Apollo

Apollo was the most beautiful of the gods during his youth. His hair was dark gold, his eyes stormy blue. He wore a tunic of golden panther skin, carried his golden bow, and wore a quiver of golden arrows. His chariot was beaten gold, its horses were white with golden manes and flame-colored eyes. He was god of the sun always. Later he became patron of music, poetry, mathematics, and medicine.

And, later, when he was a mature god, he preached moderation. He bade his worshipers to look first into their own hearts and find there the beginnings of wisdom, and to conduct themselves prudently in all things. But in his youth he did many cruel and wanton deeds. Several times he was almost expelled from the company of the gods by his father Zeus, whom he had angered with his wild folly.

As soon as he was given his bow and arrows he raced down from Olympus with his twin sister Artemis to hunt the Python who had tormented their mother. He skinned the great snake and saved the hide for a gift.

Delphi was a sacred place where he had done his killing, here lived the oracles of Mother Earth, whom the gods themselves consulted. Apollo thought he might as well make his glory as large as possible, and claimed the oracles for his own — bidding them prophesy in his name.

Less excusable was Apollo's mistreatment of a satyr named Marsyas. This happy fellow had the misfortune to be an excellent musician — a realm Apollo considered his own and him the master of it alone and where he would brook no rivalry. Hearing the satyr praised too often, Apollo invited him to a contest. The winner was to choose a penalty to which the loser would have to submit, and the Muses, were to judge.

So Marsyas played his flute and Apollo played his lyre. They played exquisitely; the Muses could not choose between them. Then Apollo shouted, "Now you must turn your instrument upside down, and play and sing at the same time. That is the rule. I go first."

Thereupon the god turned his lyre upside down, and played and sang a hymn praising the gods, and especially the beautiful Muses. But you cannot play a flute upside down, and certainly cannot sing while playing it, so Marsyas was declared the loser.

Apollo collected his prize. He flayed Marsyas alive, and nailed his skin to a tree. A stream gushed from the tree's roots and became a river. On the banks of that river grew reeds which sang softly when the wind blew, serenading the hearers like Marsyas's flute itself.

During the contest with the satyr, Apollo won the favor of the most playful Muse, Thalia, queen of festivities. With her, he fathered the Corybantes, or crested dancers, lithe young men who shaved their hair to a forelock and danced at the great rituals.

Then, roaming the hillsides, he came across a young girl who reminded him of his sister. She was a huntress. She chased deer on foot, hunted bears and wolves. When he saw her wrestling a full-grown lion, and throwing it to earth, the god decided he must have her.  Her name was Cyrene. The son he gave her was named Aristeus, who taught man beekeeping, olive culture, cheese-making, and many other useful arts.

His next adventure was with the nymph Dryope. He found her tending sheep on a mountainside. He hid behind a tree and watched her. To his dismay, she was joined by a gaggle of hamadryads, mischieveous girls who love to tell tales. So he had to stay hidden. He waited for the hamadryades to leave, but they lingered. Gods are impatient, they hate to be kept waiting.

Apollo changed himself into a tortoise and crawled out. The nymphs were delighted to see him, and turned him this way and that, and tickled him with a straw. He was a splendid glossy tortoise with a beautiful black and green shell. Dryope wanted him for her own, and put him in her tunic.

When her friends protested, Apollo turned himself into a snake, poked his head out of the tunic, and hissed at them. The hamadryads fled, screaming in fright. Dryope fainted. When she came to, she was in the arms of a god. The son he gave her was Amphissus, founder of cities, and builder of temples.

But his most famous son was Phaethon. Long ago, when the world was very new, Phaeton was racing with his friend along the edge of a cliff that hung over a deep blue sea.

They were the same size, one had black hair, the other had yellow hair. The race was very close. Then the yellow-haired boy spurted ahead, and won the race. The loser was very angry.

"You think you're pretty good?" he said. "But you're not so much. My father is Zeus."

"My father is Apollo," said the yellow-haired boy named Phaethon.

"My father is the chief of god, king of the mountain and lord of the sky."

"My father is lord of the sun."

"My father is called the thunderer. When he is angry, the sky grows black and the sun hides. His spear is a lightning bolt, and that's what he kills people with. He hurls it a thousand miles and it never misses."

"Without my father there would be no day. It would always be night. Each morning he hitches up his mighty horses and drives the golden chariot of the sun across the sky. And that is daytime. Then he dives into the ocean stream, and boards a golden ferryboat and sails back to his eastern palace. That time is called night."

"Sometimes I visit my father," said the dark-haired boy named Epaphus. "I sit on Olympus with him, and he teaches me things, and gives me presents. Know what he gave me last time? A little thunderbolt just like his — and he taught me how to throw it. I killed three vultures, scared a fishing boat, started a forest fire. Next time I go, I'll throw it at more things. Do you visit your father?"

Phaethon never had. But he could not bear to tell Epaphus that.

"Certainly," he said, "very often. I go to the eastern palace, and he teaches me things, too."

"What kind of things? Has he taught you to drive the horses of the sun?"

"Oh yes. He taught me to handle their reins, and how to make them go, and how to make them halt. And they're huge horses. Tall as this mountain. They breathe fire."

"I think you're making it all up," said Epaphus. "I can tell. I don't even believe there is a sun chariot. There's the sun, look at it. It's not a chariot at all."

"Oh, what you see is just one of the wheels," said Phaethon. "There's another wheel on the other side. The body of the chariot is slung between them. That is where the driver stands and whips his horses. You cannot see it because your eyes are too small, and the glare is too bright."

"Well," said Epaphus. "Maybe it is a chariot, but I still don't think your father lets you drive it. In fact, I don't believe you've been to the palace of the sun. I doubt that 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, of course. Liar. How many of us are there, really?"

Phaethon felt a sting in his chest.

"I'll prove it to you," cried he, stamping his foot. "I shall go to the palace of the sun right now and hold my father to his promise. I will show you."

"What promise?"

"He said I was getting to be so good a charioteer that next time he would let me drive the sun alone. All by myself. From dawn to night. Right across the sky."

"Poof...words are cheap," said Epaphus. "How will I know it's you driving the sun? I won't be able to see you from down here."

"You will know me," said Phaeton. "When I pass the village I will come down close and drive in circles around your roof. You'll see me all right. Farewell."

"Are you starting now?"

"Now. At once. Just watch the sky tomorrow, son of Zeus."

And he went off. He was so stung by the words of his friend, and the boasting and lying he had been forced to do, that he traveled night and day, not stopping for food or rest, guiding himself by the morning star and the evening star, heading always east. Nor did he know the way. For indeed, he had never once seen his father Apollo. He knew him only through his mother's stories. But he did know that the palace must lie in the east, because that is where he saw the sun start each morning.

He walked on and on, until, finally he lost his way completely, and weakened by hunger and exhaustion, fell swooning in the great meadow by the edge of a wood.

Now, while Phaethon was making his journey, Apollo sat in his great throne room on a huge throne made of pure gold. This was the quiet hour before dawn when night left its last coolness upon the earth. And it was then, at this hour, that Apollo sat on his throne, wearing a purple cloak embroidered with the golden signs of the zodiac.

On his head, a crown given him by the dawn goddess, made of silver and pearls. A bird flew in the window and perched on his shoulder and spoke to him. This bird had sky-blue feathers, golden beak, golden claws and golden eyes. It was one of Apollo's sun hawks.

It was this bird's job to fly here and there gathering news. Sometimes she was called the spy bird.

Now she said, "Lord Apollo, I have seen your son!"

"Which son?"

"Phaethon. He's coming with a strong wish to see you. But he has lost his way and lies exhausted in the wood. The wolves will surely eat him. Do you care?"

"I will have to see him before I know whether I care," Apollo said. "You had better get back to him before the wolves do. Bring him here in comfort. Round up some of your companions, and bring him here as befits the son of a god."

The sun hawk seized the softly glowing rug at the foot of the throne and flew away with it. She summoned three of her companions, and they each took a corner of the rug. They flew over a desert and a mountain and a wood and came the field where Phaethon lay.

They flew down among the howling of wolves, among burning eyes set in a circle about the unconscious boy. They pushed him onto the rug, and each took a corner in her beak, and flew away.

When Phaethon woke up, he saw the great cloud palace on top of the mountain, all made of snow and rose in the early light. 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. These were Apollo's great sun hounds, ancestors of the Skye terriers.

Over the wall flew the carpet, over the courtyard, through the tall portals. And it wasn't until the sun hawks gently let down the carpet in front of the throne that he began to think that he wasn't dreaming at all. He raised his eyes shyly and saw a tall figure sitting on the throne. Taller than any mortal man, and appallingly beautiful to the boy— with his golden hair and stormy blue eyes and strong laughing face. Phaethon fell on his knees.

"Father," he cried. "I am Phaethon, your son!"

"Rise, Phaethon. Let me look at you."

He stood up, his legs trembling.

"Yes, you may well be my son. I seem to see a resemblance. Which one did you say?"

"Phaethon."

"Oh, Clymene's boy. I remember your mother well. How is she?"

"In good health, sire."

"And did I not leave some daughters with her as well? Yellow-haired maidens — quite pretty?"

"My sisters, sire. The Heliads."

"Yes, of course. Must get over that way and visit them all one of these seasons. And you, lad — what brings you to me? Do you not know that it is courteous to await an invitation before visiting a god?"

"I know, Father. But I had no choice. I was taunted by a son of Zeus, Epaphus. And I would have flung him over the cliff and myself after him if I had not resolved to make my lies come true."

"Well, you're my son, all right. Proud, rash, accepting no affront, refusing no adventure. I know the breed. Speak up, then. What is it you wish? I will do anything in my power to help you."

"Anything, my lord?"

"Anything I can. 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."

As soon as Apollo heard that, his roar of anger shattered every crystal goblet in the great castle.

"Impossible!" he cried. "No one drives those horses but me. They are tall as mountains. Their breath is fire. They are stronger than the tides, stronger than the wind. It is all that I can do to hold them in check. How can your puny grip restrain them? They will race away with the chariot, scorching the poor earth."

"You promised, Father."

"Yes, I promised, foolish child. And that promise is a death warrant. A poor charred cinder floating in space — well, that is what the oracle predicted for the earth, but I did not know it would be so soon... so soon."

"It is almost dawn, Father. Should we not saddle the horses?"

"Will you not withdraw your request — allow me to preserve my honor without destroying the earth? Ask me anything else, and I will grant it. Do not ask me this."

"I have asked, sire, and you have promised," Phaethon answered stubbornly. "And the hour for dawn comes, and the horses are unharnessed. The sun will rise late today, Father."

"Curse me!" Apollo hissed then he sighed. "Very well, it's the will of the fates. Come then."

Apollo took Phaethon to the stable of the sun, and there the boy saw the giant fire-white horses being harnessed to the great golden chariot of his father. Huge, flame-like manes with hot yellow eyes, they were named, Pyroeis, Eous, Aethon, Phlegon. They were being harnessed by a Titan, tall as a tree, and dressed in asbestos armor with helmet of tinted crystal against the glare. The sun chariot was an open shell of gold. Each wheel was the flat round disk of the sun as it is seen in the sky.

And Phaethon looked very tiny as he stood in the chariot. The reins were thick as ropes, much too large for him to hold, so Apollo tied them around his waist. Then the god stood at the head of the team, gentling the horses.

"Good horses, go easy on your usual path, my son is your new charioteer today," Apollo said to them. The great horses dropped their heads and whinnied softly, for they loved him.

Then he came to Phaethon, and said, "Listen to me, son. You are about to start a terrible journey. Keep the middle way. Too high and the earth will freeze, too low and it will burn. Keep the middle way. Give the horses their heads; they know the path, the blue middle course of day. Drive them not too high, nor too low, remember and above all, do not stop. Or you will fire the air about you where you stand, charring the earth and blistering the sky. Do you understand?"

"I do, I do!" cried Phaethon. "Stand away, sire! The dawn grows old and day must begin! Go, horses, go!"

And Apollo stood watching as the horses of the sun went into a swinging trot, pulling behind them the golden chariot, climbing the first eastern steep of the sky.

At first things went well. The great steeds trotted easily along their path across the high blue meadow of the globe. And Phaethon thought to himself, "I can't understand why my father was making such a fuss. This is easy. For me, anyway. Perhaps I'm a natural-born rider."

He looked over the edge of the chariot. He saw tiny houses down below, and specks of trees. And the dark blue puddle of the sea. The chariot was trundling across the sky. The great sun wheels were turning, casting light, warming and brightening the world, chasing all the shadows.

"Just imagine," Phaethon thought, "how many people now are looking up at the sky, praising the sun, hoping the weather stays fair. How many people are watching me, me, me...?"

Then he thought, "But I am too small to see. They can't even see the chariot or the horses—only the great wheel. We are too far and the light is too harsh. For all they know, it is Apollo making his usual run. How can they know it's me, me, me? How will my mother know, and my sisters? They would be so proud. And Epaphus— above all, Epaphus — how will he know? I shall come home tomorrow after this glorious journey, and tell him what I did, and he will laugh at me, and tell me I'm lying, as he did before. And how shall I prove it to him? Now, this must not be. I must show him that it is I driving the sun chariot — I alone. Apollo said not to come too close to the earth, but how will he know? And I won't stay too long — just dip down toward our own village and circle his roof three times — which is the signal we agreed upon, and resume the path of the day. Yes, there is no harm."

He jerked on the reins, pulled the horses's heads down. They whinnied angrily, and tossed their heads. He jerked the reins again.

"Down," he cried. "Down! Horses, down!"

The horses plunged through the bright air, golden hooves twinkling, golden manes flying, dragging the great glittering wheels after them in a long flaming swoop. When they reached his village, he was horrified to see the roofs bursting into fire. The trees burned. People rushed about screaming. Their loose clothing caught fire, and they burned like torches as they ran.

Was it his village? He could not tell because of the smoke. Had he destroyed his own house? Burned his mother and his sisters?

He threw himself backward in the chariot, pulling at the reins with all his might, shouting, "Up! Up! Up!"

And the horses, made furious by the movement, reared on their hind legs in the air. Then leaped upward, galloping through the smoke, pulling the chariot, up and high.

Swiftly the earth fell away beneath them. The village was just a smudge of smoke now. Again Phaethon saw the thin stroke of mountains, the inkblot of seas.

"Oh no!" he cried. "Turn now! Forward on your path!"

But he could no longer handle the steeds. They were galloping, not trotting. They had taken the bit in their teeth. They did not turn toward the path of the day across the meadow of the sky, but galloped up, up. And the people on earth saw the sun shooting away until it was no larger than a tiny star.

Darkness came. And cold. The earth began to freeze and harden. Rivers stopped running and ocean stopped moving. Boats were caught fast in the ice in every sea. It snowed in the jungle. Marble buildings cracked. It was impossible for anyone to speak, breath froze on their's lips. And in the village and city, in the field and in the wood, people died of the cold. The bodies pilled up where they fell, like firewood.

Still Phaethon could not hold his horses, and still they galloped upward dragging light and warmth away from the earth.

Finally, they went so high that the air was too thin to breathe. Phaethon saw the flame of their breath which had been red and yellow burn blue in the thin air. He himself was gasping for breath, he felt the marrow of his bones freezing.

Now the horses, wild with change, maddened by the feeble hand on the reins, swung around and dived toward the earth again. All the ice melted, making great floods. Villages were swept away by the solid wall of water. Trees were uprooted and whole forests were torn apart. The fields were covered by water.

Lower swooped the horses, and lower yet. Now the water began to steam — great billowing clouds of steam as the water boiled. Dead fish floated on the surface. Naiads moaned in dry riverbed.

Phaethon could not see, the steam was too thick. He had unbound the reins from his waist, or they would have cut him in two. He had no control over the horses at all. They galloped upward again — out of the steam —taking at last the middle road, but racing wildly, using all their tremendous speed. Circling the earth in a matter of minutes, smashing across the sky from horizon to horizon, making the day flash on and off like a child playing with a lamp. And the people who were left alive were bewildered by the light and darkness following each other so swiftly.

Up high on Olympus, the gods in their cool garden heard a clamor of grief from down below. Zeus looked upon earth. He saw the runaway horses of the sun and the hurtling chariot. He saw the dead and the dying, the burning forests, the floods, the weird frost. Then he looked again at the chariot and saw that it was not Apollo driving, but someone he did not know. He stood up in rage, drew back his arm, and hurled a thunderbolt.

It stabbed through the air, striking Phaethon, killing him instantly, knocking him out of the chariot. His body, flaming, fell like a comet to earth. And the horses of the sun, knowing themselves riderless, galloped homeward toward their stables at the eastern edge of the sky.

Phaethon's mother and yellow-haired sisters grieved for the beautiful boy. They could not stop weeping. They stood on the bank of the river where he had fallen, unable to be comforted. They changed into poplar trees. Here they still stand on the shore of the river, weeping tears of amber sap.

And, since that day, no one has been allowed to drive the chariot of the sun except Apollo, the sun god himself. But there were still traces of Phaethon's ride. The ends of the earth was still covered with icecaps while in the middle was hot with desert lands.