The Wings of Icarus

Daedalus had always been a builder of impossible things, but the labyrinth he built for King Minos became his own prison. Trapped on the island of Crete with his son Icarus, he watched the sea gulls wheel above the tower where they were kept, and an idea took shape.

Feathers, he decided. Feathers and wax.

For weeks he worked in secret, collecting quills fallen from gulls and shaping them into great wings, binding them with thread and sealing them with melted wax. He built two pairs, one for himself, one for his son; and when they were finished, he fastened them to Icarus’s shoulders with trembling hands.

“Listen to me,” Daedalus said, gripping the boy by both arms. “Fly the middle course. Too low, and the sea’s spray will soak the feathers and drag you under. Too high, and the sun’s heat will melt the wax and unravel everything I’ve made. Stay close to me. Promise me this.”

Icarus promised. And for a while, he kept his word.

They rose from the tower together, father and son, skimming low over fishing boats whose crews dropped their nets in astonishment at the sight of two men flying like birds. Icarus laughed with the sheer joy of it; the wind under his arms, the island shrinking below him, the whole blue world opening up.

The higher he climbed, the smaller his father seemed. The clouds were close now, and the sun felt warm and inviting rather than dangerous. Icarus forgot the promise. He forgot the wax. He only wanted to see how close to the heavens a man could get.

Daedalus turned and saw the gap widening between them. He shouted his son’s name, but the wind carried the sound away.

By the time Icarus felt the first feather slip loose from his shoulder, it was already too late. The wax had softened, then melted, and one by one the feathers scattered behind him like snow. He fell, arms flailing where wings had been, and the sea that his father had warned him about rose up to meet him.

Daedalus circled the water for hours, calling his son’s name over waves that had already gone still and silent, until at last he saw only feathers floating on the surface, the only proof that his son had ever flown at all.

He landed on a distant shore alone, folded his own wings for the last time, and never built another pair.

Writer’s Bio

Christian Scroumpelou is a fiction writer whose stories have appeared in The Folklore Society Magazine, And Then There Was One (story anthology), and is forthcoming in a new journal. He holds an MFA from the University of Memphis.