A/N: Roarke and Tattoo belong to Aaron Spelling and Leonard Goldberg, creators of "Fantasy Island". But all the other characters herein are my own creation, with the exception of one historical character used in a fictitious context.

This story is dedicated to the memory of Hervé Villechaize (April 23, 1943 - September 4, 1993).

§ § § - February 2, 1979: Honolulu International Airport

She had already come a couple thousand miles as it was, and she was very tired and even a little discouraged. Her parents' and sisters' deaths were still recent enough to bring quick tears, but she took solace in the knowledge that she was fulfilling her mother's wish. It gave her enough strength to ask directions to Gate 18, the only one that could accommodate pontoon planes. The friendly attendant at the ticket desk explained where she should go, and suggested gently, "You'd better hurry, miss. The flight you want leaves in only fifteen minutes, and it's the last charter for today."

"Is it far?" she asked pleadingly.

"Not very." The ticket attendant smiled encouragingly. "You'll make it in time, but you'll need to walk fast."

So she forced her exhausted body to move as quickly as possible, slinging her fraying, battered old duffel bag over her shoulder. It took little effort; there wasn't much inside, just a change of clothes, some pajamas and slippers, a toothbrush and a small photo album. It was all she had left in the world and she had refused to let anyone else touch it since the fire. She weaved her way endlessly between people, most of whom seemed to be going in the other direction, till at last she spotted Gate 18. It looked more modern somehow than the other gates, with a circular desk manned by a pair of Polynesian attendants, one male and one female. She hesitated a few feet away, seeing no one else in the area.

"Are you booked on the island charter, miss?" the man behind the counter asked. She nodded, and he smiled. "Your pass, please?" She forked it over; the attendant glanced at it, then smiled again. "Go ahead, you're the last passenger on the manifest."

Aboard the little charter plane, she glanced around the cabin; there was apparently only one other passenger, a geeky-looking guy with square-rimmed soda-bottle glasses and big ears that stuck out from under his hair like curious kittens. He was engrossed in some thick manual and didn't seem to notice her. She chose a window seat and settled in, watching city lights glinting off the water while the plane bobbed gently.

She heard distant laughter and, just as the Polynesian attendant was about to pull the hatch closed, shouts of, "Wait! We're coming!" The next second, two Asian girls who looked to be about her age stumbled aboard, giggling and out of breath, clutching paper bags with handles. They fell into seats across the aisle from her and peered at her with interest; she essayed a smile.

One of the girls broke into helpless giggles again, but the other elbowed her and said genially, "Hi there. I'm Myeko Sensei, what's your name?"

"Leslie Hamilton," she replied. "Are you going to Fantasy Island too?" At this the second girl broke into open laughter.

Myeko shot her a glare. "Knock it off, Camille. Yeah, we live there. Maybe we'll see you around, huh?"

"I hope so," Leslie said softly. "I'm supposed to go live with Mr. Roarke, and it'd be great to have new friends."

Myeko and the other girl, Camille, looked at each other; Camille rolled her eyes. "What a joker," she said derisively. "She's just another weekend fantasizer like all the rest." At last she looked Leslie in the eye, as if under duress. "If you think that, you know nothing about Mr. Roarke."

"But it's true," Leslie insisted, her voice trailing off as both Camille and Myeko turned away from her and began whispering to each other. Well, this certainly wasn't a good start to her new life. She sank into her own gloomy thoughts and let her gaze drift out the window; tired as she was, she couldn't sleep, and contented herself with watching the plane skid out across the water and life into the air before endless ocean supplanted her view of Oahu and she was forced to confront her grief, doubt and fear.

She had wished a lot for her mother since the night when her life as she knew it had been obliterated forever. Yet she had been stoic throughout the weeks while she and her erstwhile friend Cindy Lou had grown further and further apart till they were better described as enemies, while she reluctantly endured wearing Cindy Lou's older sister's outgrown clothing to school and suffered nightmares almost every night, while she waited and wondered if that lawyer was ever going to produce her deliverance. But now that he had, and now that all things familiar had been left behind and her future stretched before her like a long, dark void, she closed her eyes and, secure in the knowledge that she was being ignored, let herself cry silently.

§ § § - February 3, 1979: Fantasy Island

It seemed she had barely fallen asleep when she was jolted awake by a bump and a splash of water on her window. Leslie squinted her sore, sleep-deprived eyes in the clear light of early morning and watched, half fascinated, half dreading, while a lush green coastline drifted across her view. She heard mutterings across the aisle but dared not look around at those two girls for fear of being ridiculed again; however, she had no illusions as to the subject of their conversation.

The plane taxied into an L-shaped lagoon and drifted to a stop beside a dock that jutted maybe ten feet out from the shore. It was lined on both sides by tall bushes that continued on along the bank for some distance before giving way to thick jungle, so she could see nothing beyond the dock. The attendant appeared at the front of the cabin and glanced at a sheet of paper in his hand. "Mr. Eugene Clarke and Miss Leslie Hamilton," he called.

The nerdy-looking guy, wide awake and very alert, immediately stood up; Leslie followed his example, clinging to her duffel, forgetting all about the two girls behind her in her attempt to deal with the explosion of overexcited seagulls in her stomach. The attendant gave the nerd a nod of greeting; Eugene Clarke beamed back and climbed out of the hatch onto the sturdy wooden dock, where he was promptly greeted by two strapping young Polynesian men, each with a suitcase presumably belonging to Clarke. Leslie started to step out after him, but the attendant stayed her with a headshake and a quick smile. "Mr. Roarke will be explaining Mr. Clarke's fantasy to his assistant," he told her, "so give him a couple of minutes to get down the dock. When he steps off, you can get out."

She nodded, barely able to take her eyes off the scene playing out before her. She watched Eugene Clarke run what had to be the most pleasant gantlet in existence, with pretty, laughing Polynesian women piling leis around his neck till his head nearly disappeared, and offering him trays loaded with exotic-looking drinks. Clarke finally plucked a glass off a tray and more or less felt his way off the end of the dock, vanishing into what appeared to be a vividly green clearing. Only then did the attendant usher her forward. "Go ahead, Miss Hamilton," he said.

She clambered somewhat gracelessly out of the hatch and accepted two leis, then perused both drinks trays before asking tentatively, "Do you have ginger ale?" The beaming young lady holding the tray nodded in friendly fashion and pointed out the proper glass; she lifted it from the tray, gave a shy thanks, and stepped onto terra firma.

She yawned in spite of herself and blinked in the sunshine, gazing around her and trying to take in all the strange new sights. She was standing in a roughly circular clearing, carpeted with grass greener than a golf course and bounded with beautifully sculptured tall bushes spangled with huge red, pink and white blossoms. Here and there a dove poked its head out of the leaves. She heard a low caw behind her and twisted around to see a parrot eyeing her from its perch, with a gleam in its beady little eye. Nearby a five- or six-piece band was playing a lively Hawaiian-flavored song, and two more lovely young women were dancing an energetic yet graceful hula along to it. And across from her, maybe fifteen or twenty feet away, stood two men, both dressed in snowy-white suits with black ties. As her gaze lit on them, the tall, gray-haired man raised a small champagne flute and called out in a pleasantly accented voice, "My dear guests! I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!" He then toasted Eugene Clarke, who lifted his glass high in the air, before turning his attention to Leslie, pausing a second or two and then gentling his smile. He seemed to bow slightly at the waist as he gestured with his drink; Leslie smiled back, feeling oddly calm for no reason at all, and hoisted her ginger ale to eye level. So that was the man who was to be her guardian. Maybe it was going to be okay after all.