Island of Icarus

by Christine Danse

“It feels wonderful.” I gripped my left hand with my right. The hand was strong, but it was a controlled strength—unlike that of the previous arm, which frequently crushed objects at random.

  My host leaned toward me with obvious excitement. “Now that you’re awake, I can have you perform a battery of tests for me. Strength, flexibility, dexterity, precision, accuracy. Once properly calibrated, it should work as well as a natural arm. Well, better, actually.” Hastily, he added, “Once you are clothed and comfortable, that is.”

  “Yes, please,” I said, rather gratefully. I flexed the hand again, and shook my head in wonderment. “How did you do this?”

  “Join me for dinner this evening, and I will tell you all about it.” He smiled, rose, and left me alone with a clean, worn set of clothing and a basin of water.

  Chapter Four

  Alone, I sat up slowly and dangled from the side of the bed, a much more difficult task than I had anticipated. Every muscle protested, and my body’s responses felt rusty. I gasped aloud from the pain and clutched my smarting ribs as the world spun and the floor threatened to heave up and meet me. I sat like that for some time, long after the dizziness had abated. I was in no hurry to discover the extent of my injuries.

  Eventually, I pulled the sheet from my body, and with much trepidation, explored my trunk and limbs for signs of injury. A bulky bandage covered my left lower leg. Underneath this bandage lay the source of considerable pain. Save for that leg—and a scattering of bruises and scratches all over my body—I was remarkably whole. I wondered if the inside of my body had remained as unscathed, for I felt as if I had been trampled by a herd of cattle. Every breath pained me. A fractured rib seemed the likeliest culprit.

  For some minutes, I sat and looked at my new prosthetic arm. The clockwork was largely hidden behind plates of brass and steel, making it seem somehow more whole and less vulgar. The plates had been pounded out flat and shaped with a hammer, then polished to a shine, all with obvious care and skill. It was practically a piece of art, this arm—functional art. I barely heard a sound as I curled each finger, wonderingly, one by one. I grabbed the air and made a fist, waved it in front of my face and flexed it, and touched the skin of my face with the slender, cold fingertips. Truly a marvel.

  Gingerly, I donned the clothing that had been left for me. A simple shirt, one size too large, and a pair of pants that I strained forward to fold at the cuff. Both were thin and soft from age and use. The basin of water had been left on a stand against the wall several feet away. Standing to reach it was a feat in itself. I went slowly, clutching onto furniture, and splashed water over my face. Four days worth of beard rasped under my fingertips. When I felt stronger, my first task would be to beg a razor from my host and groom myself back to the image of civility.

  The room was a strange combination of elegance and improvisation. The walls were of a dark wood planking, and the whole place smelled like the cabin of a ship—that peculiar, pleasant scent of wood treated by salty air. The lacquered wooden table across the room was accompanied by mismatched chairs—both upholstered—and the walls were decorated with an eclectic collection of paintings and cross-stitched pictures.

  An oil lamp burned on the table, casting buttery light across the room. I spied only one window, and that was just above the bed. When I drew aside the thick curtain, I discovered that it was, in fact, the porthole from a ship. Through it, I spied a rich, green landscape that was completely unfamiliar to me. The sun hung very low on the horizon.

  Laid out on a large bench were several dissected birds whose wings had been splayed open. They seemed to belong to one of the thick-billed finch species described by Darwin. Great skill and care had been taken in dissecting them. Individual wing muscles had been separated and painstakingly pinned to the board onto which the birds had been temporarily mounted. One pair of wings had been stripped of every muscle down to the bones, yet every jet-colored flight feather remained intact and spread for display. Some of the anatomy had been labeled, as if this mount was being prepared for daguerreotypy. Next to this macabre display, grouped together on the remaining bench space, was a scattering of tarnished mechanical parts. With a start, I realized that these belonged to my previous arm—in fact, they were my previous arm.

  The low sound of birds chirping drew my attention to a gilded bird cage above the table. At first, I had thought it only decorative, but I looked toward it and discerned movement. Upon further inspection, I found two finches hopping about inside. They were common yellow finches, but had a glittering wing plumage that I had never seen before. Curiosity piqued, I took the lamp and held it up to the bars. To my surprise, the feathers of their wings were actually delicate slivers of metal foil. The entire wings were mechanical—miniature prosthetics so sophisticated that their movement seemed entirely natural. They furled, unfurled, and fluttered exactly like real wings. I noted at once that they were not steam powered, and I did not see any signs of clockwork. How, then, did they work?

  Curiosity compounded upon curiosity. I set down the lamp and quietly opened the door, intent on finding answers from my mysterious host.

  Chapter Five

  The living area I entered was hardly larger than the room behind me and continued the theme of makeshift, yet pleasing, decor. A dark, artfully inlaid table was the centerpiece of the room. Teetering on the floor at its farthest end were piles of books, papers, and crates, as if someone had hastily cleared the table of work. Given the nautical nature of the dwelling, I surmised that the little cabin had been built from the remains of a ship. I spied two other doors leading from this main room, each of a different size, style, and kind of wood. And tucked into one corner of the room was a cast iron stove that looked like it rather belonged in a galley, fat and black with its pipe poking haphazardly through the ceiling.

  The smell of wood smoke was pungent in the air, though I spied that the stove in the corner was dark and cool. It did not remain a mystery for long, for at that moment the door across from me opened and in walked my host, carrying a long, charred spit. Two fowl were skewered on this, cooked golden and crisp. With him came a stronger smell of smoke and the mouthwatering aroma of roasted meat.

  “Ah,” he said when he saw me. “You’re up! How do you feel?”

  “Like a freight train ran me over,” I said, honestly, with a wry smile. I struggled to control a waterfall of saliva.

  He responded with a sympathetic smile. “Are you hungry?”

  “Quite,” I said, quickly and with a flood of relief, then just as quickly bit my tongue at my frankness.

  He only chuckled. With a wave of his hand he bade me to take a seat, then took one of the birds to a small table near the stove and chopped it apart with quick strokes. As he plied the knife, my gaze rested on the pulse of his triceps, then traveled down to the curve of his toned calves. I mused that he must be a quick runner and fast with his hands.

  We supped on the fresh fowl. Though it was unfamiliar to me, I found it quite agreeable, especially as it was the first meal I’d had in over three days. Only when I was finished did I realize that I had forgotten myself. Juices covered my hands and mouth. I looked apologetically to my host, who pleasantly pretended not to notice.

  “Thank you,” I said, once I had wiped my mouth and hands. “I see that you can cook, as well as craft prosthetics. Oh! My name is Jonathan.”

  “And I am Marcus. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ll admit I was beginning to worry for you. It was beginning to seem like you would never wake, so it pleases me to see you up—and with such a healthy appetite.” His smile was kind. He took a polite bite of his fowl, and then continued. “You asked how I fixed your arm. I am a mech surgeon. I received my education in Maryland and practiced there for five years. However, the clumsiness of the technology frustrated me, and so I left my practice to study experimental new technology.”

  “I saw the finches,” I said.

  His eyes lit up, and he continued excitedly. “Ah! I am proud of them. The
y are a new technology using Tessla’s wireless electricity. It’s a pity they can’t fly, though. A—Well, that’s a different subject altogether,” he said, seeming to catch himself. “Your arm is a different sort of technology. An advanced clockwork system, something I have been developing for another project of mine. The electricity would not work unless you had an independent supply of power, which is feasible, but not practical in the least bit.” He paused only a second before continuing. “I will admit you are my first human subject with this new technology. You were rather a Godsend, really. There aren’t many people—much less optimal subjects—around here. Of course, I would have asked your permission,” he added. “However, you were in no shape to answer, and the prosthetic you had needed to go, lest you lose the whole arm. It seemed a pity to leave you without a replacement. So, here you are. And there it is. I wasn’t jesting about those tests, by the way. When you are feeling up to it, I would like to test and tweak the arm. I have a feeling that what you are experiencing now is only half of what the arm is capable of.”

  I reeled from this onslaught of information. “Are we in the Galapagos?”

  “No. We are on a small island north of them. Is that where you were headed?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I was to catalogue fauna. I’m a biologist.”

  “Wonderful! Wonderful. Well, it looks like you undershot your destination. Ships pass this way every few months. You should be able to find passage aboard one. Of course, you are welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

  I was struck by the sincerity of his offer. Relaxed now with a full stomach, I finally took full notice of him in the lamp light. He was of a medium height and build, compact, with sloping shoulders. The worn, loose white shirt he wore only accentuated their solid musculature. His dark blond hair was bleached to a golden hue that bespoke many hours in the sun, and it framed a high forehead and triangular jaw. The lamplight pooled in his hazel irises and made them appear almost green. Those deep-set eyes and the straight brows just above them gave him something of a brooding look, even when he smiled.

  I felt a fluttering in my stomach. I had felt it before in the presence of other distinguished men, and always dismissed it as nervousness. I considered myself merely a standard specimen of the male sex, and as for intelligence, I was content with remaining a grunt of the academic world, so to speak. I was no great theorist myself, no Darwin in the making. I was simply a man with an education, a sense of curiosity, and enough grasp of the English language to communicate what I discovered. Certainly no great surgeon or mechanical engineer.

  I cleared my throat. “Well, I am not sure how you learned to cook, but that was very good.”

  He smiled at me as if I had made a joke. “Necessity breeds ingenuity.”

  My pain, briefly forgotten in my frenzy of hunger, returned suddenly with a vengeance. Sheepishly, I excused myself.

  Chapter Six

  I awoke the next morning feeling remarkably refreshed, and found my host absent. Not wishing to abuse his trust, I sat quietly at the dining table and flipped through one of the displaced books, a well-worn volume regarding the anatomy of flight. At intervals I stepped outside to survey the landscape from the doorstep. The foliage was lush and verdant, quite unlike anything I’d ever seen. Without walking more than a foot from the door, I could already distinguish at least three different species of ferns beneath a crowding of green trees and coconut palms. A path leading from the door that disappeared around the little house. I noticed a cooking pit several yards away and recalled last night’s roasted fowl.

  It was late in the morning when Marcus returned. I was sitting at the table reading a passage on the implausibility of a bee’s flight when he came through the door, flushed from the sun and heat. The blond hair was tousled and his eyes were bright, as if they had captured some of the sunlight. He shouldered a wicker bag to the ground, and I saw gnarled pieces of driftwood.

  “Well, hello!” he puffed, slightly out of breath. He piled the driftwood beside the stove with quick, economic movements. “How do you feel?”

  “Better,” I said. “Much better. Thank you.” I pressed a hand lightly against my ribs where they still smarted whenever I took a deep or quick breath. And there, too, was that fluttering in my stomach again, probably triggered by guilt for having been found reading a book from his personal collection. Or perhaps I was awed and overwhelmed by the elemental force with which he blew into the room, all sweat and lean muscle. It jarred my image of him as a gentleman surgeon and engineer. Here was something wilder.

  From a satchel at his waist, he produced two handfuls of eggs and an assortment of exotic fruits. This became breakfast. “As you can imagine, I don’t entertain many guests,” he said as we finished. “Typically I subsist on a diet that mainly consists of discovery and distraction. Say, would you like a small tour outside? Are you feeling well enough?”

  “Yes, on both accounts,” I said, relieved to find some other outlet for my nervous energy and attention. “I am anxious to see just how many new species of fern I will be able to discover and describe. This accident may prove to be a blessing in disguise,” I added, with a timid grin.

  “That’s the spirit!”

  He led me down a narrow path through a thick, vibrant forest. Perhaps it was good that I did not have my notebook and watercolors with me, for I stopped every few feet to gawk at some new flower or fern, and would have spent hours detailing them.

  “Oh, the Galapagos are just lizard-infested rocks compared to this island,” Marcus assured me, patient with and amused by my frequent, excited stops. “You won’t find these rainforests there.” He walked with sure, long strides, apparently confident with the environment and himself.

  Quite abruptly the thick cover of trees and foliage cleared away, and I found myself standing on a curving stretch of beach. The sun was just at its zenith, and I began to understand how my host had earned his swarthy complexion. The beach seemed to sit back in a relatively small, protected alcove. To either side of us, the coast rose into dramatic sea cliffs. Over these, tumbles of lush forest nearly spilled down into the water. It was a breathtaking scene.

  I walked in a slow circle, noting ocean, beach, forest, and a swell of mountains. Marcus paused, allowing me a long minute to take it all in. Perhaps he had once had a similar reaction. “It must be volcanic,” I said of the island. “And not terribly old, at that.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I drew the same conclusion. I will show you samples of rock, sometime. It is black and porous. And the mountains are magnificent. There are forests up there, in those clouds. I have walked the circumference of this island, but I’ve never made it up one of those peaks. One of these days. Soon. Very soon.”

  A large dark shape marred the otherwise perfect white stretch of beach. It was a makeshift wooden platform, and on it stood several barrels and cords of driftwood. I also spied an assortment of poles and a scattering of detritus that was drying under the sun. “You’re a salvager,” I said.

  “I make by with what I find, yes,” he said. “I was shipwrecked myself, you see.” I must have seemed surprised, for he said, “I didn’t end up on this island by design. Like you, I was marooned. The entire ship went down. I drifted onto this shore with pieces of the ship. I spent months salvaging that wreck. It covered not only this beach, but all of the island’s northern shore.”

  “And you’ve remained?” I asked, surprised.

  “Like you, I was on my way to study in the Galapagos. Besides prosthetics, I have an avid interest in birds. Honestly, I needed a break from society. Here, I have birds and solitude in plenty. I’ve seen no reason not to stay.”

  His words struck an odd chord with me. We shared a significant glance, perhaps recognizing something familiar in each other.

  From the beach, Marcus led me back under the cover of the trees, inland to a crystalline river that he used for cleaning and, upstream, for drinking. It ran fresh and fast, fed by the large amounts of rain that the island received. Downstream,
the river ran into a small, shallow lake that he used as a bathing hole. It was fringed with ferns and protected from the sun by thick foliage.

  By the time we had returned to the cabin, not far from the river, the equatorial heat had baked me into a stupor. Marcus fed me leftover fowl and bid me to nap. At first I protested, but he kindly insisted. I was abashed to find myself quickly drifting asleep.

  Chapter Seven

  For the second time that day, I awoke to find my host absent. However, the other door in the living room now stood open, and at the sound of the bedroom door closing behind me, Marcus appeared in its threshold. “Feeling better?” he asked.

  “Much,” I admitted, though pain lanced through my ribs when I spoke.

  He may have noticed my wince, for he said, “Come join me and have a seat. Let me look at that bandage, and perhaps, if you are feeling up to it, I can examine your arm.”

  I followed him into a study with a beautiful mahogany desk in one corner and a wall almost filled with books. “You salvaged…all of these?”

  “Oh, no. Certainly not. I was fortunate to capture the attention of a ship several months after my shipwreck. We developed a sort of trade agreement. Fruit, smoked meats, animals, and my marvelous creations in return for books, the occasional canned delicacy, pipe tobacco, and parts.”

  A devilish question came to me. What did the man do for female companionship? But that was certainly no proper thought for an English gentleman. “You are very industrious,” I murmured politely.

  “I keep myself busy enough. What else am I to do?” He drew me to an armchair at the far end of the small room and bade me to sit in it while he took the ottoman. I felt a fluttering of nervousness as he scooted close and took my leg in his hands. I held my breath as he unwrapped it.