Even Zeus, mightiest of the Gods, labored
under the Curse of Cronus.
On a certain day, in a certain glade he walked, knowing not
where to turn. His thirst grew, and he noted water trickling
down the hillside ahead. At the base of the hill a small spring
formed a placid pool, and he leaned forward to drink of its
water.
"Not me! Let it not be me!"
The gaunt, ancient creature reflected in the still waters
screamed out the words.
He would turn away, and yet he could not. Fascinated he noted
the wrinkled face, the gnarled hands, the tired eyes.
My youth, to have fled so quickly! The Curse of Cronus indeed!
Night shadows were fast enveloping the land. He cut soft limbs
and foliage to make his bed. It mattered not. All beds to him
were hard. Emptying his pouch he nearly dropped the mirror of
Venus.
He caught it before it struck the ground. I need no more bad
luck, the thought crossed his mind.
The image of Venus brought tears to his eyes. The beauty
reflected in the mirror but days before had disappeared. Now was
seen but an old crone, straggly hair, wrinkled face, bent back.
Still the eyes tore at his soul.
The sad eyes that held remembrance of beauty beyond that of all
beings. They seemed to say, "If I could but forget what once I
was. Then I could more readily bear this plight."
He shuddered, held the mirror in his hand as he stretched out
on his forest bower. Sleep would come soon. And with sleep,
Cronus!
And so it was.
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