Starfall (5 page)

The bearded centaur lifted a hind hoof and scratched his flank. He flicked his tail in an easy circle, giving no sign of having understood the young man's assertion.

“Phoebus Apollo,” said Phaeton, indicating the morning sun spilling through the trees above, “is my father.”

The centaur stretched, patted his belly, and gave a long, loud belch.

They were not so fierce after all, Phaeton thought. Their horselike portions were more like hunting ponies than war mounts. Their manlike arms and shoulders were well developed, but no more than those of bricklayers or plowmen. Besides, these man-beasts had a rank odor that drew flies, the insects arriving through the morning light.

The young man felt the first stirrings of confidence – and exasperation.

“My father,” he said slowly and clearly, one hand on his breast, “is the sun on high, who watches all the earth from his chariot.” He pointed upward, then indicated the woodland all around.

The others drew even closer, mud-and-manure-grimed creatures, the heat from their horselike bodies enclosing the young man, their stink like the foulest of stables left to ferment.

The bloody-handed centaur, his jaws busy with some gristly scrap, at last spat and gave a grunt. To Phaeton's relief, the centaur began to speak.

He used a dialect from the mountain regions far to the north, where centaurs had long ago originated.

“Did you hear him say that he has a name?” said the bloody-handed creature, consulting his fellows. “And that he has a father?”

“Yes, we understood him well enough,” said one. This youthful-looking centaur gave a laugh, and reached down to pluck a stone from the road – a big, round stone. He tossed this rock easily in his hands.

The bloody-handed, gray-bearded centaur then leaned close – Phaeton could smell his carrion breath. “Have you any wine?”

“As you see, I carry nothing,” Phaeton was quick to respond.

Centaurs were by reputation often driven mad by the least whiff of strong drink, and centaurs who had swallowed so much as a half cup grew violent and lustful.

“No wine,” said the centaur in a tone of regret.

“You can see that for yourself,” said Phaeton, his spirits rising. “I carry no food or drink. But I'll take away with me your reputation – and your good name, if you have one.”

A little abashed by his own words Phaeton closed his mouth tight and said nothing more for the moment, until the bearded centaur spoke again.

It took awhile, the centaur chief appraising Phaeton's garments, his sandals, his goat-leather belt.

“I am called Oreus,” said the bearded centaur.

“Oreus, I shall tell my divine father of your kindness to me.”

“I fear no man,” added the centaur.

“The son of my father,” retorted Phaeton, impatience and hunger making him feel bold, “fears no man or beast.” He added, “I wish to be on my way.”

Far to the rear the bald-headed centaur lifted his silver drinking horn and made drinking motions, nothing flowing from the horn.

“Find us wine, young traveler,” said Oreus, “and we will see what we can do to aid your journey.”

None of the creatures moved aside, except to flail the morning air with their flowing, horselike tails. The centaurs blocked any advance on Phaeton's part, and any retreat, as well, but it was true that as yet they made no move to harm him.

It was then that Phaeton made what he quickly came to realize was a grave mistake.

He lifted his staff and brought it down on the ground before Oreus.

It was not a blow intended to do harm, little more than a loud
thwack
.

Get out of my way
, said Phaeton's gesture.

The centaur laughed, and Phaeton made an even worse mistake. He struck the centaur on the forearm – not a serious blow, little more than a warning tap.

The centaur seized the staff, and flung it away. Then he grasped Phaeton by the collar of his tunic, and lifted the youth off his feet.

Phaeton hung suspended, half-choked by the grip that held him high.

The sunny morning changed, then, in an instant.

The trees all around whistled and sighed in a sudden breeze that spun through the treetops, crackled boughs, and fluttered green leaves. The breeze rose yet further, blowing Oreus's long beard.

Just as quickly the wind ceased.

The sudden appearance of a new traveler caught the centaurs' attention. Garbed in a flowing cloak and a broad-brimmed hat that sheltered his features, this arrival carried a long, slender
kerykeion
– a herald's staff. The youth could have been a young woman – both men and women wore the same sort of garments against weather. But his stride was that of an athletic young man, and he gave a gentle chuckle at the sight of Phaeton's predicament.

“
Haie
, Phaeton,” called the visitor, a friendly welcome.

The centaurs turned to block the approach of this new presence, and the swiftly arriving traveler laughed aloud.

It was the spirited sound of this laugh that made fear fade within Phaeton, even as he struggled to breathe – Oreus still held him high above the path.

Phaeton's relief continued to grow as the approaching figure stated his business in a clear, pleasing voice, as the best of heralds are expected to do. “I travel on behalf of my masters,” he sang out, “who wonder why the son of Apollo has been delayed in his journey.”

“This upstart,” said Oreus bluntly, hefting Phaeton as he spoke, “shows ill manners.”

“Rough manners are not unheard of in the woodland,” said the new arrival, stopping before Phaeton. “Even Flora herself is dismayed at your rude ways, Oreus,” added the herald with a carefree air. “The goddess of the flowering field is bruised in spirit at the way your hooves tear her blossoms. But does she ask any harm to you, sons of the Ancient Ones? Are you not free to sunder the berry bush and the sage with your careless stampedes?”

The centaurs grew quiet at these words from the youthful figure, and one or two of the muscular steed-men fell back, no longer so bold.

Oreus set Phaeton gently on his feet.

“Flora, goddess of the spring, does us an honor,” said Oreus in a changed voice, using formal diction now, “with her untiring patience.”

Phaeton was struck wordless by the alteration in the centaur chief. His voice was rough, but his manner was that of dignified apology.

“Entirely right, good centaur,” said the herald. “I am pleased that you realize this.”

“And every joy we take in brook and field quickens us to life,” added the gray-bearded centaur in a cadenced fragment of poetry. He shot a meaningful glance at his fellow creatures.

“In truth,” said the youthful centaur, already setting down his round stone beside the path, “we seek no quarrel with any creature.”

“Quite so,” said the messenger. “I am glad to hear it.”

While grateful to be on his feet again, Phaeton was increasingly alarmed.

He had guessed, until now, a good deal less about this new arrival than Oreus and his companions, but the young man's awe was now awakened. The son of Phoebus Apollo knelt on the ground, unwilling to look into the eyes of this very probably divine visitor – perhaps the messenger to the gods himself.

“If my own arrival frightens you, young man,” said the herald, his shadow falling over Phaeton, “how will you gather the courage to address your father?”

I will not be able to, Phaeton admitted silently to himself.

I will not be able to speak to him – to the lord of daylight
.

He knelt even lower, pressed his forehead against the earth and closed his eyes. Nothing in his learning had prepared him to address such an immortal.

“Words will fail you beyond the edge of the world, Phaeton, will they not?” asked the divine herald.

Speech will die in me, as it has this very moment
.

“Stand, Phaeton,” said the messenger, touching the travelers shoulder lightly with his staff, “and let me offer you a warning.”

TWELVE

Phaeton still could not meet the gaze of the immortal Mercury.

The chastened centaurs were already departing, hurrying off into the woodland, eager to escape the divine presence. A covey of quail burst upward from the herd of horse-men, and the gray-bearded leader raised a hand in apology to the woodland. Such birds are beloved of Diana, goddess of the hunt and of the moon, and the centaurs appeared to be suddenly shy of any disturbance they might cause among the divine powers.

“It is not too late to go home again, Phaeton,” said Mercury with a smile.

He wore the appearance of a person younger than Phaeton, and the divine one's eyes were those of a youth without any care. But Phaeton felt the touch of the staff even now, long moments after it had rested for an instant on his shoulder.

His shoulder tingled, and a warmth spread down from that momentary contact, filling Phaeton with strength. His hunger was gone, and so was any trace of weariness.

And yet Phaeton did not trust his voice to speak – not for the moment.

“Already, good Phaeton,” said the divine one cheerfully, “you begin to ask yourself, have I made a mistake?' Not yet, I can advise you. Not nearly yet. Your mistake, Phaeton, is yet to come.”

Phaeton did not want to bring shame to himself, or to his mother – or, indeed, to his homeland – by uttering an awkward remark. But Mercury's statement made the young man uneasy.

The herald seemed to read the young traveler's thoughts.

“Is a mother always wise, Phaeton?” queried the immortal one. “Should a young man always follow a parent's urging?”

Mercury was famous for his telling way with argument, and many philosophers and poets knelt at the crossroads, praying that the divine one might quicken their powers of speech. Phaeton knew that no young man could counter the talents of this immortal, and so he did not try.

“Undying messenger, please grace my journey,” prayed Phaeton when he could speak at last.

“Ah,” said Mercury, not a syllable so much as a breeze rising from the earth, an upwelling of sadness.

Then he gave a gentle laugh. “You can speak very handsomely, young Phaeton, when you wish to. It's a talent that always wins my heart.”

“My divine father will thank you,” added Phaeton.

“Have you nothing more to ask me, mortal Phaeton?” asked the herald already cinching his belt and bending to tighten a strap on his gold-leather travel boots, getting ready to depart.

“Is it far to my father's temple?”

“Oh, yes – it's half a world away,” said Mercury lightly, as though the message could only please. “Only a divine power could speed you there,” he added, squaring his wide-brimmed hat on his head.

Disheartened by this, Phaeton all the more deeply regretted the loss of his supplies. “Why did the water nymph steal my cakes and silver?” asked Phaeton before he could stop himself.

“You owed the nymphs an offering,” said Mercury, like someone explaining what was all too clear, “in return for saving your life.”

“When did the nation of nymphs do anything for the son of Clymene?” inquired Phaeton.

Mercury gave another smile. “Did I not hear,” he said, “that a dryad kept the bees of a sacred oak from stinging an ardent youth?”

Phaeton had not considered this possibility.

“Run, Phaeton,” urged immortal Mercury with a smile, “all the way to the gates of dawn.”

Phaeton bounded ahead, but he keenly felt the plodding weight of his progress compared with the leaping strides of the divine messenger.

“Hurry, Phaeton,” cheered the youthful-looking god, “you have whole continents to put behind you.”

Phaeton lumbered forward, moving as swiftly as he could, it was true, but clumsy alongside the darting herald.

“On the wind, Phaeton,” said the messenger.

Phaeton forged ahead, a stitch in his side.

“Like this!” cried the messenger.

He touched the young man's right heel with the tip of his staff.

The deity vanished up the road as Phaeton strode along earnestly, doing as he was told, putting one foot ahead of the other.

Very soon his progress changed.

Berry bushes became a blur.

Winging sparrows and a quick-footed weasel were left far behind. The vixen in her course, the heron in his flight, were all frozen in place, so fleet was Phaeton in his growing joy.

No mortal had ever been so swift.

Spotted deer bounded, and the wild colt, and the gazelle, but Phaeton sprang beyond them all.

He flashed past a cloven-footed satyr spying on women, innocent villagers rinsing clothes beside a river. The satyr jumped, startled as never before, but neither he nor the women glimpsed the youthful son of Apollo as he passed. They were aware only of the explosion into the sky of egrets, startled at the sudden wake that wrinkled the water behind some unseen force, powering east.

Crocodiles stirred in their shallows, and lions looked up from their hiding places, as Phaeton sped across the grassy veldt. The hippopotamus yawning in his pond, the elephant lazing in his water hole, all snorted and rose up, alarmed as the air was split for an instant by a presence approaching, and just as suddenly passed.

So fleet was Phaeton that mountain ranges fell away beneath his feet, and marshland parted.

As the long daylight hours stretched on, and as the sun's chariot swept the high heavens and descended toward sunset, Phaeton sped, snow-splashed peak and mosquito-droning jungle both a blur past the tireless runner.

And still he ran, into the night that rose from the east.

Phaeton's thrill at his wondrous speed was tempered, now, by the knowledge of what he approached.

What will I tell my divine father? wondered Phaeton.

How can I dare to so much as gaze upon him?

And what will I bring myself to say?

If only I could speed like this forever, thought Clymene's son, and never achieve my destination – that would be happiness.