Starfall (6 page)

Stars lifted high in the vault of night, and still Phaeton made his way, empowered by Mercury's gift, into the territories far to the east. No mortal had ever wandered into these sun-burnished ridges and heat-blanched valleys before the sun's domain.

The young seeker approached the edge of the world.

THIRTEEN

Phaeton ceased his onward rush and stood still.

Columns rose up from the darkness, glowing gold and other precious metals pulsing with the subdued but tireless sunlight secreted within. The palace doors were mirrors, displaying the yet-distant figure of the youthful adventurer as he gradually found his courage again and crept forward.

The walls were vast, much higher than any ever built by human hands. Phaeton had heard legends that warned that a mortal could be blinded by the sight of such divine marvels, or perhaps lose his sanity entirely. Phaeton made halting progress forward, step by faltering step, until the young traveler reached out toward his own image, the reflection of an apprehensive youth.

He stretched forth his hand, and touched the image of his own pale, tentative fingers.

The great mirrored gate whispered.

And fell slowly open.

Phaeton hesitated. Perhaps, he thought, it was not too late to turn back.

But he took a step inside.

THREE

FOURTEEN

At once the young seeker was aware that he was not alone.

A stairway swept upward, toward a nearly blinding presence, a robed figure.

The young man began his faltering climb upward. As swift as he had been all that day, he was halting now, wishing the number of steps could be made countless, so that he might never achieve his goal.

I was a fool, he thought, to attempt such a journey.

Each breath partook of a sweetness like the perfume of the iris, a heady fragrance. This place was at once glorious and disturbing. Once again Phaeton doubted his mother's word. Why would a god from such a temple desire a mortal woman?

As the young man approached the summit of the stairway, a dazzling illumination surrounded him – even when he closed his eyes the light still possessed him.

A voice spoke, as though the palace itself had been gifted with a low, gentle power of speech.

“Why have you come here, Phaeton?” came the question.

Trembling, the young visitor could not speak.

But he did open his eyes.

He knows my name
.

The source of the query was a figure in purple, richer than the finest dyer's art, and glittering with points of emerald brilliance. Some said that the gods were much larger than mortals, giants with beautiful features. It was true that Phoebus Apollo was taller than any man Phaeton had ever seen, and heavily muscled, his beard like fine-spun gold.

Above this eminence the vault of a temple rose, in pulsing columns, and Phaeton realized that this citadel, as grand as it was, had been designed to merely echo the handsome presence of its lord.

Yet again the musical voice broke the silence. “My son, why have you come to see me?”

Phaeton let these words slip into his awareness, afraid to give them particular meaning at first.

But the weight of this solemn greeting brought more certainty – and happiness – with each passing heartbeat.

Clymene's son stood straight now, and taking a deep breath allowed his gaze to take in the shapes and colors of this place, a palace Phaeton believed no one of flesh and blood had ever seen before.

Having come so far, and emboldened by the god's question, Phaeton would not be silent now.

FIFTEEN

Apollo loved the sight of any living man or woman.

The lord of light loved the mussel gatherer, with his homely woven basket, and the maiden herding hens with her long, tattered skirt. He loved the bright skein of the fisherman's net, and the song of the wife at work with her wheel and distaff, spinning wool to thread. He adored the laughing comradeship of soldiers, and the songs of children skipping stones across the pond.

When the gambler cursed his luck, or the athlete fell hurt in the gymnasium, Apollo knew it well, and sorrowed with them, because the god of light was in love with every human being.

And the lord of daylight loved his own offspring, more than any other mortals. He loved his human children so greatly that now, as Phaeton made his way up the stairs of the temple of dawn, the god was nearly moved to tears of thanksgiving.

He had other sons and daughters living in the world of mortal men, but even so the sight of Phaeton's youthful strength made his throat swell with joy – and with pride. How keenly he had treasured Clymene, those brief years ago, and how closely Phaeton resembled that mortal beauty, a woman almost as fleet of foot as the spring hare.

The divine one felt a surge of fatherly pride at this visit, and made certain that Days and the Hours – figures like women but surpassing mortal forms with their richly colored gowns – were looking on as his son knelt, trembling still but brave enough to speak.

“Do you call me your son, divine Apollo?” the youth was asking now, his voice as yet breathless.

“I loved your mother, the good-hearted Clymene, and I treasure her still,” said the immortal god truthfully. “How do her days pass, Phaeton?” The all-surveying god had been troubled by her absence in recent years, and her habit of clinging to shadows and retreating from his loving eye. “Is she happy?”

Phaeton wished he could choose words with greater mastery. Surely in my ignorance, thought the young seeker, I can only offend this divine being.

“My mother is not as peaceful in her heart,” offered Phaeton, rising now from his knees, “as she would be if you acknowledged me as your son.”

Phoebus Apollo would have been surprised at this youthful assertiveness, inappropriate in the throne room of an earthly king, and far from fitting the temple of an immortal. He would have been amazed at the foolhardiness of the mortal lad's tone, if he had not recognized his own good-hearted courage in the boy's voice. The sun god had no love of cowardice and hesitation. And he recognized, too, something of Clymene in the lad's bearing.

It was a shame, thought the god of daylight, that these creatures, mortal men and women, would grow old and encounter death's embrace. This insight gave Phoebus Apollo a moment of sharp sorrow, as if the truth were new to the god of light that instant.

“What can I give you, Phaeton?” inquired the god, moved nearly beyond speech by his fatherly affection.

Summer, a figure like a mortal woman enveloped in an aura of auburn hue, put out a hand to Apollo – a gesture of caution – but the lord of light waved her aside. What did any of these eternal ones – Spring with bellflowers in her hair, the Hours, arranged in a patient queue – know about fatherhood? Even Aurora Dawn herself, who stirred the gates of the east to life each day, knew nothing of a parent's love.

Phaeton's eye was alight with wonder at his father's question, and the youth did not speak at once.

“Ask me any favor, Phaeton,” encouraged Phoebus Apollo.

“Any favor at all, Father?” asked Phaeton, treasuring the sound of
father
on his breath here in this glowing temple.

“Anything that you might ask is yours, my son,” said the sun, “I swear under the heavenly vault of Jupiter.”

Phaeton considered this.

The young man saw Epaphus in his mind's eye, one foot on the stricken monster. He heard the young archer's laugh. Phaeton imagined his mother, left for years in shadow, in constant half-dark. He pictured sweet-voiced Ino clearly, and wondered what it would be like to make her think well of him.

“Anything that I ask will be mine?” queried the young man, his voice trembling.

As he spoke he asked himself: what is the one thing that no mortal has ever done before? What single accomplishment will banish all jeers and prove my mother's honor – and my own – for all time?

“Phaeton, why do you doubt me?” said Phoebus Apollo with a gentle laugh. “I have sworn already, and now I'll go further, and vow that by the deep waters of Hades, on which the gods make their most solemn promises, whatever you wish will be yours.”

At these words a figure beyond the Days and the Hours, far to one side of the temple, lifted her eyes in caution. She parted her lips, this lovely presence, seeking words of warning for her lord. She was Century, a silver shape dressed in a gown like woven breath.

“I ask,” rang out Phaeton's voice, steady enough now, “to be allowed to drive your chariot – the fiery wheels of the sun – for one entire day across the heavens.”

This request shocked Phaeton – no sooner had he been tempted by the desire, than he had put it into words. No doubt the sunny presence of Apollo was responsible for this – the lord of song and poetry was famous for giving encouragement to mortal hopes. And having spoken, Phaeton was determined not to show any of the sickening doubt he was already beginning to feel.

Phoebus Apollo raised a finger to his lips, and turned away.

As the Hours gave a grief-choked chorus of sighs, Apollo began to regret his carefree vow. He felt the first stirrings of misgiving, guessing what disturbed the Hours, murmuring to each other, and what anguish caused the flower-bedecked Spring to bury her face in her hands.

SIXTEEN

For a long moment Apollo wrapped himself in silence.

Then he gave a laugh, pretending an easy confidence he did not feel.

“What request was that, dear boy?” he asked, as though he could not distinctly recall every word.

“Keep your solemn vow, Father,” insisted Phaeton, in his best, most formal language, “one made under the open sky, and let me take the reins of your chariot for a day over the earth.”

The immortal shivered inwardly at the sound of this, and yet he gave another hearty laugh, disguising his growing unease.

“Come now, dearest Phaeton,” said the lord of daylight, “of all the gifts I could provide for you –”

This is the one I seek,” said Phaeton, before his father could complete his thought “I claim your word, on your love for my mother.”

The sun god kept silent now, mistrusting talk altogether. Argument was prized by mortals, with their love of gossip. The lord of daylight loathed ordinary conversation, and prized poetry and song – words with wings. Apollo realized that he had been foolish to trade speech with his offspring from the world of men.

When he spoke again it was in a new, deeply shaken tone. “Phaeton, what you have asked I cannot give.”

Phaeton took a step back, disappointment in his eyes.

“My son, you seek too much,” protested the divinity. “You have a mortal's ability, and a young man's skill. Even great Jupiter himself would scarcely be able to control my chariot.”

“I see now? said Phaeton, “what my mother discovered years ago – that a god may be quick to promise, but slow to keep his vows.”

The daily course of my own chariot,” said Apollo struggling to keep his habitual good temper, “nearly unmans me, Phaeton, the power of the heavenly horse-team is so great.”

“It would give my mother well-deserved joy' said the youth, “to see you honor her memory.” And it would be proof, Phaeton thought, that your love extends to me.

Phoebus Apollo groaned. “If I could allow you to understand the truth, Phaeton, you would thank me for delivering you from a curse.”

“And to think that I have heard my mother praise you,” said Phaeton with a quiet bitterness, “telling me often that you were the most generous and bountiful of gods.”

“Come with me, my son. Stand at the edge of the earth, beyond the gate,” urged Apollo, “and look out at the riches of the hills and valleys. I can give you anything that lightens your gaze.”

Phaeton said simply, “I will hold you to your promise.”

“It will mean your death,” said Phoebus Apollo.

Phaeton gave a bitter smile. The young man was certain that his divine father was exaggerating the danger for reasons of his own. Surely, Phaeton thought, this grand presence could bless my journey with some unknown power, if he wanted to, and ensure my safe return. “So this,” said the youth at last, “this is how you honor a loving woman and her son.”

Apollo appealed silently to the host of Hours, seeking their counsel. Phoebus Apollo himself – the lord of daylight, who enabled the oracle to foretell both victory and famine – felt stripped of power. His attendants likewise stirred, alarmed but without a word to advise their master.

And then the sun god laughed.

The sound was richer than music, and it quickened the heart of Phaeton as it stilled the anxious pacing of Spring.

Phoebus Apollo was certain that he had solved the riddle of his son's will. “I shall show you the horror you would face, Phaeton,” said the divine father, “if you happened to win your wish. The sight will shock you to your senses.”

“I'm afraid of nothing,” said Phaeton, exaggerating his self-assurance, and yet wishing it were true. He did not want to show his divine father that he was inwardly as weak as any other youth. I must, thought Phaeton, prove myself worthy of Apollo's pride.

“Then we must be fast, Phaeton,” his immortal father was saying. “Lucifer, the morning star, begins to dim, and I hear Aurora's footstep, hurrying from place to place, reminding me that daybreak cannot be delayed.”

“Where are you taking me, Father?”

“Come along, we have no time,” said Apollo, and the son followed across the dawn-streaked grounds of the temple.

SEVENTEEN

“I'll let you set your hand on fire-breathing Pyrois,” Apollo was saying with brisk cheer, “and his companion horses Eous, Aetheon, and Phlegon.”

Phaeton could not speak, silenced by the radiant wheels they approached.

This was the golden chariot of legend, and at first Phaeton could not glance at it for more than an instant at a time. The chariot was dazzling, and as the wheels shifted with the impatience of the horses, they gave forth a bone-shaking rumble.