The Dolphin Rider (4 page)

When he looked over the edge of the chariot, he could see tiny houses far below, specks of trees, and a dark blue puddle that was the sea. The coach was trundling across the sky. The great sun wheels were turning, casting light, warming and brightening the earth, chasing away the shadows of night.

“Just imagine,” Phaeton thought, “people are looking up at the sky, praising the sun, hoping the weather stays fair. How many are watching me?” Then he thought, “But I'm too small for them to see, too far away. And the light of the sun is too bright. For all they know, I could be Apollo making his usual run. How will they know it's me,
me, me
, if I can't go closer? Especially Zeus' son — how will
he
know? I'll go home tomorrow, and tell him what I did, and he'll laugh at me and say I'm lying, just as he did before. No! I must show him that I am driving the chariot of the sun. Apollo said not to drive too close to earth, but how will he know? I won't stay long. I'll just dip down toward our village and circle it a few times until everyone recognizes me.”

When they were over the village where Phaeton lived, he jerked on the reins, pulling the horses' heads down. They whinnied angrily, and tossed their heads, but he jerked the reins again.

“Down!” he cried. “Down! Down!”

The horses plunged down through the bright air, their golden hooves twinkling, their golden manes flying. They pulled the great glittering chariot over the village in a long flaming swoop. Phaeton was horrified to see the houses burst into fire. The trees burned like torches. And people rushed about screaming, their loose clothing on fire.

Phaeton could not see because of the smoke. Had he burned his own home — and his mother and sisters? He threw himself backward in the chariot, pulling at the reins with all his might, shouting “Up! Up!”

The horses, made furious by the smoke, reared on their hind legs. They leaped upward, galloping through the smoke, pulling the chariot up, up.

Swiftly the earth fell away beneath them until the village was just a smudge of smoke. Again Phaeton saw the pencil-stroke of mountain, the inkblot of sea. “Whoa!” he cried. “Turn now! Forward on your path!”

But he could no longer handle the horses. They were galloping, not trotting. They had taken the bit in their teeth. They did not turn toward the path of the day — across the meadow of the sky — but galloped up and up. And the people on earth saw the sun shooting away until it was no larger than a star.

Then darkness came, and cold. The earth froze hard. Rivers froze, and the oceans too. Boats were caught fast in the ice, and it snowed in the jungle. Marble buildings cracked. It was impossible for anyone to speak, for their breath froze on their lips. In villages and cities, in fields and in woods, people died of the cold. Their bodies were piled up like firewood.

Still Phaeton could not hold the horses, and still they galloped upward dragging light and warmth away from the earth. Finally, they had gone so high that the air was too thin for them to breathe. Phaeton saw the flame of their breath, which had been red and yellow, burn blue in the thin air. He himself was gasping for breath, and he felt the marrow of his bones freezing.

The horses, maddened by the feeble hand on the reins, swung around and dived toward earth again. As they galloped downward, all the ice melted, causing great floods. Whole villages were swept away by a solid wall of water. Trees were uprooted and forests were torn away. Still the horses swooped lower and lower. Now the water began to boil — great billowing clouds of steam arose.

Phaeton could not see; the steam was too thick. He untied the reins from his waist, for they would have cut him in two. He had no control over the horses at all. They galloped upward again, out of the steam, taking at last the middle way in the sky. But they raced wildly, using all their tremendous strength. They circled the earth in a matter of minutes, smashing across the sky from horizon to horizon. They made the day flash on and off, like someone playing with a lantern. And the people who were left alive were bewildered by day and night following each other so swiftly.

Up high on Olympus, the gods in their cool garden heard the clamor of grief from below. Zeus looked down on earth and saw the runaway horses of the sun and the hurtling chariot. He saw the dead and the dying, the burning forests, the floods, the strange frost. Then he looked again at the chariot and saw that it was not Apollo who was driving, but someone he did not know. He stood up, drew back his arm, and hurled a thunderbolt.

It stabbed through the air, striking Phaeton and killing him instantly. The boy was knocked out of the chariot, and his body, flaming, fell like a star. The horses of the sun, knowing themselves driverless now, galloped homeward toward their stables at the eastern edge of the sky.

Since that day, no one has been allowed to drive the chariot of the sun except the sun god himself. But there are still traces on earth of Phaeton's reckless ride. The ends of the earth are still covered with ice caps. Mountains still rumble, trying to spit out the fire that was started in their bellies by the diving sun. And where the horses of the sun swung too close to earth, are the great scorched places called deserts.

The Solid Gold Princess

Once there was a king named Midas, and what he loved best in all the world was gold. He had plenty of his own, but he could not bear the thought of anyone else having any. One morning he happened to wake at dawn and, watching Apollo driving his sun chariot along the slope of the sky, he said to himself, “Of all the gods I like you least, Apollo. How dare you be so wasteful, scattering golden light on rich and poor alike — on king and peasant, on merchant, shepherd, sailor? Don't you understand that only kings should have gold; only the rich know what to do with it?”

Midas did not mean his words to be heard, but the gods have sharp ears. Apollo did hear, and was very angry. That night he came to Midas in a dream and said, “Other gods would punish you, Midas, but I am famous for my good nature. Instead of harming you, I will do you a kindness and grant your dearest wish. What is it to be?”

Midas cried, “Let everything I touch turn to gold!”

He shouted this out in a strangling greedy voice. The guards at his doorway nodded to each other and said, “The king calls out. He must be dreaming of gold again.”

Midas awoke in a bad mood. “Oh, if it were only true,” he said to himself, “and everything I touch turned to gold. What's the use of such dreams? They only tease and torment a man.”

That morning as he was walking in the garden, his hand brushed a rose. Amazed, he watched it turn to gold. Petals and stalk, it turned to gold and stood there, rigid, heavy, gleaming. A bee buzzed out of its stiff folds and, furious, lit on the king's hand to sting him. The king looked at the heavy golden bee on the back of his hand and moved it to his finger.

“I shall wear it as a ring,” he said.

Then he hurried about the garden, touching all the roses, watching them stiffen and gleam. They lost their odor. The disappointed bees rose in swarms and buzzed angrily away. Butterflies departed. The flowers tinkled like lttle bells when the breeze moved among them, and the king was well pleased.

His little daughter, the princess, who had been playing in the garden, ran to him and said, “Father, Father, what has happened to the roses?”

“Are they not pretty, my dear?”

“No! They're ugly! They're horrid and sharp and I can't smell them any more! What happened?”

“A magical thing.”

“Who did the magic?”

“I did.”

“Unmagic it then! I hate these roses,” she said, and began to cry.

“Don't cry,” he said, stroking her head. “Stop crying and I will give you a golden doll with a gold-leaf dress and tiny golden shoes.”

The princess stopped crying, and Midas felt her hair grow spiky under his fingers. Her eyes stiffened and froze into place. The little blue vein in her neck stopped pulsing. She was a statue, a figure of pale gold standing in the garden path. Her tears were tiny golden beads on her golden cheeks.

Midas looked at his daughter and said, “Oh, my dear, I'm sorry. But I have no time to be sad this morning. I shall be busy turning things into gold. When I have a moment I'll think about your problem, I promise.”

He hurried out of the garden. On his way back to the castle he amused himself by kicking up gravel and watching it tinkle down as tiny nuggets. The door he opened became golden. The chair he sat upon became solid gold like his throne. The plates turned into gold, and the cups became gold cups before the amazed eyes of his servants, whom Midas was careful not to touch. He wanted them to keep on serving him.

Greedily he bit into a piece of bread and honey. But his teeth clanked on metal — his mouth was full of metal. He felt himself choking. He plucked from his mouth a piece of gold which had been bread. Very lightly then he touched the other food to see what would happen. Meat…apples… walnuts… all turned to gold, even when he touched them with only the tip of his finger. When he did not touch the food with his fingers, but lifted it on his fork, it became gold as soon as it touched his lips. He was savagely hungry now.

But worse than hunger was the thought of drinking. He realized that wine, or water, or milk would turn to gold in his mouth, and choke him if he swallowed.

“What good is all my gold,” he cried, “if I cannot eat and cannot drink?”

Midas shrieked with rage, pounded on the table, and flung the plates about. Then he raced out of the castle and along the golden gravel path to the garden, where the stiff flowers chimed hatefully. The statue of his daughter looked at him with scooped and empty eyes. In the blaze of the sun, Midas raised his arms heavenward and cried, “You, Apollo, false god, traitor! You pretended to forgive me, but you punished me with a gift!”

Then it seemed to Midas that the sun grew brighter, and that the sun god stood before him on the path, tall, stern, clad in burning gold. A voice said, “On your knees, wretch!”

Midas fell to his knees.

“Have you learned anything?”

“I have…I have…I will never desire gold again. I will never accuse the gods. Please take back the fatal gift.”

Apollo reached out his hand and touched the roses. The tinkling stopped. The flowers softened and swayed and blushed. Fragrance grew on the air again. And the bees returned, and the butterflies. Apollo touched the statue's cheek. It lost its stiffness, its metallic gleam. The princess ran to the roses, knelt among them, and cried, “Oh, thank you, Father. You've changed them back again.” Then she ran off, shouting and laughing.

Apollo said, “I take back my gift, Midas. Your touch is cleansed of its golden curse. But you may not escape without punishment. Because you have been the most foolish of men, you shall wear a pair of donkey's ears.”

Midas touched his ears. They were long and furry. He said, “I thank you for your forgiveness, Apollo… even though it comes with a punishment.”

Apollo said, “Eat and drink. Enjoy the roses. Watch your child grow. And remember, life is the greatest wealth. In your stupidity you have been wasteful of life, and that is the sign you wear on your head. Farewell.”

Midas put a tall pointed hat on his head so that no one would see his ears. Then he went to eat and drink his fill.

For years Midas wore the cap so that no one would know of his disgrace. But the servant who cut his hair had to know, so Midas made him swear not to tell. He warned the servant that it would cost him his head if he spoke of the king's ears. But the servant was a gossip. He could not bear to keep a secret, especially such a secret about the king. He was afraid to tell it, but he also felt that he would burst if he did not.

So one night he went down to the bank of the river, dug a little hole, put his mouth to the hole, and whispered, “Midas has donkey's ears…Midas has donkey's ears.” Quickly he filled up the hole again, and ran back to the castle feeling better.

But the reeds on the riverbank had heard him, and they always whisper to each other when the wind blows. They were heard whispering, “Midas has donkey's ears…donkey's ears…” Soon the whole country was whispering, “Have you heard about Midas? Have you heard about his ears?”

When the king heard, he knew who had told the secret. He ordered the man's head cut off. But then he thought, “Apollo forgave me. Perhaps I had better forgive this blabbermouth.” And he let the man keep his head.

Then Apollo appeared to the king again and said, “Midas, you have learned the final lesson, mercy. As you have done, so shall you be done by.”

And as Apollo spoke Midas felt his long hairy ears shrinking back to the right size.

When he was an old man, Midas would tell his smallest granddaughter the story of how her mother was turned into a golden statue. “See, I'm changing you too,” he would say. “Look, your hair is all gold.”

And she pretended to be frightened.

The Dragon's Teeth

Long ago, when the world was very new, people believed that great things were about to happen when the sun and the moon appeared side by side in the sky. So they gazed this day as the sun and the moon stood side by side, and they wondered what was going to happen.

It was to mean more than anyone could imagine. Diana, the moon goddess, had insisted on meeting her brother, Apollo, the sun god. She yoked her milk-white stags to the silver moon chariot, and drove it across the sky. She reined up next to Apollo's sun chariot, whose red and gold, fire-maned stallions were pawing the air impatiently. They did not like to stop once they had started.

“Quickly, sister!” said Apollo. “We must go higher. If I halt my sun chariot too long in one place the earth will burn.”

So, side by side, the sun and moon rose in the sky. Then brother and sister climbed out of their chariots and stood face to face.

“I know that this must be very important to you,” said Apollo. “Otherwise you would not change the course of the sun and the moon.”