Island of Icarus

by Christine Danse

  I was lucky, my surgeon had told me, lucky that part of the arm beneath the elbow could be saved. The intact tendons there had been fashioned with hooks that poked up from the healed flesh of the stump like savage talons. The three of them were able to articulate with the levers that controlled the prosthetic, allowing for movement that was almost natural. It was a very clever bit of technology, but the naked stump looked absolutely ghastly, and I had guarded it fiercely from view since my discharge from the hospital. No one besides my surgeon and nurses had ever seen it, save Marcus now.

  “Excuse me,” I muttered, hiding the whole eyesore under the water and looking away.

  “It’s quite all right,” he said. “I am not offended by your arm.”

  “I am,” I said, darkly, and reached for the floating heap of clothes. I propped my leg against the rock, then used it as a scrubbing board to mash the clothes clean with my good hand.

  “I have soap,” he offered in a mild voice, and soon I had lathered my entire body and the clothes while Marcus rested casually against the bank, soaking with closed eyes. His wet hair lay sleek against his skull, and I found myself admiring his features. No doubt the young doctor could have his pick of female companionship.

  My hand lingered as I soaped my groin under the water. I found that my cock, though no longer erect, remained in a state of semi-arousal. Even the faintest touch set my nerves on fire. My fingers trailed against my soft but rapidly firming flesh of their own accord. Just as my eyes began to slide shut with pleasure, his opened and met my gaze.

  An electric jolt of alarm and guilt coursed through me. What on God’s earth was I thinking? “Your soap,” I said quickly, placing it on a flat rock between us. I began to gather the clothing with my one hand, but he said, “Don’t worry about that. When I leave, I will take it. You can leave it to soak there.”

  I shifted uncomfortably against the edge of the lake, keeping my traitorous hand tucked behind the small of my back where it could perform no more scandals. With a stirring erection and no clothing to cover me, I was trapped under the water until Marcus retired from his bath. The more I fretted over my absurd and inappropriate behavior, the more my cock swelled. Meanwhile Marcus relaxed in the water, making no move to leave.

  I leaned my head back and stared at the canopy above, imposing the image of Cara on my mind’s eye. The curve of her waist, the luscious breasts, the trim ankles—so perfect. She was what any man would want. Yes, what every man should want. My eyes wrinkled as I thought of her, and the remembered pain tamed my cock to stillness. It reminded me that I was a gentleman biologist in polite exile, alive by the grace of my host.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” Marcus said gently, “how is it that you lost your arm?”

  “It was an accident.” I supposed it was only fair for him to ask. After all, I had inquired about his own misfortune. In truth, I was glad, because it was a relief to talk the whole nonsense out to a sympathetic ear. “An engine accident at the institution where I am employed. I was distracted with a matter in my personal life. A matter about a woman. Her name was Cara, and we were engaged to be married. The wedding was to be in a month. She left me.”

  My voice fell silent, and Marcus murmured, “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, not as sorry as me,” I said. “I didn’t sleep for more than a few hours in that first week. I was a mess. I was running a set of calculations through the library difference engine, and I wasn’t thinking. My cuff caught in the gears as it ran. It snagged me firmly. I hadn’t the energy or reflexes to pull myself free in time. It chewed my hand and forearm to a pulp, gummed up the whole works.” I turned my head aside, ill at the memory.

  His expression turned grim. “I’m terribly sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  I shook my head, miserable with the whole thing. “No, it’s all right. I just try not to think about it. If it weren’t for the entire bloody mess, I wouldn’t be here now. I would have two working arms, the chance to be tenured, to publish papers. Two manuscripts wilt in a box in England, simply waiting for review. They will never go further than that. And neither will I.”

  Marcus said nothing into this silence. Pitying me, I thought. I realized then that this island life was a holiday for him, a quiet respite while he perfected his research, safe from the distractions of society and the peering eyes of less innovative imitators. When he was through, he would publish his research, take his work back to the Americas, and live comfortably on his established reputation. A tenured professorship would be waiting for him, I was sure, and a busy private practice in mechanical prosthetics. And I? I was a ruined man, destroyed by my affections for a woman. I was a convenient test subject, an object of pity.

  There was a splash of water, and I turned to see Marcus swiftly tying a towel about his waist. I avoided his eyes as he stepped close to take the wet clothes from the lake. “If you care to wait a minute longer, I will bring you a towel and clothing.”

  I didn’t see that I had a choice, but civilly kept that comment to myself. It occurred to me that choice was just one thing I hadn’t had much of for the last year. I needed to resign myself to that.

  Marcus frowned and passed a troubled gaze over me. My story had disturbed him, then. I turned my eyes to the black surface of the lake and stared bitterly at my own reflection.

  Chapter Ten

  The afternoon and evening passed dismally. It rained, as Marcus had said it would. It was a monotonous, unending drizzle. I retired to my room to nurse my aching body and black spirit. Before the rain started, I had managed to clip several intriguing plant samples, and now I hunched over the table, describing them exhaustively on paper. If I didn’t keep my mind busy, my thoughts turned to self-pity or—worse—to the image of Marcus’s round, muscled chest rising from the water.

  Marcus came in once, apologetically, to ask how I was doing and to take the bird mount from the bench. My skin prickled as he crossed the room. “Fine,” I lied, swallowing a dry lump in my throat. I gave him the barest of glances and flat smiles, afraid of staring if I looked at him or appearing rude if I did not. He invited me to supper, but I had no hunger, only a hole inside of me that had nothing to do with want for food.

  Finished with the samples, I began a log of all that had happened to me since the shipwreck, hour by hour, detail for detail. Eventually I bored of this dry recount and started a list of every plant genus I had recognized so far. I described my observations of the altered finches, mused on how the introduction of rabbits into a predator-free environment would alter the island’s ecology, and made a list of all of the topics I would research when I returned to England, for—while I might never attain a tenured position or publish ground-breaking research—I could at least continue my career in biology. There was nearly infinite room for underdog intellectuals in the realm of science. Hundreds—nay, thousands—of jobs needed to be completed so that the true savants had literature to draw upon, like cataloguing new species and writing article drafts. These jobs took intellect, but not genius. Intellect I had, and I was good at these things. I even survived on them. Scientific inquiry was the fire inside of me. Indeed, it was all I truly had. It had always been enough for me, and it must always be enough.

  I wrote until well after dark, and then doused the lamp and went to bed not because I was tired, but because I was out of things to write and because habit demanded it. However, sleep would not come. Instead a sort of nervous pressure pressed against my mind, urging me to wakefulness. Pain worried me like a knife in my chest and a burning in my leg, and though Marcus had changed the wet bandage once I’d returned to the cabin, I wondered if I shouldn’t have taken that bath in the lake, after all. I tossed fitfully, thoroughly uncomfortable in body, in mind, in spirit.

  After a small eternity, the door quietly opened. I had just turned to face the wall, so I could not see Marcus, but I could sense his hesitant presence. Surprised, I turned. I could see him silhouetted by soft lamplight from the living room. He eased forward, slowly and
quietly. In a low voice, he said, “You are awake. Are you all right? I can hear you tossing.”

  I sat up, wincing with pain in my rib and then stumbling because of the wooden unresponsiveness of my right arm. I gripped it with my left hand and worked it back and forth to wind the clockwork. “I apologize,” I said, abashed. “I suppose I have a good bit on my mind.”

  “And you are in pain, I imagine.”

  I grimaced. “It is tolerable.” A sudden thought struck me. “Where are you sleeping?” The cabin had but two rooms, this one and the study. The only bed I had ever noted was the one I occupied.

  Marcus now stood but a foot away, so I could see the shadow of his shoulder as he shrugged. “On the floor.” Immediately, I let out a cry of “Oh!” and began to swing to the side of the bed, but he planted a warm hand against my shoulder and said, “A jest. I sleep in the chair in the study. It’s actually quite comfortable.”

  “The chair!” I said. That didn’t seem much better than the floor.

  “Shh, it’s all right. And I came here for you, not for me.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, both embarrassed and flattered. “Although now I’m afraid I will never be able to sleep knowing that I’ve put my host out of his own bed.”

  “Then I suppose there is only one choice. We shall have to share it,” was his quick reply. I gaped at him, unable to speak, and he held up a hand. “A jest! Simply a jest.” He took a step backward.

  A deluge of emotions broke over me like a sudden, violent wave. Guilt, alarm, a breath-stealing fear. Respect, humility. And there, yes, was want—a need for human closeness, for this presence that cared for and acknowledged me—and shame because of that want. And more than that, greater than the shame, was the need. “No,” I said before he had made it halfway across the room. I chose my words with care. “No, it seems…like a fair compromise. I have a suspicion you would not allow me to take your place in the chair. So.” I shifted in the bed closer to the wall. It would be wide enough for the both of us, but only just so.

  He hesitated a moment, and then closed the distance to the door. With his hand on the door he asked, “Are you sure?” At my steadfast, “Yes,” he closed it, then came to the bed and slid carefully onto the linens next to me. I threw the sheet over him and sank back into the pillow with every muscle tense. The warmth of his body traveled quickly under the covers. For many moments, I dared not move, lest I bump against him. Indeed, I barely breathed.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “Do you have enough room? If you become uncomfortable, let me know. I don’t want to make matters worse.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, closing my eyes and taking a deep, slow breath, mindful of my ribs. “I will let you know.”

  I felt rather than saw him nod. There was silence after that. I focused on the sound and character of his breathing, which lengthened and deepened after a time. When I was sure he was asleep, I opened my eyes again and slowly relaxed. In truth, I had just as much difficulty falling asleep knowing my host was in bed next to me as I would have knowing he was in a chair. I wondered if I should have insisted on taking that chair myself. Of the two of us, at least he could have benefited properly from the bed, and I would have had a ready supply of texts to occupy my wakeful hours.

  But then, he wouldn’t have allowed that, would he? He continually expressed genuine concern for my well-being, and not just as a test subject. Even Cara had not shown me this deference. If she did anything for me without immediate personal gain, she made sure that I knew how fortunate I was to have her. She thrived on attention. Apparently I had never given her enough.

  I was afraid I may have been unfair and incorrect in my earlier judgment of Marcus. For all that he was a genius well on his way to fame and fortune, he was a shipwrecked man, like me. And, also like me, he was an outsider of society. Who else could live like a hermit on a remote island? He had built his own home and his own life here and had even found the means to continue his research. Now, he shared this all with me without asking for anything in return.

  I was aware of Marcus’s warmth next to me, and how much I needed it, how much I needed that closeness. It came to me as a wrenching yearning, and I understood at once that this was not something new. It had been buried inside of me for so long that I had for all intents forgotten it. My eyes burned, and tears sprang up as they had two nights ago in his study. This time I let them come. They welled in my eyes and tipped down over my cheeks.

  A memory came to me then, almost as vivid as if it had happened yesterday: Cara, calling upon me at work, and me distracted and vaguely annoyed. She wanted me to walk in the park with her and perhaps come home for dinner. I told her I’d work to do, and her features screwed into an expression of pouting anguish. She reached a hand to me before she went, perhaps a last attempt to connect, or to supplicate, or simply to feel me. I grasped her hand in mine stiffly and awkwardly, no more personally than a handshake. A dim awareness caused me to pull her into a hug, but even that embrace was tense and brief. However, it was enough to douse the anger in her eyes. When she departed they were like wet coals, dark and damp. I recognized her anger and disappointment, but at the time did not think much of it. She was bold and impulsive, calling upon me at the university without warning and expecting me to drop what I was doing. If she was disappointed, it was not my fault. Did she not respect the importance of what I did?

  That was not it at all, though. No, she had not been impulsive or bold or selfish, but human. She had been seeking connection with me and I had avoided it, repeatedly and frequently. Often, when I’d thought I was busy with work, or too tired, or in need of personal space, I had truly been avoiding her. The pouting and the demands for attention had simply been her desperate efforts to draw from me what I should naturally have been giving her; affection and genuine regard. In the end she had simply done the only thing she could have. She left.

  It had not been Cara at all. It had been me. I had been hurting her, and in return I was now in every sort of imaginable pain—physical, emotional, spiritual. It was my fault. I was the cause of all of this pain.

  At that, my throat closed and the tears flowed freely. Every muscle in my chest tightened, but the pain did not stop me from beginning to shake. It only served as a sharp reminder of what I had done to myself, and I began to cry harder.

  My God, I’ll wake him up, I thought. I turned to the wall and curled into myself, attempting to quiet the silent, shaking gasps. A moment later, Marcus stirred.

  “Jon?” he asked, sleepily. Then, more clearly, “Are you all right?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m fine. I’m sorry. I’m fine.” My voice trailed into a strained whisper.

  “No, I don’t think you are. Come here.” He was propped on his side, facing me. I turned minutely to see that he had lifted his arm.

  I relaxed and uncurled my body. I twisted to say, No, I’ll be all right. I’m so sorry. I’ll take the chair, but my speaking muscles spasmed and I only groaned. Yes, to the chair, where I could continue to cry in loneliness and leave Marcus to his bed.

  He did not give me the chance to decide. He lowered his arm across my chest and pulled me against him, strong and warm and secure. I gasped with surprise, dismay, and pain. His voice near my ear murmured, “It’s all right. There is no one here but me. It’s all right.”

  His words released the floodgate. Like a fist around my heart, every muscle in my chest twisted tight, and I convulsed in his arms with a wrenching sob. It was followed by another, and another—one after the other, broken only by sharp, strident breaths. The bed shook with the sobs. Marcus’s arm tightened across my chest, holding me steady as my body bucked fitfully.

  My eyes poured tears, my nose grew runny, and my body shuddered. I had lost all composure, any control I’d had. The only thing left of me was tears, and wailing, and my ragged breaths, and my body shaking against Marcus.

  If I began to quiet for a moment, another thought would come, unbidden, to trigger the sobs again. I clu
ng to Marcus’s arm, held it to me fiercely. Teeth chattering, jaw clenched, I cried, “I never loved her! Oh, God, I never even loved her!” and curled around his arm as another fit ripped my breath from me. They were reaching a hysterical note.

  There it was. The truth I had been hiding from. It had all been a lie. I had never really loved Cara at all. I had been fond of her, certainly, and had even thought I had wanted her as my wife. But I had never loved her.

  My breath was stolen by a long series of hissing, convulsive, dry sobs that never seemed to end. The muscles in my back, stomach, and jaw locked and burned. They threatened to burst themselves. An involuntary, animal groan squeezed up from my gut.

  “Ssshhh,” soothed Marcus, rubbing his trapped hand against my shoulder. “Calm down, now. Slow your breathing. You’ll faint.”

  I reigned in the next sob and shuddered on the long, sharp intake of breath. I let it out with a gush through my clenched teeth. I groaned helplessly with it. My stomach muscles trembled with the force of another sob that attempted to take me, but I swallowed it back with a miserable cry.

  “Sssshhh. That’s it. It’s all right,” said Marcus, massaging my shoulder painfully now. I hadn’t the breath to complain. It was strangely centering.

  Slowly, I relaxed into him. Every few moments I was seized by a sudden, spontaneous sob that threatened to break me apart again, but Marcus anchored me with his strong arms around my chest. Finally, the convulsions ended. I lay panting, spent and hollow. My face itched with tears. My mouth hung open, and my nose was thoroughly stopped up.

  With the calm returned a vague sense of dignity, and with that, an awareness of how I clung to Marcus. Yet, I could not muster the strength nor spirit to care. I was only grateful, and—vaguely, weirdly—rebellious. God, let me have this. At least let me have this.