That is all very well you might say, but that was the barbaric Middle Ages or the Ancient World, and things have improved since then, surely? At the end of the 19th century, the privileged population of Europe may have argued the same, with European Empires at their peak, their great fleets bringing in wealth and luxury to the glorious cities of the Old World. Cultured Europeans, above such inhumanities, spent their time at the opera or the theatre, listening to Mozart or reading Dante. However, unknown to them, despite their sense of superiority, over 40 million of them were about to die in the First World War as the great civilisations of Europe erupted into conflict, adapting their sophisticated predilections and advanced technologies to generating an unprecedented mechanised slaughter. You could argue, however, that it was an exceptional event and hardly the norm – it was, after all, the Great War, the War to end all Wars and an immense lesson was learned. Well, even if you survived the First World War, if you lived only two decades more, you would have been plunged back into the slaughter, and numbered among or witnessed the deaths of another 80 million in the Second World War. The history of the world is one of human suffering and we in the West in this generation are exceptional in that we have not been exposed to misery on such an extreme scale.
Yet even in the privileged world, the Reaper has His place. Individual tragedy can always strike and when it does those unfamiliar with suffering find it difficult to comprehend. This was how the girls felt now and for months to come. Their disbelief was nearly as great as their grief; they simply could not comprehend it. For a long time after they had returned home they still expected their phones to buzz, Dad’s face appearing on the other end wanting to videochat at an inconvenient moment. They found themselves musing as to when Dad would next be over to visit them. Or if an event was coming up in the school, they might catch themselves wondering whether he might be able to attend. During other idle periods they sometimes pondered as to where Dad would take them on their next Summer holiday. But, after a moment, realisation would return and their loss would sweep over them once more.
People often state that time heals everything, but that is a deception. You never recover from losing someone you love; the most you can hope for is to adjust to a life without them being there. There are moments when you can push the knowledge aside briefly and surprise yourself by feeling almost happy, but the background pain never leaves and, as soon as the distraction is gone, it returns. Over time this becomes less acute, but the awareness endures and leaves a permanent taint. Even years later you may find yourself repeating a lost loved-one’s name again, and again, and again, as if the sound of their name will in some way revive them or comfort them in the Great Darkness.
The only time when the girls would genuinely forget their loss was in the mornings, just after waking up. The oblivion of sleep would wash all memory of horror away, such that each day would be started fresh and new and the world would seem perfect. The first few moments were spent enjoying simple and unblemished experiences; the realisation that they were waking; the softness and comfort of the bed and duvet; how rested they felt; an awareness as to what day of the week it was. Then amidst this idyllic bliss, remembrance would come; their father was dead. It came on as a visceral sickness that gripped their stomachs and then rose into their chests and constricted their breathing, and that deep sadness that they lived with every day would return, and they realised that it was all true and that this is what they had to live with.
However, for the girls there was something about this pain which was out of place, very deep but undoubtedly there – it was a familiarity. Such had been the affliction of their many previous lives, one after the other, that recognition of sorrow was felt like a permanent stain on their souls. In some way that they could not explain, they were or had been accustomed to this. It was something that they had lived with and something that they must live with, unless they could break the Curse.
That they needed to continue their Quest was not questioned by any of them, even if they did not at first speak about it; their deliverance was what Dad had died to assist. The difference now was that they must do it alone.
The immediate aftermath of Dad’s death had been messy. How do you explain the disappearance of someone who died in the Labyrinth of Daedalus at the hands of the Minotaur? (Indeed it sounds like an extremely implausible yet entertaining story created by someone who had spent too many years studying the Arts at University, under the delusion that it was a worthy pursuit and that, in creating a book, they were justifying those indulgent years of study.) But Jorge had helped immensely and the Cretan police were not overly motivated to doubt the explanation and create work for themselves – drowning was a common enough occurrence, after all. Jorge and the girls had escaped from the archaeological site unnoticed – it was nearly 3am – and he had driven the girls back to their holiday villa. The next morning, he took a taxi to retrieve his own car and when he got back he called the police. The girls’ father had gone for an early morning swim and not returned. Jorge was a friend of Dad’s and staying with them for a few days. As the girls confirmed all of this, there seemed no reason to question it.
For the first few weeks the girls felt quite numb. Things had been happening all around them; police coming and going and interviewing them or speaking to Jorge; various carers – a social worker, a psychologist and a doctor – spent time with them trying each to help in their own way. Mum had arrived within 24 hours and she held them a lot and fussed about them, which was comforting. Dad’s partner had flown out also, to help where she could. They had not been able to leave Crete until the police were satisfied and various processes were completed, which took the best part of a week.
A search of the local waters was conducted and, as no body was found, the girls’ father was listed as missing, presumed dead. There were even furtive suggestions that he had finally, as he had always feared, been taken by a Great White Shark (although it is highly unlikely that it was named “Bob” as Dad had always joked,) and this explained the absence of a corpse. The fact that there was no body to deal with actually made things a little easier, as decisions on funeral type and location and then transportation of the body were not required. But it also left a vacuum for the girls; with no corpse to visit there was nothing to help ground them in their new reality. The psychologist had recommended a memorial service to assist with the girls’ closure, and all parties had agreed that they would organise this once the girls had returned – probably in Skye, with which Dad had a strong familial association.
Although the girls did not have a strong opinion on anything at that time, Jorge suggested they should keep their quest secret for the moment. The girls did not have the heart or interest to think much about it, but tacitly agreed to the suggestion. Jorge arranged to post the Wings – which had cost them so much to acquire – to the girls in Scotland. Ilia picked them up after school one day and hid them in the back of Danae’s wardrobe, concealed in a long bag that was designed for snow skis.
The sword, that Danae had drawn from her father’s chest, was deposited there also, still wrapped in a blood-stained garment and concealed within one of the daypacks that they had taken into the Labyrinth. No one wanted to see it; no one had the heart to discard it.
It would be the following summer at the earliest before they could go in search of the Garden of the Hesperides, although they had no idea how they would manage it without their father. On their father’s instructions Jorge had retrieved the cash from Dad’s bag and given it to Ilia, along with a farewell letter he had written for each of his daughters. Before saying his own goodbyes, Jorge had given the girls his contact details, promising to help them in any way he could.
Each of the girl’s reactions varied, dictated by both age and temperament. Leda remained in shock and disbelief and needed constant holding. Ilia more rapidly processed what had occurred; whether it was due to her maturity or her gift of Wisdom and, although still prone to tears, she was able to rationalise – Dad was only dead i
n this life, he was not suffering, and his soul would be reborn soon or take whatever path it was that was ordained. Danae, however, reacted differently again and as the days passed a great anger grew within her. She was a fiery proposition in her calmest moments, but in the wake of this suffering, fury began to build in her like steam in a boiling kettle – someone must be held to blame.
It is surprising that she did not find a focus for this perceived culpability until they had returned to Scotland. While her sisters mourned, she had been moody and volatile – everyone had learned to give her space. But as the days and weeks and months dragged on, and the new reality infiltrated her soul, an irrational scapegoat began to emerge.
Apollo.
Ilia had warned her against it, but Danae said that she could not help it; Apollo could have and should have done something to prevent this. He had led them to this situation. He had guided them. He had encouraged them. He had reassured them and pretended to offer support. But when it came to it, He was not there. He had not intervened. He had only been prominent by the fact that, when the climax had come, He had been utterly absent, and their father outmatched had died alone. Maybe He had planned this. Maybe He was not helping at all. The Gods, after all, are fickle. It was His fault. These were the thoughts that germinated in Danae’s head, swelling in suspicion and conviction, until she felt she knew.
Apollo was not on their side. He never had been.
There are some people who are so extreme that they will back down to nothing and no one – not even a God. When aroused to anger, Danae is one such person. It is not always an admirable trait, as it can be completely irrational and misdirected, but in some circumstances it marches the line between heroism and stupidity.
It was a Saturday afternoon. The three girls were home alone. Ilia and Leda were staring at the television, pretending to watch a movie. Danae sat brooding on the other sofa. Her thoughts were dark. She had already had a horrible row with Ilia, a furious eruption of suspicion and blame that her elder sister had sought to extinguish. But Danae was beyond that. Leda had chimed in, pleading with Danae not to go on about it over and over, but had received such a savage retort that she burst into tears. Ilia, who can be equally feisty in her own way, defended her youngest sister. The two older sisters then had such a stand-up argument, toe to toe, that it only ended when Danae had slapped her sibling across the face. Ilia – though strong enough – was too wise to hit back, but instead had dealt such a cutting remark that Danae had been stopped in her tracks.
Now they all sat in silence, no one wanting to speak. Leda was snuggled into Ilia for comfort, which only irritated Danae more. Finally, she could bear it no longer:
“I’m going to do it.”
She stood up.
“What Danae?!” Ilia responded, knowing full well Danae’s intent. “You can’t!”
“I am.”
“It’s not His fault!”
But Danae ignored her elder sister. She pivoted on her heel and strode out of the room and up the stairs to her bedroom, taking them two steps at a time.
Ilia groaned, jumped to her feet and followed.
Leda, in curiosity and fear, was swept along in their wake. Ahead of her she could hear Ilia telling Danae no, stop, over and again. As Leda entered Danae’s bedroom, at last she realised what was happening.
Danae was on her knees with a weathered daypack on the floor in front of her, and from it was removing a familiar shape wrapped in an old tea towel.
The Brick.
She was going to confront Apollo.
Ilia stood over her, hands on hips.
“Danae, I’m telling you for the last time, don’t do it!”
Danae gave her such a brutal look that it was clear her purpose was set.
Ilia stood tense for a moment longer, trying to contain her own fury and outrage, but suddenly her shoulders slumped and her hands slipped to her sides; Leda could tell she was resigned to Danae’s purpose.
“Alright Danae, you win. But don’t do this alone. Let’s go together.”
Danae paused and held her elder sister’s gaze. For a moment it seemed that she would refuse her elder sister, until she too made a concession in a single word:
“Ok.”
Ilia knelt beside Danae and Leda joined them also, completing a triangle. Danae dropped the brick to the floor, retaining a corner of the enveloping tea towel in her hand so that the brick unravelled and tumbled free with a dusty thud on the carpet. They all looked at it for a brief second before Danae spoke:
“Let’s go.”
As she reached out to touch the Brick her sisters followed suit. Danae was in no mood to hesitate so they had no further time before…
Lurch!
They are Now. It is so long since they have done this that it is quite a shock. One moment they were knelt on the carpet in Danae’s room on a wet Scottish afternoon, the next moment they are here. But where here is, none of them know. They had been expecting something familiar – maybe Olympus, or the Temple at Pompeii, but this is neither. They are before a temple, certainly, but much larger than the one at Pompeii, a truly grand structure on a monolithic scale like those at Paestum. The setting, however, is more dramatic than anything they have yet witnessed.
It is a red-lit night. They are standing on the huge broad steps that climb to the elevated floor level of this massive temple. Its columns with Doric capitals are so huge that if all three of them held hands and stood at the base, they would not stretch around even half of one of them. The triangular pediment is heavy with an ornately carved bronze frieze depicting gods and men and beasts, but centremost is a young god they recognise, beautiful and youthful, with a halo like the rising sun. It too glows red in the light of they know-not-what. Braziers burn in the shadows and languid smoke rises.
They sense something behind them and all three turn; the source of the red light is revealed. From their elevated position they see glowing rooftops below which gradually descend to a bridge and, beyond the bridge, the dark shadow of a headland climbs up – grand public buildings and tumbled terracotta rooves ascend like steps. But it is beyond this that their eyes are drawn, to a colossal mountain whose blackened bulk seems to rise impossibly into the night sky. Its peak glows red; fireworks of vermillion orange erupt from its summit, and rivulets of gleaming lava flow like molten veins down its hulking shoulders.
It is awe-inspiring. For a moment they are frozen like statues, simply staring, mouths open. Then Ilia speaks, articulating a single word:
“Etna!”
It is. They had seen it before on holiday with Dad, a sight they would never forget. The most active volcano in Europe and, by rising over three kilometres directly from sea level, the result is a greater spectacle than almost any peak in the Continent. But they have never seen it so angry.
Danae looks around thoughtfully.
“So, if that is Etna, then this must be…”
“Syracuse!” all three of them say simultaneously.
They each love Syracuse – the Jewel of the Mediterranean. Their Dad believed that it was the most under-rated city he knew – or had known. A great metropolis in ancient times, it is perched on the turquoise-fringed island of Ortygia, around one of the largest deep-water harbours in the world. It is swathed in legend and gilded by its rich history; blessed by the miraculous fresh-water spring of the Fountain of Arethusa, one of Diana’s nymphs; focal point of the ill-fated Sicilian Expedition waged by the Athenians during the Peloponnesian War; famous as the home of Archimedes; adjacent to the entrance to the Underworld from which Hades ascended and abducted Persephone; and overshadowed by Etna, where burns eternally the Forge of Hephaistos and the earth trembles with the striking of His great hammer.
“And then this must be…” Danae continues, turning to face the great Temple again…
Ilia finishes her sentence in a whisper:
“The Temple of Apollo.”
It is more ominous than they have ever imagined it, bathed blood-red by the f
ury of Etna’s disgorged molten viscera. Olympus and Apollo’s temple in Pompeii had been surreal and wondrous; by contrast this is menacing. They had seen it only in majestic ruins, never in all its intimidating glory.
Danae, however, does not pause.
“Good. I know where He will be then.” They all know to Whom she is referring.
Danae bounds up the great steps with all the spring of a gazelle. Her sisters glance at each other and groan, then follow as fast as they can. As they reach the top step, Danae is already beyond the monolithic columns and leaning against the immense double doors that bar entrance to this sacred place.
She heaves.
The doors swing silently open.
The Temple interior unveils before them. It is as red as the primeval night and, if anything, the interior is more threatening than the perditious world without. They all freeze, their instincts screaming the warnings born of primeval senses.
Then they feel it.
Weight.
There is a presence that bears down on them, crushes them, weakens their knees and bows their heads.
Heat.
It beats upon them as if through the open door of a furnace, and the air before them is like a scorching barrier that they cannot push through.
Resistance. Opposition. Obstruction.
Somehow they know it; the Source of All is within. They are in the presence of something greater than anything naturally occurring in the Profane world. It is located at a single point at the far end of the vast column-lined hall, seated upon a great throne.
The Progeny of Daedalus Page 23