The oracle at Delphi said that he would be killed by his own shadow in the summer of the eighteenth year.
Actaeon's mother—the woman who could hear the stones talking—was weaving a piece of purple cloth when she heard these words. Her hand did not stop, and the sound of the shuttle passing through the warp was like some ancient spell. She said, your predictions are never accurate. Apollo, the sun god, laughed behind the curtain, and the laughter fell to the ground and turned into a laurel tree.
Actaeon was seven years old that year. He squatted on the steps of the temple, using a branch to fiddle with a beetle that could not turn over, completely unaware that his fate had been nailed to the cliff of Mount Parnassus.
Seventeen years later, in the summer, he was the best hunter in Thebes.
Not because he is the strongest or the fastest, but because he has an almost cruel patience. He can squat by the stream for three hours, just waiting for a deer to lower its head to drink water; he can track a wild boar for two days and two nights, through thorns, swamps and bear territory, until it collapses on the red soil exhausted.
Conception:-