The Old Masters

This story is by Isabella Errico-Dossi and was part of our 2023 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

The Old Masters

When the wings are ready, Daedalus hoists them onto his back, slipping his arms into the leather straps. The apparatus weighs more than he expected, straining his shoulders. And yet, he thinks, this burden is light compared to the onerous punishment imposed by the king.

He begins flapping his arms, up and down in a slow rhythm. At first, there is only the soft whoosh of wind as the wings move through the air. And then, his feet suddenly leave the ground.

“Oh!” He lets out a little squawk of astonishment. “It’s working!” He continues slowly flapping, rising.

For months, he’s been secretly working on this design—wings fashioned from feathers collected along woodland paths and among the craggy cliffs; feathers large and small, held together with flaxen twine and beeswax—stealing away to a clearing on this remote cliff overlooking the azure waters of the Aegean Sea. The sight now fills him with both wonder and trepidation as he anticipates the journey that lies ahead.

A rustling in the bushes makes his blood freeze. He holds his wings very still and half falls, half floats to the ground. Crouching, barely breathing, he looks around. The outstretched wings, one on either side, remind him of the Egyptian Behdety, the symbol he’s seen on temple walls of the winged disk, said to be a sky god whose wings afforded protection against the intense midday sun.

No one appears from behind the bushes—no guards, no soldiers. Then he notices a dog watching him, its white face catching the light among the leaves. The dog is a Kritikos Lagonikos, a Cretan Hound. At first, Daedalus imagines the noble breed to be from King Minos’ palace, but as the dog steps forward, its head tilted quizzically, Daedalus sees it has no collar nor any sign of belonging to the king.

“Well, hello there.” He unbinds his arms from the leather straps, laying the wings carefully on the ground. He rubs his hoary beard; his hands are shaking. He takes a deep, slow breath.

The dog moves closer, ears up, sniffing. Approaching the dog, Daedalus can hear its low whine. He kneels to pet the animal, who responds with excited yips.

“Shh! There’s a good boy,” Daedalus says, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “Secrecy is paramount. You see, I intend to fly away with Icarus, my son, escape this unhappy isle and my wretched imprisonment. I may have helped Theseus destroy the Minotaur and escape the labyrinth, but Icarus, poor lad, he is innocent. He deserves better. As for you, if someone from the palace finds you, they’ll surely make you a prisoner, too—collared and chained, no longer free to run and hunt as it pleases you. Truly, the king is a cruel man.”

He scans the woods around the clearing before continuing in a whisper. “King Minos controls the land routes and has spies in all the ports, but he does not rule the heavens, and it is upon the wing that we shall flee. I have sorely missed my beloved Athens and long to walk her streets again.”

Daedalus stands, surveys the horizon. “The hour grows late. Tomorrow I shall have Icarus try his wings, and then, if all goes well. . .” He pauses, looking down at the dog, “‘Liberty or death’ as we Athenians say.” He waggles his hands at the dog. “Be on your way. Go, before a patrol finds us. . . or before I decide to take you home!” he adds, laughing.

Daedalus carefully hides the feathered apparatus among the bushes and turns towards home as the setting sun casts long shadows across the cliffs.

The following afternoon, Icarus, still a boy though tall and lean, plays with a handful of feathers while Daedalus applies finishing touches to his son’s wings. The boy runs about, puffing and panting, trying to keep the feathers afloat.

“Sit down, son, before you drive me to distraction. Come, take this ball of wax and let it soften in your hands. I’ve but a few more refinements to make and then you may try your wings.” Icarus plops himself cross-legged nearby.

Watching his son mold the softening wax into various animal shapes, Daedalus shakes his head, yet he can’t help smiling. With a sigh, he turns back to his work, knowing the boy will receive a fine education in Athens.

“Father, look!” Icarus exclaims suddenly. Trotting into the clearing is the Cretan Hound of the day before.

“Well, well. So you’ve come back.” Daedalus reaches into his sack, unpacks a bone. “Look what I’ve brought.”

The dog begins to bark, its curly tail wagging as it approaches. “Quiet, or you’ll bring trouble.” Daedalus proffers the bone like a sacred offering. The dog snatches it between its teeth, settles in the shade of a tree.

Before long, Daedalus beckons. “Icarus, come,” he says proudly. The boy threads his arms through the leather straps, begins flapping his arms, up and down in a slow rhythm.

“Father, I’m flying!” he shouts as his feet leave the ground. He beats his wings harder.

“Icarus! Come back! If someone sees you, the punishment will be severe! Icarus!”

The boy soars briefly toward the treetops before landing heavily, sending feathers flying.

As Daedalus helps his son remove the wings, voices can be heard in the distance. All color drains from his face. Has someone seen Icarus aloft?

“Argos! Where are you, boy?” a man calls, followed by whistles.

The Cretan Hound pricks up its ears.

“Argos! . . . Here, boy!” The voices are becoming louder.

“Quickly,” Daedalus whispers, motioning to Icarus to help him hide the apparatus. Before they can move, the dog bounds into the woods, the bone in its mouth, like a trophy.

“There you are, you beast,” a second man says. “Aha, what’s this? Where did you get a bone?”

Argos responds with spirited woofs and yawps.

Daedalus can feel his stomach churning. He’d thought the dog a stray. He turns to Icarus, raises a finger to his lips. The boy is pale. For now, Daedalus can offer only a shaky smile as comfort.

“Looks like he’s hunted himself a hare,” the first man says, “and picked that bone right clean.”

“If that’s the case, he’ll need more training.”

“Aye, he’s young. He’s learning yet.”

“Well, we’ve found him. Let’s go.” The men’s footsteps recede. Another whistle echoes through the woods. Beyond the cliffs, the surf thunders against the rocks.

Daedalus, taking his son’s hand, finally speaks. “Darling boy, I, too, am restless to take flight, and tomorrow we shall have our fill of it. But if we are to escape safely, you must mind my words.”

Icarus nods, still pale.

“Very well.” Daedalus squeezes his son’s hand. “Now, run home, and take heed you’re not seen.”

The next morning, father and son stand on the cliff admiring the ribbons of sunshine gilding the waters of the Aegean. The air is still cool. The breezes ruffle the hems of their robes.

“Do you remember the rules?” Daedalus turns to face his son. “This is our one chance.”

“Yes, Father,” Icarus says, impatient to leave. “Keep to the middle path. Fly too low, and the spray will make the feathers wet and heavy. Too high, and the sun will melt the wax that binds them. Always follow your lead.”

“Excellent!” Daedalus says, embracing his son. His sudden tears surprise him. With trembling hands, he adjusts his son’s apparatus, then his own. Finally, with a nod, he flaps his wings.

Soaring over the sea, he looks back. His son follows behind; his face is radiant. Daedalus laughs, unable to contain his joy. Together they fly, homeward.

That day, Lucius the shepherd, grazing his sheep on a plot of pastureland overlooking the harbor, does not see a boy plummeting through the sky. His loyal sheepdog runs back and forth, barking, it seems, at the passing ship hoisting sail. “How strange,” Lucius thinks. “His yelps sometimes sound like a cry for help.”

That day, Timon the fisherman, angling near the harbor, does not see a boy fall into the sea. “How strange,” he says to himself, his nets churning the water. “The splashing sometimes sounds like a cry for help.”

That day, Marius the ploughman, tilling the soil for spring planting, does not see the white legs, flailing as they disappear beneath the waves. “How strange,” he says to his horse. “Sometimes your whinnies sound more like cries for help.”

That day, no one looks up from his toil except Breughel the painter, whose job it is to see—the splash, the white legs, men immune to the day’s disaster. All this he records on his canvas. What he does not—cannot—render is a father’s suffering. Instead, he paints a sunset, though the sun shines high above him.

That day, a father, hearing his child’s forsaken cry, circles back, searching, calling. He curses his inventions—and the sun its rising—finding only feathers drifting on the waves.

Onward he flies, alone.