Ilia feels as if struck! She was already frozen in awe. Now it is as if she has been clubbed brutally over the head.
Daedalus!
Could this really be…?
And if so, how did she get here without touching something? Without noticing? Without meaning to?
There had been no sudden jolt. She had simply walked in on King Minos and Daedalus arguing.
It takes a few moments for her mindset to readjust. But now that it makes sense, she can relax and enjoy. It must have been the lintel she touched as she came in. But never had the transition been so discreet.
King Minos’ anger abducts her attention again. It is difficult to describe his extremity. He projects his words with such ferocity, and the silhouette of his face snaps open and closed like a banging trapdoor in a gale. It is rapid, but interspersed with pauses in which he cannot find or formulate words.
“My QUEEN and that Unholy …BEAST!! In the name of all the Gods above and below! This was NO Olympian …disguise! It is a BULL! I have been spurned for an … an… ANIMAL! ME! THE KING!”
“My Lord…My King…My Lord…” Daedalus’ stuttering and failed interjections are an unnoticed backdrop.
The King leaps from his throne as if ejected by a bucking horse. He shoulders Daedalus both unintentionally and unconcerned. The subject staggers. The King is pacing. He is a huge man, both tall and broad. His arms are waving as if fending off wasps. Flying spittle catches the light like fireworks. Daedalus regains his footing, backs away bowing, but remains facing the King.
“I! The KING of the CIVILISED WORLD! Cuckolded… by a BULL!”
He stops and spins on Daedalus dangerously, his right index finger menacing. His voice is quieter for a moment, but no less uncontrolled for that. Each word quivers from a tongue that struggles in spasm.
“She …will…die.”
He drops his hand and his head slumps on its neck, bowing to the floor. It is as if the decision has calmed him. He repeats it, almost casually.
“She will die.”
It is now a statement. He looks up to Daedalus.
“A most horrible death,” the King mutters, nodding in agreement with his own decision. His eyes seem to bore into Daedalus, as if daring a response.
He dares.
“My King!” He remains bowed as he says this, so Minos’ eyes are drilling into the top of his head. “My King…you cannot. You must not.”
Having said this, Daedalus cringes, as if expecting a fatal blow. But nothing comes. His King is frozen.
Staring.
Waiting.
Daedalus seizes his window.
“My King you cannot! It was a divine lust. A lust from Poseidon himself!”
Daedalus pauses to gauge the reception. The King gives nothing away. He remains still as stone.
“It was not the Queen’s will. She had no will. She was the pawn of The Olympian.”
Daedalus risks a glance at his King. The window seems yet open.
“Poseidon was punishing you. You coveted that Bull too much. It was meant to be a gift to the Sea God. And when you would not give it…He punished you.” Daedalus speaks quickly, trying to get the words out before the King again loses control.
Ilia sees the King stiffen, his shoulders rise and fix. For a few tense moments she is not sure which way this will go.
But then they drop. His arms fall to his sides. His fists unclench. His head also drops. His voice is now quiet, agonising.
“And if I punish her…”
“…Poseidon will punish you again.” Daedalus finishes his king’s sentence. “And worse.”
“So…I cannot.” Minos voice is now a resigned whisper. Defeated.
Daedalus appears to study him for a moment, then continues.
“And I fear it is worse, my King.” He risks no more.
Minos slowly raises his crowned head and stares at his advisor, awaiting the verdict in silence.
“She is …with child…”
There are a few moments of silence, then Ilia inadvertently backs away as the King emits an escalating groan that metamorphoses into a tormented roar. He brings his re-clenched fists to his temples and presses, as if trying to crush his own skull. Then he snatches the crown from his head and hurls it clanging across the stone floor. He spins on his heels and turns to his throne. Another groan escapes his heaving chest. Then, to Ilia’s surprise, he squats to the ground, taking his head in his strong hands, and remains in this very unregal position, rocking gently.
Daedalus is clearly uncertain what to do. He does not dare try to console his monarch. Nor does he seem to want to stand taller than him. So he too squats to his haunches, but folds his arms across his knees.
King Minos is rocking on his heels, muttering to himself. He cares not that he is in company. He is beyond that.
Daedalus waits.
Finally, the King looks up and holds his companion’s eye. By his expression, a sudden fear seems to have gripped the King.
He gives it voice, a desperate whisper.
“And what nature of child will such a union produce?” His eyes now seem wide with horror.
Still squatting, Daedalus shakes his head. His answer only barely escapes his own mouth.
“I know not. A bull? A man? A monster?”
Minos lowers his head again, gripping his locks in his fists. Daedalus remains motionless, regarding him.
Ilia realises she is holding her breath. She exhales and normal respiration ensues. But still, she is waiting for it.
It is a long wait. Or it seems long. Perhaps it is only a minute or two, but it seems endless. The King remains curled up, pulling at his hair. Daedalus remains motionless. Ilia remains watching.
Finally, the King moves. He releases his hair and hugs his knees. Then his hands grasp his kneecaps and, after a pause, he pushes. His legs straighten. His arms straighten. He rises. Slowly. To full height. The height of a beaten man. He takes three, four steps to his throne, then slumps upon it. He grips his own face with his right hand.
He stays there. Daedalus remains still.
Eventually the King speaks again. His tone has changed. He expresses a new thought.
Suspicion.
“Daedalus.”
“My King…” comes the response. He cannot disguise his unease. He reads something in his liege’s tone. It is the inventor’s turn to rise to standing, but he keeps his head bowed. Almost as if he awaits the Executioner’s blow.
“Daedalus, how did she manage this? That bull was guarded. And how did she…” His voice dwindles off into the silence that is the progeny of contemplation.
He sits upright. Tension returns to his form. His head is straight. He stares directly at his subject. His hands grip his knees.
He asks no more questions. The King makes a statement:
“She had help.”
Daedalus looks up and, as if the movement of his head unbalances him, he rocks backwards. He is too afraid to answer; afraid that he may deny what is already known, or admit that which is not yet suspected. Any careful observer would see the fear and discomfort in his body language and face, but it is dim and, suspicious though he is, the King holds no distrust for his first advisor.
Minos’ voice softens, taking on almost a pleading tone.
“You must help me, my friend. Help me. Help me learn who aided her. I may not be able to punish her, but I can bring agony to those that abetted her.” The King holds Daedalus with a stare that grips him like an iron fist. His voice is filled with a furious desperation, a desperation to find some vent for his shame and vengeful wrath.
Daedalus can do nothing but nod.
“And as for the child,” Minos continues, spitting the words from his mouth, “this vile offspring of a perverse union between woman and beast – I will not have it around this palace to ever mock me! What form this beast will take I do not know, and that I cannot kill it is also clear. But I will not have it on display to remind me that I have been cuckolded by an ani
mal. The Queen must give birth in secret, and the progeny must be taken from her and hidden. You Daedalus, you must devise something to contain it, to conceal it away, a house fit for the monster it will be!”
Daedalus nods again, this time solemnly. He immediately grasps the importance of this task. He must build a house to hide a monster, a house to hide a prince, a house to hide a demi-god...
“Ilia!”
It was Dad.
Wow. It might not have been disturbing going in, but it certainly was coming out. She had been so engrossed in what she was witnessing that she had been oblivious to all else. So when she was suddenly wrenched away, the shock was proportionally intense.
She looked around, startled. She was standing in the throne room, the same room she had been in just moments before. But now it was bland and lifeless in comparison. Stone floor, washed out rusty walls, harsh daylight streaming in. The lavish hangings and furniture were gone, the soft mood lighting from the glowing braziers, the glint and twinkle of polished precious metals and gems, the strong scents of burning incense – all had vanished in an instant. Dad and her sisters appeared equally washed-out in contrast to the incomparably rich figures of King Minos and his supreme architect, Daedalus. Without knowing her disappointment would manifest so audibly, Ilia let out a deep sigh.
“That was amazing!”
“What did you see?” Dad’s face was lit up with excitement.
“Well, not much really,” Ilia responded playfully.
“Oh come on!”
“Ok, well if you must know, I just watched Daedalus tell King Minos that his Queen was going to give birth to the Minotaur.” Ilia was trying very hard to appear nonchalant.
“What!?” they all cried, crowding in on her.
“Yes.” Now she sounded smug. “It was right here in this room.” She turned to the throne and pointed. “The King was sitting right there, and Daedalus was standing in front of him. In fact,” she added, sounding even more self-satisfied, “I think I saw the moment when Daedalus first came up with the idea of the Labyrinth.”
Ilia then relayed all that she had witnessed, which must have sounded very strange to the tourists who reappeared, entering and snapping photos. Dad and the girls stood out of the way in the corner and Ilia was speaking softly, but it echoed a little and it was impossible to avoid being overheard. As Ilia described it all some of the other tourists became interested and started to gather around, assuming she was a tour guide of some sort, in spite her young age. Soon there were around a dozen people listening in, creating such a mob that it was starting to obstruct entrance into the room, so additional visitors had to work their way into the room around the fringes of the group.
As Ilia came to the end of her recital, it was obvious that there were too many people for Danae and Leda to risk touching something to pursue a similar experience, so Dad suggested they leave. As they did so, making for the exit door, Ilia noticed an elderly yet robust man standing at the entrance, watching her keenly. He was dressed in linens and was fanning his sweaty face with a stained panama hat. He vaunted a curious and almost knowing expression, although there was nothing sinister about him.
Once back outside in the oppressive heat, Dad and the girls gathered against a wall in the shade and discussed what had happened. Leda was a little skittish, as the moving shadows had not lessened and the continual movement on the edge of her vision was disconcerting. Despite the heat she snuggled close into Dad.
“It was odd though,” mused Danae, “because you didn’t seem to be touching anything. You were standing in the middle of the room.”
“Well she stopped at the doorway first…” Leda corrected.
“Yes but then she moved into the room and stopped there.”
“We didn’t get the chance to search it though,” Dad said, “so we’ll need to go back. But no narrations this time Ilia, you attracted a lot of attention! If something else happens, we will go and discuss in private.”
The sun was now beating down upon them and it felt like they were going to be scorched into an ashen dust that would blow about these parched ruins for eternity. Dad suggested they crack on and get as much searching done as quickly as possible. If they had not found anything in the next couple of hours they would leave and seek out some comfort by the seaside and return tomorrow. As most of the Palace consisted of low ruined walls, delineating what had once been corridors and rooms, they were able to wander through these fairly swiftly. Most of what they saw reserved absolutely no possibility of containing anything secret or hidden. Within an hour they had worked through every enclosed space in the north wing and down the east side as well, until they came to the southeast corner and encountered what is known as The Grand Staircase.
The hill fell away on this side and the palace had been cut down deep into the rock, at least two or three stories below ground level. The Grand Staircase consisted of four very broad and shallow flights of stairs that descended two floors, giving access to what was believed to be the royal apartments. Dad said that quite a bit of the palace here had been reconstructed by Sir Arthur Evans when he excavated it, and it was difficult to know what was original and what was the result of Evans’ – albeit informed – imagination. Regardless of this they started to get a genuine feel for what the palace might have been like in its day, everything on a grand scale, the ceilings suspended by huge inverted columns that, unlike Greek and Roman designs, were wider at the top than the base. The design generated a great sense of the ponderous weight of the structure, as if the monolithic columns themselves had been squashed out of shape by their burden.
Down the stairs were some quite interesting rooms and, quite apart from the fact that it was cooler here in the shade, the girls’ excitement started to escalate again for other reasons. This was much more like they had expected and the unique characteristics in some of the rooms suggested possibilities where the featureless ruins above did not.
“This is a bit more like Warhammer Quest,” Leda had said, as they worked their way through the Hall of Colonnades and then into the Hall of Double Axes. “You know? How each room has a different theme?”
“Yeah, well look out for the giant rats Leda,” Danae drawled in a completely deadpan manner; it was rare that she was unable to inject sarcasm into a conversation.
The girls’ experience was, of course, very different from Dad’s. Firstly, the flitting shadows became even more intense. Some special quality about this place meant that the world of the past and present seemed to be blending all around them. As they descended, the girls discovered that they could observe the shades now and identify them for what they were – the apparitions of the former residents and workers of the palace, from several millennia before. These pale wisps in human shape wandered about the halls and rooms, oblivious to the intruders, lingering here or there, going about some business or leisure that the girls could not identify. Details could not be seen – facial features or clothing for example – they were more like three dimensional shadows. The girls found it quite unsettling, especially Leda, and they never became fully accustomed to the experience. However, because they were so used to seeing and visiting the past, the girls did not associate the shades with ghosts or spirits, as might be expected; instead, they regarded them as a slightly disturbing extension of The Sight, some sort of visible memories from long, long ago. Because of this they did not have any terror of the apparitions themselves, but they were certainly apprehensive about this intrusion into their normal world. And they could not avoid being startled when, turning a corner or looking over their shoulder, they would find a shadow suddenly within their personal space or drifting towards them.
Something else which helped minimise their fear of these shadows was how they could bring them to life by touching some ancient, shaped stonework. It did not always work but sometimes, when they found a suitable piece of mason-wrought stone and touched it, they could visit the exact moment that a nearby shadow had lived in. Leda described it as being like those b
ooks with pictures of ancient ruins in them, which have the transparent plastic overlay pages that transform the ruin into the original structure in all its glory, bringing places like the Colosseum or the Circus Maximus to life. In a similar manner, the girls found that if they looked at one of the shades as they touched the stone, it could suddenly transform into the person that projected it thousands of years before. Clothing, jewellery, hair styles and – much to their surprise – make-up; the shadow would come to life right before their eyes. In this way it reassured them that the wispy forms were not spirits, but some sort of visible imprints from the past.
Of course, it was not just the shadows that transformed, but the entire surroundings. One moment the girls were in these relatively bland, featureless ruins, and the next in the identical space but with gorgeous tiled flooring and rugs and colourful frescoed walls and furnishings and lighting. From being surrounded by only tourists in their dull, dusty uniforms of shorts and t-shirts and straw hats or caps and daypacks, they instead found themselves among exquisitely dressed men and women, with rich and colourful robes, heavy with bright jewellery of gold and coloured glass beads and black curling hair glistening with fragrant oils. It was clearly the best and most unique way to experience the then and the now. Dad was terribly jealous and equally excited for them.
“It’s incredible girls! We know so little about the Minoans! We have broken bits of pottery and remnants of jewellery and little bronze statues to guess from, and here you are seeing it all in the flesh! Alive! As it was! You could become world experts on the Minoans – or any people I guess!”
“Except of course we couldn’t explain how we knew anything,” Danae stated, smiling half at the privilege of being able to ruin Dad’s moment, and half in amusement at his enthusiasm.
“And there is no reason anyone would have to believe what we told them anyway,” added Ilia. “Because we wouldn’t have any proof.”
“Yeah, well,” Dad dismissed their realistic negativity with a wave of his hand, “you have no idea how envious I am! Just to see it once!”
The girls were not always projected into the ancient Minoan past, of course. As there had been so much restorative work done here, sometimes they touched a stone that must have been shaped during the restoration period, and so found themselves in different periods of the 20th century on an open dusty hilltop criss-crossed with trenches and holes and piles of dirt and rubble. A few times they visited what was obviously the same archaeological dig, as they saw the same man in stained cream linens fanning his red sweaty face with an old panama hat, pointing, looking, calling out, directing and inspecting. He had a huge team of what, judging by their simple clothing and lack of grooming, must have been local labourers.
The Progeny of Daedalus Page 8
