The Progeny of Daedalus

by Jeffrey MacLeod

  Most of the Mediterranean world seems to object to straight lines and grids and sharp angles, preferring instead the natural and organic shapes of rock and coast and mountains and sea; this might be why queueing there has never quite taken off. A disorderly mobbing of any given bottleneck seems to be the indigenous manner of dealing with the many obstacles that oppose the free-flowing meandering life that Mediterranean people cherish. The Anglo-Teutonic concept of order and process is rather alien. Now, this seems quite pleasant and quaint to northern Europeans and their world-wide progeny when they are lying in the sun by the glistening sea sipping on a cool drink from a frosting and unfamiliar receptacle. However, when you are hot and bothered and tired from a long journey and eager to get on to your final destination, and a lone disinterested official reading a newspaper at a single desk stands between several hundred passengers and their seaside terraces and swimming pools, this Darwinian approach of Survival-of-the-one-with-the-sharpest-elbows seems to lose some of its charm.

  Dad had spent a lot of time in the Mediterranean, however, and his elbow skills were not too shabby. Also, he had learned that the Mediterranean affection for children was a weapon that you should not hesitate to deploy in such situations, and so Leda was sent front and foremost to squirm and innocently smile her way through the mob, while the other three followed closely in her wake. It was rather unfair on all those tourists who did not have such WMPs – that is Weapons of Mass Persuasion – but Dad had said that this was the Med, so any tourist who had so unwisely arrived completely unarmed deserved to wait.

  Within an hour they were in the hire car and heading for their seaside villa.

  Most Mediterranean destinations are paradoxical in that incomparable beauty and charm is often juxtaposed against an indifferent squalor; the natural beauty is in no way matched by the aesthetics of more recent human habitation and development. If you keep to the popular tourist areas and historical town centres this is not usually evident, however, once you reach the fringes of suburbia and semi-rural zones it becomes far more obvious. Dad had booked a villa around the bay from Heraklion, a 20 minute drive to the west of the capital, but the airport is to the east of the city and at this time of day Dad preferred to take the main ring road to skirt it and so reach their holiday house the fastest way possible. In doing this they missed the beautiful medieval city centre on its incomparable harbour, but Dad promised that they would come back.

  Instead their initial introduction to Crete was the ring road through the semi-industrial belt of the city, with its pre-fab and concrete shopping complexes decorated in graffiti, and half-finished buildings on half-wanted land with a good scattering of rubbish to garnish it. The sun was setting but, even in the twilight, the number of half-finished concrete shells was remarkable, many of which appeared – by the rusty exposed steel site litter – to have been in their unfinished state for some years. Dad told them not to look and that, as it was not a large city, they would soon be out and following the coast road to their destination – the seaside town of Palaiokastro.

  Once through the suburbs the drive turned out to be much more encouraging. The road skirted the bay, providing an endless view of the sea virtually all the way to their destination, and the sunset had turned all the calm waters to a gold-flecked fire and the evening sky to a tranquil expanse of shifting colours, ranging from star-studded blue to soft and soothing oranges and pinks. Most encouragingly, the girls noted the many beaches that they passed were pristine white sand, although stained with pink by the sunset. There were few things they loved as much as a perfect beach.

  Surprisingly, considering the Mediterranean’s organisational infamy, here were no delays getting into the villa. The caretaker was there when they arrived and showed them around, and the girls excitement bubbled over. It was a lovely house, stepped into the slopes above Palaiokastro, with a huge terrace leading to an infinity pool, and all was dominated by the more than 180 degrees of sea views. This was going to be an idyllic place to spend the next fortnight.

  Even though night had come on it was still close to 30 degrees, so the girls wasted no time in changing and jumping into the pool. Dad, however, settled himself on a comfy chair on the terrace, armed with a cold beer, and seemed content just staring out across the bay and night sky to the sound of his daughters’ laughter and squealing in the pool. Once rooted in he only got up once – to turn the lights out so as to improve the view of the blazing constellations above. There was very little light pollution here and the eternal sky overhead was as bright as when Minos himself had sat out and contemplated the heavens.

  The girls hunger eventually superseded their enjoyment of the cool water, so they grabbed snacks and joined Dad on the terrace. They chattered a little but this quickly slowed, their energy sapped by the long day. None of them mentioned what they were going to attempt the following day, but seemed content to live in the moment of the warm Mediterranean night. Eventually they said their goodnights and left Dad alone. They were not to know, but he sat there quietly for a long while, now troubled by what lay ahead and, despite the serenity, a disquiet slowly came over him. It was difficult to believe what they were involved in was real, so it was even more difficult to comprehend the dangers that might be involved. We who live our lives in such security cannot appreciate what we have; nor can we comprehend that we could ever lose it.

  Finally, Dad got up and went to bed, but he had troubled dreams. He was in a maze of endless tunnels and seemed to be searching urgently for something that he could not remember. At every turn he took the left most option, then rushed on. Occasionally he heard a distant echoing bellow of some great beast, which made his hair stand on end and his skin pimple. He wandered for an age, his torch guttering in sudden winds coming down the tunnels, until finally one great blast put it out. He stood in the complete blackness, terror creeping over him and then, with his primary sense lost to him, his hearing took charge. But all he heard was a snorting breath and a sound like cloven hooves on stone.

  Then he woke.

  The morning was glorious. Leda had woken first and tried to entertain herself by getting a Greek version of Monopoly out of one of the cupboards and setting it up on the table on the terrace. She rolled the die over and again in her private little game and was thoroughly beating herself, but she just could not contain her growing excitement. The sky was too blue and the sun too bright and the air too warm and the sea too alluring and the pool too tempting and she just did not know what to do… so she woke everyone up. Ilia was the grumpiest at first, but the elements that had overcome her littlest sister were not lost on her either, and soon she was as excited as both her siblings.

  They all sat down to breakfast. They had not been shopping yet, but some provisions had been left to get them by until they had, so they enjoyed fresh baked rolls with butter, along with some exquisite peaches and strawberries, with orange juice for all and coffee for Dad. Unlike the previous night, this morning there was no hesitation in discussing their plans. The girls were eager to begin the hunt, but likewise determined to ensure they had plenty of beach and pool time to balance out their efforts to save their eternal souls. Additionally, they pointed out, they would need to enjoy regular peach-fests, find some decent gelaterias (or even one!, Leda had conceded), source mozzarella and tomatoes for insalata caprese, and possible go on a boat trip where they might see dolphins. Add this to finding the legendary Wings of Daedalus, Danae had said, would make a perfect holiday.

  What they agreed on was to spend each day until lunch-time hunting for the Labyrinth of Knossos and the item to be found therein, and the afternoons and evenings indulging in the unique pleasures proffered by a Mediterranean summer holiday. Dad seemed a bit amused by this compromise and said that it was strange to juxtapose such frivolity with the most earnest of tasks; the girls only partially understood what he meant but reassured him that they would have plenty of time to find the Wings, as well as to enjoy themselves. As an adult, there is no proper comprehension of th
e cerebral machinations of children or adolescents, and all you can do is remember that when you were that age you had strange priorities as well – and accept it. So Dad had shrugged his shoulders and happily acquiesced. There was some part of him that was inexplicably relieved by the notion of spending less energy in pursuing the quest, which he put down to the disturbing nature of his dreams the night before, but he said nothing of this to the girls.

  Day one they decided they should go straight to Knossos. They could have a look at Heraklion on the way back if they had time after finding and navigating the Labyrinth, facing any dangers within and emerging triumphant holding aloft the Wings of Daedalus. Alternatively, rather than visit Crete’s capital, they might take the wings to a deserted beach and take them for a test flight. Dad said that they needed to go to the Archaeological Museum of Heraklion at some stage also, but that they could wait a few days.

  “Yes it can definitely wait, Dad!” Danae had responded with a grin.

  But in truth they were not adverse to the idea at all as, quite aside from the fact that Dad had instilled in them a genuine appreciation of (limited) exposure to exquisite cultural collections, they knew the museum would be full of objects they could touch and explore with The Sight. However, it was not their first priority.

  “Ok,” Ilia interjected into a rare pause in the conversation, the scepticism she expressed demanding attention, “I know we’ve talked about this a hundred times, but now that it comes to it, I’m still not convinced that our plan is …fool-proof. We have to get in there, find the Wings – which could be anywhere – and get out. And you say this Labyrinth could be huge, Dad? Have we thought of everything?”

  Dad was about to respond but Leda beat him to it.

  “It’s fine, Ilia,” her voice betraying a somewhat dismissive impatience, “Dad’s prepared!” She then turned to him with utmost confidence “Aren’t you Daddy?”

  Dad again made as to respond but this time it was Danae who proved the faster.

  “Yeah we have our Labyrinth Survival Kit Ilia,” and she accentuated the phrase with exaggerated-to-the-point-of-irritating quotation marks with her fingers, “so we’ve got nothing to worry about!” Danae was, as usual, being extremely facetious, but as she also approaches life with a wanton disregard for obstacles she showed no signs of genuine concern over their degree of preparedness.

  “Survival kit Danae?” It was Ilia’s turn to drip sarcasm.

  “Yeah, well,” and here Danae was deliberately unconvincing in her response, “a few balls of string.”

  “And we’ll pick up some sandwiches,” Dad added with a smile, playing along with Danae’s flippancy.

  “Da-ad!” Ilia had a particular way of addressing her father which actually came across as Oh come off it Dad! Be serious! But she managed it all in a single word, albeit doubling the required syllables.

  “It’s a lot of string Ilia!” Leda joined in. They all enjoyed baiting the serious sibling, which was perhaps unwise, seeming she had been granted the gift of wisdom.

  “Girls,” and Dad suddenly sounded serious, “we have survived hundreds of dungeons, remember? What makes you think this will be any different?”

  Even Ilia smiled at this.

  “Warhammer, Dad?”

  In response, Dad just tilted his head and held her gaze. It was a game they had played for years – a table-top dungeon-bash game, in which a party of mixed adventurers undertook quests in search of wealth and glory. The original game had used card tiles to map out the dungeon floor, but Dad had built a three-dimensional version for them using plaster bricks, arches and doors.

  “You think Warhammer will prepare us for the Labyrinth?”

  “Well I’m the barbarian!” Leda interposed immediately, staking her claim to her favourite warrior.

  Dad’s smile broadened. Then suddenly he was genuinely serious.

  “Of course not girls. Look, the truth is we don’t know what is ahead. This is all so crazy it is hard to believe that there even is a labyrinth, or the Wings of Daedalus, or a curse. But then,” and here he seemed accepting of something outside his understanding, “who would have thought Apollo was real? But He seems to be. And He has guided us towards this, so I think we need to accept that we have all the help we need, and as much as we are allowed. I thought about all sorts of things – even getting a gun if I could – but something tells me that’s wrong, or not permitted. So, in the end I’ve settled for just a few things.

  “String of course, and loads of it! Who knows how big this will be or how far we will walk. If it was good enough for Theseus then that seems good enough for us. Then what else? I could get a sword or something, but I don’t really know how to use one. People who carry weapons usually end up getting harmed by them. We’ll need some warmer clothes, in case it is cool in there – just bring a jumper each should do. I have torches with loads of spare batteries. Matches and paper in case we need to make a fire – although we cannot carry wood with us. First aid kit…what else?” He looked up and to the left, as he always did when trying to remember something. “There’s a little camping stove – like the little ones the Army use – and some tinned food. I brought a compass and there is a small camping knife. Oh, some chalk as well in case we need to mark something for directions or whatever. We need to pick up some water and some more fresh food.” He now looked directly at his girls. “That’s about it. Our phones are all charged – although if we find the Labyrinth I don’t think we are likely to get a signal in there. I don’t think there’s much else we need.”

  “And I’ve got cards,” added Leda, looking slightly triumphant, “Yahtzee and Five Crowns.” Although it was unnecessary, she had a small backpack of her own that she liked to take whenever they went anywhere together. “Monopoly wouldn’t fit in unfortunately.” She looked genuinely disappointed as she said this.

  “Great Leda,” Danae commended her sister in a tone that made it clear that she thought the additional preparation was anything but great. “That’s bound to help us out of a scrape. Ilia and I are carrying more sensible stuff.”

  “Well when we’re bored Danae, you won’t be playing cards with us. Will she Daddy?”

  “Not if she cannot appreciate your very sensible preparations, Cheeks.”

  Leda beamed.

  “Right, let’s finish breakfast and get going. And Ilia,” Dad added, turning to his eldest, “put some sensible shoes on sweetie! High heels are not the sort of thing to wear on a perilous adventure!”

  “Are my shoes good Daddy?” asked Leda, in search of some positive reassurance and attention.

  “Perfect, sweetie!”

  She beamed again.

  “Oh!” Clearly Dad had suddenly thought of something. “No adventuring until the breakfast dishes are done!”

  Leda’s smile vanished to the accompaniment of her sisters groaning.

  The drive to Knossos was even more picturesque than the night before. They could see the shoreline properly now and, in the piercing daylight, the white sandy beaches that adorned the junction of land and sea were so pure that they had the appearance of deep layers of icing sugar laid down under a blazing sun. Even more exceptional was the sea, that was so uniquely stunning that there is no describing it. Instead, it possessed such qualities of clarity and deep turquoise and crystal invitation that it might be the benchmark for other breath-taking sights to be compared against. In photos it seems too beautiful to be real; in person it strikes you with a defiant disbelief and convinces you that you may never experience such perfection again. The girls were excited and mesmerised all at once and could not wait to finish their quest that day to get back to one – or all – of those beaches.

  The girls had not noticed that Dad had gone quiet.

  …it has been so long…

  As they approached the outskirts of Heraklion the road drew away from the coast and the pristine beaches faded from sight. Undistracted now, the girls were able to refocus but, in reality, there was not much left to say abou
t what might be to come. They had talked about this so much and for so long that now they just had to wait.

  They were in a great broad valley of a stony and a hilly country and, as they crested low elevations, they received expansive views of an immense landscape, views that seemed incompatible with their knowledge that Crete was a relatively small island. Indeed, in direct contradiction to cartographic fact, in Crete the world of the human experience is vast. Distant hills and mountains rose grey and dull against the bright blue of a perfect summer sky; but nearer the slopes sported more colour, dominated in every direction by the steel and orderly green of olive groves, interspersed here and there by the stunted wild oaks and Tuscan pines that struggle in the intolerable heat of the Mediterranean Summer. Ruins in this country would be hard to pick, as all the landscape seemed a tumble of worn and ancient stone peeking through overgrown greenery.

  The girls did not know it – and would not have liked to – but within Dad fear was rapidly escalating. He had lost that sense of invincibility that is the privilege – or curse – of youth, and he was feeling very mortal. The words of Apollo had been preying upon him; only he could pay the price for the Wings. Whatever that meant, it did not sound promising. And if anything happened to him, how would the girls fare, in a foreign country so far from home? He had made some preparations just in case; in his suitcase was a letter addressed to them, with some instructions and all his love, along with a thousand euros in cash and their tickets and passports – of course he desperately hoped it would not be needed.

  A brown sign came into view, the universal indicator for a location with important historical significance; it read Knossos Archaeological Site.

  “There it is girls,” Dad said, without any of the usual excitement that was characteristic of exposing him to one of these brown road signs. The girls looked where Dad was indicating; not far, perhaps half a mile ahead and to the left of the road, there on a gentle hill the great bulk of a ponderous ruin rose out of the surrounding foliage in a series of unnatural and rugged steps. More like a manmade hill, in scale it was closer to a very large castle, but without towers or turrets or the ragged lines created by crude medieval masonry; instead it boasted the squat and heavy rectilinear lines of a monolithic ruin built entirely from stone blocks on a massive scale. Even from this distance columns – that up close must have been enormous – rimmed the silhouette of the palace like the broken teeth of a colossal Titan of the Ancient World. It appeared far too large to be a single residence and was in every sense regal, almost like the hilltop throne of some extinct god, silhouetted majestically against distant mountains.