Crete was a brown dot behind them now. There was no land before them,
just the diamond-glittering water. Old Daedalus was beating his way through the air, steadily and cautiously, trying this wing-position and that, this body angle and that, observing how the
gulls thrust and soared. He kept an eye on Icarus, making mental notes about how to improve the wings once
they had landed. He felt a bit tired. The sun was heavy on his shoulders. The figures spun in his head.
"I must not go to sleep," he said to himself. "I must watch the boy. He may do something rash."
But Icarus was flying easily alongside, so Daedalus hunched his shoulders, let his chin fall on his
chest, and half-coasted on a column of air. He shut his eyes for a moment...just for a moment...
In that moment, Icarus saw a great white swan climb past him, wings spread, shooting like
a great white arrow straight for the sun and uttering a long honking call. Icarus looked after
him; he had already dwindled and was a splinter of light, moving toward the sun.
"How splendid he is, flying so swiftly, so proudly, so high. How I should like to
get a closer look at the sun. Once and for all I should like to see for myself what it
really is. Is it a great, burning eye looking through an enormous spy hole, as some
Libyans say; or is it Apollo driving a golden chariot drawn by golden horses,
as the Athenians believe; or perhaps is it a great flaming squid swimming the
waters of the sky, as the barbarians say; or, maybe, as my father holds, is
it a monster ball of burning gas that Apollo moves by its own motion? I
think I shall go a bit closer, anyway. The old man seems to be napping.
I can be up and back before he opens his eyes. How splendid if I could
get a really good look at the sun and be able to tell my father something
he doesn't know. How that would delight him. What a joke we will have
together. Yes...I must follow that swan."
So Icarus, full of strength and joy, blood flaming in his veins, stretched
his homemade wings and climbed after the swan. Up, up, up, he flew.
The air seemed thinner, his body heavier; the sun was swollen now, filling
the whole sky, blazing down at him. He couldn't see any more than he had
before; he was dazed with light.
"Closer..." he thought. "Higher...closer...up and up..."
He felt the back of his shoulders growing wet.
"Yes," he thought. "This is hot work." But the wetness was not what he
supposed; it was wax...melting wax. The wax bonds of his wings were melting in
the heat of the sun. He felt the wings sliding away from him. As they fell away and
drifted slowly down, he gazed at them, stupefied. It was as if a great golden hand had
taken him in its grasp and hurled him toward the sea. The sky tilted. His breath was torn
from his chest. The diamond-hard sea was rushing toward him.
"No," he cried. "No...no..."
Daedalus, dozing and floating on his column of air, felt the cry ripping through his body
like an arrow. He opened his eyes to see the white body of his son hurtling down. It fell into
the sea and disappeared.
