“Daddy!” Leda squeaks again in fear and incomprehension. “We can’t go without you!”
He risks a glance back at her and summons all the caring conviction that he can:
“Baby, you’ll be fine,” he promises, and after holding her eyes for a moment, he turns back to the great bull-headed beast before them.
“I’ll be fine,” he lies. “I’ll be right behind you. I’ll come the slow way.” Feeling her doubt, he risks another glance back to her and holds her pitiful gaze with the most forceful expression he can summon. Then he lies again:
“I told you baby, I will never leave you. Trust me.”
Leda always believes her Dad. She is so young that he cannot be wrong. If he tells her, she accepts. Despite her fear she nods. Her Daddy will come.
Ilia knows better. She knows what is happening. She also knows why.
Still slow and purposeful, Dad slides the sword free of his daypack. Inch by inch the deadly blade is revealed pale white in the moonlight. It is accompanied by a long, low ring that finds resonance in the echoing hall.
The Minotaur steps again. It stomps menacingly. Sparks fly as His hoof strikes the floor.
Dad backs up. The girls fall back further.
“Ilia, you must lead them.”
“But Dad…!”
“Don’t argue Ilia!” They would never defy that tone. “Find the thread and lead them. Do not stop. Do not wait for me!”
Dad reaches down and, in what is the most terrifying gesture for his girls, he grasps the rope that ties them together and slides the sword silently through it.
Both ends fall to the floor, generating unnoticed puffs of dust in the moonlight.
They are separated.
In a spray of sparks the Minotaur scrapes one hoof across the floor, like a bull about to charge.
“Girls. Go!”
Although he does not know it, Dad settles back into a defensive fighting stance, weight on his rear leg, sword poised above it, free hand splayed out in front as if to hold something back.
“Dad, we’ll never make it!” sobs Danae quietly.
“Not without you Daddy!” Leda is nearly prostrate in terror.
The Minotaur scrapes the floor again, showering yet more sparks, and he seems to settle his weight into his tense muscle, poised to pounce.
Dad stays frozen, waiting.
“Girls!” he hisses one more time. The opportunity for all their deliverance is passing.
“Wait!”
This is Ilia’s command. It seems to compel everyone to freeze. Danae has the capability, but Ilia has the clarity. Incomprehensibly and as if in slow motion she stretches out a hand and hooks it into part of Danae’s harness.
No one moves.
“Leda,” she whispers cautiously, hoping to squeeze the words out before everything erupts, “grab hold of Danae. Tight.”
Leda turns her bleary eyes on her eldest sister, sees her hand hooked into Danae’s leather vest, and the subtlest of nods pass between her two older sisters. They are as one.
The three of them are never far apart, so Leda understands also. Her small hand reaches out towards her sister.
Dad rocks a little on his rear foot, taught like a bowstring.
The Minotaur snorts twice, the sprayed secretions make white arcs in the light.
Slowly, gracefully, like a dramatic backing to the most monumental Aria of a classical opera, Danae raises her majestic wings wide, until she is spread like a vast crucifix in the great axis of the moon.
She pauses.
They all pause, arrayed within this great gladiatorial arena like a thespian diorama.
It cannot last.
Like the raindrop hanging from the tip of a leaf, they wait for it to fall…
WOOSH!
Several things happen at once.
Danae thrusts.
With a jolting heave she leaps high in the air, into the midst of the dome. Her sisters are torn from the ground with her…
The Minotaur explodes. From rest to sprint like a viper. A bellow erupts within the domed hall like a hurricane…
Dad has been waiting. He responds. A reflex. He leaps forwards towards the oncoming behemoth.
Minotaur – head thrust down. Horns gleam in the moonlight.
Dad steps. Left. Dives and slides under the horns, under the arms of the oncoming beast. He skids over onto his daypack. His eyes search to see his daughters to safety.
His sword clatters across the stone floor.
Danae thrusts again and again. Monumental heaves. The great rush of her wings mingles with the Minotaur’s bellow, echoing around the hall. She drags her siblings into the air, high out of reach, thrust after thrust. Her wings seem to spread from wall to wall. She casts a vast black silhouette in the descending moonlight. Ilia and Leda clutch to her, hanging like dead weights from her harness. They are both light and strong, or they would never be able to hold on.
The Minotaur, target missed, tries to halt. Cloven hooves shower fireworks as he slides across the stone.
Dad is on his back, eyes on his girls as they rise.
Danae knows her mission. She must bring her sisters to safety. Though three times the burden, her strength and the wings work in unison. Her entire being is focused on this one thing. Her gift is channelled into these incredible instruments.
But she is unused to them, and her sisters are heavy and unstable. They are shifting around even now, trying to get a more secure grip on her harness, which throws her off. She concentrates so forcefully on making these wings work, that she can be only vaguely aware of the situation below; she has left her father to die. But she cannot think of that now; she must obey his last command and do what she knows is the right thing.
Her fear and determination galvanize her muscles and tendons and the Wings to pursue this singular purpose and, with thrust after sweeping thrust, she propels the three of them up the shaft of moonlight, towards the oculus and the eventual safety that is beyond. Her head is thrown back and she looks upward, her hair streaming behind, for she has found that where she looks the wings will take her. But even as she ascends the tears stream down her cheeks and, falling from her face, some few negotiate the chaos of movement below to plummet back to the floor of the great hall, where they leave unnoticed flecks of dampness on the ancient stone. Her only comfort is the faint conviction that the moment her sisters are safe, she will return to help her Dad.
Of the three sisters, Ilia is the most aware of what is occurring. She struggled at first as Danae launched them upward, and her grip on the vest of the harness was precarious; but like descending a ladder she lowered herself down by two or three straps until she now has a firm grip of the leather harness that hangs behind Danae’s knees – the one Dad guessed was positioned for suspending the feet for a long flight. She has even been able to twist the leather thongs around her wrists and so, apart from Danae’s feet occasionally kicking her during her exertions, Ilia is relatively secure.
But she is heartbroken. It seems that only a few moments of confusion and terror has separated them from their father forever. Then in a great cacophony of noise that is still echoing around the cavern they had been wrenched from the earth and are now flying to safety. Looking down she can see the great circular hall of deep shadow, centred by the bright moonlit patch illuminated as if by a cold spotlight. And in that patch are the black rectangle of the tomb, and two figures, both of whom look towards them. One is Dad on the edge of the light, lying on his back, waving them on. The other, only a few paces away and next to the tomb, is the great hulking shape of the Minotaur. His bull-neck and human-back are awkwardly arched to allow him to watch his prey escaping him. The only other thing is a sliver of silver, like a glistening fish, that must be her Dad’s one hope – the sword lying where it has fallen. For a moment it reminds Ilia of a possible scene from the arena of the Coliseum, where an epic gladiatorial combat is underway and the resounding echoes of the hall are the crowd roaring for blood; but it is he
r Dad’s blood, and he is no gladiator.
Part of her wants to go back to him, to stand beside him, but she knows now they are too high for her to survive the fall. All she can send back down are her love and her tears. Her sobs join the thronging echoes as they reach the oculus.
Leda is beside herself and torn. She has not been able to process everything that has happened. She knows her father told them to go. She knows he told her he would follow. She knows her sisters are taking her to safety. But through her wracking tears she can see the shadow of her Dad dwindling below her, and despite his reassurances she cannot understand how he will ever join them again. But they are high now and she can do nothing but sob, and cry out to her Dad as he disappears from sight for the last time.
From the arena Dad watches his daughters escaping. In that moment he is overcome with relief and can think and feel little else. How sublime the sight is, the silhouette of his winged Danae rising like a Valkyrie through the moonlight, her hair streaming behind her, two nymph-like figures clinging to her train. It allows him an instant of immense pride and, in spite of the situation, a brief respite in which he can forget what awaits him. He finds himself smiling.
“Go girls!” he cheers them on. “Go!” Then, just as they are about to disappear through the oculus, he realises this is the last moment that he will ever see his precious daughters again. Euphoria transforms to desperation; his last words erupt from his chest and echo around the hall a hundred times, before pursuing them up the Lightwell as they fly to safety:
“I love you!”
Then they are gone.
The relief, the elation, they last a moment longer, until he realises that he is staring at space.
That is it. He is alone. He exhales his relief, and he seems to inhale despair.
He lies there in complete desolation and, for the first time, notices how heavily he is breathing; it is rasping through his chest. Breathing and emptiness, that is all he is aware of. But then, slowly, another realisation dawns upon him, like someone waking from the blissful oblivion of sleep to an unbearable reality; he is not alone.
The emptiness is replaced by dread.
He looks over to where the colossal monster stands. Here, in the centre of this vast Labyrinth of empty corridors and galleries and halls and chambers, they are the only two things alive. There is nothing else. No help. No allies. No loved ones to bid farewell. No way out. No escaping back through those tunnels. And above all – no hope.
The bull-headed beast has also been watching the escape, but now that they have disappeared beyond his reach he seems to relax, his head slumping, before slowly turning to face Dad. Their eyes lock, black on blue. A rumble like a tremor deep in the earth resonates from the Minotaur’s chest:
“It is not as She desired; but now they must do this alone.”
Dad understands.
In heroic stories the Underdog has a chance, a very slim chance, and this is an essential ingredient of the recipe, engendering excitement and suspense; but this is a mere narrative ploy. In reality there are no games, no deceptions – only the truth.
As hopeless as a stroppy teenager facing a heavyweight boxing champion in a fight, or a gold-medal Olympian in a fencing tournament, so this man knows that against the Master of this House there is no escape. No trick or ploy on his part, no error or failing on his opponent’s – none of these is going to affect the outcome – he is about to die.
Still lying on his back, the man exhales heavily in resignation. His body, that was so tense with the elation of seeing his daughters escape, seems to melt. He feels heavy. He feels exhausted. Clumsily, awkwardly, he rolls on his side and draws himself up to standing. He will at least die on his feet. He looks around at the hollow darkness that surrounds them, then back to the beast towering before him.
The final revelation of his life dawns upon him: this is how his story will end. Here in the darkness, too young to die and too alone.
The exultation of an heroic act only lasts as long as there is some beneficiary to witness and appreciate it. But, in the face of a lonely death, this consolation evaporates. The purpose achieved, the motivation to save those you love dissipates. The driving forces are stripped away and you are left naked in your fear.
It does not matter how you face that fear; no one will ever know. You are facing finality.
We live our lives with a sense of immortality, even as we age. Death, an end, non-existence – these are incomprehensible to the living. For as Coleridge said, there is that within us that utterly rejects any challenge to our own immortality.
But we are mortal and, though we cannot comprehend it, we will all die. However, for most of us, that realisation does not manifest until the last moment when, in a split second, a lifetime of conviction must be overturned and, in what Conrad calls that supreme moment of complete knowledge, we are forced to accept that there is an end, and it is now.
We live our lives taking time for granted – there will always be more; things undone I can put off until tomorrow. But in that penultimate moment you suddenly understand that every remaining ambition, every unfulfilled desire, every residual aspiration that you have carried up until this precise moment – these will all remain incomplete because it is now too late. Everything you have not yet seen you will never see; every place you have not yet visited you will never visit; everything you have wanted to read or hear or say – it must all pass uncommunicated. Not only that, but every wonderful experience that you have had in your life, these will never be lived again. The company of your lifelong friends you will never enjoy. Your lifelong partner whose presence has been a given – you will never kiss them or hold them again. Your children also, although you have not been able to say goodbye, you will never see them to do so. Because now, in this moment, the unbelievable is about to occur, your story really has come to an end, and you will enter the blackness of oblivion, the Heart of Darkness.
Most will not accept this until deep in those last moments, when they finally realise the end is inevitable. However, for those who have a near-death experience, they will go through this transition early, only to have a reprieve. It is from such people that we know that the overwhelming emotion in this moment is not anger or defiance or bravery, but a resigned disappointment.
The girls’ father had told them that he had faced this once when he nearly drowned in a foolish incident at the age of 18, but he had had the time to rebuild his immortal convictions since then. However now, in this lonely place, in the shadows far beneath the earth, it has returned, and he recognises it. The valiant façade of self-sacrifice is stripped away, and he is utterly alone and facing his end. He will never hear the adoration of those that he has saved, nor savour the appreciation. This is now his moment, a moment from which he cannot turn back nor can he delay.
His resignation is bitter. His shoulders slump. Still holding His gaze, he nods knowingly at the Minotaur.
Asterion has seen this expression many, many times. For all the heroism of glorious deaths that fill the ancient legends, He knows the truth. Death is always faced like this. He has been waiting an eternity for the promised exception but, yet again, must accept disappointment; he had harboured hopes of his own.
“So, you are not my Redeemer.” It is a statement rather than a question.
In answer, Dad shakes his head sadly.
“No,” he says quietly, “you are mine.”
Above, Danae is labouring through her tears. Her muscles are screaming at her with every beat of the wings as, thrust by thrust, she drags her sisters higher and higher up the Lightwell. In the midst of her fear and desperation, the initial take-off and ascent had seemed easy, but she quickly tired. If it were not for her divinely-bestowed strength she would not have lasted more than a few beats. As it is she knows that she will make the ascent, however every fibre that she calls her own is shrieking for speed. Danae is not one to run from anything, even when she should, and the thought of her Dad below and alone with that beast is torturing he
r. But she knows her task; she must get her sisters to safety.
When she does, however, she is going straight back down. No hesitation. She will not leave her Dad there to die. And if the Minotaur has harmed him, she will disjoint and rend every limb from his bloody body with frenzied hands…
But the Lightwell seems to rise above her infinitely; she did not realise how far it was. Directly overhead now is the moon, perfectly centred in the circular aperture of what must be the roof of the throne room building; it gives the impression of looking directly at the moon through a long telescope. She keeps her face towards it and beats those great wings, rising steadily, but far too slowly.
Her sisters are clinging on desperately, although Leda is so beside herself that Danae has no idea how she is managing. Ilia is helping. Somehow she encouraged Leda to edge around the harness to Danae’s back and she now has a leg hooked into the leather tails. Ilia has done the same, but has wrapped her other leg around her youngest sister to help support her and hold her close. She is whispering into her ear reassuringly. All of this awkward manoeuvring has taken a heavy toll on Danae’s strength, but now that they are positioned and still, Danae has settled into a steady rhythm.
The stairs seem to be teasing the way they slowly spiral around the girls throughout the ascent, but finally they come to an end, and with it Danae’s toil. The aperture to the throne room is just above them. They cannot see Jorge yet; from what they can see the margin of the stairwell is empty. But there appears to be a layer of moonlit mist above them that blurs the throne room beyond. As if breaking the surface of a pool they burst through and…
…all seemed normal again, just as they had left it. Jorge was there standing on the edge of the Lightwell; he had clearly not seen them ascending as he almost fell into the stairwell in fright. It was very narrow here for her wings, so Danae did not hesitate. Using her momentum, she alighted immediately upon the edge, Jorge falling back in surprise before her. She stood there for a few seconds, breathing heavily, her sisters disengaging and standing to their own feet. Jorge needed every one of those seconds to recover from his shock. At first it was surprise that ignited his old face as he staggered back a few paces, then delight overcame him as he registered this marvellous vision before him; Danae standing there with her wings outstretched. Finally, his brow furrowed and he looked urgently around, clearly searching for their father.
The Progeny of Daedalus Page 21