Starfall (2 page)

Phaeton fell and rolled, barely escaping the claws.

“Phaeton, let's try for the orchard,” piped Cycnus, and the already fleeing shepherds joined in, urging Phaeton to save himself.

“
Run, run
,” mocked the monster.

The youth tumbled again as the talons whistled through the air. The outstretched claws snagged the cloth of Phaeton's
chiton
– his woolen tunic. And held him, straining the fabric, tugging the young man off the ground.

Phaeton struggled, his legs wheeling in midair.

Off-balance, the raptor tried to circle higher, carrying the youth for a few sweeping strokes of its powerful wings – but the fabric tore.

Phaeton tumbled to the ground. When he found his feet again he gave a burst of speed, zigzagging across the meadow. Cycnus and the shepherds scurried ahead, until the thickly blossomed orchard sheltered all of them.

The griffin gave a roar of frustration, and seized the topmost branches, twigs and petals raining, trying to work his way downward, to reach his human prey.

Phaeton did not linger long with the shepherds, crouching under the trees.

His sandaled feet and his bare legs were a blur, his tunic flowing, apple branches catching at his sleeves.

His lungs began to burn, his vision swam, but fifteen-year-old Phaeton used the power he had been born with, the speed that was his from earliest boyhood. He raced all the way through the orchard, sprinting down into the village of shepherd huts, toward the handsome villa at the center of the settlement, Phaeton's home.

Cycnus ran, too, trailing his long-legged cousin, but soon the youth had to break his stride.

Cycnus gazed after the path Phaeton had taken, blossoms still shivering where he had brushed past.

Cycnus was an orphan, the son of Phaeton's maternal uncle, and he was as close as a younger brother to his active cousin. Cycnus thought of himself as blessed by the fates to have such a safe and happy home. At times like this, however, he knew that it would always lie beyond his power to keep up with Phaeton, whose very name meant
Shining One
.

Phaeton had just enough breath to call a warning as he flung open the gates, startling the servants.

His mother Clymene rose from the shade near the fountain.

“Our flock is being attacked!” he panted.

The house servants gaped, wide-eyed. A soft-voiced, prayerful lot, they knew nothing of rough life under the sky.

Phaeton steadied his voice and spoke formally now, as was proper in the presence of servants. Bad tidings had to be expressed in a careful way, the words chosen deliberately, and the youth steadied his voice.

“Mother,” he said at last, “send word to your husband, before the griffin does real harm.”

TWO

Clymene loved her husband Merops for his generosity.

And she loved his house. The fountain here played night and day, and a peacock strode among the herb shrubs of the sun-splashed courtyard, lording harmlessly over the doves that gathered to drink and bathe.

The main house of a wealthy farming estate was usually, like this one, composed of wide walls that enclosed a central refuge, and many women lived as Phaeton's mother chose to do, staying in the quiet confines of the home.

But Clymene was more retiring than most, and all the countryside shared the story that explained her special need for peace and shadow – although not everyone agreed that this tale was true.

In the years of her maidenhood, the summer she had coaxed her father into letting her scamper with the rabbit hunters, the story went, she had found a lover beyond a clump of alder trees.

This lover was none other than Phoebus Apollo – the god of the sun.

She had understood as this handsome presence swept her into his embrace that he would not linger – that he would depart to his duty beyond the gates of sunset. The lord of daylight could blaze up like noon heat, and he could soothe like a warm dawn. But he could not be won, or bound by promises, like a mortal lover.

But she had believed that she found a special favor in his eyes – that of all the women under the blue he loved her best.

So she had believed.

He called her
alma
– dear one. She had swelled with child in the following months, her prayers to the morning sun unanswered. Summer ripened to harvest time all those years ago, and the lovely Clymene learned to relish solitude, and the laughter of her infant son. The beautiful young woman told herself that she did not regret her lover's absence, and that her heart was free of longing.

After a few summers the wealthy Merops adopted the boy Phaeton as his own, gracing Clymene with marriage vows. Her wedding had been a joyous feast, still remembered in the farmland, with the finest meats and wines, and golden acorns and hazelnuts strewn on the ground for good luck.

Merops was a kind husband, careful with every living creature he owned. If a barrow-pig lost a tusk, or a pigeon sprained a wing, Merops hurried off to attend to the injured creature. Clymene loved him for his kindness and for his quiet laugh.

Even so, Merops was a mortal man, and not the god of daylight. Clymene wondered sometimes if Phaeton's father ever savored the sight of the lad at play, from his chariot across the noontime blue. She avoided bright sunlight increasingly in recent summers, keeping to the shade. Let my son's father be teased with curiosity, she thought, and forever wonder. Let him ache for a glimpse of me, as I once did pine for him.

Of all that she enjoyed now she treasured nothing so much as the sight of her son. When a beesting had nearly taken his life a few summers ago, her sacred locket – with the knucklebone of a sea hero – had worked magic, but Clymene felt her son should be spared such dangers.

The sound of his step, the murmur of his voice, always quickened her heart. Now she was alarmed at his sudden news.

“How many men has the griffin killed?” she asked with an air of calm.

“No one, while I was there,” said her son.

No woman who had been intimate with a god was easily disturbed. She had been afraid some ancient Titan had stirred to life – a raving giant – or some equal horror. Griffins were like so much else in the woodlands and hills – spiteful toward human beings, and envious of the love men and women could share for each other.

Nonetheless, Clymene resented the threat her son had just encountered. Surely Apollo could extend some special protection to the youth. Besides, she was proud of the sort of young man Phaeton was turning out to be. The son of Phoebus Apollo did certainly resemble his father – with his honey-bright hair and his sky-bright eye.

And she was more concerned than she wanted Phaeton to see, despite her pretense. His shoulders bore flecks of tree bark, and an oak leaf was caught in his hair. She plucked it free and said, “You haven't been near the Nymph Tree, Phaeton, have you?”

Clymene had heard Phaeton and Cycnus planning a gift of honeycomb for Ino, but never guessed the danger her son was willing to risk. Someone should take an ax to that old oak, she thought – it festered with bees. Or better yet, the immortal god of sunlight should parch it with his rays and kill the tree, and all the winged insects, too.

“Tell me, dear Phaeton,” insisted Clymene, “that you have not climbed that old oak to find honeycomb for Ino.”

“Don't – please don't worry about me, Mother,” stammered Phaeton.

He was more than a little embarrassed. His mother must have overheard Cycnus urging caution, and Phaeton insisting that surely the long-haired Ino, daughter of the local river merchant, would be impressed with such a gift.

Affection warmed Phaeton's eyes, but his voice was impatient when he added, “Send for Merops, Mother, please – before the griffin kills every living thing.”

THREE

Phaeton's stepfather hurried toward them at that moment, rolling up the scroll in his hand, an inventory of wheat bushels and breed-ewes, an estimate of the bountiful harvest to come.

Hearing the news, Merops asked at once, “Where is Cycnus?”

“I left him safe,” said Phaeton, realizing he had not given his cousin much thought, “in the apple orchard, I think.”

“Dear goddess of love,” breathed Merops, “I'm grateful for that.”

It was not the first time that the young man had felt impatience at his stepfather's character. When confronted with bad news most men gave out a manly “by Hercules!” But quiet Merops whispered a prayer to the goddess Venus, like a philosopher.

Now Phaeton wondered as before why his mother hadn't married a tough, sun-weathered adventurer with a hearty laugh – like the traders who bought horses from Merops early each summer, stallions bound for chariot duty in the far reaches of the world.

And so Phaeton's heart leaped when Merops called for the farm-steward, and gave the command, “Arm the workers with scythes and axes.”

And Phaeton was glad to hear his stepfather add, “We'll teach this griffin a lesson he won't forget.”

Phaeton was proud of the sturdy band of servants and neighbors that marched quickly across the village square, brandishing scythes, boar spears, and cattle prods.

Old Aristander had donned one of his time-honored helmets, from the days when he crafted armor for sea traders and fought alongside them. The stout bronzesmith still fastened the fittings of his crocodile-skin armor as he outpaced all but Phaeton.

The veteran smiled at the young man and said, “We'll cut out this monster's gizzard, Phaeton, and have a tasty feast!”

The young man did not want to say what he was thinking, even as the old campaigner lifted his
pelta
– a crescent-shaped shield: Be careful, honored Aristander – your best fighting days are past.

Phaeton's youthful half sisters joined them, long-limbed Phaethusa, nearly as fleet of foot as her brother, and Lampetia, who made birds and beasts out of red river clay.

Phaeton lifted a gentle hand to stay them. The anticipated violence was too dangerous for the very young, and Merops agreed, “Stay here in the village and guard the threshing ground,” said their kind-eyed father.

“Phaeton, bring me back a feather,” called Lampetia. “Please!”

Her half brother laughed and waved, wondering inwardly that his sisters knew so little of danger.

The band was a brave sight, Phaeton knew, and when Ino called out from the wellhead, where she helped one of her servant girls crank water out of the ground, Phaeton gave a wave.

“There's trouble in the sheep field,” was all he would allow himself to say, imitating the terseness of warriors who had seen much violence.

“Phaeton, be careful!” called Ino, hurrying to join him.

The young woman had rarely spoken like this to Phaeton. They played drafts together, a board game with ivory pieces, and sometimes she sang for him, poems Phaeton had barely heard of, learned from ambassadors and river captains.

Some day he would write a song of his own, or memorize an epic, some artful way to prove his worth to her. But for now he could not trust himself to say anything further. Something about her struck him speechless, as so often before.

Phaeton was pleased to note, however, that the golden-haired young woman followed along, accepting a hunting lance from one of the field workers as the band stormed through the orchard, ready to battle the monster.

Perhaps, thought Phaeton, I'll seize the griffin, and wound it somehow – as Ino watches.

FOUR

The throng of armed villagers hurried into the meadow.

They were just in time to see young Epaphus, bending his bow, taking aim at his winged quarry.

The feathered monster let out a wordless, piercing challenge just as an arrow lanced into the sky. The arrow caught the sunlight, glinting as it arced upward. The griffin tried to time its flight to avoid this menace – and it succeeded, fluttering its great wings.

But a second bolt immediately followed the first.

This new shaft buried itself in the griffin's throat, and the creature let out a breathy scream. The monster wheeled awkwardly, trailing feathers. It struggled to remain aloft, but at last plunged downward, unable to break its fall, and landed hard on the grassy field.

“Come see!” called Epaphus, brandishing the bow, a bristling quiver of arrows at his hip.

He gave his chest a pat.
Come see what I've just done
.

The young hunter propped one booted foot on the flank of the bloody, barely moving griffin as the villagers gathered around, giving cries of congratulations and thanksgiving.

The arrow thrust from the throat of the monster, where the eagle-like plumage of the head and neck mingled with the tawny, lionlike body. The creature's eyes were half-open, a black tongue darting from its metallic beak.

The griffin snapped at the air, and Phaeton joined others in taking a step back. As much as he hated and feared the creature, it gave the young man no pleasure to see it suffer.

Epaphus gave Phaeton a bold glance and laughed.

“While one of our neighbors ran as fast as he was able,” said the young archer, “another planted his feet and bent his bow.”

“Well done, Epaphus,” said Merops. He put his hand on the suntanned hunter's shoulder.

“Oh, very well indeed, Epaphus!” sang out Ino.

Phaeton was fleet of foot, and he knew how to ride a spirited horse. But he had no training in the art of archery – it was not considered a seemly skill for the stepson of a gentleman. Now as so often before Phaeton bitterly resented his stepfather's quiet household, with its thoughtful-looking marble ancestors lined up in the hall. His father should be a war hero, his walls lined with battle trophies.

“And thanks to quick-footed Phaeton, too,” said Merops, “for alerting us to danger.”

The gathered folk gave a cheer for both young men.

A youth less blinded by feeling would have seen that Merops was merely proper toward the prideful archer, but that he reserved a warm smile for his stepson. And he would have seen that Ino, while dazzled by Epaphus's prowess, put her hand to her throat, dismayed at the way the young hunter kicked the dying griffin, and kicked again, causing the creature further agony.