SON OF ZEUS

by Glyn Iliffe

  He turned to Iolaus, asleep under his blanket, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Wake up,’ he hissed, shaking him gently.

  ‘What is it? It’s not even morning.’

  ‘Shush! Listen.’

  Something was close. Heracles felt a small tremor in the earth beneath him, and saw the faint ripples in the water at the foot of the hillock. Whatever it was, it was large. His nephew sensed it too.

  ‘It’s the Hydra,’ he whispered.

  Iolaus’s eyes were pale and wide in the darkness. Heracles could sense his fear, but for now it was under control. As for himself, his dread of what was to come was checked by his desire to face the monster. The Pythoness had promised that if he could claim the immortal head of the Hydra then he would discover why he had murdered his children. His need to find the answer to that question outweighed all other emotions.

  Suddenly, the stillness of the night was ripped open by a series of terrifying blasts, as if several powerful horns were being blown one after another. The air shook around them, filling the two men with terror. Iolaus turned on his face and clutched his hands over his ears, while Heracles crouched low to the ground and eyed the surrounding trees with alarm. The blasts continued – sometimes together, sometimes in a discordant progression. Then a final voice was lifted high above the others, drowning them out as it sent tremors through the ground and the roots of the trees, before trailing away to leave a charged silence.

  ‘It’s still some way off, but I know the direction now,’ Heracles said, indicating the bearing with his arm. ‘Are you recovered enough?’

  ‘You’re going to face it now? In the dark?’

  Iolaus looked shaken and afraid. Who could blame him, Heracles thought? He was not a trained or experienced warrior. He had never faced a man in combat, let alone a child of Echidna, Mother of Monsters. And this was not his fight. He had not murdered his own children. No god or oracle had told him to absolve his sins by achieving the impossible. The burden of slaying the Hydra had been laid on Heracles and Heracles alone.

  ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘You know I must. But you are tired and weary, and this task is beyond your ability. Wait here for me until morning, and if I do not return then go to Megara and tell her I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting her and destroying everything we had together.’

  He picked up his lion-skin and threw it over his shoulders, then hung his quiver at his waist and took up his bow and club. Finally, sensing Iolaus’s eyes on his every movement, he went to the glowing embers of the fire and blew them back into life. Taking a torch he had prepared, he lit it in the flames and walked down to the water’s edge.

  ‘You can tell her yourself when you’ve killed the beast,’ Iolaus called after him.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Heracles said in a low voice, as he waded out into the swamp.

  * * *

  ‘Come in, my dear.’

  Megara had made no sound as she had crept into the hollow that hid the entrance to the witch’s cave. Even in the dark, she had been careful not to disturb the many cats that inhabited the small glade, though inevitably one or two had hissed or mewed at her as she passed. But she was not surprised that the strange woman who occupied the cave had sensed her coming. She seemed to know many things.

  Megara ducked beneath the low entrance and entered the cave. There was a glow against the far wall, and she could hear crackling flames and the pop and hiss of bubbling liquid. The smell of woodsmoke and pungent herbs mingled with the strange odour of whatever was boiling away in the witch’s cauldron.

  ‘Don’t hesitate, child. Come in, come in. The brew is ready. Yes, the brew is ready,’ she added with a small laugh. ‘I wonder if you are.’

  Not wanting to seem afraid – though the gods knew she was – she advanced along the short, earth-walled tunnel to the bend, and peered at the small grotto where the passage ended. The flames in the hearth were dancing merrily, licking at the base of the black cauldron perched on the tripod above. The witch stood over it, her head and shoulders stooped beneath the low ceiling as she stirred the contents.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. I have prepared the potion, just as I said I would. But be warned: once you have seen the world through the eyes of the gods, you can never expect to look at things in the same, naive way again. Come, child. Sit.’

  She indicated the same three-legged stool Megara had sat on during her first visit. As she sat, the witch stared at her from the other side of the cauldron, the fire casting an orange glow over her skin and etching the lines in her face with deep shadow. She smiled as she looked at Megara, a knowing expression that made her uncomfortable.

  ‘Where is it, then?’

  ‘It’s here, it’s here,’ the witch said, grinning to herself as she took the ladle from the pot and poured some of the liquid into a wooden bowl. ‘But why so keen, my dear? It isn’t good to be so anxious, if you’re to walk with the gods.’

  She gave a small laugh, then held the bowl out. But as Megara reached for it, she withdrew it just beyond her fingertips.

  ‘What is it you seek? If you tell me, my dear, then maybe I can help you.’

  ‘Even if I knew, I doubt there’s anything you could do for me. Just give me the brew, unless you intend to cancel our bargain. In which case, you must return the other mushrooms to me.’

  The witch grinned menacingly.

  ‘You could not take them from me now, child, even if you wanted to. But a bargain is a bargain. Here, take the brew and keep your secrets to yourself – for now, at least. Hurry, drink it while it is warm.’

  Megara took the bowl and looked at the grey liquid inside. The stench of it was so vile that she was forced to close her eyes and turn away, almost gagging as it filled her nostrils. But if the smell turned her stomach, the fear of what it would do to her mind was worse. She had determined that she would eat the mushrooms, knowing that they had been in the soup Heracles had drank that night; she would know the effect they had had on his mind, because she had to have answers – she had to understand, or the grief over her sons’ deaths would eventually consume her. But she was afraid of the price she would pay. So afraid that she felt suddenly compelled to throw the bowl into the flames and run out of the witch’s cave, out into the forest and as far away from this place of dark magic as she could get. But if she did, then she would never know.

  She lifted the bowl to her lips and drank.

  ‘There. Nothing to it,’ the witch said. ‘Drink it all down.’

  She stood and shooed the cats out of the cave. Some were more reluctant than others and had to be chased out to the entrance. Megara – alone now – grimaced at the vile taste of the broth, but lifted the bowl to her lips again and drank the remainder in a single draught. As it ran down her throat, thick and glutinous, she felt like throwing it back up into the cauldron. Unlike Heracles, she had never been able to stomach the smell or taste of mushrooms, but these were even worse than the common varieties that grew in the hills and woods around Thebes.

  Somehow, she managed to keep herself from vomiting. After a period of discomfort, the taste began to leave her mouth and she wondered when the effects would start to show. She was more afraid now than she had been before drinking the broth. Then, she had still had the choice; now, she had to sit and wait, knowing that – sooner or later – the consequences of her choice would show themselves: that before long she would not be in control of herself any more; that an unknown power would take over her mind and send it to places she feared to go.

  Ironically, it was her fear of losing control that had driven her to take the brew in the first place. She was afraid she would lose herself to the unknowns of her grief, and was determined to take charge of her emotions once more. The only way she could see of doing that was by finding out what had made her husband murder their beloved children. Whether she would find the answers, she did not know. All she knew was that her heart was racing and beads of sweat were breaking out on her forehead, despite the chill in the cave.
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br />   She moved the stool away from the fire and looked back up the tunnel, wondering where the woman had gone to and why had she left her on her own. It was some time now since she had drank the broth, and the only effects she could feel were a slight sense of claustrophobia and her temperature rising. She was debating whether to call out to the witch, when something strange happened. It lasted only a moment, and she doubted she had seen it even then. Until it happened again – a streak of purple among the wisps of steam rising from the cauldron. She stared at it in disbelief, not daring to look away. Another coloured wisp followed it, vivid orange this time, curling and twisting as if possessing an existence all of its own until, long moments later, it was absorbed into the ceiling.

  Quickly, she stared back down at the pot. More twists of coloured steam were rising from it, each a different hue, passing through one another, or twisting together like the shoots of a plant, before fading away again. It was beautiful; enough to make tears well up in her eyes and run down her cheeks. But the sensation of each droplet forming and then creeping slowly downwards from one pore to the next filled her with new wonder. She raised her fingers to the tears, touching them and feeling each bead break and spread over her fingertips and across the fine, almost invisible hairs on her cheeks.

  She looked around the rest of the cave. It was no longer a tiny, enclosed space, but had expanded around her. Everything in it had taken on a life of its own. The earthen walls that had earlier been drab and pitted with shadow were now bright and hued with many colours that shone and sparkled as she looked at them. Indeed, they no longer looked like walls. The shelves that were attached to them hung in mid-air against a star-filled backdrop, as if she were looking at a moonless night sky, where the ageless constellations were set against shifting panoramas of deep blue and purple, green and orange, red and pink.

  Was this what the witch had meant when she had said she would see with the eyes of the gods? Did the immortals really see such things? Or had the mushroom somehow unshackled the innate power of her senses, enhancing them so that she could experience the world as it had always been meant to be experienced?

  Eyes wide with wonder, she dragged her gaze from the fathomless cosmos beyond the walls of the cave to the fire that blazed at its heart. The violence of the devouring flames and the warning danger of its heat had faded away – no, had transmuted into something beautiful and alluring. Like a giant flower, its pink, translucent petals shifted and waved as if dancing to a tune that could not be heard. The tripod and cauldron that stood over it were much larger than before, if only because the simple act of focusing on them made them grow in size and detail. The simple copper tripod and the blackened belly of the pot were now items of geometrical perfection, their metallic surfaces gleaming with swirling colours as if made of pearl.

  The smoke that trailed up from the fire was etched with threads of silver and gold that traced convoluted patterns in the air. And the smell of it! As she breathed it in it seemed to fill her whole being. Just the sensation of the air entering her nostrils and passing over the fine hairs within was more pleasurable than anything she had remembered experiencing before. She filled her lungs, and with the intake of breath came more aromas: of the herbs that hung in sprays from the walls; of the damp earth from the cave floor; of her own perfume that she had dabbed about her neck that morning. As each different scent became distinct to her, she saw it in her mind’s eye as a panorama of different colours, almost as if her sense of smell could not express it adequately on its own and needed the enhancement of her imagination.

  As she encountered the world afresh, she realized that her consciousness was unable to process all the sights and smells, the curiously augmented sounds, and the outlandish feel of everything she touched. And yet, whatever caught her bewildered attention, whichever details she focused on, came alive in astonishing ways. She raised the palms of her hands before her eyes and could see not only the patchwork of lines that scored them, but the tiny details within each line. Whether she could actually see such things, or whether her mind’s eye was creating them of its own volition, she did not know. But it seemed as if nothing was beyond her. As if her eyes were all-seeing – from the pores of her skin and the blood pumping beneath it, to the vastness of the universe that was visible to her beyond the walls of the cave. She felt that, if it pleased her, she could stretch out her mind and see anything, anywhere. Know anything. Know everything.

  She could not tell how long she had been entranced by the flowering of her senses. Time seemed to have stretched out before her and behind her, as if she stood astride it like the gods themselves, unfettered by its constraints and free to observe all that occurred within it – past, present and future. It was then that she wondered what her new powers of perception could show her. The innocence of exploring the wonders around her had become tainted by selfishness. It was as if a cloud had passed before the face of the sun. The lustre began to fade and the colours diminish. Like a cold breath brushing across her skin, she remembered why she had drunk the broth, why she had risked the mushrooms that had driven her husband temporarily mad. She wanted to know what had really happened in her once happy home, and why her husband had destroyed all they had loved.

  Were the answers within her reach now, she asked herself?

  Did she really want to know?

  Her mood shifted. The awe she had felt as she glimpsed between the folds of creation had lost its simplicity. The purity of the universe had become contaminated by the memory of evil. And then she realized she was no longer alone.

  She heard a breeze blowing through the cave behind her. Turning, she saw the tunnel stretching away like an endless black throat. There were no bright colours or glittering lights in that darkness, only fear and despair. She felt the rapid beating of her heart again and the sweat breaking out on her bare skin. Just as she had experienced childlike wonder at the flowering of her consciousness before, so she succumbed to childlike weakness and terror at the thought of entering the blackness. But if there were answers to her questions, they were hidden in the shadows before her. She had to go in.

  Then she remembered the knife, tucked into the belt beneath the folds of her dress. She had brought it because she feared the woods at night; and if she was honest with herself, she had feared the witch too. As she laid her hand on its bone handle, it felt strangely large and hard, and cold to the touch. She drew it and stood to face the darkness.

  Then she heard it: the sound of heavy footsteps, slow and wary, the guttural, deep-throated growling of something vicious and powerful. A low shape emerged from the shadows, black-furred and green-eyed. As it moved stealthily towards her, she saw its great size and realized with horror that it was a lion. She screamed in terror. The beast leaped towards her, its great paws pushing her backwards to the ground, nearly dashing her head against the rocks that surrounded the hearth. She sank the knife into its chest. With a mighty roar, it rolled onto its side and lay still.

  She sat up. Whereas before, her senses had been awash with colour and light, now they were plunged into a world of darkness. The shadows around the edges of the cave began to shift and grow, becoming hideous in form as they loomed over her. The wind that blew down the tunnel turned icy cold, chilling her skin until she could feel the sweat freeze and the blood slow in her veins. There were sounds, too, coming out of the blackness. Whispering voices uttering words that she could barely hear, but which left her with an overwhelming feeling of despair and self-loathing. They mocked her grief and defiled the memory of her dead children, telling her of the unspeakable torment they had suffered at their father’s hands and were suffering now in the Underworld. They spoke of Heracles, too, and how he had acted not out of insanity, but out of hatred for her.

  They reminded her of the knife clutched tightly in her fist. Should she not turn it on herself and end her misery? She stared at the blade, gleaming like ice and black with the blood of the lion she had killed. The point was aimed at her stomach. An easy matter, she thou
ght, to pull it into herself and end the agony. No more waking in the night to the phantom cries of her youngest son. No more glimpsing her boys in the faces of other women’s children. No more crying herself to sleep or waking to a fresh wave of tears every morning. The blade shook in her trembling hand, but as she gritted her teeth and held the hilt tighter, she heard whispered laughter in the shadows. She let the weapon drop into her lap.

  ‘I won’t do it!’ she shouted.

  Her voice echoed back from the cave, loud and distorted in her transformed hearing. At the sound of it, the whispers fell silent and the shadows on the walls withdrew, fading into the deeper darkness. But the evil had not departed. It was still there, knowing she would have to enter the tunnel if she was to find the answers to her questions.

  She took hold of the dagger again and pushed herself back onto her feet. She could see movement in the blackness before her, but drawing on her remaining courage, she took a single step forward. A pair of green eyes flickered into life in the shadows. She took another step and more eyes appeared. She glimpsed black bodies, horrible in shape, and yet she knew she had to go on. At her next step, the eyes began to move, streaming towards and around her.

  Something jumped at her from the darkness, filling her vision with its black body. She screamed and lashed out, feeling the dagger tear through flesh. As her attacker fell to the floor, another leaped at her from her left, its claws raking the flesh of her arm. She felt an intense sting of pain, followed by the hot flow of blood oozing from the wound. Several more of the creatures attacked her, their demonic eyes and teeth flashing in the darkness. More claws sank into the skin of her arms, legs and face, and the tunnel rang with her screams.

  Yet she fought back, striking blindly in the darkness and feeling the point of her knife sink into one body after another. They fell away, roaring with pain, only for others to take their places. They tore at her clothes and her hair, lacerating her flesh and drawing more blood until her senses were wild with the agony of it.