Icarus sat, leaning lazily against one of the cold chamber walls. Using a sharpened pig’s bone, he carved yet another line into one of its large limestone blocks. “Thirty,” he sighed under his breath.
Thirty days he’d been locked in that tower. Thirty days of starvation rations. Thirty days of unbathed stench. Thirty days of lying on a freezing stone floor. But worst of all for Icarus, thirty days of boredom—horrible, miserable boredom.
The top of the tower housed two chambers: an upper and a lower. Immediately after they were thrown in there by King Minos, Icarus’ father, Daedalus, conducted a quick inspection and claimed the upper chamber for himself—and only himself. Despite Icarus’ prying, his father never allowed him to even glimpse into the upper chamber, and the only time his father left it was when he scurried down the ladder to snatch his portion of the rations—which he did once at dawn and once at dusk.
Daedalus seemed so busy. Each day and each night, Icarus would hear a symphony of thumps, and bangs, and thuds. But he could not understand what his father was up to. After all, when they arrived, the tower was empty, save a handful of mounted torches—so what could he possibly be doing up there?
The hatch in the ceiling of the lower chamber opened. Startled, Icarus dropped the pig’s bone. It was midday; his father never came down midday. He saw Daedalus shuffle down the ladder while holding some bizarre contraption.
“Your wings, boy! Your wings! They are finished! Try them on, boy!” cried Daedalus.
“My wings?” Icarus asked, utterly confused.
“Yes!” Daedalus dashed over, spun Icarus around, and started strapping the contraption to his back. “Here, boy, put your arms through here… and your wrists through here… and let me fasten this around your chest… there you go!”
“Father, what is this?” Icarus still hadn’t gotten over the shock of seeing his father in the lower chamber.
“Up, my boy! Up, up, up!” Daedalus grabbed Icarus and lifted him hurriedly. “Now raise your arms, my boy!”
Icarus hesitated, then raised his arms. As he did, feathers spread in a brilliant succession, and he stood, staring at the floor, watching his silhouette grow a pair of large and glorious wings. He felt a wave of bewildered excitement come over him.
“Father… how did you… why did you—”
“I can’t talk now, son; I must get working on my own pair,” Daedalus said as he retreated up the ladder and into the upper chamber. “I will tell you what we will use them for later.”
The hatch slammed closed. Icarus stood there disoriented. Then he raised his arms again, looked at his wings, and smiled. At least I won’t be as bored, he thought.