TWENTY-SIX

There nymphs swam downward, gathering Phaeton’s broken, charred remains as creatures stole from their hiding places – the egret and the crocodile, the fisherman and the tiger. A soothing wind combed through the charred reeds, and a mist like a balm drifted from heaven.

As joyous in their relief as these graceful water nymphs were, they felt a particular sorrow. They mourned a young man eager to discover the temple of his father. And they had heard of the sport that one of their kind had enjoyed at the young seeker’s expense, a stolen pack of fruit and silver.

These naiads of the west gathered now and lay the fragments of young Phaeton on the river bank.

They lifted a song,

Sun and moon,

earth and sea,

which of you have climbed

higher than shining Phaeton?

The nymphs buried the ashes of the son of Phoebus, and carved the words of their song on the stone over his remains.

The sound of the naiads’ song rippled through the greening leaves from island to shore.

It whispered across the freshening fields of wheat, carried by Zephyr, the west wind.