The Progeny of Daedalus

by Jeffrey MacLeod

  They stand in an awesome silence, craning their necks to view it all. It has struck them speechless, until suddenly Dad, in a trance-like state, whispers aloud:

  “Everything is repeated many times, fourteen times, but two things in the world seem to be repeated only once: above, the intricate sun; below Asterion. Perhaps I have created the stars and the sun and this enormous house, but I no longer remember.”

  His voice murmurs into the heavens, sweeps around the constellations like a wisp of cloud and then ascends up the lightwell to freedom. The girls turn to him.

  “You said that before, or part of it.” Ilia is so reluctant to disturb the silence that she almost breathes the words. “It is from Borges again, isn’t it?”

  Dad nods.

  “This must have been His hall, His world, His sky above, and …only Asterion below.” Dad looks sadly reminiscent as he says this. But what unsettles the girls more is what he says next:

  “It was so lonely.”

  “What?” Danae snaps, showing no reservations about disturbing the sacred peace of this place. Her one-word question is sharp and is clearly heard repeating above them again and again, slowly fading; it has the desired effect.

  “Sorry girls,” Dad tries to reassure them in a more normal tone, “it’s just so weird. I feel that I know this place, this hall. Not like something I once visited, but like somewhere I know so well, or was important to me.”

  They look at him with a mixture of confusion and fear. To date is has been the girls that have had the overpowering experiences of déjà vu, now it seems to be Dad’s turn. This place is not familiar to any of the sisters, although all find it disturbing.

  “Perhaps you were here in a previous life,” Ilia suggests quietly. “One of the Athenians who were sacrificed?”

  “Well that would be weird,” Danae responds, before Dad has a chance, “because that would mean that we probably passed his bones in one of those rooms!”

  “Yeah, that would really mess with your head,” says Leda.

  Not even Danae cares to comment on the name that scary tramp on the train in Naples had called Dad.

  …In the shadows of the doorway His black eyes gleam with anticipation, and His tail snakes restlessly. He cannot resist scraping one hoof across the stone. A few sparks fly off like a match scratched across sandpaper, but these go unseen, and the grating does not carry out into the hall where His prey wait. Though their noise disturbs His silence, He welcomes it after such long centuries of solitude…

  After the ceiling, their attention is naturally drawn to the great stone slab illuminated in the exact centre of the moonlit circle on the floor. The rest of the floor of the great hall is bare – contrastingly devoid of human remains as well – so this seems to be the only feature worth investigating. But they are optimistic, because this slab is The Centre in so many ways.

  All of their adventures, all their travelling, the turning years and repeating seasons, the countless births and deaths and rebirths, indeed all the sufferings of their many lives, seem to have come together at this singular point in the world and this singular point in time. And this point, in the circular hall that is the centre of the Labyrinth, and in the circle of light that is the exact centre of the Hall, here is this stone slab that is the focal point of all; it must be significant; it must be the answer. The games of Gods and Men have driven them with Centripetal force to this very centre, The Centre.

  The woven webs of the Fates meet here.

  “It looks like a tomb,” says Ilia.

  “Perhaps of the Minotaur?” Leda suggests.

  They stand and stare a moment longer. It seems too momentous to move further; it would take a great audacity – almost conceit – to act.

  Fortunately, they have a Danae with them.

  “Let’s go see,” she says, already a step ahead of them, and her decisiveness stirs them all to action.

  Together they walk across the vast hall towards the stone slab; it is certainly the right size and shape for an ancient tomb. They are unsure if it is anticipation, or trepidation, but something is making the girls’ fingers tingle and their hair stand on end. Step by step they approach, each one adding to the echoes gathering above them. By the time they reach the edge of the moonlight, so great is the long repository of echoes, that it sounds as if an army is marching across the floor. There they pause and wait for the echoes to die down.

  There is something about the prospect of stepping into the Light which daunts them.

  They wait and wait until the echoes subside, standing on the edge of the circle of light, hand in hand, in complete silence. The moment has come.

  Finally, as if with coordinated spontaneity, they step slowly and carefully into the broad shaft of moonlight. In breaking it they expect something to happen, so they pause, but nothing stirs. The visual contrast is so stark that they expect to be able to feel the moonlight as well, but they discern no difference. Close together and side by side, they approach the tomb, for tomb it is.

  It is perhaps waist high on Dad, seven feet long and three wide. It is polished grey granite, and the moonlight plays on the reflective ore in its surface. It is a simple rectangle in shape and, unlike most ancient tombs, has no artistic features that they can see. As they come alongside it they see that there is only a single word carved deep and sharp into it, a single disruption in that perfect polished exterior. It is on the lid of the sarcophagus, reading left to right nearer one end, and is in ancient Greek characters:

  Ίκαρσϛ

  Dad stops and stares; he has no idea. But the girls recognise it instantly. Leda is the first to read it and to say what she sees:

  “Icarus!” she shouts, excitement generating an eruption from her throat.

  It swirls above like the sudden release of circling doves.

  Icarus! Icarus! Icarus! Icarus! Icarus! Icarus! Icarus! Icarus! Icarus!

  “Icarus,” Dad repeats more softly, adding a murmur to Leda’s resounding echo.

  Danae and Ilia repeat the name also, louder than Dad but less so than Leda. All their varying tones, inflections and volumes mingle together creating a rising cacophony of voices, like a distant crowd speaking and shouting and muttering the name of Daedalus’ son. It is suitably dramatic for such a moment, such a revelation; the name takes a long while to fade away.

  Icarus!

  The tomb of the son of Daedalus. Of course it would be here, at the centre of his great creation, the same creation in which the Father and Son had been imprisoned, and from which they had escaped using the very wings that the girls are seeking.

  Although there is no one to hear them, their noise causes them fear. They wait anxiously until the echoes fade, relieved that nothing comes of making so much noise. When they do, Dad speaks softly to his daughters so as to avoid stirring more than a murmur:

  “Well if that cannot be heard from Hades, then nothing will.”

  Slowly they all circumnavigate the tomb, as if it is Jericho, their lunar shadows circling ghostly on the floor beneath. They step lightly, so only the softest patter of feet stirs the shadows. They speak in whispers which are repeated a dozen times in the dome above, like the constant murmur of phantom spectators. After completing one circuit and seeing no other feature of the tomb other than the carved name and fine demarcation of the granite lid, they pause together.

  …the smell of warm blood spawns the pangs of hunger…

  “So what do you think?” Danae asks her Dad, but without taking her eyes off the tomb.

  “I think the wings must be inside.” They all nod.

  “So we have to remove the lid.” This is a statement from Danae, not a question. It stimulates scepticism from Ilia.

  “It looks very heavy.”

  It must be. It is at least four inches thick.

  “And I didn’t bring a crow bar or anything to prize it open,” adds Dad, sounding concerned. “I hope we can get it off.”

  “Well you might not have brought a crow bar, Dad, but yo
u did bring me,” says Danae confidently.

  Dad looks at her for a moment, not comprehending, before realising what she is getting at.

  “Of course, your gift! But do you think you can shift something this heavy?”

  “I’ve been practising,” she answers.

  “Ok,” and reading Leda’s expression accurately, Dad adds: “we can all do it together.” At this she smiles.

  “Let’s try to pivot it,” continues Dad. “We don’t want to push it off. If it falls it might be damaged, and we will never get it back on. I wouldn’t want to leave Icarus uncovered for eternity.”

  Leda joins Dad at one end of the tomb, and Danae and Ilia move to the other but on the opposite side; it is as far as their adjoining cord will allow. Danae suggests that they untie themselves but Dad is adamant that they will not – too dangerous. So they proceed in spite of the rope tugging between them.

  “Alright, careful of your fingers,” he warns with typical parental concern, something that seems a little ridiculous considering where he has brought them. “All together, and slowly.”

  As they each place their hands on the lid of the tomb, a tingle spreads up their arms like a flame up a matchstick. Dad looks to each of them one last time.

  “Ready?”

  Definitely. They all nod, smiling excitedly.

  “And…push!”

  They each apply pressure, pushing into the edges of the stone lid, gently at first in case it moves out of control, but then harder and harder as they find it resists their force entirely; it is immovable.

  After a few seconds exertion they all stop, straighten up and exchange surprised expressions.

  “Heavier than I thought!” says Dad. “Let’s try again.”

  And they do, this time better prepared for the resistance, and their grunts of exertion echo above them long after they pause for the second time. It still has not moved at all. They are all breathing heavily.

  “That’s ridiculous,” pants Ilia.

  “Hang on,” says Danae, as the others place their hands back on the stone for a third attempt. “I really wasn’t prepared.”

  She focuses now, closing her eyes and clearing her mind. She concentrates on her arms, her shoulders, her back, imagining her muscle as steel; she feels them respond. She is ready. Without saying anything further, and before the others can act, she places her hands on the tomb lid and heaves.

  It moves in response!

  Despite the fine craftsmanship and the polished stone, the sheer weight of the moving slab generates a smooth grating that reverberates around the hall. Dad responds quickly, his arms leaping to the lid to prevent it sliding off his side. He lowers his body and leans into it desperately, managing to hold the movement of his end of the stone, but unable to push it away; as a result the lid is pivoting from his end, rather than from the middle. If Danae keeps pushing it will fall off.

  “Wait Danae!”

  She stops and looks up. Her face is red and she is breathing heavily. She has moved the lid by perhaps a foot at her end and a gap of several inches of open sarcophagus has been created. Dust undisturbed for over three thousands years is seen rising from it in the moonlight. They crowd around and Dad shines his torch in.

  They expect to see a skeleton. They hope to see feathers. Instead they see a smooth wooden surface; it appears to be a wooden box that fits neatly within the stone tomb.

  “A coffin?” Leda asks.

  “Looks like it,” Dad answers. “We will have to get this wide open to get at it.” He turns to Danae; “do you think you can push at the other end now, to try and turn this lid around? We’ll try to hold it here.”

  So now it is Dad, Ilia and Leda, all holding the stone at the open end, as Danae pushes at the other. Success! With another great heave she slides her end of the granite lid open, so it is now resting diagonally across the rectangular tomb. She pauses and they all have another look, their torches scouring the interior for further detail. It certainly looks like a coffin, and there is nothing on the lid apart from a triangle engraved into the surface towards the same end as the carving on the stone slab.

  “A triangle?” Dad ponders aloud.

  “No Dad, it’s an upper case Delta,” Ilia answers him, “the first letter of Daedalus’ name in Greek.”

  Dad smiles at her excitedly in response.

  “Well, we need to get this further open so we can access the coffin,” he says. “Danae?”

  She grins, despite her heavy breathing.

  “No problem.”

  With another effort on her part she moves the stone slab so that it now lies perpendicular to its base, creating a cross in the middle of the moonlit circle. They gather at what should be the head end and they all shine their torches in, while Dad reaches inside with both hands to grasp the coffin lid.

  There are no weight issues here, but the lid is tightly fitted. Dad works the opposing edges of it with his fingers, then finally feels it gape. With an exclamation of relief he forces his fingertips into the growing cracks and, taking a good grip of the coffin lid, he lifts.

  The girls hold their breaths.

  The wood creaks. It is reluctant to come free. Dad locks his square shoulders and rises up, using his legs to lift.

  Thick though it is, the wooden lid bows momentarily, caught between two opposing forces. Then, with an ear-cringing squeak, it comes free, lifting up as if hinged at the far end, and Dad raises it as far as the stone slab will allow.

  It is enough. They can all see in.

  At first they are a little confused. The first thing they see in the torchlight is ornately embossed straps of leather and shining buckles, which reminds them of leather armour. But as they pan their torches around…

  Feathers!

  Not obvious at first in the gloom, but under the leather they now recognise a bed of black feathers.

  They must be the Wings of Daedalus.

  “Oh my God!”

  ”Unbelievable!”

  “They’re there!”

  “We’ve found them!”

  They do not care about the echoes now, so great is their excitement. Dad says he will hold the lid while the girls get the wings out. They do not argue – Ilia steps forward and carefully lifts the leather, expecting it to come free, but as she takes hold and gingerly raises it, the wings start to come also. Then it dawns on her.

  “It’s a harness! A leather harness for the wings!”

  Pulling them free by the harness she removes them from the tomb; everyone is so intent on them that no one notices what they cover. The long tips were folded over for, as they come free, the wings spring to their full length – they must measure eight or nine feet long at the least. Two things strike Ilia, but only one of these is apparent to the rest of them.

  They are so dense. Layered and ordered black feathers, replicating exactly the plumage pattern of a bird – if they were familiar with wing patterns then they would have recognised these as owl wings. The relatively elaborate harness joins them and down the wings run struts with several buckled straps on each, presumably for binding the arms in.

  Because she is holding them, the thing that Ilia alone notices is how light they are. The harness is substantial, but the wings seem to weigh almost nothing at all, despite their great size.

  “Lay them on the floor Ilia, so we can look at them!” says Danae.

  “Can we try them on?” Leda pipes excitedly.

  “They’re so light” Ilia exclaims, expressing her amazement.

  Ilia is laying them on the stone floor, ever so carefully, wings out and arranging the harness so they can work out how it fits, and her sisters are fussing around her. But, despite the exuberance of this incredible occasion, Dad has not joined them. Indeed, unnoticed by them, he has not yet lowered the lid of the coffin, but is still standing, holding it up, staring into it.

  “Girls.”

  The do not respond.

  “Girls!”

  Now he has their attention. His address repea
ts in the dome above them over and over. They turn to him.

  “Look.”

  There is a tone of voice that alone can seize your attention, and Dad’s has this now. All three girls look up to him and he nods at the open tomb. They each stand up and, leaving the wings laid out on the floor, they join him.

  Then they gasp.

  Lying in the coffin, hands folded across his chest, is a young boy.

  It is alarming! A boy of maybe 10 or 11 years of age lies in the coffin. He wears a simple white tunic. His hands are folded across his chest, his eyes closed, his strangely golden ringlets fall about his face. He appears to be sleeping peacefully and, for a moment, they almost expect that he will open his eyes and sit up. But he is utterly immobile. No rise and fall of the chest, no flair of the nostrils, just absolute stillness.

  “Icarus.”

  Even though Dad whispers this, the name seems to be taken up by the chamber as if being repeated by all the shades of the dead that litter the Labyrinth. The ethereal whispers swirl above their heads and then, like a spirit fleeing the Underworld, the name sweeps in ghostly triumph up the Lightwell to escape into the darkened world above.

  In that world Jorge, waiting by the Lightwell in earnest, suddenly hears the name of Icarus ascending as if he were taking to the Heavens again…

  Dad and the girls look around in wonder, until finally it subsides.

  “Wow,” says Danae quietly, and the echoes have returned to normal, “won’t be saying his name again!”

  They look back to the boy lying in the coffin. Dad is shaking his head in disbelief.

  “It’s incredible, isn’t it? Completely unchanged after all these years.”

  “Like magic,” Leda agrees.

  “Well, I guess it is in a way,” Dad responds, “because Daedalus must have embalmed his son in some special way. If anyone was going to find a way to preserve someone perfectly, it would have been Daedalus.”

  “It’s still a bit spooky,” says Leda. “He’s like a zombie.”

  “And sad,” Ilia adds thoughtfully. “He’s so little. Dead all these thousands of years, and each year spent here alone in the silence of this …mournful place.” She looks around her. “I mean it’s amazing, but it’s not a nice place. I wouldn’t want to be buried here.”