Wing Man

By Pamela Love

The gulls were the worst part. Daedalus had expected that, though not the reason why.

Often enough had he and his son, Icarus, seen those feathered thieves shrieking and snatching fish, fruit, or whatever else they could gobble along the Cretan shoreline. They’d had plenty of opportunity for such observations. Crete’s ruler, Minos, had hired Daedalus to design a palace and then forbade them to leave the island kingdom so he could work for none other.

Held in a high tower, Daedalus had designed two pairs of wings. Over many months, he and his teenaged son had bribed a servant to smuggle in bag after bag of feathers. Together, they mounted the feathers with wax on driftwood frames made from firewood.

“The flight won’t be easy.” Daedalus clapped his hand on Icarus’ shoulder. “Follow me. I will go the shortest, safest route. Don’t let the gulls distract you. We will startle them, but since we won’t carry any food, they shouldn’t attack us.”

Icarus gave a solemn nod.

As always, Daedalus’ invention had worked. Focused on calculating adjustments to a sudden breeze here, an updraft there, he hadn’t thought to look back at his son. Daedalus had heard his boy’s horrified shrieks, but they were so faint and far away that the genius had made the greatest mistake of his life and thought it merely another gull.

“Daddy!”

Then came the splash.

Those sounds would echo through his mind forever. Foolish Icarus must have soared too high, perhaps tempted by the view, the excitement—or the thrill of being like a god—and the sun’s heat had melted his wings’ wax. Its feathers had fallen off in a gray and white cascade. Aghast, Daedalus had veered back, then hung transfixed by the ripples in the waves, where a scattering of feathers could still be seen. Minutes went by as he stared, hoping for the impossible. Having dared the heavens, Icarus was now lost to the depths.

Weighed down by grief like an iron cloak, Daedalus had somehow forced himself to keep riding the sea winds for hour after hour. As he traveled, the gulls’ cries were endless, piercing reminders of his son’s final screams.

When the heart-wrenching noise grew louder, he realized the number of gulls had increased. Daedalus squinted, recognizing the mountains of Sicily. Its king admired his work and had offered to hire him in the past. Here he would find refuge. The moment my feet touch land, I will rip off the feathers and burn their frame. Oh, the bitter cost of my freedom!

As he drew closer to Sicily’s shores, he passed a few fishing boats, bobbing atop the waves. Screams tore through the air, followed by a call for help that sounded so like Icarus that Daedalus jerked his head toward it. Guilt seethed through his veins, and he dug his nails into his sweaty palms.

Three black birds, larger than eagles, circled a small boat. Two fishermen huddled against its mast.

What’s going on? Daedalus wondered, puzzled. These are like no other seabirds I have ever seen. Why do they treat sailors like prey? And what happened to that boat’s sail? For days, the weather had been sunny and with a fair wind. There had been no storm to shred it. Curiosity overpowered sorrow. Tilting his wings, he glided closer, a breeze ruffling his feathers.

A feather from each bird tore through the air. One pierced a fisherman in the shoulder. He wailed with agony. Two other feathers burst across the boat’s mast, toppling it as if by an axe.

Stymphalian birds! I thought Heracles had slain them. These must have escaped. The monsters are going to kill those fishermen—and it wouldn’t be the first time they’ve done it.  Daedalus gritted his teeth as he got a better look. They’re hardly more than boys.

One tried to shield the other, though streams of blood flowed down his back, drizzling onto his feet.

He even looks like Icarus…

Daedalus was unarmed, for the wings would hold nothing but his body. His outstretched arms were weary, but that meant nothing to him. His pulse quickened. I couldn’t save my son, but those youths won’t die today if I can help it.

Shouting with rage, he angled his flight path toward the nearest of the monstrous birds. Perhaps he could frighten the brutes away. Surely they wouldn’t expect a man with wings.

With wicked courage, they now focused their bold attack on Daedalus, firing another trio of fearsome feathers at him. He evaded all but one, which sliced across one arm. He didn’t care.

“Wing Man! Here, take this!”

The larger boy held up a sharp piece of the splintered mast. A makeshift spear made by the monsters themselves. That fisherman is a quick thinker. Swooping down, he grabbed it. Daedalus wished he had a sword or a bow and quiver. Yet this was better than nothing. He launched himself at one of the Stymphalian birds like an arrow in flight. It turned and fled.

The other two fired off another pair of feathers. Daedalus dodged both. “Keep doing that, and you’ll run out!” he bellowed. “Do you know what will happen then?”  Pain stabbed in his chest, but not from the birds. He knew, if they didn’t.

Had they understood? He didn’t know, but the birds whirled around and headed farther out to sea, following the first.

“Thank you, great hero!” the fishermen shouted, waving. Two boats sailed toward the boys. Perhaps they can stanch those boys’ wounds. They can take them ashore, at least. I have done all I can. Dropping the mast, and perhaps, some of his guilt, Daedalus made his final push toward Sicily’s shore.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey, and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test”, which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

---

More Stories | Twitter