SEVENTEEN

“I’ll let you set your hand on fire-breathing Pyrois,” Apollo was saying with brisk cheer, “and his companion horses Eous, Aetheon, and Phlegon.”

Phaeton could not speak, silenced by the radiant wheels they approached.

This was the golden chariot of legend, and at first Phaeton could not glance at it for more than an instant at a time. The chariot was dazzling, and as the wheels shifted with the impatience of the horses, they gave forth a bone-shaking rumble.

“The steeds of sunlight are already in harness,” said the sun god in a voice that did little to disguise his pride in the spirited creatures. “My horses are almost too strong for me on a weary day. Look – they’re enough to awaken fear in anyone.”

The sounds of the team echoed across the pulsing darkness, hooves resounding, breath thundering, the winged horses already tossing and biting the air, impatient for the touch of their master’s whip.

But Phaeton could not spare a glance for these beasts, unable now to tear his attention from the glowing spokes of the chariot.

The frame of the carriage was cunningly crafted of a metal like the purest gold, and the sides of the chariot were formed of shining works of art, smithed from dazzling ore. To see such beauty made Phaeton feel joy – but it frightened him, too. He felt that a mortal youth should not be allowed to see such splendor, and that perhaps the danger this chariot represented was real after all.

And yet he stretched forth a hand, hesitated, and then touched the rim of one of the pulsing wheels.

It was warm, and vibrated under his hand. Feeling this power – an entire carriage simmering with the power of daylight – Phaeton wanted to master it. He was impatient to set off, without a further word.

“Vulcan, the divine artist, crafted her,” said Apollo, his voice husky with affection for his son – and pride in the chariot. “No work of art is so fine, under the dome of heaven.”

Phaeton barely heard his fathers words, thinking only that Epaphus would not dare jeer at the sight of the bright wheels. His rival would not laugh – not when the archer beheld Phaeton at the reins of this legendary chariot.

The air shook as horses struck sparks with their hooves, nickered and thundered, eager to fly, as Phoebus Apollo laughed again. “You are right to look so alarmed, dear Phaeton. But hurry – we must be quick. Run your hand along Pyrois and see how uncontrollable he is.”

But Phaeton disregarded his father’s prompting and stepped up, into the chariot. The well-balanced carriage shifted only very slightly with the young man’s weight, and the reins were so heavy that at first he could not heft them.

The iridescent horses tossed their bright manes, their nostrils flaring with excitement, and Pyrois, the leader, looked back over the traces to see what novice groped the reins. The scent of these creatures, fed on ambrosia, was sweet, and their eyes sky-blue. The team mock-battled one another, arching their necks and biting the air, and only Apollo’s touch on the harness kept the chariot from vaulting off.

Phaeton felt the wheels continue to grind and tremble, and the reins he parted at last shifted like living things in his hands. He was dumb with wonder – but his heart quickened, too, with an increasing confidence.

If I can climb the sky-filling Nymph Tree seeking a gift of honey, he told himself, and if I can find my way to the temple of the sun, surely with a little effort I can master such a carriage.

Apollo lifted a hand and hooked a finger under the bridle of Pyrois. At a whisper from their master the horses grew calmer, and the sun god said, “You see, my son, how no touch but mine can command them.”

“I can do this, father, you’ll see,” said Phaeton, his voice rough with feeling. “I will make you proud of me.”

Apollo ran his hands over Pyrois’s fetlocks and hooves, studying the horseshoes long ago fashioned by Vulcan, the divine, moody artist whose skill sometimes amazed even the gods. Apollo took a long moment to consider Phaeton’s words.

Why am I so troubled? the sun god silently inquired of the air around him.

“When has any doubt ever chained my spirit?” said Apollo aloud. “Why don’t I choose hope, that ever-returning faith in things to come?”

Pyrois snorted, a rumble like a mountain heaving.

Apollo loved the look of eagerness and joy in Phaeton’s eye.

Mortals and gods alike, the god thought, will say: See how brave young Phaeton is – he is every bit his father’s son.

Apollo smiled.

“I’ll cover your face with balm,” said the lord of daylight with growing excitement, “to keep your cheeks from blistering.”

Phaeton held the reins in both hands, recalling all that he had learned of horses, too delighted – and anxious – to trust his voice.

“Phaeton,” the god said, smiling, “they’ll remember this day as long as there is poetry and song.”

He laughed again and was lost in a brief vision of triumph, great Jupiter admiring Apollo’s human son.

“Ah, Phaeton,” sighed the god, “you’ll win honor for us both.”