Free Starfall by Michael Cadnum Page A

villagers, stricken mortals far below.
    Forests smoked and gave way to flame, and volcanoes smoldered from outside as well as within. When he had summoned his courage Phaeton struggled upward, holding tight to the chariot’s edge, and looked down to see the spreading riot of fire in the chariot’s wake. Where forest had cloaked the hilltops, new desert broke, an expanse of bare bedrock.
    Nymphs bewailed the loss of springs, as sands along the rivers melted into glass and currents boiled, steaming entirely away. Whooping cranes burned, casting feathered embers from their wings, and seas withered, retreating, leaving barren earth. The tuna cooked in his shrinking abyss, whales searching out the depths and dying.
    Not even Neptune, god of the teeming sea, could bear to gaze skyward, blanched by the light from above.
    Phaeton keened yet another prayer.
    Immortal father, great Jupiter, bring an end to this .

TWENTY-FOUR
    Jupiter loved quiet.
    The open blue, the burgeoning cloud, rain-freshened dawns, and deep sunsets – these were the sky god’s great pleasures, and the everlasting chill of high places was his eternal joy.
    That morning the cloud-gathering god was in his highest temple. Juno his wife had just left his presence that early hour, after arguing long and well that a favorite creature of hers deserved a boon.
    Now Jupiter was glad to be alone with his own thoughts.
    He loved the song of rain freshening new-plowed farmland. He liked calm and logic. Too much talk wearied him at times. He stood now at the far end of his temple and drank in the cool, sweet freshness all around.
    Perfect peace was rare, even here among the divine. Mount Olympus, the dwelling place of the gods, was so often in tumult. Mars and Minerva frequently argued with each other, and the powerfully built, half-lame Vulcan was always arriving with some new device of genius – a bowl of gold as big as a lake bed, or a newly fashioned archery set for Diana, even though the weapons she possessed were already beautiful enough.
    This morning violet-eyed Juno had asserted that the goose deserved more respect. The goddess had always praised the peacock, with its spreading plumes, and Jupiter could certainly understand that. But why, of all creatures, did Juno now sing the praises of that rude, long-necked fowl?
    Well, what did it matter? reflected the great god with a chuckle. Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, had her own temples and honorable owl. Mars, bringer of war, had his monuments and his bright-feathered woodpecker. Jupiter admired fairness, in himself and others, and he was generous by nature. He would ask Mercury to shape a decree. A sacred flock of geese would grace the beautiful temple of Juno, and be honored as a sacred bird.
    Even a god can be surprised. As Jupiter was just then, when a figure hurried across the temple grounds, and splashed so swiftly over the broad pools that the footsteps of the herald carried across the water.
    The youthful-looking messenger swept the broad-brimmed hat from his head and knelt.
    â€œRise up, Mercury,” said the gentle-voiced Jupiter. He liked this herald very much, and always felt his heart lighten at the quick-footed immortal’s approach. “What troubles you this morning?”
    If, in fact, it was morning, Jupiter thought just then. Sunny cool had turned to even colder twilight in an instant, mountain shadows stretching and then shrinking away as the sunlight came and went unsteadily.
    â€œI cannot bring myself to tell you, lord of all,” said the herald.
    The messenger’s usual lively tones were muted.
    â€œYou will,” said Jupiter simply. “Please, good Mercury,” the immortal father added, kind-hearted even then, and increasingly puzzled at the behavior of the daylight beyond the temple.
    â€œThe tidings are too grim,” said the messenger.
    Jupiter nearly laughed. “Nothing can be so dreadful, herald. Unless, perhaps, an angry goose has