TWENTY-NINE

One morning a soft footstep stirred the grasses, and the shadow of a broad-brimmed hat and a herald’s staff fell upon Phaeton’s resting place among the trees.

“Haie, Phaeton,” said divine Mercury – not sadly, but as a young man greeting a friend.

The divine herald cocked his head and listened to the silence all around.

“I have not forgotten you, young seeker,” said the immortal messenger.

He stretched forth his staff and touched the earth.

A long sigh, a breeze rising from the earth, swept through the leaves of the three spreading trees, swirling upward, the soul of a young traveler escaping darkness.

Phaeton felt life again, stretching his limbs. But even as he joyed in the sensation of sunlight, he knew that he was no longer one of the mortals.

“Run, Phaeton,” said immortal Mercury. Or perhaps he uttered an unspoken urging.

Forever speed the earth.

Now when mortals run fast, sprinting under the sky, they are joined by the son of divine Apollo and his beloved Clymene.

The wind is Phaeton’s breath.