, and she stuck out her lower lip and blew, sending some of her bangs dancing for a moment. "To tell you the truth, we have so much freaking homework this year, I hardly have time for anything else. And I have no real involvement in the fantasies anymore, especially since Mr. Roarke hired Julie last month. All I do now is go through the mail and schedule fantasies."

Her friends glanced at one another. "That's it?" said Lauren.

"Well, she's right," Michiko broke in. "We do have a lot of homework this year. I never seem to see Toki bring any books home with him, so I'm still trying to decide if this is the year it peaks, or if Toki's only being lazy."

"Maybe he's such a whiz at schoolwork, he gets it all done during the day," said Myeko, who still had a crush on Michiko's brother, a year ahead of them in school.

"Trust you to stick up for Toki," Leslie said, making most of the others laugh.

"You think you'll have time to come to my Halloween party this year?' Myeko asked, her good-natured laughter shifting into sudden worry.

"I hope so," Leslie said. "I'll find a way. I just feel so, I don't know…left out."

"Don't you have a study hall you could work in?" Camille wanted to know.

"I wish I did," Leslie admitted, sighing. "All my class periods are full this year. I filled the math requirements last year, but Mr. Roarke thought I should take a foreign language, so I went in for Spanish. I'm not doing very well in it, and I'm afraid of disappointing him, so I try to study more. He's fluent in Spanish, you know."

Frida, who had joined their circle from her first day of school six weeks before, tipped her pretty golden head to one side. "So that is why he has his accent. But he must know so many other languages as well, true?"

Leslie considered this. "Well, I think he knows Latin, and I've seen him read books in some language that doesn't use any alphabet I've ever seen. And when you came that first day and you were so scared you kept speaking Swedish…well, it looked to me as if he understood you. But I really don't know how many languages he knows. Someday I'm going to ask him…when I'm sure he won't use it as a reason to ask me how I'm doing in my Spanish class, that is." The girls laughed.

"You should ask him for help," Lauren told her.

"He probably doesn't have time," Maureen observed.

Leslie nodded. "You got it. I'm pretty much on my own. I wonder if it's too late to switch from Spanish to German?"

"I sit in the German class, and I think you might not like it so well," Frida remarked with a wry smile. "English is easier for me, because most of the words are in the same order. But German places all the verbs at the end of a sentence, and that's not so easy to remember. I have asked Julie for help, and she tells me she knows nothing about words. She can cook and she likes numbers…but words, she is not so good with them."

"Neither are you," Leslie heard Camille grumble, but not loudly enough for Frida to overhear. Leslie scowled at Camille, who didn't seem to notice. Ever since Frida had first arrived, Camille had been downright surly. She still clearly didn't like Maureen, but Leslie had seen that Camille considered Maureen her best friend compared to the way she treated Frida: with barely concealed contempt. Frida, easily bruised after all she'd been through, had been hurt badly enough in the first few days of school that Michiko—normally the peacemaker—had told Camille in no uncertain terms that if Camille didn't at least put on a polite façade, there were going to be serious consequences. Leslie remembered that day with particular clarity; when Michiko had glanced around the table, Lauren, Myeko and Leslie had all promptly agreed with her. So these days, on the surface at least, everyone got along; but Camille tended to create discord where it wasn't warranted, and Leslie knew that sooner or later, something was bound to give.

The girls went on to comparing notes about homework in their various classes, and the subject of fantasies was abandoned for a time. The week slid on, and the topic wasn't raised again till Friday at lunch. "Who's supposed to come this weekend?" Lauren inquired with interest once the seven girls had all bought or unpacked their lunches and started to eat.

Leslie peeled back the aluminum foil on one item and discovered a burrito within. "If I remember right," she said thoughtfully, "there's some guy from New York City who wants to go back to the Old West, and a couple old ladies who used to be Ziegfeld girls fifty-some years ago and want to relive their glory days. There's a revival this weekend and they're hoping they can be part of it. I bet they get just older people in the audience when they put on their performance."

"What is a Ziegfeld girl?" Frida asked, touching off a somewhat involved explanation from Michiko and Myeko, both of whom were in stage-profession classes and knew what they were talking about. While they were occupied, Lauren leaned over the table.

"Think you'll find time to get involved in a fantasy this weekend?" she asked.

Leslie shrugged and took a bite of her burrito. "Beats me," she said. "I guess we'll have to see how it goes. I know one thing…I'm going to knock off my homework all in one session when I get home this afternoon, just so I have time in case Mr. Roarke can find something for me to do." She swallowed and gave a sigh. "I hope he can. I really miss being part of all the fun. There are times when I'd like to find the person who invented homework and give him a good crack in the back of the head."

"Me too," said Camille, joining in Lauren's, Maureen's and Leslie's laughter. "You know, maybe Mr. Roarke'd let you do that if you asked him."

Leslie snickered. "Not unless I manage to pass Spanish," she said, and they laughed some more. It felt good, and Leslie's spirits went up. Surely there was room for her to provide assistance to someone this weekend…

§ § § -- October 17, 1981

Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie got a distinctly unpleasant surprise Saturday morning. Out of the plane stepped a dapper man dressed in a natty black suit with a white tie, as if in deliberate and exact reverse of Roarke. He strode down the docking ramp, smiling and nodding at the natives he passed, accepting leis and a drink. Only Roarke recognized him by sight, however. Julie pressed in close to him, standing as she did at his right while Tattoo occupied a small platform (something Roarke had recently had installed just for him) at his left, and Leslie stood to the left of that. "Who is that man, Mr. Roarke?" Julie wanted to know, clutching Roarke's arm.

"He calls himself Mr. Nick," Roarke told them, "but his real name is Mephistopheles." Leslie felt a particular sinking feeling at that; only a year ago, Roarke had met this very entity, and she would never forget the worry and anguish she'd felt over him. Was it going to happen all over again?

"You mean the devil?" Tattoo demanded, recognizing the Greek alias. Julie, who hadn't, looked shocked and horrified.

"Yes," said Roarke, "the Prince of Darkness: the incarnation of evil."

"What's he want here this time?" Leslie asked, scowling. She had thought there would be only the two fantasies this weekend; she would have welcomed a third surely enough, but not when it involved this being!

"My ardent enemy claims to be on a holiday," Roarke said, "but actually he has come to ensnare that which he has always coveted…my immortal soul."

Of course, Leslie thought. Here we go again, I guess. Tattoo reacted with horror, as well he might. "Boss, that's terrible! Let me help you!"

Roarke turned to him with an appreciative smile. "Thank you, my friend, but I have a very special assignment for you."

"Why would you let Satan come here?" Julie demanded. To Leslie, she sounded impossibly naïve for such a bright, educated young woman.

"Both of you must realize," Roarke said, speaking to Tattoo and Julie, "that evil exists in all the world. Unfortunately, I have no power to keep it off Fantasy Island." As if to signal an end to the discussion, he returned his attention to the plane, where a fellow with pale, graying hair and large round glasses stepped out of the cabin, talking animatedly and making emphatic hand gestures as punctuation. "Mr. Ned Plummer, a shoe salesman from Brooklyn, New York. He is an ardent admirer and serious student of the Old West, especially that flamboyant and deadly breed of men, the outlaws."

"You mean like Jesse James?" suggested Tattoo.

"Or the Dalton boys!" Julie put in, as if proud of her knowledge.

"Precisely," Roarke said. "But Mr. Plummer has a very special interest in another outlaw of the same period—a certain Kid Corey, who disappeared with the profits of the first million-dollar bank robbery in American history."

"Don't tell me Mr. Plummer wants to go back in time to steal the loot," Tattoo said, frowning in Plummer's direction.

"You mean take it away from Kid Corey?" Julie burst out.

Roarke cast each of them a stern look. "Julie, Tattoo, you both underestimate the depths of Mr. Plummer's scholarly dedication," he chided gently. "His fantasy is indeed to go back to the days of the Old West—but only so that he may be, for one weekend, a member of the outlaw clan, and actually meet in person the legendary Kid Corey himself."

"But boss," Tattoo protested, "if Kid Corey figures it out just like you did—" he gestured at Julie— "Mr. Plummer's gonna get shot!"

"That is a possibility that has not eluded my consideration, Tattoo," Roarke said, with an oddly cheerful look. "And I will alert Mr. Plummer to that very real danger."

"Hope so," Tattoo grumbled, making Leslie giggle for the first time all morning. He turned toward her as if to mention it, but was halted halfway by the sight of two very old ladies being assisted out of the plane cabin. He stared at them for a moment, and finally said, "Boss, there must be some mistake."

"Why?" Roarke asked.

"Because the passenger list said that two showgirls were supposed to arrive," Tattoo said. Leslie laughed this time.

"Oh, come on, even I knew they weren't going to be actual showgirls," she said. "I think you're suffering from selective memory."

That earned her a hearty chuckle from Roarke. "As a matter of fact, they are showgirls," he said. "Those two ladies are Mrs. Joan Michaels and Miss Ruby Rogers, from a senior citizens' retirement home in Lee's Summit, Missouri. Their fantasy is to appear in the Fantasy Island revival of the Ziegfeld girls."

Julie managed to look even more perplexed than Tattoo. "Mr. Roarke, I'm sure they're very nice ladies, but…are they up to it?"

"Oh, it won't be all that difficult," Roarke explained. "You see, those ladies were once Broadway stars of the original Ziegfeld Follies of 1926."

"Ohhhhh, that's nice!" Julie exclaimed. "We're letting them be young again!"

Roarke glanced in the old women's direction, his levity fading. "Unfortunately, it will test their friendship to the limit—possibly destroy it for all time." And it was on that rather foreboding note that the native girl came up with her tray and Roarke took his usual glass from it. "My dear guests—I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome…" He hesitated as his gaze swept across Mephistopheles, and his face slipped into a sudden glare. "…to Fantasy Island!" The man in the black suit raised his glass and took a sip; Roarke saluted Ned Plummer, Joan Michaels and Ruby Rogers, but shifted another glare at Satan. Leslie sighed and wondered dismally if she was going to be in for another night of worrying about her guardian.

‡ ‡ ‡

Amid the loud show music and the frantic, shouted instructions of the director, Roarke, accompanied by Julie and Leslie, brought Joan Michaels and Ruby Rogers to the Fantasy Island Theater, located off the northern edge of Amberville's town square. They passed a large, colorful vintage poster protected in a glass case, and Mrs. Michaels paused to gaze at it. "Ah, the great Florenz Ziegfeld himself," she murmured.

Ruby Rogers gazed toward the stage, where a group of young women were being more or less hassled through a dress rehearsal. "The costumes are lovely," she said.

"Thank you," Roarke replied.

"Might I take a look?" the old lady questioned, and Roarke nodded.

"Certainly," he said. "Julie, will you escort Ms. Rogers to wardrobe?"

"Of course," Julie agreed, offering an arm for Ms. Rogers, who took it with a bright smile and ambled off along with Julie, chatting cheerily. Joan Michaels, who still had hints of once-dark hair among the gray, watched them go.

After a moment she turned to Roarke. "D'you think we're two silly old ladies for wanting this fantasy, Mr. Roarke?"

"No, on the contrary," Roarke replied with a smile. "I think it's charming."

"But why, after all this time?" Leslie asked, unable to stem her curiosity.

Mrs. Michaels smiled reminiscently. "Well, y'see, we want to taste those times again. They were wonderful days, Mr. Roarke. We had the courage to be corny, sentimental, enthusiastic—and we were still confident and proud of ourselves."

As they stood watching, one of the young women near the end of the dancing line stopped where she was and squinted at them for a long moment, moving closer to the stage and staring harder. Then she lit up and jumped off the stage, rushing up to them. "Grandmother, it is you!" she exclaimed happily, hugging the beaming old lady. Leslie watched a little wistfully, and Roarke glanced at her with a slight smile, as if sensing her feelings.

Mrs. Michaels, released, cocked her head and opened her mouth as if to ask a question, but the younger woman beat her to it. "I know…what am I doing here, right? Well, what else? I'm following in your footsteps! I'm trying out for the Ziegfeld Girls revival. I bet that's why you're here too, right?"

Mrs. Michaels floundered momentarily. "Uh…to see it! Right!" She shot Roarke an annoyed look that surprised both him and Leslie. "Well, Billie, this is quite a surprise!"

"It's great!" the girl agreed delightedly, then turned and gestured at a dark-haired man who had been yelling at the dancers for some time. "Oh—I want you to meet Carl Wagner," she said as he approached them. "He's directing the show."

"How do you do," Mrs. Michaels said, sticking out her hand at Wagner, who shook it. "Oh, uh, Mr. Roarke, this talkative young lady here is my granddaughter, Billie Michaels."

Roarke nodded. "How do you do, Miss Michaels. I know Mr. Wagner, of course."

Wagner smiled genially. "Hi, boss, how ya doin'?" He turned to Billie's grandmother. "Billie's told me a lot about you, Mrs. Michaels. Maybe you'll drop by rehearsal later on and give me a few pointers about how it was done in the old days?"

Joan Michaels looked distinctly put out. "The old days," she echoed, and gave Roarke a look that was more annoyed than the first one before turning back to Wagner and saying with the barest politeness, "Of course…I'd love to."

"Great, great," said Wagner cheerfully. "Now I've got things to do, so I'd better go. See you in a minute, honey, okay?" He grinned at Billie.

"Okay," she said, dreamily watching Wagner walk away. "Oh, isn't he wonderful? I know I'm in love, and I think he is too." She giggled brightly before leaning over and planting a kiss on her grandmother's cheek. "I'll see you later." She left, and Joan Michaels lost no time turning to glare at Roarke with one hand on her hip and the other on her cane.

"Mr. Roarke! Just what're you trying to pull off?" she demanded, outraged.

Roarke looked taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

Disgustedly Mrs. Michaels informed him, "We didn't come here to tell anyone how the show was done in the good old days. If that's all there was to it, I'd've stayed home. Now you make us young, or we're going to leave Fantasy Island!" So saying, she shuffled off down the aisle to join Ruby Rogers and Julie backstage.

"Oops," said Leslie. "I think she just lodged a complaint."

Roarke smiled after the old woman with enormous amusement. "All in due time," he said. "Right now, Ned Plummer is awaiting us, and then…" He let the sentence trail off, but Leslie knew what he'd left unsaid. She shivered and followed her guardian out of the theater for the drive back to the main house.

Once there, they found Ned Plummer chatting cheerfully with Tattoo in the study. "Hi, boss, hi, Leslie," Tattoo said. "I guess we're ready to begin."

"Good," Roarke said and shook Plummer's hand. "I commend you for your courage in attempting a trip back to the Old West…but I feel obligated to warn you that this fantasy could be quite dangerous."

"Dangerous! Of course I know it could be dangerous," Plummer replied, clearly with very little concern. "Kid Corey is supposed to have killed twenty-seven men…and he didn't even count foreigners!"

Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other with almost identically bemused expressions before Tattoo turned back to Plummer and noted, "If he thinks that you're here to take away the million dollars he stole from the bank, you could be the twenty-eighth."

"Tattoo is right, Mr. Plummer," Roarke concurred. "You must understand, everything in your fantasy will be real—everything. Including guns and bullets."

"That's why I'm here," Plummer insisted. "Look, I'm a shoe salesman from Brooklyn who's never been west of the Hudson. This could be the biggest thing that happens to me!"

"Let's hope it's not the last thing that happens," said Tattoo with some foreboding, earning a quietly amused glance from Roarke. Leslie grinned, watching the byplay.

"Don't worry," Plummer said, sounding a little impatient by now. "I've read everything in the public library about the Old West. I know Kid Corey better than he knew himself! He was a Robin Hood—a ladies' man, an adventurer, a romantic! Look." He fished a folded sheet of blue paper from his back pocket. "I even had a copy made of this 'Wanted' poster of him." He handed it to Roarke, who unfolded it and studied it. "WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE" was plastered across the top; at the bottom, "KID COREY: $1,000 Reward." The photo of the outlaw, it turned out, bore a startling and puzzling resemblance to Plummer himself, as if Kid Corey had been some ancestor of his. Roarke looked up at Plummer with a particularly dubious expression, simultaneously turning the page so that Leslie and Tattoo could see it. They stared at it and then at each other.

"It looks very much like you," Tattoo commented.

"Like identical twins," agreed Leslie. She met Roarke's gaze as he lifted it from Tattoo's, and she shrugged. Smiling ever so slightly, Roarke turned back to their guest.

"Very well, Mr. Plummer," he said, folding the page and handing it back, "you've convinced me. Tattoo, Leslie?" Roarke got up and walked around the desk. "If you'll step this way, please," he said to Plummer, gesturing at the door to the time-travel room.

Inside were accoutrements of the classic Old West: ropes and tackle, a wagon wheel, crates, even a hitching post. In the middle of the room sat a sawhorse outfitted with a saddle and bridle. Plummer glanced around and stopped to stare at the sawhorse while Tattoo shut the door behind Leslie, the last to enter. They turned around in time to see Roarke, watching Plummer, make a gesture that indicated he should get into the saddle.

Plummer stared at him. "You're kidding. A sawhorse?"

"Yes," Roarke said with a smile, "if you'll just sit in the saddle, please."

"Really," snorted Plummer with a grin, but none of the three contradicted Roarke's words, just watched him. Plummer's smile faded and he blurted, "You're serious!"

"Oh, very serious indeed," Roarke told him with a solemn nod.

Plummer tossed his hands in the air. "Okay, here I go." He began to mount the sawhorse, but Roarke stopped him.

"Uh, Mr. Plummer…one usually gets on a horse from the left side," he advised. Tattoo watched with a gradually widening smile; Leslie tried to hide hers, though not very hard. They all watched while Plummer rounded the sawhorse and started to put his right foot in the stirrup. Again Roarke had to stop him. "Uh, Mr. Plummer—"

"Huh?" Plummer said, turning and peering up at Roarke over his shoulder.

"The, uh, left leg," Roarke prompted.

"Of course…" Plummer said with a sheepish grin, clearly trying to save face. "I was just testing." Roarke chuckled and nodded, and Leslie suspected he knew that neither she nor Tattoo believed it for a moment. Plummer swung himself aboard the sawhorse and sat, staring ahead, then glancing at Roarke, who gazed back. Silence held sway for a long moment; then Plummer remarked, "I feel a little foolish up here."

"You want your fantasy to begin, don't you?" Tattoo queried.

"Uh…" Plummer hesitated when a thick white fog with no apparent origin began to fill the room, obscuring Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo. "Mr. Roarke, do you…" He interrupted himself and tried again. "Mr. Roarke? Mr.—Mr. Roarke!"

As if from a near distance, he heard Roarke's voice caution him, "Remember, Mr. Plummer, the bullets will be real."

"Mr. Roarke, I—" The fog cleared with startling suddenness, and Plummer found himself sitting astride a real live horse in the middle of the desert. "Whoooo!" he blurted, faintly disoriented, but delighted all the same. "Hey, this…this is great!"

At which point three men on horseback halted halfway down a trail somewhere not far behind him and began shooting at him. "Come on, horsey, come on," Plummer urged, Roarke's warning about the bullets still fresh in his mind, and galloped away across the desert, with the three gunslingers in hot pursuit. But he was having a blast.