ELEVEN

The sound of approaching hooves crunched through the undergrowth, an easy, loping gallop, keeping pace with Phaeton’s fleetest efforts.

He was aware that he was not being pursued so much as followed. The young man ran hard, the wind whistling in his ears, overhanging trees snatching at his clothes, until it seemed that he would surely succeed in leaving the centaurs behind.

But the thud of the hooves stayed close – growing closer.

Breathing hard, the young seeker came to a muddy crossroads, a weathered head of Mercury marking the site. Even here in the wild, Phaeton was grateful to see, images of the divine messenger watched over a travelers journey.

The shrine was moss-freckled, green with neglect and weather. “Wing-footed immortal,” Phaeton began praying breathlessly, lighten my footsteps, quicken my prayer –

But in his alarm Phaeton could not finish his devotions. The sound of hooves was even louder, and as the young man hurried forward, a herd of horselike creatures, half-hidden by the woods, closed in around him.

Sometimes, in summers past, Phaeton and Cycnus had pretended to be Hercules, battling an attack of such horselike creatures, defending a wedding or a festival from the ruthless half-men. On such afternoons the boyish Phaeton had played at being such a monster, stamping and scowling.

But the young son of Clymene had never actually seen such a beast before, a centaur with a tangled beard cantering, circling the young traveler, blocking his path. The four-hooved, half-man gripped a bloody club – or was it a human limb? – in his right fist.

He’s not so fierce-looking, Phaeton tried to reassure himself. He looks smaller than you’d expect – and much advanced in years, however strongly built.

Phaeton lifted a clear-voiced greeting, as good manners required, wishing the centaur the gods’ blessing on such a morning.

The centaur was eating with a show of carelessness, gnawing on what now appeared to be the shank of an animal – a deer, Phaeton guessed hopefully.

At last the gray-bearded creature tossed the bloody limb off into the woods and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. His muscular haunches splashed a puddle, and the creature took a few half-steps to find solid footing, eyeing Phaeton all the while.

Several more centaurs had gathered, half-hidden by the boughs of trees until they paced into the sunlight While none of them were armed with spears or clubs, one or two carried silver drinking horns, and a bald-headed centaur to the rear of the herd picked up a branch, hefted it, and began to peel it of leaves.

Some said that these horse-men were the offspring of the primitive gods, the Titans who ruled earth before the Olympic divinities and, some believed, still sprawled sleeping among the mountains. Phaeton had heard stories about a legendary centaur called Chiron, who was king of a breed of such creatures, and wise enough to teach the children of men.

For this reason the young traveler sensed that further human speech would not be entirely wasted on them. He spoke clearly, addressing the centaurs with a wish for their good health, and adding, “I am Phaeton, the son of Apollo.”

The bearded centaur lifted a hind hoof and scratched his flank. He flicked his tail in an easy circle, giving no sign of having understood the young man’s assertion.

“Phoebus Apollo,” said Phaeton, indicating the morning sun spilling through the trees above, “is my father.”

The centaur stretched, patted his belly, and gave a long, loud belch.

They were not so fierce after all, Phaeton thought. Their horselike portions were more like hunting ponies than war mounts. Their manlike arms and shoulders were well developed, but no more than those of bricklayers or plowmen. Besides, these man-beasts had a rank odor that drew flies, the insects arriving through the morning light.

The young man felt the first stirrings of confidence – and exasperation.

“My father,” he said slowly and clearly, one hand on his breast, “is the sun on high, who watches all the earth from his chariot.” He pointed upward, then indicated the woodland all around.

The others drew even closer, mud-and-manure-grimed creatures, the heat from their horselike bodies enclosing the young man, their stink like the foulest of stables left to ferment.

The bloody-handed centaur, his jaws busy with some gristly scrap, at last spat and gave a grunt. To Phaeton’s relief, the centaur began to speak.

He used a dialect from the mountain regions far to the north, where centaurs had long ago originated.

“Did you hear him say that he has a name?” said the bloody-handed creature, consulting his fellows. “And that he has a father?”

“Yes, we understood him well enough,” said one. This youthful-looking centaur gave a laugh, and reached down to pluck a stone from the road – a big, round stone. He tossed this rock easily in his hands.

The bloody-handed, gray-bearded centaur then leaned close – Phaeton could smell his carrion breath. “Have you any wine?”

“As you see, I carry nothing,” Phaeton was quick to respond.

Centaurs were by reputation often driven mad by the least whiff of strong drink, and centaurs who had swallowed so much as a half cup grew violent and lustful.

“No wine,” said the centaur in a tone of regret.

“You can see that for yourself,” said Phaeton, his spirits rising. “I carry no food or drink. But I’ll take away with me your reputation – and your good name, if you have one.”

A little abashed by his own words Phaeton closed his mouth tight and said nothing more for the moment, until the bearded centaur spoke again.

It took awhile, the centaur chief appraising Phaeton’s garments, his sandals, his goat-leather belt.

“I am called Oreus,” said the bearded centaur.

“Oreus, I shall tell my divine father of your kindness to me.”

“I fear no man,” added the centaur.

“The son of my father,” retorted Phaeton, impatience and hunger making him feel bold, “fears no man or beast.” He added, “I wish to be on my way.”

Far to the rear the bald-headed centaur lifted his silver drinking horn and made drinking motions, nothing flowing from the horn.

“Find us wine, young traveler,” said Oreus, “and we will see what we can do to aid your journey.”

None of the creatures moved aside, except to flail the morning air with their flowing, horselike tails. The centaurs blocked any advance on Phaeton’s part, and any retreat, as well, but it was true that as yet they made no move to harm him.

It was then that Phaeton made what he quickly came to realize was a grave mistake.

He lifted his staff and brought it down on the ground before Oreus.

It was not a blow intended to do harm, little more than a loud thwack.

Get out of my way, said Phaeton’s gesture.

The centaur laughed, and Phaeton made an even worse mistake. He struck the centaur on the forearm – not a serious blow, little more than a warning tap.

The centaur seized the staff, and flung it away. Then he grasped Phaeton by the collar of his tunic, and lifted the youth off his feet.

Phaeton hung suspended, half-choked by the grip that held him high.

The sunny morning changed, then, in an instant.

The trees all around whistled and sighed in a sudden breeze that spun through the treetops, crackled boughs, and fluttered green leaves. The breeze rose yet further, blowing Oreus’s long beard.

Just as quickly the wind ceased.

The sudden appearance of a new traveler caught the centaurs’ attention. Garbed in a flowing cloak and a broad-brimmed hat that sheltered his features, this arrival carried a long, slender kerykeion – a herald’s staff. The youth could have been a young woman – both men and women wore the same sort of garments against weather. But his stride was that of an athletic young man, and he gave a gentle chuckle at the sight of Phaeton’s predicament.

“Haie, Phaeton,” called the visitor, a friendly welcome.

The centaurs turned to block the approach of this new presence, and the swiftly arriving traveler laughed aloud.

It was the spirited sound of this laugh that made fear fade within Phaeton, even as he struggled to breathe – Oreus still held him high above the path.

Phaeton’s relief continued to grow as the approaching figure stated his business in a clear, pleasing voice, as the best of heralds are expected to do. “I travel on behalf of my masters,” he sang out, “who wonder why the son of Apollo has been delayed in his journey.”

“This upstart,” said Oreus bluntly, hefting Phaeton as he spoke, “shows ill manners.”

“Rough manners are not unheard of in the woodland,” said the new arrival, stopping before Phaeton. “Even Flora herself is dismayed at your rude ways, Oreus,” added the herald with a carefree air. “The goddess of the flowering field is bruised in spirit at the way your hooves tear her blossoms. But does she ask any harm to you, sons of the Ancient Ones? Are you not free to sunder the berry bush and the sage with your careless stampedes?”

The centaurs grew quiet at these words from the youthful figure, and one or two of the muscular steed-men fell back, no longer so bold.

Oreus set Phaeton gently on his feet.

“Flora, goddess of the spring, does us an honor,” said Oreus in a changed voice, using formal diction now, “with her untiring patience.”

Phaeton was struck wordless by the alteration in the centaur chief. His voice was rough, but his manner was that of dignified apology.

“Entirely right, good centaur,” said the herald. “I am pleased that you realize this.”

“And every joy we take in brook and field quickens us to life,” added the gray-bearded centaur in a cadenced fragment of poetry. He shot a meaningful glance at his fellow creatures.

“In truth,” said the youthful centaur, already setting down his round stone beside the path, “we seek no quarrel with any creature.”

“Quite so,” said the messenger. “I am glad to hear it.”

While grateful to be on his feet again, Phaeton was increasingly alarmed.

He had guessed, until now, a good deal less about this new arrival than Oreus and his companions, but the young man’s awe was now awakened. The son of Phoebus Apollo knelt on the ground, unwilling to look into the eyes of this very probably divine visitor – perhaps the messenger to the gods himself.

“If my own arrival frightens you, young man,” said the herald, his shadow falling over Phaeton, “how will you gather the courage to address your father?”

I will not be able to, Phaeton admitted silently to himself.

I will not be able to speak to him – to the lord of daylight.

He knelt even lower, pressed his forehead against the earth and closed his eyes. Nothing in his learning had prepared him to address such an immortal.

“Words will fail you beyond the edge of the world, Phaeton, will they not?” asked the divine herald.

Speech will die in me, as it has this very moment.

“Stand, Phaeton,” said the messenger, touching the travelers shoulder lightly with his staff, “and let me offer you a warning.”