The Dolphin Rider (3 page)

Narcissus tore himself from her grip and strode away. “Farewell.”

“Farewell.”

Echo looked after Narcissus until he disappeared. And when he was gone she felt such sadness, such terrible tearing grief, that it seemed as if she was being torn apart. And since she could not speak out, she offered up this prayer silently:

“Oh, Venus, fair goddess, you promised me a favor. Hear me now, though I am voiceless. My love has disappeared and I want to disappear too, for I cannot bear this pain.”

Venus, in the garden on Mount Olympus, heard Echo's prayer, for prayers do not have to be spoken to be heard. She looked down upon the grieving nymph, and pitied her, and made her disappear. Echo's body melted into thin cool air, so that the pain was gone. All was gone except her voice, for Venus could not bear to lose that lovely sound. The goddess said:

“I grant you your wish — and one thing more. You have not asked vengeance upon the love that has made you suffer. You are too sweet and kind. But
I
shall take vengeance. I decree that whoever caused you this pain will know the same terrible longing. He will fall in love with someone who cannot return his love. And he will seek forever for what he can never have.”

Now Narcissus knew nothing of this. He was not aware of Echo's grief, or the vow of Venus. He still wandered the forest path, thinking, “These girls who love me on sight — it's too bad I cannot find one as beautiful as I am. Until I do, I shall not love.”

Finally he sank down on the bank of a river to rest. Not a river really, but a finger of the river — a clear little stream moving slowly through the rocks. The sun shone on the water so that it became a mirror, holding the trees and the sky upside down. And Narcissus, looking into the stream, saw a face.

He blinked at the water again. It was still there — the most beautiful face he had ever seen. As beautiful, he knew, as his own, even though the shimmer of light behind it made it slightly blurred. He gazed and gazed at the face. He could not have enough of it. He knew that he could look upon this face forever. He put out his hand to touch it. The water trembled, and the face disappeared.

“A water nymph,” he thought. “A lovely daughter of the river god. The loveliest of his daughters, no doubt. She is shy. Like me, she can't bear to be touched. Ah, here she is again.”

The face looked up at him out of the stream. Again, very timidly, he reached out his hand. Again the water trembled and the face disappeared.

“I will stay here until she loves me,” he thought. “She may hide now, but soon she will love me and come out.” And he said aloud, “Come out, lovely one.”

And the voice of Echo, who had followed him to the stream, said, “Lovely one.”

“Hear that, hear that!” cried Narcissus, overjoyed. “She cares for me too. You do, don't you? You love me.”

“Love me.”

“I do. I do,” cried Narcissus. “Finally, I have found someone I love. Come out, come out. Oh, will you never come out?”

“Never come out?” said Echo.

“Don't say that, please don't say that. Because I will stay here till you do. This, I vow.”

“I vow.”

“Your voice is as beautiful as your face. And I will stay here adoring you forever.”

“Forever.”

And Narcissus stayed there, leaning over the stream, watching the face in the water. Sometimes he pleaded with it to come out, coaxing, begging, always looking. But day after day he stayed there; night after night, never moving, never eating, never looking away from that face.

Narcissus stayed there so long that his legs grew into the bank of the river and became roots. His hair grew long, tangled, and leafy, and his pale face became delicate yellow and white. He became the flower Narcissus that lives on the river bank, and leans over watching its reflection in the water.

You can find him there to this day. And in the woods, when all is still, in certain valleys and high places, you can sometimes come upon Echo. And if you call her in a certain way, she will answer your call.

Wild Horses of the Sun

The two young boys had been wrestling, boxing, and shooting arrows at a tree stump all day long. The black-haired boy was a son of Zeus. The yellow-haired one, named Phaeton, was a son of Apollo. But, as it happened, neither of them had ever met his father.

When the boys grew tired of the games, they sat down on the edge of a cliff, dangling their legs over the blue sea, and began boasting and lying to each other. This was a very long time ago and most things have changed — but not boys.

“My father is Zeus,” said the black-haired boy. “He's the chief god, lord of the mountain, king of the sky.”

“My father is lord of the sun,” said Phaeton.

“My father is called the thunderer,” replied the other. “When he is angry, the sky grows black and the sun hides. His spear is a lightning bolt. That's what he kills people with. He can hurl it a thousand miles and never miss.”

“Without my father there would be no day,” said Phaeton. “It would always be night. Each morning he drives the golden chariot of the sun across the sky, bringing the daytime. Then he dives into the ocean, boards a golden ferryboat, and sails back to his eastern palace. Then it is nighttime.”

“When I visit my father,” said the black-haired boy, “he gives me presents. Do you know what he gave me last time? A thunderbolt — a little one, but just like his. And he taught me how to throw it. I killed three vultures, scared a fishing boat, and started a forest fire. Next time I go to see him, I'll throw it at more things. Do you visit your father?”

Phaeton never had, but he wasn't going to admit it. “Certainly,” he said. “All the time. And he teaches me things too.”

“What kinds of things? Has he taught you to drive the sun chariot?”

“Oh, yes. He taught me how to handle the horses of the sun, how to make them go, and how to make them stop. They're huge wild horses and they breathe fire.”

“I bet you made all that up,” said the black-haired boy. “I don't believe there is a sun chariot. There's the sun, look at it. It's not a chariot.”

“What you see is just one of the wheels,” said Phaeton. “There's another wheel on the other side, and the body of the chariot is slung between them. That is where my father stands and drives his horses.”

“All right, so it's a chariot,” said the black-haired boy. “But I still don't believe your father would let you drive it. In fact, I don't think Apollo would know you if he saw you. Maybe he isn't even your father. People like to say they're descended from the gods — but how many of us are there, really?”

“I'll prove it to you,” cried Phaeton, scrambling to his feet. “I'll go to the palace of the sun right now and hold my father to his promise.”

“What promise?”

“He said that the next time I visited him he would let me drive the sun chariot all by myself, because I was getting so good at it. I'll show you. I'll drive the sun right across the sky.”

“That's easy for you to say,” said the other. “But how will I know if you're driving the sun? I won't be able to see you from down here.”

“You'll know me,” said Phaeton. “I'll come down close and drive in circles over the village. Just watch the sky tomorrow.”

Phaeton went off then. He traveled day and night, not stopping for food or rest, guiding himself by the stars, heading always east. He walked on and on and on until, finally, he had lost his way completely.

While Phaeton was making his journey, Apollo was sitting in his great throne room. It was the quiet hour before dawn, when night had dropped its last coolness upon the earth. At this hour, Apollo always sat on his throne. He wore a purple cloak embroidered with golden stars, and a crown made of silver and pearls. Suddenly a bird flew in the window and perched on his shoulder. This bird had sky-blue feathers, a golden beak, golden claws, and golden eyes. It was one of Apollo's sun hawks, whose job it was to fly here and there gathering information. Sometimes they were called spy birds.

Now the bird spoke to Apollo. “I have seen your son,” she said.

“Which son?”

“Phaeton. He was coming to see you. But he lost his way and lies exhausted at the edge of a wood. The wolves will surely kill him.”

“Then we'd better get to him before the wolves do,” said Apollo. “Round up some of your flock and bear Phaeton here in a manner that befits the son of a god.”

The sun hawk then seized the softly glowing rug at the foot of the throne and flew away with it. She called to three other hawks to each hold a corner of the rug. They flew over a river and a mountain and a wood and finally came to the field where Phaeton lay. They flew down among the howling wolves, among the burning eyes set in a circle about the sleeping boy. They rolled Phaeton onto the rug, and then each took a corner of the rug in her beak again, and flew away.

Phaeton felt himself being lifted into the air. The cold wind woke him up, and he sat up straight. The people below saw a boy, with folded arms, sitting on a carpet that was rushing through the cold bright moonlight far above their heads. And that is why we hear tales of flying carpets even to this day.

Phaeton remembered lying down on the grass to sleep, and now, he knew, he was dreaming. And when he saw the great cloud castle on top of the mountain, all made of snow and rosy in the early light, he was surer than ever that he was dreaming. He saw sentries in flashing golden armor, carrying golden spears. In the courtyard he saw enormous woolly dogs with fleece like cloud-drift guarding the gate.

Over the wall flew the carpet, over the courtyard, through the huge doors. And it wasn't until the sun hawks gently let down the carpet in front of the throne that Phaeton began to think that this dream might be very real. He raised his eyes shyly and saw a tall figure sitting on the throne—taller than anyone Phaeton had ever seen, with golden hair and stormy blue eyes and a strong laughing face. Phaeton fell on his knees.

“Father!” he cried. “I am Phaeton, your son!”

“Rise, Phaeton. Let me look at you.”

The boy stood up. His legs were trembling.

“Well, boy, what brings you here?” said Apollo. “Don't you know that you should wait for an invitation before visiting a god — even your father?”

“I had no choice, Father. I was jeered at by a son of Zeus. He was bragging about his father, so I did a little bragging and lying too. I would have thrown him over the cliff, and myself after him, if I hadn't decided to make my lies come true.”

“Well, you're my son, all right,” said Apollo. “Proud, rash, taking every dare, refusing no adventure. Speak up, then. What is it you wish? I will do anything in my power to help you.”

“Anything, Father?”

“Anything in my power. I swear by the River Styx, an oath sacred to the gods.”

“I wish to drive the sun across the sky. All by myself. From dawn till night.”

Apollo's roar of anger shattered every crystal goblet in the great castle.

“Impossible!” he cried. “No one can drive those horses but me. They are tall as mountains and wild as tigers. They are stronger than the tides, stronger than the winds. It is all that I can do to hold them in check. How could your puny grip control them? They will race away with the chariot, scorching the poor earth to a cinder.”

“You promised, Father. You swore by the River Styx!”

“You must not hold me to my oath. If you do, it will be a death sentence for earth…a poor charred cinder floating in space…just what the Fates have said would happen. But I did not know it would be so soon, so soon.”

“It is almost dawn, Father. Can we harness the horses?”

“Please, Phaeton. Ask me anything else and I will grant it. But do not ask me this.”

“I have asked, Sire, and you have given your oath. The horses grow restless.”

“I will do as you ask,” said Apollo. “Come.”

He led Phaeton to the stable of the sun where the giant horses were being harnessed to the golden chariot. Huge they were. Red and gold and fire-maned, with golden hooves and hot yellow eyes. When they neighed, the sound rolled across the sky. Their breath was flame.

The sun chariot was an open shell of gold. Each wheel was the flat round disc of the sun, as it is seen in the sky. Phaeton looked very small as he stood in the chariot. The reins were thick as bridge cables, much too large for him to hold, so Apollo tied them around his son's waist. Then Apollo stood at the head of the team, gentling the horses, speaking softly to them.

“Good horses, go easy today. Go at a slow trot, my swift ones, and do not leave the path. You have a new driver today.”

The great horses dropped their heads to Apollo's shoulder, and whinnied softly, for they loved him. Phaeton saw the flame of their breath play about his father's head. He saw Apollo's face shining out of the flame. But Apollo was not harmed, for he was a god and could not be hurt by physical things.

Then Apollo came to Phaeton and said, “Listen to me, my son. You are about to start a terrible journey, and by the obedience you owe me as a son, by the faith you owe a god, by my oath that cannot be broken, and your pride that will not bend, I ask you this. Keep to the middle way. If you go too high the earth will freeze. If you go too low it will burn. Keep to the middle way. Give the horses their heads; they know the path — the blue middle course of day. Don't drive them too high or too low, and above all do not stop. If you do, you will fire the air about you, charring the earth and blistering the sky. Will you heed me?”

“I will, I will!” cried Phaeton. “Stand away, Sire. The dawn grows old and day must begin! Go, horses, go!”

And Apollo stood watching as the horses of the sun, pulling behind them the golden chariot, climbed the eastern slope of the sky.

At first things went well for Phaeton. The great steeds trotted easily across the high blue meadow of the sky. Phaeton thought to himself, “I can't understand why my father made such a fuss. This is easy. There is nothing to it.”