§ § § -- Santi Arcuros, Arcolos – 1537
Half an hour later Steve and Marissa were in a quiet, if cramped, little room on the second floor of the baker's brother's inn, left with a bottle of wine and a basket of bread and muffins, and were staring at each other. Steve was hopeful, Marissa simmering. "You're trying to change history, Stephen Karadimas," she said accusingly.
He jolted and gawked at her. "Marissa, Roarke never said a word about changing history. He never told us it wasn't possible, nor did he forbid us from attempting it. And for crying out loud, this would be a change for the better! Besides, you yourself said that the Swiss government made the offer in 1538. Right now it's sometime in 1537, according to that baker. Depending on the month—or maybe even not—it could very well be 1538 before the request even gets to the ears of some influential Swiss. And if we're going to stay…"
"How do you know I want to stay?" Marissa demanded. "What if I want to go back to one of the cultures we've already visited?"
Steve finally lost his temper. "Marissa, will you listen to yourself? Every time we came back from one of our visits, you were horrified at the carnage and the brutality that went on, the poor living conditions of far too many people and the sheer indifference of those in a position to do something about it. You cringed at the filth and destitution we saw in sixteenth-century London. You were almost fed to some pagan god in Tenochtitlán, and that scared you out of living with the Aztecs. You were completely disillusioned when the peaceful Australian Murri tribe turned out to be less than peaceful once threatened. You wanted to punish every Roman in sight for cheering the deaths of gladiators for sport. You threw up when Magnus Ormssvärd ran his sword through a drunken wife-beater. You cried and screamed at sight of Hawaiian Polynesians going through gory self-flagellation rituals at the death of their leader. You got sick yet again when we witnessed King Philip's War in what's now southeastern Massachusetts and part of Rhode Island—this after telling Roarke and his daughter that the Narragansett Indians had always intrigued you. When Peter the Great turned out to be a cold and unfeeling czar who regularly executed those whose only 'offense' was to dress in the wrong color, you decided Russia was just too damn primitive and backward for you. Now you're all up in arms because Arcolos is having growing pains, yet you don't want me to offer any help when we're in a position to give it! Tell me, Marissa, what exactly have you been looking for in this fantasy, anyway?"
Marissa goggled at him, shocked beyond words. All she could do was make a tiny, strangled sound of protest and shake her head. Steve rolled his eyes. "Well, I don't know as we're gonna stay here," he said, "but here we have a chance to make a difference, and I'm damn well going to. If Roarke wants to read us the riot act when we get back, let him. I'm not letting this ride on my conscience for the rest of my life. We're going through with this, Marissa, and there's nothing you can do to stop me."
She finally found her voice, a creeping annoyance bubbling up at last. "But Steve… what if it isn't possible? What if history does what it always did, no matter how much effort you make? Did you think of that?"
He stilled and stared at her; it was clear that this hadn't crossed his mind. "Well," he said finally, "I have to try, that's all. We stood by and gawked like a couple of fools in all the other situations. Not this time. Not if there's something we can do. I just realized, Marissa, out there in the street when we first saw that riot flare up. Roarke tried to explain it to us before we ever even started this fantasy. Every time and place in history has its carnage, its brutality, its cruelty, its hatred. We're no different in our own time: we just have bigger and nastier weapons, that's all. About the only real difference is that we can commit war on a global scale instead of a local one. War is still war in any century, death is the same in every time and place, and the human struggle is eternal." He took in her stunned expression and the tears in her eyes. "It's true, Marissa, don't tell me it hasn't crossed your mind too. There's really only one thing we can do, and that's to try to make things better for ourselves and those we have influence on: our family, our friends, my students, your museum tour groups… anyone we can reach. Let me do this one thing, just jump-start history maybe a tiny bit…and then we've got to go home, honey. It was the only choice we ever really had."
He watched her shake her head in a daze, and then begin to cry as if the world were about to end. Stephen Karadimas enfolded his wife into his arms and let her deal with the realization in her own way. It had been no easier for him to accept what Roarke had tried to tell them their first day on Fantasy Island, but he knew in spite of his wishes to the contrary that there was nothing else they could do. He closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair, rocking her gently back and forth.
The sound of a door opening made them both look up and then start with shock: they were no longer in Santi Arcuros of 1537, but on Fantasy Island of 2001, in the room where they'd first begun their adventure a week before. Roarke stood in the doorway, regarding them with silent sympathy. Gently he said, "Your fantasy is over."
"But…we never had the chance…" Steve began to protest.
"History cannot be changed," Roarke broke in, still speaking in that quiet voice. "You had all good intentions, and that's quite understandable—and commendable. But you are well aware that the Arcolosian people had to, and did, find their own solutions."
"Why are we back here already?" asked Marissa, brushing at tears.
"Because you have both come to understand and accept the truth: that there is no truly peaceful period in human history, no refuge from the outside world. As you said, Professor Karadimas, this was the only choice you ever really had. Perhaps you cannot change things on a global scale, but you can certainly wield your share of influence over those you love and those you teach. Like the ripples in a pond, that influence and those words will spread outward from the source, and one day there will be a difference—if enough people are willing to try." Roarke smiled at them. "You no longer needed to remain in the past: you have finally learned to accept and embrace the present."
His guests looked at each other, Marissa through still-watery eyes, and Steve nodded slowly. "You're right, Mr. Roarke. You're right."
"I hope it's all right if we stay till our flight tomorrow morning," Marissa said. "We've spent all our time here running around history, and I think we should do your island the justice it deserves and just act like tourists for the day." She grinned sheepishly and added, "Modern-day tourists, that is."
They all laughed and Roarke nodded, stepping aside to allow them out. "By all means, please feel free to enjoy any and all attractions. Let yourselves relax. You've both earned it." They nodded and thanked him, then left the house with their arms around each other, both in silent contemplation. Roarke pulled the time-travel-room door closed, took care to lock it once more, and then leaned against it with a soft sigh and a lingering smile.
§ § § -- November 5, 2001
When Steve and Marissa Karadimas stepped out of the car at the plane dock Monday morning, they were astonished to see that Roarke was accompanied by a tall, very handsome younger man with an infectious grin and dark-brown hair. "What happened to your daughter, Mr. Roarke?" Marissa asked worriedly. "Is she all right?"
"She came down with a fever overnight," Roarke said. "This is her husband, Christian, who tells me it was all he could do to make her remain in bed."
"I hope you two enjoyed your fantasy," Christian said and shook hands with them. "I'm told it was traveling through time to various countries. It sounds fascinating."
"It was," Marissa agreed with a smile. "More than we knew."
Steve was peering at Christian with curiosity, squinting as if trying to place him; then he mumbled, "You know, you look familiar…"
Christian raised his eyebrows in mute question, and Marissa gasped. "My word, Steve, of course he looks familiar! Don't you recognize him? This is Prince Christian, of Lilla Jordsö! Your Highness, yours was one of the countries we visited in our fantasy!"
Christian grinned. "So I hear! What did you think of it?"
"It was very interesting," Steve observed diplomatically, and Christian and Roarke both laughed. "I noticed a lot of discrepancies between stated history and actual events, though. For one thing, that legendary swim those first Vikings took was mostly a boat trip; and the place known as Ormssvärd's Landing wasn't really the actual site. We have a guidebook printed up nine or ten years ago, and there are a lot of misstatements in that too. It says Birka was the first settlement when it was actually Ormssvärd's Landing; the book says it took place at sunset when it was actually sunrise…"
"Oh, Steve, stop disillusioning the poor man," Marissa scolded. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. Steve's a stickler for detail."
"That's perfectly all right," Christian said, "and incidentally, technically you really shouldn't be addressing me as 'Your Highness' since my title was revoked. I'm afraid I still forget that myself. At any rate, it would be nice if somehow you could set our history straight—if only anyone would believe how you learned it." They all laughed.
"I'd just like to know where that Viking-ship model came from," Steve said. "I've been wanting to find out."
"Christian built it," Roarke said. "He was kind enough to lend it to us for the fantasy."
Steve shook his head. "Fabulous detail. It's exquisite. A shame Marissa couldn't display it in her museum."
Christian shrugged but looked pleased. "Thank you," he said. "I do hope you'll have a safe and pleasant trip home." Roarke echoed him; they all shook hands, and Steve and Marissa ambled to the plane dock.
Christian eyed Roarke then. "Tell me, Mr. Roarke…was there actually a Thorsten Långsvärd? I'm afraid our history knew the identity only of my ancestor, not any of those who came ashore with him."
Roarke regarded him with a faint smile, then said, "Perhaps it's better to leave some mysteries unsolved, Christian. And before you ask, no, I don't think you should check with Leslie. Consider yourself fortunate that our guests didn't recognize you as your alter ego, and be satisfied with that."
Christian sighed and said, "No wonder Leslie sometimes has a disgruntled look about her when I come to pick her up on Mondays." Roarke burst out laughing.
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Next up: Christian learns the hard way to believe what he's told. Stay tuned…