TWENTY-FIVE

Phaeton clung to the edge of the chariot.

The horses surged in terror from star to forest, from moon to ocean floor.

The youth was certain that this day would not end, and that his prayer remained unheard by the immortals. His voice torn, he lifted a final plea at last to Mercury, the divine messenger, repeating a fragment of the old song, quicken my prayer.

Divine Mercury, do not forget me.

Jupiter strode to the ridge from which, in the long, peaceful mornings, he so often surveyed the spreading patchwork of the world.

He had been hoping, despite his growing unease, that Mercury had been mistaken. The herald had a gift for vivid description – surely matters could not be as bleak as he asserted.

Jupiter was stunned.

The chief of the gods was shaken to his heart by what he saw, and touched by the cries and prayers that rose up to him from the world of mortals.

And the god was appalled at the sight of the pitching, careening chariot, a blazing streak of sunlight.

Jupiter had long admired Phoebus Apollo’s wheeled carriage. Many days, while divine bickering echoed throughout Olympus, Jupiter had often thought how wonderful to do nothing but ride across the sky.

And how splendid to mingle with beautiful mortals. Jupiter had an eye for mortal women, himself, and would have enjoyed more opportunity to seek their company. That would be an additional benefit of being the sun god – spying women from on high, as they bathed and wandered. Phoebus Apollo had for ages been able to pick out the comely and sweet-natured, and Jupiter had envied him.

“Bring me the god of the sun,” growled Jupiter.

“As you wish, my lord,” said Mercury.

The herald settled the wide-brimmed hat on his head – but he did not leave at once.

“You will, perhaps, spare young Phaeton’s life,” suggested Mercury.

Jupiter’s answer was a scowl.

Slow to anger though he might be, he had faith in justice. And the lord of sky was angry, too, at himself – that he had not sensed this calamity before this moment, lost in his own thoughts.

The chief of the gods flexed his fingers. He lifted his fist and sent a flash, a javelin of blue lightning, toward the chariot of the sun as it ascended again, horses shrieking as Phaeton reeled.

One moment the son of Phoebus Apollo braced himself for another lunge of the chariot. Soon, he knew, the chariot would rise so high he would grow senseless from the thin air and fall. Nothing could spare the earth from harm, he knew – it was too late.

The chariot was at its highest point that seemingly endless morning when Phaeton heard it coming, for an instant, that crackling blue streak. And perhaps he guessed what had happened, mortal prayers being heard at last. But before he could experience any sensation of relief the whipcrack of light sent young Phaeton tumbling, his hair alight. There was a moment of agony and confusion, fire streaming from his eyes.

Then Phaeton’s memory fled, and along with it all of his fear.

The young seeker knew nothing more.

The spokes of the chariot rained far, scattering, a burning shower. Cowherds and ferrymen alike beheld the distant blaze arc across the sky, Phaeton streaking from above.

Clymene, watching from her fountain-splashed courtyard, saw this meteor, too, and in some shadowy corner of her heart began to guess what it was.

The horses of the sun broke free of the flaming traces and escaped toward the corners of the world. Until at last the flaming remains of Phaeton burned their way downward, spinning into the deep waters of the River Eridanus.

The current seethed briefly, and closed over his ashes. With a long moan, the wide earth settled and was still.

A smoldering, stunned peace fell over the land, blessed by the loving eye of Jupiter, who gave his gentle rains to woodland torn by fires, and his cooling breath to parched fields.

Naiads stirred in the eddying river.

They crept through the deep, seeking Phaeton’s resting place.