Starfall (8 page)

But hers was merely a spoken prayer. A prayer to Juno not accompanied by a gift of
pthois
– sweetened sacrificial cake – or a pitcher of wine for the temple attendants, was unlikely to win much notice from such a sovereign immortal.

Nonetheless Phaeton's mother concluded her devotions, “Bring him back safe to me, my only son.”

And soon.

Do not let him complete his journey
.

TWENTY-ONE

Her daughters were awake, too, Clymene saw as she slipped into the courtyard.

“Hail, Mother, and the gods' blessing on us all,” recited Lampetia.

This was not simple rote courtesy. It would not be wise to begin a day without showing respect to both one's parents and the gods.

“You'll be cold, both of you,” said Clymene. “You should be wearing something warm.”

“We couldn't sleep, Mother,” said Lampetia. “Phaethusa had a dream.”

They were garbed in lightly woven linen chitons, and the morning was chilly, dew dappling the courtyard bricks at their feet. They warmed their hands over a container of coals one of the servants looked after even now, stirring the embers to new heat.

“It's almost as though winter has come back again,” said Clymene, running her hands over her arms. She did not want to hear about another of Phaethusa's nightmares. Her eldest daughter was a big-eyed, silent young woman, with wild and haunted dreams.

“Or as if the sun is late in rising,” agreed Lampetia, absent-mindedly.

Lampetia held the griffin feather brought back by Phaeton, and cradled it in her hand.

“I'm sure Phaeton found a nice inn, with a soft pillow to rest his weary head,” she said at last.

Comfortable inns were not unheard of, Clymene knew, and it was considered bad luck to mistreat a traveler, especially a young man of position. But much more common were the lowly taverns, rough places if not unsafe, with bad wine sold for a shrewd price, and bugs in the ticking.

“And a dish of smoked fish to go with his honey-figs,” agreed Phaethusa, naming one of Phaeton's favorite meals.

Clymene had to laugh. Both of her daughters spoke with a forced confidence – Clymene was touched by this. She kissed Lampetia, and Phaethusa, too. Perhaps Phaeton had heard a night-bird lifting a tune of longing and felt homesick – after one short night. Perhaps he was already on his way back to his family. It was possible, if the gods so willed it.

“I dreamed,” said Phaethusa, “that Phaeton was swimming in a river.”

This certainly did not sound like a nightmare, thought Clymene. Perhaps the dream foretold some wonderful event.

“He saw me,” continued Phaethusa, “and called out –”

Before Phaethusa could finish telling her dream, a sound interrupted her – a pulsing flutter, from high above.

Scattered leaves did a wild dance as a gust of wind blew over the roof tiles, and spun around the fountain, followed by an even greater wind, a warm, dry gale from the east that blew a speck of grit into Clymene's eye. The wind trailed off into a stillness, and silence fell over the countryside.

But the silence was not perfect.

From far off came the sound of cries, far and wide – the startled calls of farmland fowl, geese and crows, and the birds of the wild, the swallow and the hawk.

“Whatever can be wrong?” asked Lampetia, shading her eyes against the sky.

TWENTY-TWO

Birds swarmed and tumbled.

Entire flocks – tribes, nations – of the feathered creatures formed tossing clouds overhead as the sunlight swelled, its withering heat driving the blue from the sky.

And then the sunlight just as quickly began to fade. Shadows swelled again as the daylight began a flight to the north. Birds poured from the sky, seeking refuge in brush and wood, some of them smoking, too late to hide, already singed and heat-stunned.

Just as suddenly the sun careened away from the north. Clymene hurried to the fountain and stood on her tiptoes, straining to see the morning light over walls of the villa. And then she could observe it easily, the familiar orb of the divine chariot as it wheeled across heaven.

Only to lose its way again, and tumble southward – or was it falling to earth? Far off a human being let out a wail, and another wind – hotter than Vulcan's fire – emptied over the land.

If such a thing were possible, thought Clymene.

If such a thing could happen, she thought, half-guessing and sickened at her private fear.

Pigs screamed in distant farmyards, a sound like human terror.

But such a calamity was not possible, Phaeton's mother reminded herself. Her knees were weak, and her speech failed, but she repeated this certainty to herself: this could not be what it seemed.

She hurried down the hall, past the busts of Merops's ancestors, followed by the rapid footsteps of her husband, his chiton thrown on quickly, hanging unevenly as he ran, joining his wife in the village street. His entire household shielded their eyes against the errant, staggering sunlight.

A bull broke from its pen and ran, lowing in panic through the village. The street was crowded with half-clad villagers, smiths and clerks, plowwrights and slaves, all wild-eyed and disheveled.

Epaphus arrived in the street clinging to his bow, the young hunter leading white-haired Aristander by one arm. The old veteran had fallen, momentarily blinded by the sunlight – and now the wooden roof of his smithy was alight.

“What have we done,” cried Aristander, “to offend the gods?”

Epaphus could say nothing, frightened and wide-eyed, but others joined the veteran in an outcry directed at the sky, toward the divine ones.

Ino and her mother joined the throng, baffled and afraid.

“Hurry, everyone – come into my house,” called Merops, pulling in his neighbors, pushing them into the security of his stout-walled home.

But Clymene did not follow.

At that moment blond-haired Cycnus joined her, squinting, one hand blocking the ever-shifting sun.

Shielding her eyes against the errant, blinding source of light she called for Phoebus Apollo.

When the sky seemed deaf except for the shrieks of a few surviving birds, fuming and in flames as they plummeted from the sky, Clymene raised her voice, calling for cloud-gathering Jupiter himself to come to the aid of earth.

And to save her son.

TWENTY-THREE

The chariot glowed white-hot beneath Phaetons feet.

The youth held on to the edge of the carriage, the reins streaming uncontrollably around and over him.

He made no further attempt to master the fiery team as the soles of his leather travel boots burned and his flesh blistered. In his despair he remembered the passions and hopes of a young man scalded by taunts, questioning his loving mother, leaving behind a caring stepfather. In his mind Phaeton could see the image of a youth, who spared too little time for lively Cycnus, loyal cousin and friend.

The winged team of coursers swept upward, to the heaven's summit, where the air was thin and Phaeton's breath came in painful gasps. The horses climbed, only to dive downward again, fiery manes flowing, as meadows burst into flame at the chariot's approach.

Wild bison stampeded, their hides smoldering, and the silver-feathered owl, blinded by all-consuming day, caught fire in flight. The alder trees burst into leaves of flame, and sacred springs began to simmer and boil dry.

Fear-sick, Phaeton could not shape a further prayer. He clung hard to keep from tumbling from the chariot as he thought he heard the anguish of farmers and villagers, stricken mortals far below.

Forests smoked and gave way to flame, and volcanoes smoldered from outside as well as within. When he had summoned his courage Phaeton struggled upward, holding tight to the chariot's edge, and looked down to see the spreading riot of fire in the chariot's wake. Where forest had cloaked the hilltops, new desert broke, an expanse of bare bedrock.

Nymphs bewailed the loss of springs, as sands along the rivers melted into glass and currents boiled, steaming entirely away. Whooping cranes burned, casting feathered embers from their wings, and seas withered, retreating, leaving barren earth. The tuna cooked in his shrinking abyss, whales searching out the depths and dying.

Not even Neptune, god of the teeming sea, could bear to gaze skyward, blanched by the light from above.

Phaeton keened yet another prayer.

Immortal father, great Jupiter, bring an end to this
.

TWENTY-FOUR

Jupiter loved quiet.

The open blue, the burgeoning cloud, rain-freshened dawns, and deep sunsets – these were the sky god's great pleasures, and the everlasting chill of high places was his eternal joy.

That morning the cloud-gathering god was in his highest temple. Juno his wife had just left his presence that early hour, after arguing long and well that a favorite creature of hers deserved a boon.

Now Jupiter was glad to be alone with his own thoughts.

He loved the song of rain freshening new-plowed farmland. He liked calm and logic. Too much talk wearied him at times. He stood now at the far end of his temple and drank in the cool, sweet freshness all around.

Perfect peace was rare, even here among the divine. Mount Olympus, the dwelling place of the gods, was so often in tumult. Mars and Minerva frequently argued with each other, and the powerfully built, half-lame Vulcan was always arriving with some new device of genius – a bowl of gold as big as a lake bed, or a newly fashioned archery set for Diana, even though the weapons she possessed were already beautiful enough.

This morning violet-eyed Juno had asserted that the goose deserved more respect. The goddess had always praised the peacock, with its spreading plumes, and Jupiter could certainly understand that. But why, of all creatures, did Juno now sing the praises of that rude, long-necked fowl?

Well, what did it matter? reflected the great god with a chuckle. Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, had her own temples and honorable owl. Mars, bringer of war, had his monuments and his bright-feathered woodpecker. Jupiter admired fairness, in himself and others, and he was generous by nature. He would ask Mercury to shape a decree. A sacred flock of geese would grace the beautiful temple of Juno, and be honored as a sacred bird.

Even a god can be surprised. As Jupiter was just then, when a figure hurried across the temple grounds, and splashed so swiftly over the broad pools that the footsteps of the herald carried across the water.

The youthful-looking messenger swept the broad-brimmed hat from his head and knelt.

“Rise up, Mercury,” said the gentle-voiced Jupiter. He liked this herald very much, and always felt his heart lighten at the quick-footed immortal's approach. “What troubles you this morning?”

If, in fact, it
was
morning, Jupiter thought just then. Sunny cool had turned to even colder twilight in an instant, mountain shadows stretching and then shrinking away as the sunlight came and went unsteadily.

“I cannot bring myself to tell you, lord of all,” said the herald.

The messenger's usual lively tones were muted.

“You will,” said Jupiter simply. “Please, good Mercury,” the immortal father added, kind-hearted even then, and increasingly puzzled at the behavior of the daylight beyond the temple.

“The tidings are too grim,” said the messenger.

Jupiter nearly laughed. “Nothing can be so dreadful, herald. Unless, perhaps, an angry goose has attacked some brave warrior – and pinched him to death.”

“The children, my lord Jupiter,” Mercury began. The boys and girls of mortal men and women –”

“What of them?” interrupted the sky god with a darkening frown. He nearly felt like telling the herald to wait for a moment, for beyond the columns of the temple the sunlight was suddenly impossibly bright.

“I fear to voice my tidings,” said Mercury in the finest herald speech, “without a promise from the father of all –”

“Wise herald,” said Jupiter with some impatience, “I will not hold you responsible for your news, good or bad.”

“Earth is burning,” said the herald in a burst, anguish in his voice. “Men and women, and their children, cry to you for help.”

Jupiter looked away, and briefly weighed these tidings. “Herald,” he said, “this cannot be true.”

But Mercury's gaze was steady, his youthful-looking features set in an expression of sorrow. And Jupiter groaned, realizing then the meaning of the distant, panicked cries of birds.

“Tell me, loyal Mercury,” Jupiter said at last, the gentleness of his tone giving the greater weight to his question. “Who has done this?”

TWENTY-FIVE

Phaeton clung to the edge of the chariot.

The horses surged in terror from star to forest, from moon to ocean floor.

The youth was certain that this day would not end, and that his prayer remained unheard by the immortals. His voice torn, he lifted a final plea at last to Mercury, the divine messenger, repeating a fragment of the old song,
quicken my prayer
.

Divine Mercury, do not forget me
.

Jupiter strode to the ridge from which, in the long, peaceful mornings, he so often surveyed the spreading patchwork of the world.

He had been hoping, despite his growing unease, that Mercury had been mistaken. The herald had a gift for vivid description – surely matters could not be as bleak as he asserted.

Jupiter was stunned.

The chief of the gods was shaken to his heart by what he saw, and touched by the cries and prayers that rose up to him from the world of mortals.

And the god was appalled at the sight of the pitching, careening chariot, a blazing streak of sunlight.

Jupiter had long admired Phoebus Apollo's wheeled carriage. Many days, while divine bickering echoed throughout Olympus, Jupiter had often thought
how wonderful to do nothing but ride across the sky
.