§ § § -- October 17, 1981
Since Julie was still attending to Ruby Rogers and Joan Michaels and had yet to return to the main house, Roarke rather reluctantly took Leslie with him to see Mephistopheles. As it turned out, the devil was presiding over a noisy party at which people were dancing to sinister-sounding disco music. Standing on a revolving platform in the middle of everything was a statue of a stylized version of Satan, painted in red glitter; Mephistopheles himself actually sat on a throne, smirking at the success of his party.
They both stopped at the entrance, staring around for a moment; Leslie looked nervously up at Roarke, and he nodded silently. They walked over to Mephistopheles' throne and paused some distance away.
"Roarke, you have come to my party…how nice. And you've brought your lovely ward. Can I get you a drink?" Mephistopheles inquired expansively.
"No, thank you," Roarke replied coolly.
"Loosen up, Roarke," snorted Mephistopheles genially. "I'm not here on business; I'm taking a few days off."
"A vacation? You?" Roarke inquired. Mephistopheles nodded.
"Even the devil needs his rest," he said. "I cannot tell you how tiring it is, doing evil day in, day out…"
Roarke studied him with feigned sympathy. "Yes, poor Satan," he mused, heavy on the irony. "Burnout must be an occupational hazard in your profession, yes. Well, I would be delighted to arrange for your early retirement!"
Mephistopheles gazed back wistfully. "Believe me, Roarke, I would love to step down. But what can I do? There is such a demand for my services."
Roarke and Leslie followed his glance to the dancers behind them. "Yes," Roarke said, "but you did not come to Fantasy Island to trap such easy prey, did you?" Their ironic jousting was the object of Leslie's very alert attention; she kept eyeing Mephistopheles, though she was afraid to watch him too long for fear he would focus on her.
Mephistopheles chuckled. "Oh, do you know my mind?" he queried.
"No," Roarke replied with a grin of his own, "but I know your game. It never changes. You are after my immortal soul." His features grew stern, and Leslie glanced at him with some worry in her eyes.
"Yours!?" Mephistopheles retorted as if in disbelief. "Oh, Roarke, what ego! There are other souls here that are worth having too, you know." And before Leslie knew it, she found herself the target of Mephistopheles' calculating stare. She drew in a small sharp gasp, and Roarke realized exactly where his enemy's gaze was focused. He looked at Leslie in alarm, and she glanced back, eyes wide. Mephistopheles came down the steps from the dais on which his throne sat and said to Roarke, "I did warn you that we would meet again, didn't I? This time, I will win."
"I'll bet you don't," Leslie muttered, goaded despite herself. She simply couldn't stand seeing her guardian baited like that.
Mephistopheles overheard, unfortunately, and peered at her with heightened interest. Leslie realized too late that she'd spoken aloud and ducked behind Roarke, face full of apprehension and stomach abruptly stuffed with overexcited butterflies. "Leslie," Roarke said flatly, "it is most unwise to wager with the devil…"
Mephistopheles approached the frightened sixteen-year-old, and she actually let go of Roarke's arm in an attempt to back away from her guardian's enemy. "Why don't you join the party?" Mephistopheles offered with nasty meaning and an equally nasty smirk. "I can show you some real action."
"You get away from me," Leslie blurted at him, her entire body trembling.
Mephistopheles took it unusually well. "Very well," he said and rolled his head back to peer mockingly at Roarke over his shoulder. "We'll talk later…when your keeper is not around." He smirked one more time and then left them.
Leslie turned stunned, terrified eyes on Roarke. "I never meant for him to hear me," she insisted, her voice reed-thin with fright. "Honestly, I didn't."
Roarke gave a deep sigh and shook his head. "You must be very careful, Leslie," he warned her quietly. "I'm afraid that now, you are in grave danger too."
She went pale and he gently prodded her shoulder so that she would accompany him back to the main house. They walked briskly, but Leslie gradually fell behind, wrapped in a cloud of doom and fear, heartily wishing she had never opened her mouth. What in the world had possessed her to actually say such a thing? Of all the crazy mistakes she'd made in her time on Fantasy Island, this one was easily the worst.
Suddenly Roarke's voice penetrated her intense preoccupation. "Leslie, you are not an Islamic wife," he said with somewhat grim humor. "You need not walk ten paces behind me. Come up here beside me, child."
She gave him a haunted look, and he stopped altogether and turned to face her, extending his arm to her. "Aren't you completely fed up with me and my goofs yet?" Leslie finally asked incredulously, unable to accept that he might be anything other than very angry with her.
Roarke's expression grew a bit stern. "Leslie Susan," he said and sighed again, "I don't know who planted the idea in your head that you don't deserve protection or understanding or anything else just for having made a mistake, but I wish you would learn just how wrong that is. Granted, this particular mistake was extremely serious; but if we are very careful and work together, we can beat Mephistopheles. Perhaps, if you watch your step, you need not deal with him at all and I can simply face him myself, directly, without involving you." He studied her pale face and wide eyes. "But whatever happens, you should remember one thing. I made a promise to your mother sixteen years ago to take care of you and raise you to adulthood. As I told her, it was the final fulfillment of her fantasy. To properly carry out that fulfillment, I must protect you from harm—and I will do just that, whatever it takes."
"But…" Leslie began.
"No more excuses, and no more protests," Roarke overrode her. "Before you ask me if I am doing this merely out of a sense of duty, let me disabuse you of that absurd notion here and now. Astounding though you believe it to be, I find you a great joy to have around, and I am every bit as concerned for your safety and well-being as your mother would be, for the same reason. I love you, Leslie, just as your mother did."
Leslie smiled faintly and finally walked into his embrace. "I'll really try to stay out of trouble," she said. "But I have things I have to do, and I was supposed to meet Maureen later to talk about what we could bring to Myeko's Halloween party."
Roarke and Leslie, now each with an arm around the other, resumed their trek back to the main house. "I know it's unrealistic to keep you under lock and key until the weekend is over, or I have faced down Mephistopheles," he said. "But do try to take all possible care. Now, enough of that. It's time to address an elderly lady's complaint and fulfill hers and her friend's fantasy."
They had no sooner settled down at the desk than the foyer door opened and a gray head poked inside. Ruby Rogers cleared her throat and inquired, "May we come in?"
Roarke looked up. "Oh, by all means, please do," he urged with a smile. They shuffled in, both using canes, weighted down by enormous handbags and dressed as if for a blustery autumn day in hats and scarves. Each wore a rope of pearls around her neck. "Well, ladies, are you ready?" he inquired.
"For what?" snapped Ms. Rogers.
"I beg your pardon?" questioned Roarke blankly.
The old lady eyed him skeptically. "Well, Joan hinted you've already botched things up so far," she complained.
Roarke tried to look properly contrite. "Well, I will try to do better," he said, but Leslie saw the twinkle in his dark eyes and knew the crotchety old woman bothered him not at all. In fact, he simply turned and clapped his hands twice. A couple of the native girls brought out an ancient Victrola and set it atop a table beside a flower-filled vase; Leslie got up and drew back the curtain on an easel which displayed a large vintage theater poster of two of the original Ziegfeld girls. Ms. Rogers sat up straight and stared.
"Joanie! Joanie, that's us!" she exclaimed and gazed at the poster wistfully. "Oh, I was so beautiful…"
Mrs. Michaels rolled her eyes while Roarke and Leslie exchanged quick, amused glances. "Yes, Ruby," she said with strained patience, "you've told me before. Mr. Roarke, will we really look like that again?"
"Yes," Roarke assured her, "with certain conditions."
"Well, anything you say," Ms. Rogers said, apparently mollified at sight of her much younger self in the poster, "and we'll do it, whatever it is."
"Very well." Roarke came out from behind the desk and settled in the chair that matched the settee where Ms. Rogers and Mrs. Michaels sat. Leslie took a club chair and turned it around to face the proceedings. "First," Roarke said, "you must never tell anyone, under any conditions, that you are having a fantasy—or it will end immediately. Agreed?" The women nodded eagerly. "Please remember that you will return to your present ages after this weekend, and nothing on earth can prevent that. Nothing."
Mrs. Michaels shrugged philosophically. "Well, half a loaf, or even a few crumbs, are better than nothing," she remarked.
Roarke smiled, lifted an old 78-RPM record off a nearby shelf and blew the dust from it. "Of course, you remember the song that Florenz Ziegfeld made famous in his glorification of American beauty. He called you the most beautiful women in the world." Carefully he set the record onto the turntable and started the aging machine; the music that poured out of the big bronze horn sounded surprisingly clear for such an old record. While the music played, he spoke softly, almost hypnotically, from time to time. "Think back to those times, the early twenties…recapture the mood. Remember how it was…remember how you looked! The greats of the Ziegfeld Follies…" Leslie, watching him, saw him smile, almost as if he were calling back a memory; both the old women were sitting with their eyes closed and dreamy smiles on their faces. Despite herself, she felt herself falling into the mood as well, her eyes drifting shut as she tried to visualize what Roarke described. "Ah, yes, the names were legendary indeed! W.C. Fields, Al Jolson, and Eddie Cantor…George M. Cohan…Will Rogers…music by George Gershwin."
The record spun to an end and Roarke lifted the needle, then went to draw back the red curtains on a mirror that had once reportedly belonged to Helen of Troy. He smiled at sight of Leslie, sitting trancelike, and turned to his guests, clapping his hands once. "Well, ladies, satisfactory?" he inquired.
Leslie's eyes popped open at the sound of his voice and she stared, her jaw sinking in wonder. So did the two old women, at each other—but they were no longer old! Their gray hair had gone glossy brown in Mrs. Michaels' case and bright blonde on Ms. Rogers; the wrinkles had vanished, and their eyes sparkled. In the space of about two minutes, they had shed fifty-five years, and they were overjoyed.
Shrieking in delight, they leaped to their feet, stared at themselves in the mirror and at each other again. "Mr. Roarke, we take it all back—you're wonderful!" exclaimed Mrs. Michaels. Her voice had changed too, from scratchy to clear.
"Look at these legs…not a varicose vein anywhere!" marveled Ms. Rogers. More happy shrieks accompanied this observation, and they both danced around Leslie's chair as she watched with laughing fascination, kicking up their heels all the way. "Well, I certainly don't need my cane! Mr. Roarke, take these," Ruby Rogers blurted, handing Roarke her cane. As if by signal, both women loaded him down with their bulky handbags, canes, hats and scarves.
"Billie's young man wanted to know how it was done in the old days," Mrs. Michaels said with a grin. "Let's go show him!" With that, they pranced out.
Leslie burst out laughing at sight of her guardian all but staggering under the load of odds and ends that they'd left him with. "Need some help?" she offered.
"If you don't mind," said Roarke dryly, and she jumped out of her chair, still giggling, to help relieve him of his burden. They surveyed the items and looked at each other with large grins, slightly overwhelmed.
"I never saw two happier old ladies in my life," Leslie remarked, then reconsidered. "Well…ex-old ladies." Again they both laughed.
‡ ‡ ‡
Tattoo had been assigned to the Plummer fantasy, as it happened, so he was not much in evidence for the rest of that day. Julie, in her turn, was keeping an eye on the elderly women who weren't quite so elderly anymore; so that left Leslie somewhat at loose ends. Roarke, preoccupied with last-minute preparations for the Saturday luau, gave her little more than a quick nod when she told him she was on her way to meet Maureen, and started down a path that led toward Amberville.
About halfway there she noticed a dimming of the sunlight and peered overhead, hoping there wasn't going to be a storm; she pressed on another couple of feet and stopped short. Mephistopheles stood among the trees, head back and breathing deeply. What had happened to Maureen? Half convinced he knew, she demanded, "What are you doing here?"
"Oh!" Mephistopheles turned. "I'm just taking the air. I get so few opportunities on my job." I just bet, Leslie thought, eyeing him warily.
Just then Maureen's voice caught her attention. "Leslie, I hope I'm not late," she called out, and Leslie stared at her, wondering frantically if she could warn her friend away. She glanced back at Mephistopheles just in time to see him make a sort of flicking hand gesture toward Maureen, who let out a scream of fright as she abruptly dropped to her armpits into a pool of quicksand that Leslie knew hadn't been there before.
Instinctively she started for Maureen to try to lend assistance; but her own foot sank into quicksand while she was still out of Maureen's reach. "Help me," Maureen cried, her green eyes wide with panic. "Hurry, Leslie, I'm sinking!"
Mephistopheles watched, leaning against a rock and shaking his head in mock sympathy, as Leslie dropped to her hands and knees and stretched out as far as she could reach, straining to meet the hand Maureen extended toward her. Their grasp fell several inches short, to Leslie's horror.
"A pity," remarked Mephistopheles matter-of-factly. "It looks like she's going to die. It is such a shame—she's such a beautiful young girl."
At her wits' end and furious with the way he played uninterested bystander, she fired at him, "Please, for crying out loud! Help her!"
Mephistopheles launched himself off the rock and stared at her in surprise, then came over and knelt beside her. "You really do want me to help you, don't you?" he exclaimed softly. "Now, you know who I am…" Leslie's eyes filled with tears of frustration and she glanced back the way she had come, as if hoping someone else would happen upon the little scene. But of course, it was only the three of them. "I want to make one thing perfectly clear. You are calling upon the powers of darkness for help, am I correct?"
Leslie looked back at Maureen, now sunk up to her chin, and knew in that moment that she had no other recourse. "Please, help her!" she insisted, glaring at him momentarily. How could he just sit there and watch someone dying?
Mephistopheles smiled and reached out to touch her face as if in comfort; but she flinched away from him, freezing him and erasing the smile. "Very well," he said coolly and casually flicked four fingers upwards. In response a large, sturdy branch dropped to the ground in front of Leslie. Mephistopheles rose and backed away to take in the full scene, while Leslie grabbed the branch and held it out to Maureen. Maureen seized the other end, and Leslie pulled with everything in her until the branch snapped in half. She growled in frustration and tossed it aside; fortunately Maureen was close enough now that they could grasp each other's hands, and Leslie finally managed to tug her out of the quicksand.
"That's it, my dear, you look after her…for now," Mephistopheles said cheerfully. "We'll meet later!" Leslie stared up at him and his smug grin. "We have business to discuss." So saying, he walked off and left them where they were.
Maureen, panting from her exertion and residual fear, peered after him. "Who was that guy?" she demanded. "Someone you know?"
Leslie barely heard her, staring after the departing figure in horrified realization at the predicament she'd managed to get herself into. Maureen yanked at her sleeve. "Hey…Leslie, are you okay?"
She blinked and stared at her friend. "Uh…I…are you all right?"
"Yeah. A little shaky but okay. I really hate quicksand…fell into some once when I was little. I guess I better go home and change." Maureen started to get up, then paused and stared at her. "Leslie, you saved my life, and I'll never forget that. I hope someday I can return the favor." She smiled faintly and then headed back in the direction she had come; the pool of quicksand had magically vanished again, and she was able to walk across that area without mishap, though she didn't seem to notice.
Leslie watched her go, finally closing her eyes against tears of fright. The only person who could save her life now was Roarke.