by Glyn Iliffe
To Heracles’s amazement, he recognized her as the girl he had saved from the bandits on Mount Parnassus. Without thinking, he stepped out of the shadows.
‘Myrine.’
She gave a scream and dropped her crook, scattering the goats before her. She fixed her startled gaze on the huge, unkempt man before her, with the dead deer over his shoulders and the bow and arrows at his side. At first he thought she would turn and flee back the way she had come. Then her mouth fell open and, after a moment’s hesitation, she ran to him and threw her arms about his waist, hugging him tightly. Carefully letting go of the deer’s ankles, he lowered his hand to her tangle of hair and stroked it.
‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ she said, looking up at him.
He gave her a questioning look.
‘I saw you in my dreams,’ she explained. ‘The gods told me you were coming. Mother wouldn’t listen to me, but I was right. You must come back home or she’ll never believe I saw you.’
Her innocent welcome filled him with joy. Shrugging off the burdens that had weighed on his spirit, he released a deep laugh and ran his thumb across her cheek.
‘Of course I’ll come. And you’re right: how else would our paths cross again, unless it was the will of the gods?’
She smiled and took him by the hand.
‘We live on the southern edge of the wood, with my grandfather. Come home with me and I’ll cook a meal for you. You look hungry.’
‘I am. And look,’ he added, indicating the deer with a nod of his head, ‘the gods have provided us with food too.’
She looked a little disappointed.
‘Then my mother will have to cook for you. I only know how to make porridge.’
He could smell woodsmoke long before the path turned the corner of the wood and revealed the timber cottage where Myrine and her mother lived. It was small, with a roof of thatched straw from which a twist of grey smoke was rising into the air. A ramshackle pigsty had been built against the side wall of the cottage – from which came the grunt and squeal of several piglets – and there was a stone animal pen in the meadow. A large black dog lay with its head on its paws before the porch, but at the approach of Myrine and her goats it pricked up its ears and stood. Then, seeing Heracles, it gave several loud barks and advanced, baring its teeth.
‘What is it, Thoas?’ came a woman’s voice from inside the cottage.
The door swung open and Myrine’s mother emerged, drying her hands on her apron. Her hair had been pulled back into a ponytail and her expression seemed slightly irritated at being pulled away from whatever chore she had been about. As she saw her daughter approaching with a strange man, a look of sudden concern entered her eyes, to be replaced a moment later by one of recognition and confusion. Then she rushed barefoot from the porch towards Heracles and fell on her knees before him.
‘My lord!’
‘I said he would come, Mother,’ Myrine announced.
Heracles took the deer from his shoulders and laid it on the grass, then took the woman by the hand and raised her to her feet. She looked at his face, then up at the lion’s head above it, a faint expression of repulsion crossing her features.
‘So the gods have brought you to us again,’ she said. ‘Though maybe this time we can be of service to you. The least we can do is feed you and give you shelter.’
He looked around at the cottage and the scattered goats pulling at the grass.
‘The gods have been kind to you after the death of your husband.’
‘I knew times would be hard without him, so I bought some pigs and goats with the silver you gave us. They provide us with milk, cheese and meat, and my husband’s father chops wood; there is always plenty left to trade for whatever else we need. As you say, the gods have been kind. And now they have made our happiness complete by leading you to our home. Myrine, fetch bread, cheese and milk. Our guest is hungry, I can tell, and a man such as he is will have a large appetite.’
He watched the girl run into the house, then turned his gaze on the woman. He saw that she, too, was hungry, though not for food.
‘I am called Heracles,’ he began. ‘Some say I am the son of Amphitryon, though my mother says otherwise.’
He smiled at her, easing the formality between them. She smiled back and looked down at her feet.
‘I am Nesaia,’ she replied. ‘Will you stay with us the night? Or for as long as you have need? Myrine would be very pleased if you did.’
‘Just Myrine?’ he asked. ‘But I can’t accept your offer without the agreement of your father-in-law. Where will I find him?’
‘In the woods, felling trees. Be warned though: he can be rude and short-tempered, even more so since his son was murdered. Why don’t you wait until he returns this evening and let me speak with him? He’ll listen to me.’
‘Thank you, Nesaia. I can fight my own battles.’
‘Then I’ll slaughter a pig ready for your return. Whether Aretos offers you hospitality or not, you will at least eat with Myrine and me.’
‘Gladly, though there’s no need to kill any of your swine. I’ve brought meat,’ he said, pointing to the deer.
Myrine returned with a basket of bread and cheese and a bowl of milk, which she set down on a table on the porch. Nesaia brought him a chair, and remembering his hunger he sat and ate while they watched him. Then he bowed and headed off into the trees. Before long he heard the unmistakable sound of wood being chopped. Following it, he spied a figure through the undergrowth, a long-handled axe in his hands as he took aim at the trunk of a tree. As he came closer, he saw the man had once been tall and muscular, though now he was arched over, with rounded shoulders and arms that were bony and knotted with age. His skin was damp with sweat and his movements were tired and slow.
‘Can I help?’
The man span round, his axe raised over his right shoulder, ready to swing.
‘Who in the name of Hades are you? Come any closer and you’ll find it’s not just trees this axe is good for.’
‘I am Heracles, a friend of your daughter-in-law. She said I’d find you out here.’
Aretos looked him up and down, his eyes lingering on the head of the lion-skin.
‘I’ve never seen you before.’
Heracles stared up at the tree. It was not tall and its bole was slender, no thicker than his own thigh. A few chips had been cut into the grey-green bark and the pale wood beneath, though it was a long way from being felled.
‘Here, you’re tired,’ he said. ‘Let me try.’
He stepped towards Aretos, but the old man raised the axe higher.
‘I’m warning you, stay where you are. You have the look of a bandit about you.’
‘I’m merely a traveller,’ Heracles replied, rubbing his dishevelled beard and running a hand through his hair. ‘Sleeping under the stars for several days doesn’t leave a man looking his best. But I’m no robber.’
He reached out and took the axe. Aretos stumbled back, one hand held out before him like some puny shield. But Heracles did not look at him. Instead, he tested the edge of the blade with his thumb and found it was good. Then, lining himself up beside the tree, he drew the axe back behind his right shoulder and took aim. The thwack of the blow echoed through the trees and a large shard of wood flew out. He followed it with two more quick strikes, each taking out chunks of wood and leaving an angled cut like an open mouth. Switching to the other side of the trunk, he swung the axe a few more times, then – after waving Aretos back – gave the tree a push. It creaked loudly and fell forward with a crash.
The smell of roast meat filled the woods as the two men returned. Heracles carried a large rope net over his shoulder, filled with chopped wood. Aretos walked beside him, axe in hand, whistling happily.
‘Nesaia!’ he called. ‘Where are you, my girl?’
Myrine came running out, with Thoas bounding along at her side. She went to her grandfather and gave him a hug that widened his already broad smile, then fell in beside Herac
les and took his free hand in hers. He glanced down at her and gave her a wink, before letting her lead him to the cottage. As he set down the bag of logs beside the porch and removed his lion-skin, Nesaia came out to greet them. Her hair had been pulled down and combed, and she had changed her brown dress for a sleeveless garment, clasped at one shoulder with a fine brooch. She had applied a little powder to lighten her skin and outlined her eyes in black. It was a subtle change, but effective.
‘I was about to send Myrine to find you,’ she said, smiling at Heracles. ‘I’ve prepared a meal for you both.’
‘Well I hope there’s enough of it, Daughter,’ Aretos said. ‘You’ve got two very hungry men to feed. Two trees we felled – two – and chopped them into blocks. There’s a mountain of wood back there; it’ll take me until winter to bring it all back to the cottage.’
‘I’ll help,’ Heracles said, knowing that was why Aretos had said it, and expecting he would leave him to do all the work.
Aretos nodded his thanks and slapped him on the shoulder.
‘You’ll join us for dinner, Nesaia?’ he said, entering the cottage. ‘If Heracles is willing, of course.’
‘I insist on it,’ Heracles replied, folding up his lion-skin and placing it on the floor of the porch. He was forced to stoop beneath the low door to enter. ‘But only if Myrine sits beside me.’
He squeezed the child’s hand and she looked up at him with a beaming grin. The cottage was even smaller than it appeared from the outside, with a small bed at each end of its single room, a hearth in the centre with a spit of roast meat standing over it, and a modest table to one side. But it was tidy – Heracles suspected Nesaia had been working hard during his absence – and the food looked and smelled delicious. They took their seats: Heracles opposite Aretos, with Myrine to his left and Nesaia’s empty chair to his right. She was busy bringing baskets of fresh bread, cheese and fruit to the table, followed by a platter of red meat.
‘If it tastes as good as it looks and smells, Nesaia, then I’ll count all debts repaid,’ he said.
She gave a coy smile and turned to fetch the wine. Heracles noted approvingly her slim waist and wide hips, and felt a stirring in his groin that he had not known for a long time.
‘It’ll taste every bit as good,’ Aretos said, oblivious to the looks that passed between Heracles and his daughter-in-law. ‘I can assure you of that.’
Nesaia brought wine and filled the men’s cups, with a little for Myrine. Aretos rose and walked to the hearth, followed by Heracles. The old man tipped a little of his wine into the flames.
‘May the Olympians bless our meal together,’ he said.
‘And may the father of the Olympians bless this house and all who live in it,’ Heracles added, offering his own libation to the gods.
Nesaia took her place at the table and picked out some smaller pieces of bread and meat to lay on her daughter’s platter.
‘Father, did Heracles tell you it was he who saved us from the bandits on Mount Parnassus?’
Aretos turned to look at Heracles. In a moment, his happy countenance had changed – his eyes suddenly hard and his jaw set.
‘Then you killed the men who murdered my son.’
‘Some of them. Some I sold as slaves.’
The old man’s eyes filled with tears. He threw his arms about Heracles and held him tightly.
‘Why didn’t you say? The trees could have waited – I should have brought you back here at once and slaughtered my best pig in your honour.’
‘We have something better than pork, Father,’ Nesaia said. ‘We have venison. Heracles killed it himself. Sit down and take your fill.’
The men sat and helped themselves to meat and bread, though Aretos’s eyes barely left his guest.
‘I wish I’d been there,’ he said. ‘My son was everything to me. I thank the gods constantly for Nesaia and Myrine – they’re a precious help to me – but when a man gets old, he needs a son to make life bearable. Those brigands took my support from me, may their souls find no peace in the Underworld. At least you saw that justice was done, my friend.’
‘All I saw was a mother and child in the clutches of evil men,’ Heracles replied, giving another glance at Nesaia, who looked back at him with thoughtful eyes. ‘After that I just followed my instincts.’
‘Then your instincts are good,’ Aretos said. ‘And you are welcome in my house for as long as you need to stay here.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘Myrine!’ her mother scolded her. ‘It’s polite to leave the questions to your grandfather.’
‘Yes, Mother, of course. But I just wanted to know.’
‘It’s a good question,’ Heracles said, ‘and one your grandfather would have asked me in his own time. But as my lady has asked, I suppose I must answer anyway.’
Myrine shrugged her shoulders and nodded.
‘I didn’t come here to visit old friends. Indeed, how could I have known you lived here? That was the work of the immortals. No, I’ve been sent to hunt a deer.’
‘And found one you have,’ Aretos chortled, holding up a slice of venison.
Heracles shook his head.
‘The creature I’ve been sent to find is a hind. An animal sacred to Artemis, hence one that I cannot harm. Its coat is pure white and it has golden antlers and brazen hooves. I’ve seen it on occasion and come close to it, but it has escaped me every time. For several days I’ve been on its trail, until yesterday’s rain washed it away. I was looking for new tracks this morning when I met Myrine.’
‘You say you were sent,’ Nesaia said. ‘Sent by whom?’
He could sense the surprise in her voice, as if it was inconceivable to her that a man like Heracles should take orders from anyone. Her reaction only deepened the shame he already felt.
‘When we met on Mount Parnassus, I told you I was on my way to consult with the oracle. The Pythoness said that I was to serve the king of Tiryns until certain tasks had been completed.’
‘Tasks?’ Aretos said. ‘How many?’
‘Ten.’
‘And how many have you completed?’
‘This is the second.’
‘What was the first?’ Nesaia asked.
‘That was,’ Heracles answered, pointing at the lion-skin on the porch.
Nesaia exchanged glances with her father-in-law, then let her eyes wander over the fresh scars on Heracles’s upper arms.
‘But why? Why did the Pythoness tell you to complete tasks for this king?’
‘That I am not willing to share. Forgive me, Nesaia.’
‘I saw a white deer,’ Myrine said, picking up another piece of venison and biting into it. ‘I like this meat. It’s better than goat.’
Silence descended on the table.
‘Did you say you’ve seen a white deer?’ Heracles asked.
‘Yes, by one of the streams that feeds down from the mountains.’
‘Does it have golden antlers?’
He splayed his fingers on top of his head, symbolizing what he meant.
‘Yes, she’s very beautiful. I think she likes me, because I’ve seen her there twice – yesterday morning and this morning. She comes out of the woods when I sing.’
The innocence of a child, Heracles thought. Of course – as much as the animal was repulsed by his sins, she was drawn to the girl’s purity. He looked at Nesaia, who seemed to understand what he was thinking. She took a slice of meat from her own plate and gave it to her daughter.
‘Here, have a piece of mine, as you like it so much. Listen, Myrine, do you think the deer will come again if you sing tomorrow morning?’
‘She’s my friend, so maybe. But I don’t think she will stay in the wood for long. She will go soon.’
‘I would like to see her, but she won’t let me near her,’ Heracles said. ‘Do you think if I hid nearby, you could sing to the deer again? So I could see her, you understand.’
‘So you can catch her for your king, you mean?’ Myrine repli
ed, looking him in the eye. ‘Yes, I can, because you saved our lives from those men. And because I heard you say you’re not allowed to harm her.’
Heracles smiled. For the first time since the labour had been given to him, he had a plan to catch the hind. He looked at Nesaia.
‘What did you do with the deer’s skin?’
* * *
The cottage was dark and still. A little moonlight washed in through the small windows, silvering the table and chairs at the side of the room. The air still smelled of smoke and roast meat, though there was also the sweeter aroma of the flowers that Nesaia and Myrine had collected from the forest after they had eaten.
Heracles lay with his lion-skin about him, listening to Aretos’s snores and unable to sleep. Maybe he needed to walk and take in the fresh night air. He was about to throw aside his cloak and rise, when he was stopped by a small sound. On the far side of the room, he saw a figure rise from one of the beds. It was Nesaia. She stood, briefly bending over to place the covers back over Myrine, then crossed the room. She opened the door, silhouetted by the faint moonlight outside, and turned to look at Heracles. He could see her slim figure through her nightdress, one long leg bent at the knee, one arm folded across her breasts. Then she closed the door quietly behind her and was gone.
He felt the stirring in his groin again, calling him to follow her. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed the company of a woman, and there was something about Nesaia that reminded him of Megara. Her small eyes, perhaps, or that way she had of looking at him as if nobody else mattered. He looked across at the other beds, but Aretos’s snores had remained constant and, through them, he was just able to hear Myrine’s gentle breathing. Pulling his lion-skin aside, he rose and crossed barefoot to the door.