‘Oh father,’ wept Icarus. ‘How much longer do we have to stay here? I hate this place – it smells!’

Icarus was right – the Labyrinth did smell. It smelt of old bones and feathers and stale meat – leftovers of the Minotaur’s huge meals. It smelt of the fear of hundreds of men and women who had been devoured by the beast. And worst of all, it smelt of the Minotaur himself. Even though the creature was dead, killed by Theseus, the entire Labyrinth still smelt of his foul presence.

Daedalus sighed. He knew he could find his way out of the Labyrinth. That would not be difficult for him since he was the one who had designed it, and knew every turn of the long, winding, bewildering maze of corridors that had so effectively imprisoned the Minotaur. The real problem, Daedalus knew, was how to escape from the island of Crete.

King Minos was a powerful and cruel man. Daedalus knew Minos would have every road, every port, every harbour watched for Daedalus and his son. Escape across land or sea was impossible.

‘That leaves only the air,’ sighed Daedalus to himself in frustration. ‘If only we could fly like birds!’ Slowly a thought, an idea began in his inventor’s brain. Suppose, just suppose, he could make himself and Icarus fly? Could they then not escape the cruel Minos?

‘Come, Icarus,’ cried Daedalus to his son. ‘I have an idea – and perhaps a plan that may work!’ Daedalus then spent the next few days up on the highest tower of the Labyrinth, looking out at the sky and studying the flight of birds. ‘Look how they flap their wings, Icarus,’ he would say. ‘Look how effortlessly they glide through the air.’ Daedalus studied the shape of their wings, and how they bent and curved to let the air flow over them and lift the birds into the sky. Icarus sat with Daedalus, and watched and listened and learnt.

At last Daedalus had learnt all that he wanted to know about birds and how they fly. ‘We’re going to fly out of here,’ he told his little son. ‘We’re going to make ourselves some wings, and then fly out of here like birds!’

‘So we need feathers!’ cried Icarus.

‘Yes,’ said Daedalus. ‘Luckily for us, the Labyrinth is full of them!’ The Labyrinth was full of old feathers, of the birds the Minotaur had eaten when he had been alive.

Daedalus and Icarus collected the feathers. They cleaned them and smoothed them and sorted them into piles. Then Daedalus set to work to make the wings. The quill feathers he strung together with thread, but the smaller feathers he stuck together with wax. At last the wings were ready, a large pair for Daedalus, and a smaller pair for Icarus.

Daedalus tied on Icarus’s wings, and then his own. He held his son close and hugged him. ‘Now son,’ he said. ‘Be careful as you fly. Don’t fly too low or the sea will soak the feathers, and don’t fly too high or the sun will melt the wax that holds them together.’ Icarus nodded and promised to do as his father said. ‘Follow me and do as I do,’ said Daedalus, ‘and you will be safe.’

Father and son climbed up to the very highest tower of the Labyrinth, and watching for the right moment launched themselves into the air. The wings were perfect. Daedalus and Icarus glided on the breeze like giant birds. Then, setting course in a northeasterly direction, Daedalus flew far away from Crete, with Icarus close behind.

Daedalus and Icarus flew over land and sea, over forests, fields and farms. Shepherds tending their flock on mountainsides, and farmers working their fields in the valleys looked up and saw them, and thought they were gods, who flew so effortlessly in the sky.

At first, Icarus was very careful to follow his father’s advice, and made sure he kept close behind Daedalus and flew neither too low nor too high. He loved the feel of his wings as they carried him through the air, and after a while, as he grew more sure of his wings, he wanted to fly as freely as the birds. He wanted to wheel and dip and hover, and soar up as high as high.

And very soon, caught up in the joy of flying, Icarus forgot his father’s advice. He flew up and up and up into the sky, higher and higher and higher. He loved the power of his wings beating strongly and flawlessly in the wind. ‘How far below is the sea,’ thought Icarus to himself as he looked down at the world.

Icarus flew still higher. The sun shone brighter and hotter, and hotter and brighter, till Icarus was quite warm. Still he did not remember his father’s warning not to fly too high. At last Icarus flew much too close to the sun. The sun’s fierce heat melted the wax that held the feathers together, and Icarus’s perfect wings fell apart.

Down, down, down he plummeted through the air, into the deep blue sea below.

Meanwhile Daedalus, flying steadily, realised his son was no longer with him. Frantically, he searched the skies – and saw him, soaring ever higher, a tiny speck close to the sun. Before Daedalus could call out to him to stop, to fly down, he saw Icarus fall, fall, fall, down into the sea.

Daedalus flew down to the waves where Icarus had fallen, and wept. The sea threw up Icarus – but it was too late. Icarus was dead, drowned in the sea. The feathers from his wings floated sadly on the waves.

Daedalus was heart-broken. He gathered up his little son in his arms, and carried him to a nearby island where he buried him.

The island is to this day called Icaria, after Icarus, and the sea into which he fell is known as the Icarian Sea.