Starfall (3 page)

When he kicked the monster once more the black beak parted, and released an airy groan. The griffin's head fell back into the dust, but even now the beast was not dead, panting, red eyes searching. A more merciful hunter would use a knife, now, to bring this suffering to an end.

Ino turned away, but Epaphus for the moment had no eyes for her.

“Apollo is the god of the bow and arrow,” continued Epaphus, “as everyone knows.”

“Phoebus Apollo in his chariot admires archery,” admitted Old Aristander, his voice muffled by the helmet he loved to wear, “almost as much as he approves a good song.”

“So, Phaeton,” said Epaphus, radiant in the bright noon. “I've heard you bragging about your divine father.”

Phaeton had mentioned his parentage in quiet moments, believing his mother's word. Now he regretted ever opening his mouth around the young hunter.

“Tell me truthfully now, Phaeton,” Epaphus was continuing, “who among us is the son of a god? A mild-hearted dreamer?”

Phaeton seethed inwardly. The young archer was blessed with a rooster's voice as well as an archer's eye. Besides, good-humored tradition allowed a successful hunter, like a victorious athlete, to boast of his triumph.

But the sound of Epaphus's voice stung Phaeton, as the archer added, “Or somone like me?” He laughed and continued, “Phaeton, you have to admit it's possible. Maybe I'm the offspring of Jupiter himself!”

FIVE

If Phaeton could have thought of any smart rejoinder, he would have uttered it right then.

But instead he said nothing. He knelt to gather a single gilt-red feather from the ground, remembering Lampetia's request.

“Phaeton, everyone knows you're just another wool comber,” continued Epaphus, using the phrase for a housebound man of little adventure. “And the offspring of a peddler, or maybe a wandering goatherd.” At that, the young hunter drew his knife, and cut the griffin's throat.

The assembly of field hands and house servants fell silent at the insult they had heard. Only Merops's habitual even temper kept him from striking the young archer – this offense to Clymene and her son was beyond bad manners. Even so, the good-tempered landowner grew stiff and pale.

Show none of your troubled pride, Phaeton cautioned himself.
Dignity answers the jeer
. It was a line from an old fable, the hard-laboring ant mocked by the lounging grasshopper. It was true that a quiet reserve was admired by man and god alike.

The veteran Aristander shifted the heavy helmet back from his face and offered, in a halting effort to soothe, “Certainly, my friends, both lads may be the sons of one god or another.”

This suggestion merely embittered Phaeton all the more.

Epaphus, alerted by the silence of his former well-wishers, now a disapproving circle of villagers, may have begun to stammer an apology.

But Phaeton did not linger to hear it.

He made his way with a measured tread toward home with Cycnus beside him offering consolation, “That loutish archer will only offend the gods, Phaeton.”

As always Cycnus made good sense, Phaeton knew. He was grateful to his bright-haired cousin, who could recite many legends about the gods and their exploits. But for the moment Phaeton could not be consoled by talk.

Phaeton broke from his loyal cousin and ran.

He took solace, as so often before, in the sound of the wind streaming through his hair.

Once again Phaeton flung open the gate of his stepfather's villa and quickly entered the courtyard.

Clymene was there, embroidering the hem of a cloth.

The soft-spun, woolen garment belonged to her son. She was sewing green and gold thread along the hem of his favorite tunic, preparing for the celebration of summer, yet weeks away, a festival of dancing and the best reserves of wine.

Clymene paused, her needle glinting in the light reflected off the water of the fountain. She gave a nod and a worried smile, and her servants departed, their soft steps fading to silence.

Phaeton did not speak at once.

He did not want to awaken a hurtful secret from his mother's past. If anything, a protective instinct for her heart, as well as his own, had silenced Phaeton for many seasons. Even now he weighed his question and silently asked the Mother of Wisdom, gray-eyed Minerva, to guide his speech.

But even with all the consideration he managed to give his words, they came out sounding harsh.

“Promise me before the gods, Mother,” insisted Phaeton, “that I am the son of the lord of daylight.”

SIX

Phaeton's tone was rough, despite his intentions, and almost unseemly – a son's address to his mother should always be polite.

But Clymene was a woman slow to anger. She was aware that she had offered her growing son too much silence on this long-unspoken question, and that she had stifled her own memories too long.

Only a careful eye would have noticed the needle trembling, her quickened pulse alive in the green and golden thread. Clymene slipped the needle safely into the garment on her lap.

Strong feeling stirring in her voice she asked, “Who has dared to say otherwise?”

Phaeton had always, until this moment, taken pleasure in this courtyard.

Like many children, he had formed soldiers of potter's clay, shaved by friendly potters from their turning wheels. Baked in the sun, these warriors had played out their triumphs here beside the dancing waters.

Now the young man reported Epaphus's insult, regretting even as he spoke that he had troubled his mother this day, disturbing Clymene – but bringing him closer to the inevitable and disappointing truth.

When Phaeton concluded the news of his young adversary and the defeated griffin, Clymene plucked the silver thimble from her finger, and tossed it onto the bricks.

“Epaphus's mother is that mouse-haired creature, Thalia,” she said angrily, “who noised it about the village that I was the companion of ox-herders and wine-sots, little better than herself.”

The noblewoman hesitated, displeased at her own outburst. She continued in a more gentle cadence, “The gods have other consorts among mortal women, Phaeton my son, but none of them make this countryside their home.”

“I doubt that it is possible,” said Phaeton. He had long ago come to question such matters, and now he could not keep silent. “Forgive me, Mother, but I certainly can't believe that the god of sunlight seeks the love of mortal women like yourself.”

Phaeton at once wished he had not said this – but it was too late. He had spoken, and now his mother knew how he felt.

Clymene folded her hands and wished the divinities of the hearth could grant her the proper response to this. She gazed up from her shadowy seat toward the sunlight, still falling this late in the afternoon, golden across the fountain.

No god, she believed, should abandon his son to face both a griffin and a common insult in one day. And certainly no deity should allow his offspring to doubt the loving power of the gods.

Even with an effort to speak formally, Phaeton's voice trembled as he added, “I now understand the true nature of my parentage, and on the subject I will never pain you again.”

“You do not trouble me, Phaeton,” said the gentlewoman.
Your divine father troubles me
, she nearly allowed herself to add.

The young man spoke with difficulty, but with the added dignity divine Minerva graced him with that hour. “I imagine now that my father was some mortal man you cannot bring yourself to mention.”

Clymene felt years of consolation fall away before her. Knowing the truth, and believing that Phaeton shared it, had kept her heart alive during the long and bitter winter nights.

“Can you so doubt me, Phaeton?” she asked.

Phaeton turned away.

Clymene rose, and she stepped into the bold sunlight she had avoided for too long.

She took her son by the hand and turned to look upward at that source of light so rich it is blinding. She closed her eyes and felt the radiance gather her in, flooding her, her senses alight.

“I swear under the Lightning-Thruster's blue sky,” she said, beginning the most solemn of oaths, one uttered before Jupiter. She raised her voice, “I swear upon the life of the husband I love that your father was the divine Phoebus.”

This oath shook Phaeton deeply.

And it awakened the beginnings of joy.

Then, stirred by some inner daemon, or by Venus herself, the bringer of desire, Clymene turned to her son and continued, “Go to him, Phaeton.”

The young man blinked his eyes, his gaze tearful from gazing upward, and bewildered, too, at his mother's meaning.

“It is not right,” said Clymene, “that you face dangers and even churlish insult without your driving father's help.”

Phaeton held up his hand to shade his eyes from the all-searching sun.

“Take yourself,” his mother was saying, “to the end of the world, all the way to the gates of sunrise and seek your father in his temple.”

“Is such a journey possible?” asked Phaeton, his voice a bare whisper.

But he was thrilled, nonetheless – everything he had ever doubted was suddenly made certain.

“Leave today,” said Clymene, “and let your immortal father tell you all about his love for a fleet-footed maiden.”

SEVEN

In the warmth of the slanting afternoon sunlight that very day, Phaeton called out his farewells.

His half sisters Lampetia and Phaethusa joined their voices in a parting-hymn to Mercury, most famous of all divine messengers, herald to the gods, and guardian of travelers. His youngest sister held up the single, sun-gilded griffin feather as she joined with the others:

Lighten each footfall
,

quicken each prayer

from our lips to heaven
.

Merops lifted his hand in blessing, his prayerful formality unable to hide the tears in his eyes.

Told of the trek Clymene had urged on her son, gentlehearted Merops had only sighed, “Dear Phaeton, alas!” As head of the household the nobleman could have forbidden Phaeton's journey, but knowing Clymene's heart, and loving his stepson, the soft-voiced landowner had endowed Phaeton with a satchel of provisions and, secure in the heel of the sack, a small bag of silver.

Merops would not admit as much, but he had always been slightly in awe of Clymene – she had once, after all, been the consort of a god. While it was a thrill to be the husband of such a woman, he had always been reluctant to differ with her on whether the new cook had overboiled the groats, or if raisin wine was good enough for a midwinter meal. He had been more than gentle, likewise, with her son, not wishing to displease the offspring of a divinity, even though his nature never permitted harsh speech toward any of his children.

Clymene looked on, her eyes alive with faith in Phaeton's journey, but afraid to make a sound lest she give way to weeping. She would miss her son with every heartbeat, but she knew his pilgrimage would win him honor – and her, as well.

And Phaeton's journey would forever silence Thalia, that queen of gossip.

Phaeton could not guess what song or prayer Ino was lifting, her voice lost among the others, but he took a long moment to gaze back at her.

The beginning of a journey was very important. It was then that bird-omens were made visible. If a thrush or a swallow flew a straight course in the direction of one's destination it was a very favorable sign. A crooked flight – or even worse, one heading back in the direction of home – foretold hardship.

But Phaeton could see no birds at all as he passed the still-smoking smithy and the abode of Old Aristander, who called out his best wishes.

The young man's sole omen was his own enigmatic shadow, falling ahead on the stones and ruts of the road.

Ino put her fingers wonderingly to her lips.

“Is he going off, then,” Ino heard herself ask, “just like that – without a further farewell?”

In his sorrow at his cousin's departure, Cycnus felt a spark of jealousy. “Ino, do you really think,” said the youth, “that Phaeton should stay a little longer – simply to share sweet good-byes with you?”

Ino realized now how little she had guessed about Phaeton.

“It would not displease me,” she said. She added, “I would have been very happy if he had –”

Kissed me
. To her surprise those words had been on her lips.

Cycnus ran off, believing that it was not too late to speak to Phaeton again.

He hurried, as he so often had seen Phaeton run, ducking the branches of the fruit trees, eager to do some wonderful deed to prove his friendship and loyalty.

Perhaps the only silent, dry-eyed figure in the village was Epaphus, standing with his bow unstrung.

The young archer was able to guess the motive behind Phaeton's journey, and for this reason Phaeton's rival was a knot of self-doubt. If a god sired me, the young hunter thought, shouldn't I set forth on a journey, too?

He had many questions to ask his mother.

Armed with his staff, and carrying a satchel of wheat cakes and
pemma
– finest pastry – and apples still cold from the cellar, Phaeton made quick work of passing the vineyards.

He bid a silent farewell to the herds of cattle, lowing animals trailing in to be milked. Long strides swept him through the fields of rippling wheat to the edge of the wild land. A row of stones there, mossy-furred boulders, marked the outline of the woods. Some said these rocks had once been men and women, transformed by some wondrous power.

Phaeton hurried past them. Sometimes, he had heard, these human-sized stones were heard to murmur strange, barely audible warnings or pleas for life.

The young seeker reached a ragged crossroads.

The way ahead was well traveled, worn bare by oxcarts and wandering magi, men from the east who read the future in the stars. Few people from the countryside journeyed beyond this crossroads, a departure place marked by a statue of Mercury to bring good luck.