We are here because the king hates us, the inventor had said to the boy. It was true, but not all the truth. They were there because the gods hated them.
Everyday, they sought a way out of the Labyrinth. Everyday, all they found was more hallways. One more curve, one more crossroad. The walls were too thick to break and too smooth to climb. The father had made a map, using cloth from his own tunic, but that was only for keeping the boy’s hope alive. He could have had a ship sail as canvas and it would still not be enough to paint the size and complexity of the Labyrinth. The old man knew that. He had built it.
They were not alone. The monster of Minos, praised be the Gods in their rare mercy, was dead, but he had left the marks of his presence: bones lying on the corners (which the boy believed to be from lambs, an illusion the father did not correct) and, more important, cracks on the floor and walls. The slits did not help their escape, but were enough for ivy to grow and for bees to make their hives. The vegetation and the insects attracted birds, the only reason they had not starved yet.
That day, like all days, the boy was hunting with stones while the old man looked at the useless sketch he called a map and though on how to get out of there. It would take years for the ivy to spread enough for them to climb. They had honey to last an eternity, and the boy’s aim used to grant bird for dinner, but water would be a problem. Now it rained every other day, but soon they would enter the dry season.
(In a month? A week? How long were they in there?)
The boy came back, carrying two white birds with their heads crushed.
“Doves” said the father. “Good. It’ll be a rich dinner.”
“Doves are the sacred animals of Aphrodite” said the boy. “Do you think She will be angry?”
“I think, in our situation, the Goddess of Love won’t mind.”
That night, under constellations whose names he had long learned (and under some which he had named himself), the father lit a fire and broiled the doves. The boy ate voraciously, fat dripping from his fingers, and the father gave him half of his portion. The old man’s stomach protested, but he said to the son he was not hungry.
The boy lied back on the ground, hands clasped behind his head.
“It would be good to be a bird” said the boy. “Then we could fly away from here.”
“Yes” said the old man. “That would be good.”
“Dad?”
“What?”
“Why are we here?”
He would have given the same answer from before, or told the boy to go sleep. But something in the boy’s voice changed his mind.
“Look at the fire” said the father. “Men have not always knew how to control fire. We lived cold and scared of the dark.”
“And no broiled meat” said the boy.
“No broiled meat. All because the Gods kept the secret of fire for themselves.”
“But there was a God named Prometheus, who was a friend of humanity. He went to the sky and stole fire, then taught men how to use it. Because of Prometheus, we opened woods where we could then plant crops. We invented smithcraft, and we made knifes, axes, and plows.”
“You would think that the Gods would be happy, now that men could survive by themselves. Less work for them, right?”
“Instead, they chained Prometheus to a rock and put a vulture to eat his liver. They did not do it because they were angry, although I don’t doubt they were indeed angry. No, they did it because they were afraid. Afraid that humans would not need Gods anymore. Afraid of the knowledge given to us.”
“We are in the Labyrinth because your father gave knowledge to the wrong person, and the king had fear. But he is only a man. How could he act differently, when his Gods are so cruel and petty? We are here, my son, because the gods hate us.”
That night, the old man dreamed he was another person. He was walking around a golden palace, a palace that floated on the sky. Zeus and the others were feasting in the next chamber, but it didn’t matter. He had what he had come for.
Where do you think you’re going? He turned. There was a young man there, handsome, but with a cruel smile. A pair of white wings protruded from each of his heels.
Hermes, said the father with a voice that was not his own. The party is great, but my head hurts.
Hermes laughed, a cold and hard laugh.
I know what you did, said him, and made a gesture for the old man to show what he was hiding in his tunic. He hesitated, but showed it: one single ember, burning red like a small Sun.
You really will take it to the humans, said Hermes. It was not a question; more a joke told to himself. They are animals. They would not understand the value of a gift such as this. More probably, they will kill themselves with it.
Maybe, said the old man. But they will do it being free.
He stepped back, expecting Hermes to follow him.
Go in peace, Prometheus, said him. If you want to play with your clay toys, I will not stop you. Neither will I tell Father Zeus about this… yet.
The dream changed. The old man was in a jungle, carrying a torch. He feared the torch, he had never seen anything like it, but the animals feared it even more. Behind, his woman and children and all the tribe, completely naked (as was him) looked with fright. The old man touched a tree with the torch and saw the fire jump to the trunk, climbing and growing like a living thing. Soon, the tree burned like a flaming demon. The old man turned and saw his woman falling to her knees. The tribe faced him. They feared him, and he liked it.
The dream changed again. The old man was dressed in steel, this son of the fire, from head to toe. Even his horse wore steel. He rode to the enemy army and pierced a soldier with his spear. The man’s intestine slipped out.
Again. The old man stood in a pier on a tropical country. From a huge ship, man, woman, and children disembarked. They were so skinny that at first the old man thought they were dead. Then the hand that was not the old man’s cracked the whip, and the dead walked. Each one in the line was chained to the person before them by bounds of iron.
Again. The old man was on top of a hill, amidst a desert. The Sun had just begun to rise, making the desolation a grey wilderness. There were a dozen men with him, all wearing beige pants, white shirts and a ridiculous handkerchief. They wore weird masks with glass instead of eyeholes (goggles, thought the old man, they are called goggles).
If you want to, Robert, said a man, getting closer, there is still time to change your bet. Don’t you wanna do like Fermi and hope that the explosion sets the atmosphere on fire?
The old man answered something, but could not remember what it was a minute latter. His attention was turned to the experiment, and his vision to the tower in the middle of the desert, little more than a line from where they were. He was nervous.
Somewhere, a voice started to count. Ten, nine, eight, seven…
If the explosion was too weak, nothing would happen. If it was too strong, all there would die. But if it had the exact force, he would have made it. He would have mastered fire. He would be like the Gods.
Three, two, one, zero.
The desert exploded. Not like any other explosion, no more than a grain of sand was like a mountain. It was a Sun being born on Earth, a thousand Suns shining at the same time. The light did not grow in intensity: it just appeared. The mountains were lit as if it were day — as if the light came from inside them. It was green, violet, white, blue, golden, and grey, an army of ghosts dancing on the air. Fire and smoke rose higher than an erupting volcano.
Behind the old man, a few people laughed. A few people cried. Most people were silent. He was waiting exultation from himself, but all he felt was… empty. He took off the goggles and put his hands on his eyes. He had made it. May he be forgiven, he had made it.
He had become Death, the destroyer of worlds. He was like the Gods.
The old man sneezed and woke up. A feather had flown over his face while he was asleep. He got up. He had dreamed, but could not remember what the dream was about.
The wind blew. The feather danced, made a circle on the air, and flew out of the Labyrinth.
“Boy” said the Inventor, shaking his son with growing enthusiasm. “Boy. Boy! Icarus, wake up! I had an idea!”