FIFTEEN

Apollo loved the sight of any living man or woman.

The lord of light loved the mussel gatherer, with his homely woven basket, and the maiden herding hens with her long, tattered skirt. He loved the bright skein of the fisherman’s net, and the song of the wife at work with her wheel and distaff, spinning wool to thread. He adored the laughing comradeship of soldiers, and the songs of children skipping stones across the pond.

When the gambler cursed his luck, or the athlete fell hurt in the gymnasium, Apollo knew it well, and sorrowed with them, because the god of light was in love with every human being.

And the lord of daylight loved his own offspring, more than any other mortals. He loved his human children so greatly that now, as Phaeton made his way up the stairs of the temple of dawn, the god was nearly moved to tears of thanksgiving.

He had other sons and daughters living in the world of mortal men, but even so the sight of Phaeton’s youthful strength made his throat swell with joy – and with pride. How keenly he had treasured Clymene, those brief years ago, and how closely Phaeton resembled that mortal beauty, a woman almost as fleet of foot as the spring hare.

The divine one felt a surge of fatherly pride at this visit, and made certain that Days and the Hours – figures like women but surpassing mortal forms with their richly colored gowns – were looking on as his son knelt, trembling still but brave enough to speak.

“Do you call me your son, divine Apollo?” the youth was asking now, his voice as yet breathless.

“I loved your mother, the good-hearted Clymene, and I treasure her still,” said the immortal god truthfully. “How do her days pass, Phaeton?” The all-surveying god had been troubled by her absence in recent years, and her habit of clinging to shadows and retreating from his loving eye. “Is she happy?”

Phaeton wished he could choose words with greater mastery. Surely in my ignorance, thought the young seeker, I can only offend this divine being.

“My mother is not as peaceful in her heart,” offered Phaeton, rising now from his knees, “as she would be if you acknowledged me as your son.”

Phoebus Apollo would have been surprised at this youthful assertiveness, inappropriate in the throne room of an earthly king, and far from fitting the temple of an immortal. He would have been amazed at the foolhardiness of the mortal lad’s tone, if he had not recognized his own good-hearted courage in the boy’s voice. The sun god had no love of cowardice and hesitation. And he recognized, too, something of Clymene in the lad’s bearing.

It was a shame, thought the god of daylight, that these creatures, mortal men and women, would grow old and encounter death’s embrace. This insight gave Phoebus Apollo a moment of sharp sorrow, as if the truth were new to the god of light that instant.

“What can I give you, Phaeton?” inquired the god, moved nearly beyond speech by his fatherly affection.

Summer, a figure like a mortal woman enveloped in an aura of auburn hue, put out a hand to Apollo – a gesture of caution – but the lord of light waved her aside. What did any of these eternal ones – Spring with bellflowers in her hair, the Hours, arranged in a patient queue – know about fatherhood? Even Aurora Dawn herself, who stirred the gates of the east to life each day, knew nothing of a parent’s love.

Phaeton’s eye was alight with wonder at his father’s question, and the youth did not speak at once.

“Ask me any favor, Phaeton,” encouraged Phoebus Apollo.

“Any favor at all, Father?” asked Phaeton, treasuring the sound of father on his breath here in this glowing temple.

“Anything that you might ask is yours, my son,” said the sun, “I swear under the heavenly vault of Jupiter.”

Phaeton considered this.

The young man saw Epaphus in his mind’s eye, one foot on the stricken monster. He heard the young archer’s laugh. Phaeton imagined his mother, left for years in shadow, in constant half-dark. He pictured sweet-voiced Ino clearly, and wondered what it would be like to make her think well of him.

“Anything that I ask will be mine?” queried the young man, his voice trembling.

As he spoke he asked himself: what is the one thing that no mortal has ever done before? What single accomplishment will banish all jeers and prove my mother’s honor – and my own – for all time?

“Phaeton, why do you doubt me?” said Phoebus Apollo with a gentle laugh. “I have sworn already, and now I’ll go further, and vow that by the deep waters of Hades, on which the gods make their most solemn promises, whatever you wish will be yours.”

At these words a figure beyond the Days and the Hours, far to one side of the temple, lifted her eyes in caution. She parted her lips, this lovely presence, seeking words of warning for her lord. She was Century, a silver shape dressed in a gown like woven breath.

“I ask,” rang out Phaeton’s voice, steady enough now, “to be allowed to drive your chariot – the fiery wheels of the sun – for one entire day across the heavens.”

This request shocked Phaeton – no sooner had he been tempted by the desire, than he had put it into words. No doubt the sunny presence of Apollo was responsible for this – the lord of song and poetry was famous for giving encouragement to mortal hopes. And having spoken, Phaeton was determined not to show any of the sickening doubt he was already beginning to feel.

Phoebus Apollo raised a finger to his lips, and turned away.

As the Hours gave a grief-choked chorus of sighs, Apollo began to regret his carefree vow. He felt the first stirrings of misgiving, guessing what disturbed the Hours, murmuring to each other, and what anguish caused the flower-bedecked Spring to bury her face in her hands.