A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

The following evening, after a smooth and uneventful sail, they dropped anchor north-west of Norman Island and lowered the dinghy. Michael did not like the dinghy one bit. It was very small, and very rusty, and very dented, and there was a hole in the bottom. It had the undeniable appearance of an Unsafe Mode of Transportation. "Here," Legolas had said shortly when they'd climbed in, handing him a plastic Cool Whip container. By then, Michael knew what that meant: Bail.

So he bailed while Legolas manned the outboard and Arwen and Doris sat at the bow. He tried to convince himself he was bailing Manfully, but was forced to admit privately that there was really nothing very Manly about bailing, especially when halfway there Doris knelt in the slop at the bottom of the dinghy, took the plastic tub from him, and said, "Here, let me do this for a while." He had protested, wanting to be Gentlemanly even if he couldn't be Manly, but Arwen had hoisted him over to the seat beside her and said, "Let her. We're all taking turns."

"Except Legolas," said Michael, and from the stern Legolas flashed him a white grin.

"Gotta steer the fuckin' boat, mate," he'd said innocently, and Doris, from her post in the bottom of the boat, stuck out her tongue at him.

Michael had not told Frances about his dreams. He'd asked Legolas, when they'd awoken entwined together, curled up at the prow of the boat, what he should do, and Legolas had advised him to keep his mouth shut. "No sense worryin' him when it won't do a bit of bloody good," he'd said pensively, looking across the glassy golden surface of the early morning ocean. "Best keep this to ourselves." He fell into a deep reverie, and was silent and still so long Michael thought perhaps he'd forgotten all about him, but after a couple of minutes he murmured, almost to himself: "Not sure where he stands, my lord. Will it turn him or drive him away?" But as the Voice did not answer him in Michael's hearing, he didn't know what the answer could be.

By the time Arwen had gotten down into the bilge water to bail, Michael could see the shoreline clearly. It rose like a tawny mound out of the turquoise mirror of the water, palm trees rustling and shifting in the breeze, the waves glaring white beneath the climbing sun. The shadows beneath the palms and chikki huts were blue-gray and sharp, and there was only one man, dark with white clothing, moving about in the sandy shade amongst scattered boxes and barrels. Michael squinted and tried to shade his eyes with his hand, wishing, not for the first time in two weeks, that he'd had the foresight to bring his Ray-Bans with him to The Lido. "But then I probably would've forgotten them when we left," he thought resignedly, "and they'd be all blown up. At least they're still safe on my dresser."

Legolas said something to Arwen in the soft sibilant language they all seemed to speak – all of them barring Michael and Doris, anyway; that was getting Very Annoying – and she got up and squeezed into the seat between the other two. Legolas cut the engine as they coasted up through the softly lapping waves to the beach, then jumped out into the waist-deep water, took the boat by the prow, and pulled it up onto the sand. Michael watched him, his creamy skin water-dappled, the strong muscles bunching and stretching, the obscure tattoo, the long white-blond hair streaming down, flaxen, silky. He remembered how that skin and that hair had felt when he'd awoken that morning, the piney scent, the smooth unblemished feel of him, the tickle of that soft hair on his cheek. Was it wrong to desire another man when you were in a Committed Relationship? He sure hoped not.

When they ran aground, Arwen, Doris, and Michael jumped into the water. It was deliciously warm, and beneath his bare feet Michael could feel the soft giving sand, rippled by the movement of the tides. Shuffling his toes into the gritty stuff he came across a spiny disc; he bent over, wetting his dirty shirt, and groped in the sand until he found it with his fingers. It was a sea biscuit, its flagella wriggling and pulsing; he and Doris poked at it a minute, then he flung it back into the water, but deeper, so Aragorn, Gimli, and Faramir wouldn't accidentally crush it when they arrived.

Legolas dragged the boat up the beach to a crooked, water-warped pole, to which he lashed the forward line. Arwen was already striding up the sand, her black trousers rolled up to her knees and her shirt pulled up and tied round beneath her breasts; Michael could see the smooth soft curves of her, tapering and swelling from her ribcage past her waist. Doris, trotting along behind, looked very dumpy and ordinary by comparison. Michael touched his face tentatively. There had been razors – of a sort – on board, and he'd managed to shave a few times, but he still felt very rough and unkempt, and wondered why Frances didn't mind. After all, Frances looked fine when he was unshorn and tousled and rumpled; he and Aragorn carried off the Scruffy Look rather well, making it seem almost sexy. But Michael was very fastidious, and projected that preference onto his lover; he couldn't imagine what Frances could possibly see in him at that moment – still with the echoes of bruises about his eyes, three-day stubble, wrinkled and torn clothing, sticky and stiff with salt and dish soap, emitting an odor that, while being far from unpleasant, did not resemble Obsession or Drakkar Noir in the slightest. But hadn't Frances just that morning, as Michael had leant upon the rail watching the vermilion sun burgeon from her foamy cloud-trappings, come up behind him, wind his arms round Michael's waist, and run an experimental tongue across the tops of his shoulders? Michael had jumped and squeaked in surprise, and Frances had chuckled, pressing the smaller man up to him. "Salty," he'd said, his voice deep and suggestive; Michael could feel his arousal against the small of his back. But then, dammit, Aragorn had come topside as well, and Frances had had to let him go.

Arwen turned and looked back at Legolas, her eyes questioning; he said simply, "Need me cozzie, pet," and she'd nodded and continued through the scrub and palm trees to a chikki hut set in a clearing. There was a larger building next to it, its boards worn gray and pitted by the climate, warped and disreputable-looking; Michael thought longingly of The Lido – hell, his own pristine apartment – and wondered if he were going to be living in seedy digs for the rest of his life.

When they stepped into the clearing, Michael saw what he'd assumed to be more crates and boxes was actually a rusted, tattered lounge chair stretched beneath a faded golf umbrella, and lying on the chair, tweed hat pushed over his eyes, hands folded on his linen-clad chest, white knobby-kneed legs crossed and surmounted by battered sandals, was Professor White.

He had no idea why this surprised him. The more pertinent question was why he hadn't thought of the man in these past three weeks. Hadn't he started everything? Hadn't it been at his instigation Legolas had climbed into their apartment window and triggered this lunatic affair? Had not this urbane, cultured, slightly untidy old man been the first person Michael had ever seen make Frances uncomfortable? He stood with Legolas, Arwen, and Doris beside the chair while Professor White lay unmoving; Doris glanced over at Michael, her eyes confused. Grateful he at least knew one more thing than Doris did, Michael smiled and squeezed her hand.

"Oi, Whitey," said Legolas irritably, kicking the leg of the lounge chair. Professor White snorted and shifted, raising one knotted hand to rub his nose. "Wakey-wakey; beauty sleep doesn't work on you, anyway."

It was incredible, thought Michael; did Legolas insult EVERYONE? He tried to imagine what that person might be like whom Legolas held in reverence, but his mind boggled at the attempt. Professor White lifted the brim of his hat, squinted up at them groggily, and with a grunt dropped the hat onto the sand and sat up a little, rubbing his eyes.

"Ah, there you are," he said calmly, running his fingers through his brushy white hair. He peered at them all in turn, starting with Doris. "Ah," he said, smiling. "You're Gimli's little friend, aren't you? Doris Goldberg?"

"Yes," said Doris a little nervously, shifting on her feet.

"You'll pardon me for not getting up," said Professor White, looking around a little blearily. "Those painkillers are really strong."

Had he hurt himself? thought Michael, wondering what he was taking. Then Professor White looked at Arwen. "You look quite well," he said politely. "But then, you always do."

"Thank you, Mithrandir," she said, inclining her head, looking despite her shabby trappings every inch a queen. Professor White turned to Michael. "Ah," he said, his smile widening. "There you are. And how are you, Michael?"

The surreal politesse was starting to grate on Michael's nerves. Didn't Professor White CARE what had been going on, or had he just been spending the last three weeks soaking up the sun in the Caribbean? "I've been kidnapped, separated from my family, lost my job, bombs have been going off, people have tried to rape me and shoot me, and I've just spent two weeks on a sailboat with a bunch of people who won't tell me what's going on."

"Oh," said Professor White. "That's about right then." He looked over at Legolas. "Good heavens, Legolas, what happened to your face?"

"Got shot," said Legolas.

"Goodness. Again?"

Michael bit his lip, and Doris stifled a giggle. Legolas glanced at them, gave Professor White a dirty look, and said, "Goin' to get me cozzie and go back to fetch the others. Take care of Michael, will yer?" There was a warning undertone to this last phrase, which made Professor White sit up a little straighter; suddenly he didn't appear as muzzy as he had before. He gave a curt nod, and Legolas stalked back into the old building, calling out, "Nick!"

"Come on, Doris," said Arwen, turning. "Let's get out of these awful clothes, and try to look the part. Nicky's got everything ready for us."

"Including a proper shower?" asked Doris, touching her rumpled hair; Arwen laughed.

"Why bother?" she asked, leading Doris back around the other side of the chikki hut. "We're just going snorkeling this afternoon. There's a great reef on the far side of the island."

"Snorkeling?" Doris brightened, and taking Arwen's hand they disappeared, leaving Michael alone with Professor White. They studied each other a moment, Michael a little resentfully, Professor White with an expression of thoughtful caution.

"So," said Professor White. "You look as though you could use a painkiller yourself."

"I'm fine," said Michael shortly; he did not believe in Self-Medicating. Professor White chuckled.

"Not a pill, dear boy," he said, smiling. "A painkiller. Here." He reached to the crate sitting next to him, upon which sat a plastic jug and an ice chest, and several mismatched tumblers and bottles. He poured a runny whitish liquid into a green tumbler, which gave it a sickly appearance, dropped a couple ice cubes into it, and sprinkled something brown over the top. "Here you are," he said, holding it out to Michael. "Welcome to the British Virgin Islands." When Michael hesitated he said, "Made with Pusser's rum, my boy. Category four. Nick's a superlative bartender."

Michael took the tumbler tentatively. It was damp, and there was sand sticking to the sides, which felt gritty beneath his fingers. He sniffed. He smelled coconut, rum, and pineapple; it was a pleasant, beachy smell. He looked at the dirty brown scum on top and sniffed again. "Nutmeg," he thought, and took a sip.

It both burned and soothed his throat, and felt very warm going down his esophagus into his stomach. He gave a little cough, and took another drink; Professor White laughed.

"That's right," he said, lying back onto his lounge chair and picking up his own glass. The ice cubes tinkled against the edges. "Have a seat, Michael. Legolas has just gone to get you some proper clothes and other accoutrements, then he'll go get your beloved Faramir and you two can drink, bathe, dive, snorkel, do whatever you like until the others arrive – most likely two or three days." He took a deep draught, closing his eyes. "Ah," he said, satisfaction edging his voice. "How I love alcohol."

By the time Legolas returned, clad in colorful swim trunks and holding a small bag, Michael had finished his Painkiller and accepted a second from Professor White, who asked him to call him Gandalf. He felt a lot better. His stomach had calmed down, his legs were on dry land, he was sitting in the shade on a breezy beach overlooking a clear calm ocean, the seagulls were mewling and strutting around them looking for handouts, and his head was, he was forced to admit, a lot lighter than it had been before his first Painkiller. He was agreeing with Gandalf that the grated nutmeg added the right bitter counterbalance to the sweetness of the coconut, sitting on a battered beach chair with his toes buried in the cool sand, when Legolas dropped the bundle beside him.

"Here you are then, Mike," he said, grinning down at him. "Cozzie and sunnies. And some sun block – yer lookin' a little pink round the cheeks; don't want to get burned, mate."

Michael opened the bundle. Inside was a pair of blue swim trunks patterned with yellow and white hibiscus, a bottle of sun block, and a pair of dark glasses. "Can I go snorkeling this afternoon with Arwen and Doris?" he asked, wondering where the equipment was.

"Sure thing, if you lay off the rum," laughed Legolas. "Won't take responsibility for stickin' a tube in yer gob and swimming underwater if you're fuckin' sozzled."

Michael thought about that. He had a nice buzz going, and felt comfortable and relaxed. "Maybe I'll go tomorrow," he said indolently, struggling to his feet. "Where do I change?"

"Round back of the hut," said Legolas, gesturing. "Gonna go get the others. Save me a little, will yer?"

"And tell Nick to open another can of pineapple juice," said Gandalf. He tipped his hat back over his hooked nose, folded his hands on his breast, and sighed contentedly.

Michael walked around the hut to the back. There was a door, hanging a bit on its hinge; the faded legend above it said, "Gents." He pushed it open. There was a shower and one of those Environmentally Correct toilets, about which lingered the odor of disinfectant. He stripped out of his crusty crackling clothes and pulled on the trunks. He wasn't sure what to do with his dirty laundry, so he stuffed it back in the bag and took it out with him.

There was a middle-aged, dark-skinned man standing there, grinning; half his teeth were gone, his curly bristly hair was peppered with gray, and his clothes were tattered and shabby. He did, however, look a lot happier than many better-dressed people Michael had met in San Diego; perhaps Island Life had its compensations for poverty. "Are you Nick?" asked Michael, smiling. He didn't feel as shy as he would have felt before drinking the Painkillers.

The man didn't respond verbally, but only nodded enthusiastically and took the bag from Michael. Then without a word he turned and shuffled away. "Odd," thought Michael, but then, what else was new? Odd was the new Normal. He went back to Gandalf, noting with pleasure Nick had refilled their pitcher and brought out more ice, and sat back down in his lawn chair, picked up his glass, and stretched his legs out. It was a lot easier, he thought, enjoying a tropical island paradise when you had the right accoutrements. Swim trunks and sun glasses were a lot more conducive to a tropical frame of mind than old khakis and a dirty polo shirt.

About an hour later, Legolas returned, with the others in tow. Arwen and Doris were still truant, and when Aragorn approached and asked politely where his wife was, Gandalf was snoring, and Michael felt so relaxed he couldn't even be bothered to stand. "Changing," he said lazily, taking another sip of his drink. Frances laughed and sat beside him on the sand, laying one long brown hand on his thigh.

"Arwen does NOT take an hour to change clothes," said Aragorn mock-sternly, accepting a glass from Legolas, who was distributing the Painkillers with an alacrity normally reserved for bartenders.

"Yeah," said Legolas. "That's me sister-in-law's job."

Frances groaned. "Lord, yes," he agreed, giving Michael's thigh a little squeeze before taking his Painkiller. "Lottie's got clothes on the brain."

"And very little else," said Gandalf into his hat. Legolas swatted him playfully across the top of his head, from where he stood behind the chaise.

"Be nice to the little kife," he remonstrated; "been bloody good to me acushla." Having served everyone else, he poured himself a generous tumblerful and took a deep draught. "Not runnin' on all four, mates, but a damn nice woman."

"Never said she wasn't," said Gandalf, straightening his hat from where Legolas had knocked it aside. "All I was implying was that her acumen was a little lacking outside the realm of fashion."

"Éomer doesn't mind," said Legolas, sitting cross-legged beside Gandalf, who patted him gently on the head.

"He oughtn't to," said Gandalf, smiling. "She puts up with him when most women would tell him to take himself right off … that in itself makes her most unusual."

"Oh, I don't know," said Aragorn, leaning against a palm tree and looking out over the water. "We all have our little quirks. Finding someone to put up with us in those particular areas is kind of a bonus, I think."

Michael looked at Gimli, who was already starting on his second drink. "You're really lucky, Grim," he said, a little surprised at how soft and unsteady his voice was. "Doris really, really loves you, and doesn't care what you do. That's a really big bonus."

Gimli looked surprised but pleased, and grinned at Michael through his matted beard; Frances gave Michael's leg another squeeze and said softly: "Gimli and I are both really lucky."

Michael felt his insides turn over, and a sort of dreamy pink bliss washed over him like a warm wave. It was astonishing, he thought as Frances nestled closer to him, that he in his search for Perfection had never found this … it was even more astonishing that he should be so happy when his life was in such turmoil. But then Frances lay his head on Michael's chest, listening quietly to the hum of conversation around them, and Michael reflected that perhaps turmoil wasn't so bad after all, and Perfection definitely over-rated.