“Agreed,” says Dad, as he lowers the coffin lid, “not a place to be buried.” A shiver runs down his spine. “Let’s put him back to rest. We have his father’s wings.” Reverently, Dad fits the lid and makes it secure, then altogether they start to work on the stone slab, pivoting it back into position, Danae again doing the heavy work. The grinding resounds once more, around the great hall and above their heads. They have made so much noise to date that they are now less concerned; if it was going to disturb anything, it would have done so by now.
But it has.
They have broken the silence of His House…
With the tomb closed, they return to the Wings.
“It’s just hard to believe,” Dad says, as he looks down at the glossy feathered wings with admiration, “that after these thousands of years they are in such perfect condition.”
“You mean like Icarus?” This is more a reminder from Danae, than a question.
“I guess you’re right,” Dad agrees, “but I hope they don’t start to deteriorate now.”
“No,” says Ilia, sounding quite convinced, “it is more than skill that preserves these wings.” She states this as if she knows something the rest of them do not. Normally such conviction would have attracted derision from Danae at the least, and probably Leda too, but they all remain silent. Now they are at this final moment, they feel almost frozen in the suspense. All of them are impressed by the gravity of what they have done.
And none of them is aware of what is about to happen.
“Well,” says Dad, interrupting this almost sacred moment, “who’s going to try them on?”
Usually Leda would have been the first to respond in a rush to claim the prime position, but she is too apprehensive. She simply takes Dad’s big hand in hers and holds it. As the eldest, Ilia would normally assert her entitlement based upon this, but she is not sure she wants this somewhat daunting privilege. And Danae, rarely cowed by anything, she has met her match in this instance and remains silent. Eventually it is Ilia that answers.
“Shouldn’t you try them first Dad?”
Dad looks wistful, a strange expression for him.
“No, much as I would like to,” he says. “This is your adventure girls and I am sure that it is not my place.” That leaves them all in a limbo of silent inactivity. They stare at the wings stretched out on the floor for a few more seconds, until Dad makes the decision for them.
“Danae,” he turns to her. She looks a bit surprised, but more surprising is that her sisters do not object; they both respect her physical confidence. “Danae, I think because of your gift, the strength, I think you should try them first. We don’t know how difficult these will be to use, or how much strength will be needed.” Dad also knows that Danae’s natural confidence will benefit her here.
She looks reluctant for only a moment, then her face splits in a wide grin.
“Alright. If you insist,” she says, her eyes gleaming as much as her teeth. To this point she has not removed her daypack, but she does so now and places it on the stone floor. “Can you help me get them on though?” She squats down to look at the harness. Dad and her sisters join her. They gently finger the various straps until they understand what goes where.
“Stand up then Danae,” Dad orders, “and I’ll help you into it.”
The arms are secured to the wings by long leather sheaths, one for the upper and one for the lower arm, and these are secured by several straps with buckles. Over the torso fits a half vest of hardened leather that starts at the diaphragm but leaves the shoulders free. Danae slips into it, feeling quite pleased with herself, as Dad and her sisters fuss around her, tightening the buckles and asking if they are too tight or not tight enough and how does it feel; she just grins and directs them – that one tighter Leda; not so tight Ilia!
Finally they seem finished and Danae stands there encased in the wings of Daedalus. They are a good fit. The glossy black leather is patterned all over with feathers, and the actual feathers are so ample that it seems that her shoulders and arms naturally sport this layer. In her fists she clenches stiff cross handles that give her firm control of the wings. She stretches out her arms and spreads them; they are immense! Longer even than they thought; she must have a wingspan of 16 or 18 feet. No one can suppress their satisfaction.
There is one section of leather and straps at the back that confuses them. They hang down like tails on a formal dinner coat, without buckles but with a large heavy loop of leather at the bottom. Dad squats down and examines it.
“What do you think it’s for?” Danae asks, craning her neck to see behind her.
Dad ponders for a moment.
“Oh!” he says, clearly having a sudden revelation. “I think they must be for your legs.”
“Huh?”
“I think so,” he reaffirms, pointing as he explains his thoughts. “The human body is the wrong shape for wings, too heavy from the waist down and the shoulders are too high to make a good pivot point for flight. I think these straps and loops allow you to tuck your legs in when you fly, curling them up behind you to raise your centre of gravity.” He looks at it for a moment longer, shaking his head in wonder. “Brilliant,” he states quite simply. “But I don’t think you need to worry about that now; they are probably intended for flying long distances.” He stands up. “How do they feel?”
“They feel amazing!” Danae grins.
“Step back girls, let her have a …flap.” This last word seems very inadequate for what Danae is about to do, but Dad is a bit lost for words.
They step back. At the same time Danae herself moves clear of both her family and the tomb. Standing in an open space she thrusts her arms out again, stretching her wings – as she now thinks of them – to their fullest extent. She looks from one to the other, clearly very pleased with herself. But on this occasion, Dad and her sisters feel no different.
“Don’t fly too near the Sun, Danae!” cautions Dad.
“Yeah thanks, Dad,” she responds. “Original!”
She tests the wings with the slightest flutter.
Wooosh!
The sound is disproportionate to the effort as the wind rushes through the wings. For the briefest moment Danae rises with the sound, her eyes wide with surprise. She lands hard on her heels. She recovers quickly; the look of surprise is replaced by an even bigger grin than before.
“Gosh!” she exclaims, in a deliberately anachronistic understatement; “I hope this is as easy as riding a bike!”
She gives her arms another wave, this time slightly bigger; her hands move perhaps a foot, but at the wingtips this correlates to several feet.
WOOOSH!!
The rushing sound is even greater and with it she rises. Startled again by the response, she cannot hide her shock. She rises two or three feet in the air, higher than she might easily jump; then wide-eyed she comes down even harder than before.
“Careful Danae!” Ilia and Leda warn, nearly as alarmed as their sister.
“All good! All good!” she reassures them. “I’m all over it.”
She pauses for a moment, as if preparing herself, then starts again, but this time with small, repetitive movements of her hands, little more than flexing the wrists. The broad wings move in response, flapping gently.
Swooosh! Swoosh! Swoosh!
Danae rises again, more controlled this time. She ascends in increments of two or three feet per movement, remaining upright and, when she is around twice Dad’s height off the ground, she finds that she can control her position with relative ease. She hovers there, grinning again at the sensation.
“This is incredible!” she says with ease, maintaining her height; clearly it does not take much exertion. “I feel like I should be bursting into song or something!”
Her sisters and Dad are all speechless. Mouths agape and smiling at the same time, necks craned as they look up at Danae gently hovering in the moonlight above their heads, they find it hard to believe what they are seeing.
; They are so engrossed that they are oblivious to what has emerged behind them.
Danae is looking down at them, also overwhelmed, but although it is not immediate, she cannot miss the movement on the edge of her vision.
She looks.
Her smile dies.
Her arms freeze.
She plummets…
Chapter IX
Redemption
Greater love has no one than this, that one should lay down his life for his friends.
– Book of John 15:13
…She plummets.
Dad shouts in alarm.
Her sisters cry out.
They have seen her expression.
Elation to Terror.
What has happened?
She crashes to the ground with a squawk and crumples.
Dad and her sisters rush to her. But as they kneel to help, they can see her gaze fixed behind them.
Dad is the first to turn.
He knows from her expression there is a Horror. He has expected it. He has feared it. He does not have to search. It is there, right behind them, a few paces, motionless. He recognises it instantly. It fills his vision. His viscera convulse.
He sees himself.
As brief as when you pass a mirror unexpectedly and catch the reflection; first thought is that it is someone moving, then instantly you recognise it as you. Dad sees this figure and, with fleeting relief, recognises himself.
Until he realises that it is not. It absolutely is not.
They all look.
Gasps. Cries. Whatever words there are to describe that noise emitted when transported into that moment of complete shock and panic, that is what they utter now. They all see.
A huge figure. A hulking figure. Like nothing they have ever imagined. A rippling muscular form beyond even the most grotesque body builder on earth. It towers in the shadows, two or three heads taller than Dad at least, and in sheer bulk five or ten times greater. It is motionless, intent on them, just outside the circle of moonlight.
Not completely motionless. Two things move.
Its tufted tail. It sways behind it and jerks side to side, like a cobra paused to strike, searching for an opening.
The other movement, far more subtle and much more threatening; its great nostrils. They flare and snort with each breath. Great nostrils in a huge, blunt snout; a blunt snout thrusting forward from a massive head; a colossal head joined to the body with an enormous bull-neck, and crowned with immense, sweeping horns.
Its eyes gleam like red fire in the shadows.
There is an unconscious recognition in all of us which knows danger, immediately. It is a recognition faster than thought – absolutely instantaneous; a forgotten additional sense. It is a sense born from our primeval beginnings.
For most of the unwritten history of humankind, we have not been the dominant species, we have not been the hunter; we have been prey. We have lived in a world of huge beasts of muscle and sinew and horns and fangs and claws; beasts far greater than us; beasts to which we are small and soft and weak; beasts which hunted us for food. Cunning. Stealthy. Ferocious. Ravenous. Pitiless. The movement in the shadows; the rustle in the bushes; the noises in the darkness; these were the warning signs our ancestors learned to fear. And they remain in us yet, deep and ingrained – we call it instinct.
And when the danger is recognised, we transform; our bodies respond. The sudden alertness. Pupils dilate and eyes widen to improve perception. Adrenaline rushes through our bodies, shunting circulation away from all unnecessary organs to those that might enable survival; the heart to pump; the lungs to fuel; muscle to propel us away or power desperate combat; the brain to make that instant decision that may save us. Senses sharpen, everything else switches off; it is maximum survival mode. And only those in whom it was keenest survived; the rest were winnowed out.
This strikes them all now. It overcomes them. They jerk upwards, tensed, ready to spring.
There is another instinct, equally primordial – that of Protector. No matter how desperate; no matter the odds; no matter the inadequacy – this is the instinct of parent to protect their young, or mate to protect their mate. It brings an equal ferocity, and obliviates reason.
The Protector’s arms thrust out. The offspring huddle in behind. All eyes are locked on the threat.
Cautiously, they back away, inch by inch; any fast movement might trigger the inevitable pursuit. And pursuit from this beast is death.
Impossible as it is, there is no mistaking what looms before them.
Asterion.
The Minotaur.
They face off. A few eternal moments. None is sure how this will go.
Then It speaks.
A voice like a rumble. As if from a deep well it resonates. It echoes around the great hall.
“I have waited for you…”
Speech is not part of survival mode, neither recognition nor generation. So the victims cannot understand. They cannot respond. They are metamorphosed into terrified quarry, nothing more. They blink in silence and incomprehension, still backing away, imperceptibly slow.
“…long.”
Still nothing. Instinct does not allow it.
“There is something I must do…but…first I would know…”
It looks at the Man. It says something incomprehensible:
“Are you my Redeemer?”
Complex engagement.
There may be another way out. Instinct recognises this. Another blood shunt to increase function.
Awareness dawns on Dad. Awareness of self, and of environment. He is aware of his own fear. Aware of the threat to his children. Aware of their fear. Aware of his responsibility. Aware of his physical inadequacy.
And he is aware of Its hunger.
It speaks. This generates more options. He can stall. He can perhaps reason. He can confuse It. One thing he knows; he can never befriend It. He knows Its intent, behind all. He knows there is no turning It aside from this.
Dad’s brain clears enough to respond and to consider – to think, if only desperately.
The fact that this is impossible registers, but he does not linger upon it; it is irrelevant to survival.
Possible options. All in a fleeting moment. Run. Fight.
Run? Hopeless. This is His House. He knows it. He is faster. He would have them in moments.
Fight? Futile. At best a delay to give his dependents time to flee. But enough? Unsure.
Engage? He can try. Probably he must. Engage and then fight, while they flee. To engage he needs his higher functions.
He looks at its threatening bulk and the fear shivers over him like a chill. So mismatched, like a man taking on an elephant. There is no hope with this thing.
But…It would kill his children. It would devour his children. It would snuff out their sweetness. It makes that clear:
“None of you will leave My House.”
A savage emotion rises within Dad in response, an outraged and unmatched ferocity, one that is impervious to hopelessness. It is a fierceness that does not question why. It runs through his limbs and he feels his muscle turning to steel.
“Your bones will decorate my galleries, and help distinguish one from the next…”
Their twisted little bodies? End here? In this silence for eternity?
No. As sure as the foundations of the earth – No!
He must save them. They are everything precious and pure to him. And that This would threaten them…that This would dare…that anything would dare! Fury. Cold, hard, determined.
Fear is crushed.
“Daddy?”
It is Leda’s terrified little voice. She has shrunk in behind as if trying to merge into him. It rinses through his consciousness and all is clear.
This is the time. This is that time; the moment that all parents are prepared for, but most never see. He must sacrifice himself for them.
He can save them. He must save them. A sense of desperate purpose rises to rival his fury.
; And a sense of relief.
This is his chance, his opportunity. He can now make up to his girls in one single action; he can make it right again.
All the times he failed them. All the times when he was not there for them. When they went to bed and wanted a story or simply to be tucked in; when they left for school and wanted to be waved off or greeted when they came home; when they wanted his hot chocolate or his roast pork with crackling; when they wanted to tell him about their day – a class, a friend, a bully, a sports game; when they wanted help with homework or to show him a good grade; when they wanted him to see them and be proud of them at sport or ballet or in assembly or at a band performance; when they had to walk home and wanted a lift but Mum was working; when the house was empty and they wanted company; when they were crying and wanted comforting; when they wanted a Dad.
When they wanted their Dad – all those times, he could make it up to them now, in this instant. There was no one else who could. No one else was there. He could be their Hero. He could be their Saviour. They could remember his sacrifice, how he gave everything for them, like he always said he would.
Now he can.
Slowly Dad rises from his tense crouch to his full height, facing off the monster. It is a moment of impossible defiance; he is no longer Its prey, but is Its opponent. To get to his girls, it will have to come through him.
He throws his torch down before him. It clatters on the stone, but the beam remains, casting light like a dividing line across the floor, separating the two adversaries.
Deliberately, in a long slow motion, Dad reaches above his head and his fingers whiten around the hilt of the sword that protrudes there.
Responding to the challenge, the Minotaur takes one step forward.
As if following the beast’s lead in a dance, Dad steps back, forcing the girls back behind him.
“Girls,” Dad hisses commandingly, without taking his eyes off the beast, “you must go!”
The Progeny of Daedalus Page 20