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.

Night was already rising all around, stars just beginning to prick the first-dark.

As darkness was nearly complete, footsteps came from behind.

A breathless voice called his name.