Icarus Myth: Style of Faulkner

Tzivia Halperin

AP Lit

Mr. Gallagher

October 5, 2008

Story of Icarus, as told in the style of Faulkner

Daedalus, long since exiled to Crete, sat stewing by the sea awaiting an opportunity to return to his native Athens and what more: each time a zephyr rippled over the water, disrupting the calm of his present thoughts, Daedalus’ old regrets again mounted. His nephew Talus was a young boy, obstinate certainly, but no more than any other young, fresh boy brimming with ideals, (He’s deceased! I’ve killed him; my envy was too great). Daedalus’ regret waned momentarily, distracted by the barren terrain of Crete, feeling alien in a foreign country. He peered out at the Aegean cliffs in the distance- ragged, and gray in the diminishing light. Rather than appearing welcoming, the cliffs ever threatening seemed to concentrate less sun on them than their surroundings- their darkness and formidable shape only recalled his Daedalus his present concerns.  His anxieties were compounded by the news he must deliver to his young son, Icarus, detailing their imminent move into the labyrinth- into captivity. Upon closer consideration, Daedalus concluded that he again was at fault, irking the king of the country- King Minos. Daedalus, seeing his son Icarus bounding near the lonesome hilltop he now sits, seized the opportunity to call upon his son but not before emitting a powerful wail.

“My son,” Daedalus lamented, “tonight we are to move from our modest but comfortable home by the river to forever be constricted to the labyrinth.”

“But is there not something we could do?”

Daedalus looked at his son blankly: his broad square shoulders, pronounced cheekbones, and a mass of curly brown hair; he seemed to gleam in the sun. He could no more imagine Icarus in captivity than the golden pheonix. Nevertheless, Icarus exemplified his inability to accept authority, what would soon prove to be his downfall.

They moved that evening. Their new home, the labyrinth, was an obscure jumble of twists and turns, each one dishearteningly leading nowhere but a wall- a dead-end, and the very air they breathed was viscid, leaving a rusty, metallic aftertaste in their mouths, that took the men weeks to acquaint themselves with. Their days in the labyrinth soon melted into weeks, into months, into years, yet neither man could discern the difference. Time was simply time, beating them down into the dankness of captivity. Daedalus, squinting out of darkened eyelids, noted a profound difference in his son; no longer expressing an innate joy of life, he seemed to sag. While Daedalus’ own blaze was stymied, it could not be extinguished, forever glowing with the naive hope of leaving the labyrinth and leaving Crete to return to Athens and it was then, looking at the mass that previously was his son, that Daedalus determined they escape immediately. Rousing his son from his light sleep, Icarus glowered at his father.

“Gather yourself, we are leaving tonight.”

“But how, father? You know as well as I it’s impossible.”

“Minos may thwart our escape through land and sea but not even he can prevent our leaving through the air.”

The two men sat silently, side by side, neither feeling inclined towards conversation, innately understanding the task at hand, and rather expelling their energy vigorously gathering feathers that had fallen through the open roof of the labyrinth, squinting in the inky darkness of their prison. The feathers were ordered with great stringency- beginning with the smallest and becoming increasingly long; the white of the feathers gleamed in the pulsating night. The feathers were fastened with wax and a sheer rope at the middle and bottom, so when bent, they resembled the real wings of birds. Icarus on his part, seemed to regain his pinkish glow, a sight so familiar to his father, that he could have wept aloud with joy but instead allowed his old heart to regain some of its childlike vitality, and the two worked with increased stamina. The two sets of wings were completed just as the sun began to peek through the dawn morning splashing interesting patterns of light on the dirt floor of the labyrinth and a light fog proliferated about the labyrinth that dissipated soon after. 

Prior to their intended flight, Daedalus, looking at Icarus adjusting the wings, pulled his son close to him: “I must caution you son not to fly too low as the water will weigh on your wings and you will drown, but so too do not fly very high where the sun’s strong beats will burn your wings. You must fly in the middle and closely follow my course.” Icarus, giving his father a familiar grin of both humor, confidence, and skepticism, noticed his father’s hands begin to tremble and eyes grow moist and kissed his father on the cheek for what would be the last time.

Daedalus was the first to take off, flapping his manmade wings, and gaining more and more altitude. It was refreshing among the clouds, which formed in heavy, cotton-like masses. He turned to note the trajectory of his son and, with a deep relief, realized he was following him closely and heeding his advice. After several minutes of uninterrupted flight, however, Icarus, with increased confidence, began to fly higher and higher, despite his father’s warning, emboldened by the gathering of people- an audience that had formed below to watch what they perceived to be gods taking flight. At such a close proximity to the sun’s sweltering rays, the wax, which bonded the feathers of the wings together, began to soften and eventually was ineffectual. Flapping his arms with great force, Icarus attempted to retain his height but, without the wings, failed to do so. He called out to his father: “Father! Father! My wings can no longer support me!” But it was too late, he already began to fall, gathering speed, splashing into the cobalt blue ocean that swallowed him whole. Daedalus looked about the empty expanse of sky for his son, his only son, and called: “Icarus, my son!” spotting the broken wings floating on the ocean far below. He cursed his son for his foolishness and himself for equally indulging him over the years. Daedalus buried his son and traveled onward to Sicily, with a deep, unshakeable melancholy in his breast.