The dreams began. A white bearded patriarch, severe of mien,
stood nightly at the foot of his bed, gestured over his prone
body.
And with that gesture he felt his very bones grow tired. The
smooth skin of youth wrinkled, and his sharp eyes dimmed and
lost their luster.
"Return to Zeus. Tell him that the Curse of Cronus shall never
be lifted. Give up this quest, for on it you shall age each day
as though it were a year. Only the kindness of Cronus prevents
you from withering and dying before the dawn." The deep sonorous
voice ceased, the vision faded.
He touched his cheek, his forehead. Indeed wrinkles formed and
furrows! Beneath his chin a dewlap hung. His eyes grew tired,
and his voice weak. Nightmare, or visitation from Cronus?
By day his travels became ever more onerous. The pain of
arthritis attacked his joints, his breath was short, and at
times he wandered over his earlier trail unknowingly.
Demo noted, looking in the mirror of a calm pond, his thinning
hair, now turning gray. Dark pockets formed under each eye, and
his eyes were themselves bloodshot.
Perhaps, he thought, it is time to return home, there to rest.
Perhaps, there to lie down to an eternal rest.
Each night Cronus came. Each day Demo was left with a body
weakened and tired from the visit of Cronus.
His appearance had become so wretched that he avoided the quiet
ponds, that he see not his image. In desperation he called on
Zeus, then sighed.
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