The Progeny of Daedalus

by Jeffrey MacLeod

  The afternoon dragged on. Danae gave up trying to sleep and joined the whispering card game. Ilia soon followed suit, stating that it was too hot to sleep anyway. They changed to playing 500, Leda teaming up with Jorge so that he could learn. There was no wind, which was good for the card game but not for their tolerance; the dell was stifling. The sun was moving towards the west, so the shadows lengthened and the shade expanded, which at least created some visual evidence that time was passing. The girls were startled twice when people wandered into the dell but, on both occasions, within moments they recognised the intruders as ancient Minoans. They were not richly dressed like many of the others they had seen, instead wore clean tunics and sandals. They appeared to be on some sort of errand and, although they were clearly visible to the girls, the party remained invisible and the Minoans moved on oblivious to them.

  Apart from this their wait was undisturbed, unless you count the few small lizards that seemed energized by the heat, scuttling among the rocks, or the annoying flies that were not fooled by their seclusion. They could not hear what was going on in the ruins of the palace above, so they had to trust that abandonment would come with the passage of time. Not long now, Jorge said, and the staff should all have departed for their homes and families and evening meals; the ruins would be empty, and their search for the Wings of Daedalus could really begin.

  The last ten minutes to 6pm seemed to take longer to pass than entire weeks or even months spent at home and school, but finally Dad announced that the time had come.

  “That’s it girls, let’s go.” For the past half hour Leda had been on her feet with her daypack on, waiting like a runner eager to start a race. As soon as Dad had spoken she sprung away, leading them back to the ruins. Danae had been pacing about, kicking stones and groaning about how slow it all was, but as soon as Dad spoke her face lit up and she followed right behind Leda. Ilia’s lethargy was also miraculously cured, and she set off whispering loudly to Leda to wait up. Dad indicated to Jorge to lead the adults, and he brought up the rear.

  As they broke the treeline and the ruins came into view the girls abruptly halted and stood dead still, staring at the palace that rose before them. Now any hint of insubstantiality was gone – it appeared as real as any structure they had seen. Dad and Jorge came up behind and paused also. Dad exhaled loudly in an expression of surprise. Jorge too seemed affected and mumbled something inaudible.

  “What is it Dad?” Ilia asked. A few seconds passed before the answer came:

  “I am starting to see the palace too,” he said, sounding concerned. “Very shadowy, but it’s there, rising above the ruins. And I can see shadows moving around as well, which must be the people.”

  “Yes,” Jorge muttered. “Our worlds are so close now. We must hurry.”

  He stepped forward to lead the way, but Danae snatched the tail of his linen jacket and jerked it hard.

  “Wait!” she commanded, her voice hardened by alarm. “I think they can see us too!”

  “What!?” By the sound of Dad’s voice, Danae’s alarm seemed contagious. Jorge, too, sounds genuinely concerned:

  “Really?” he said quietly.

  “Yes,” Ilia agreed, “I think they can too. There are two people in robes standing at the entrance – they seem to be looking straight at us!”

  The girls could see them as clearly as they could see Dad. Two women wearing long dresses appeared frozen to the spot, perhaps 50 paces away, just outside the nearest entrance to the palace. They are looking towards the girls, their eyes wide with fear.

  “I see their shapes,” said Dad, “like upright shadows in the gateway.”

  “Yes,” corroborated Danae, “and they are looking at us. They look scared.”

  Sure enough, as she said this, the two women backed up several paces then, with the urgency borne of terror, they turned and ran through the open gate.

  This new progression gave them all a fright. Leda huddled into Dad’s side and he put his arm around her protectively. Ilia and Danae took each other’s hands. Jorge remained motionless for a moment, staring through the now empty gateway. Then he stated in the sternest tone that they had heard him use:

  “Come on!”

  He led the way. Dad ushered Ilia and Danae behind him, holding Leda around her shoulders and close to him. Jorge stalked ahead, cautiously but deliberately. As they approached the gate, Jorge paused and peered into the relative darkness of the hall beyond. There are shadows moving in there, shadows that the girls could identify as more alarmed Minoans. They seemed to retreat into the palace and out of sight with some haste.

  Jorge turned to them all momentarily:

  “Our times, theirs and ours, are closing, and soon they will be one. You must be in the Labyrinth before that happens. This may get disturbing,” he said, “but I believe they will be more scared than us.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Danae muttered under her breath. She is clearly very uncertain about all this. Dad simply reached out and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

  Jorge was on the move again, passing through the entrance into the dark corridor. They all followed. He led them quickly through the ruins of the south wing towards the Great Court. They encountered a number of shadows that took one look at them, then turned and fled. Both Jorge and Dad, who could see through the ruins, could see that the courtyard seemed full of shadows. Jorge glanced back and gave Dad a look that simply said be ready.

  Sure enough, when they reached the entrance to the Great Court, the girls found it full of Minoans. They started.

  “They’re everywhere!” Leda muttered, clearly unsettled. She held tightly to Dad’s hand, huddled in for protection.

  “And they’re looking at us,” Danae hissed, “all of them!”

  Those nearest were definitely looking at them. Dozens of Minoan faces spread wide like a fist unclenching to an open palm – fear, wonder, terror. It spread like a wave. Like dominoes falling, head after head turned, right to the edges of the courtyard. Then, in the same wave-like spread, they backed up; or they turned and ran; or they froze. Dad, Jorge and the girls simply stood there and stared at the impact they were having on this throng of phantoms. It is strange for something so fearful to fear them and, in some ways, slightly calming.

  A path opened before them, through the shades or people, and it widened. Dad saw that many of the shadows appeared to bolt through other exits. The girls saw this too – people running in terror. Many, however, did not leave, but instead backed off to the edges of the open space. Then, at a safer distance, they appeared to pause and watch. All heads turned to the small party.

  “It’s ok,” said Jorge calmly. “They cannot hurt us. They cannot stop us.” Then he stepped out into the courtyard. He turned to the girls, held their gaze and said: “But our worlds are blending. Come.”

  As he did so, a few more shadows started, broke and ran, disappearing through the safety of other exits. Other shades backed away further, but remained turned towards them, watching. A wide space now exists through the midst of the courtyard and led from their feet to the Royal complex on the far side. It looks beautiful, its stone a warm yellow in the westering sun, radiating the heat that it had been collecting all day.

  There was only one shade that stood between them. There was one that refused to give way. It stood there in the middle of the courtyard, in the middle of the open wake of fear, and he held a short, bronze sword that gleamed red in the bloody light of the dying day.

  “It’s ok,” Jorge reassured them again, “none of them can touch us.”

  He leads. They followed. Through this open space that was fringed with panic. The one still refused to move, however, and as they approached him, they slowed, hesitant.

  The girls gasped.

  “Dad!” Ilia exclaimed. “It’s him!”

  “The train,” said Danae, equally scared. “It is the man from the train.”

  There was no doubt – it was him. They stood and eyed him in alarm. It was the scary
tramp from the train in Naples the year before. Dressed differently; groomed differently; but that face was unmistakeable, with the great ugly scar joining forehead, eye socket and cheek. How could this be? This was the shade of a man who lived 3500 years ago, yet was recognisable as someone they had recently met? He wore a bronze plated leather tunic. His face was as hateful and grim as it was when they encountered him on the train. And what was more – he clearly recognises them also.

  Jorge reassured them again. He cannot harm you.

  They approached him, cautiously.

  His mouth moved, but there was no sound. By his expression, however, they saw that his words must have been filled with hate. Two paces away and they paused again. He stood defiant, the only one of all this throng that barred their way. His mouth moved again…

  An echo, as if from a great distance…

  A ghostly whisper…

  Then they heard it – all of them:

  “She will not allow this.”

  They do not move. This resonated with them. It was as if he had cast a spell upon them.

  But Jorge broke it.

  He stepped forward and, deliberately, in an active of dismissal or defiance, passed directly through the shadow of the sword and the man holding it. He does not even pause to see the impact. He continued on and called over his shoulder:

  “Do not heed such a mean spirit! Follow! We are nearly there!”

  They all followed. None of them would pass through the man voluntarily, so they skirted him. However, having seen that he had no power to prevent Jorge, they tried to disregard that hateful face and strode or trotted along behind Mr Borges as he led them to The House of Asterion.

  The four portals of the throne room loomed up before them, but their heavy doors were closed and they had prodigious locks. They paused, an obstacle Dad had not anticipated, but clearly Jorge had.

  He does not hesitate. He pulls a large bunch of keys from his pocket and approached the leftmost of the four doorways. He fumbled at the lock for a moment, then pressed his shoulder to the door to assist opening it.

  “It’s always been stiff,” he muttered.

  Apprehensive, the girls looked around the courtyard. The alarming man stood a few paces behind them, looking towards them, his face as scarred with animosity as it had been by some unknown trauma. The rest of the remaining Minoans had moved a little closer, only a few paces, to a place where both fear and fascination were balanced.

  With a creak of the hinges and a jingle of the keys that are still hanging from the lock, the door groaned open, grating across the worn stone as it gave way. Jorge stepped back and, after a glance at the courtyard behind them, turned to the girls who, clustered eagerly around him, were ushered through.

  They all filed through and gathered in the anteroom on the other side. Jorge closed the door behind them and leant back upon it with an expression of relief. Dad also looks relieved.

  “Phew!” he said and seemed genuinely to mean it. They all glanced around, fearful of finding shades or Minoans sharing their enclosed space, but it was empty. There was a long silence in which they all exhaled their apprehension and, as a result, their fear seemed to deflate.

  Dad visibly relaxes. He takes a couple of slow, deep breaths, then a serious expression whitewashed his face.

  “Something…something strange is happening…” he whispered.

  “We can all feel it, Dad,” Ilia interrupts, to save him needing to explain.

  “Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold, mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.” This was chanted – it was Danae. She had learned this at school, but only now found an application for it in real life. Dad looked at her intently – and with a hint of surprise.

  “Exactly so,” he agreed. “I don’t know what it means, but I don’t like it. I think…maybe we should go back.”

  “No!” came a chorus of objections.

  “We must do this!” Ilia insisted. Leda nodded her agreement.

  “It might be our best chance,” said Danae with conviction. Dad looked from one to another, trying to assess their resolve. Then he also nodded. It was as if his daughters had reassured him, rather than the other way around.

  “Ok, but this could get dangerous girls,” he whispered, “so you need to let me lead the way.” Here he turns to Leda and puts his hand on her shoulder, crouching a little and looking into her wide eyes; “No rushing ahead, ok?” She nodded in agreement – in the circumstances, going off ahead was the last thing she wanted. Dad gave her a peck on the forehead then turned and led them through the anteroom.

  On the far side Dad paused and peered cautiously through the open doorway into the Throne Room. He saw no shades. The girls saw no people. The emptiness here compared to outside is disquieting, but at the same time somewhat welcome. Apparently satisfied that the Throne Room was empty, Dad stepped through the doorway and entered; the girls followed, Jorge bringing up the rear. As they ascended the stairs, they could all feel the tension growing, as real and engulfing as the heat itself. The tone in their muscles is increasing with the suspense, so it felt like they were walking on springs. The sun was still a couple of hours from setting and, although it did not strike down the lightwell any longer, it was breaking through windows above and bathing the inside of the palace in a warm, orange glow. It would be beautiful if they were not so uneasy.

  At the topmost step Leda was close to pushing past Dad; she was becoming excited. She had discovered the secret to the entrance and, from her perspective, it seemed to give her more of a vested claim than either of her elder sisters. Even though everyone knows where the fresco was, Leda cried excitedly:

  “There it is!” She bounded past Dad and towards it. “This is where Daedalus and the Queen were standing.” Leda turned around to look at them all triumphantly. “And I was hiding there!” she added, pointing towards the waist-high wall next to the topmost step.

  They gathered around Leda and in front of the fresco. Dad and Jorge were staring at it intently. Danae could not understand what they were waiting for.

  “So you just stroke it?” she asked, half-looking at Leda, her hand stretching towards the painting.

  “Wait Danae!” Dad said commandingly, grabbing her hand. He looked around at them. “Are we sure we are ready for this?” The girls nodded vigorously; their excitement had overcome their nervousness.

  “Can I do the opening, Dad, seeming I found it?” As Leda asked this, her sisters were objecting immediately. It was always like this, though, and Dad was used to adjudicating.

  “Quiet! Quiet!” He holds up his hands, palm out, as he tried to stem the protestation. “It just so happens,” and his voice had a hint of humour, “that the Bull needs to be stroked three times, from head to tail, and there are three of you.” His inflexion went up at the end of this sentence, as if he were asking a question, but this is how he often prompted his daughters to a conclusion that they should have reached by themselves.

  “Oohhh!” they all responded.

  “I’m last!” said Leda, before anyone else could.

  “That’s fair enough,” Dad agrees. “Age order?” He looked at his girls with eyebrows raised. They nodded again. They had an agreement.

  Jorge was smiling in the background as this went on, clearly amused that even in these circumstances the young could interact so jealously.

  “Ok Ilia, you’re up then,” Dad said, stepping aside to allow her access to the fresco.

  She stepped forward and reached out with a trembling hand. She paused momentarily, fighting the instinct that told her that touching art was wrong, then gently pressed her fingertips against the wall, obscuring the head of the bull. The plaster was warm, slightly rough and dusty. She gently runs her unsteady fingertips from the snout of the bull down the length of its body to the tail, from left to right, then swished her hand away and paused.

  Nothing. But of course, they were expecting nothing. Still, for Ilia it was somewhat of an anti-climax. She turned to Danae:
/>   “You’re next,” she said in a solemn tone, then stepped away.

  Danae did not hesitate. She stepped forward and then, as if shooing a fly off the wall, swept her hand along the wall from head to tail, before stepping back. It seemed altogether too casual for the gravity of what they are doing:

  “C’mon Leda, get it done.”

  Now Leda advanced to the fore, everyone gathered around her in a half circle. She looked up at Dad with a nervous but excited smile; he returned it, reassuring her. She looked back to the wall in front of her.

  “It’s a nice bull, isn’t it Daddy?” Exasperated groans constituted the overwhelming response; her sisters were impatient and slightly irritated that Leda should get the apical action in this. This was a fact of which Leda was fully aware and, though feigning childish innocence, she was actually playing upon it. Although young, she already had a very mature sense of humour, however the child in her still dictated the focus of her joking and her sisters remained her favourite target.

  “O-kaay!” she responded, extending the second syllable with a long, upward inflection that was meant to convey condescension to her sisters, as if to berate them for childish impatience. But in truth she was as impatient as any of them; she was just enjoying the moment more.

  As she reached up – and it was a long way up for her – all eyes are fixed on her little hand. As her slim fingers rested upon the bull’s head everyone held their breath. Then, in a gesture that seemed surprising for how deliberate and steady it was, she moved her fingers down the length of the bull’s back then traced precisely the curving tail with her finger tips. As her fingers reached the tuft of the tail she froze momentarily, listening. They should have heard the grating of stone on stone; the friction of some rusty mechanics; a shuddering as a great doorway opened after 3000 years shut.