The Dolphin Rider

by Bernard Evslin

  “Bravely spoken, Cadmus,” said Mercury. “Here is the first thing you must do:

  Follow a cow…

  Where she rests

  Tell yourself now.”

  Before Cadmus could question him further, Mercury leaped into the air, ankle-wings whirring. He hovered a moment, saying:

  If I wish to send you word,

  I’ll send a purple bird.

  Then the god flashed off into the blue air. “Farewell,” he cried. But he was so high now that his voice drifted down as a gull’s cry.

  Cadmus watched the speck of gold vanish from sight. When he turned, there to his surprise stood a beautiful brown cow with large amber eyes and small horns. The cow mooed musically, then ambled off. Cadmus followed as Mercury had directed. He understood nothing. He only knew that he must do as the god had said. All the rest of that day he followed the cow. She wandered away from the coast and moved inland at the same ambling pace, which let her cover great distances. Cadmus followed. He could not stop to eat or drink, he had to keep the cow in sight.

  Night came on. “Surely,” Cadmus thought, “she will stop now.” But the cow did not stop. The stars hung low as torches, and it was easy to see the cow. She climbed a low hill, and went down the other side. Still Cadmus followed. His legs were weary. The helmet and shield and sword that Vulcan had given him seemed to weigh more with every step. They seemed to be dragging him down to the ground. But he could not cast off his weapons, nor could he rest as long as the cow moved before him. All night he followed her. Finally, he could walk no further. He fell to the ground.

  “Am I to disappoint Zeus in my first test?” he said to himself. “Shall I fail simply because I am weary? No! This cannot be!”

  Cadmus tried to drag himself to his feet, but he could not. So he crawled after the cow on his hands and knees. Fortunately, the cow seemed to be tiring and was going more slowly. She was climbing the slope of a steep hill, and that slowed her even more. Cadmus climbed the hill after her, dragging himself along on his knees, pulling himself on by the strength of his arms. Finally, the cow reached the top of the hill, and began to go down the other side. Now Cadmus simply let himself roll after her. When she started across the plain, he crawled after her. But now he had to crawl more slowly. His knees were scraped and bleeding. His hands were bleeding.

  “I will go on even if my flesh is torn away and I have to creep on my bones,” he said to himself.

  Then to his delight, he saw the cow suddenly fold herself into a low shadow and lay down to rest. As he watched, the cow lowered her head and slept. Cadmus drew in a great breath of the fresh air. He took off his helmet, lay down his shield, and placed his sword carefully on it. Then he also slept.

  When he awoke, the sun was high. The cow was gone, but it did not matter. Where she had rested there was a circle of crushed grass, and Cadmus suddenly knew what Mercury had meant. Here was where he must build his city. Indeed, it was a perfect site for a city. There was a broad plain, cut by two rivers and surrounded by low hills, offering natural defense against an enemy.

  “I will build my city here!” cried Cadmus, turning his face to the sky. “Here will I found my kingdom!”

  He gazed about the great empty plain. “But how can I even begin? Oh, well, Zeus said I must. And he who sent the task will send the tools.”

  Suddenly, the air was filled with a hideous clanking sound. The sun was blotted out by an enormous shadow. Cadmus looked up, and brave as he was, he almost fainted away with sheer terror. The sight that he saw was the most dreadful ever seen by man. Imagine an alligator as big as a ship — a flying alligator, with brass wings. This monster’s entire hide was made of sliding brass scales, and it had a long thick tail bristling with brass spikes. Its feet had brass claws like baling hooks, but this was not the worst part. This beast, which was a dragon, spat flame from its mouth. Hot red fire spurted from its jaws.

  The dragon was still a mile away, but Cadmus felt the awful heat begin to roast him as he stood there on the plain. He knew that this was the peril of which Mercury had spoken. This was the monster he would have to destroy before he could build his city and found a kingdom. And Cadmus knew that there was no way under the morning sun that he could fight this flaming, spiked beast. The heat had become unbearable. Clutching his shield and sword, his helmet firmly planted on his head, Cadmus rushed to the river. He dived as deep as he could. His heavy weapons carried him to the bottom but, remembering a trick he had learned as a boy, Cadmus seized a handful of hollow reeds just before he dived.

  He poked a reed up to the surface of the water, and held the other end in his mouth so that he could draw in enough air to keep himself alive. He felt the icy water grow warm as the dragon passed overhead. But the flames could not reach him. He waited, crouched on the bottom of the river until the clanging faded away. Then he climbed out of the river. He was covered with slimy mud, exhausted, and very downhearted. He knew that he must seek help.

  “Good morning, Cadmus.”

  He whirled about, saw no one. Then he spotted a bird, flying in slow circles above his head.

  “Was it you who spoke?” he said to the bird.

  “I don’t see anyone else here,” said the bird.

  “Since when do birds speak?”

  “When they have been educated as I have. Then they learn to speak — quite well too.”

  The bird looked something like a crested bluejay. And had the same kind of bossy voice. But instead of blue, it was purple. Then Cadmus remembered Mercury’s last instruction.

  If I wish to send you word,

  I’ll send a purple bird.

  “Did Mercury send you?” cried Cadmus.

  “He did, indeed. And he sent this message.

  To make the dragon yield,

  Let him dread his head

  Upon your shield.”

  And the bird flew away. “Wait!” cried Cadmus. “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s the entire message,” said the bird. “Farewell.”

  The bird disappeared. Cadmus tried to puzzle out the meaning of the message. He knew that he did not have much time. In the distance he heard a tiny chiming, the brass scales clanking; the dragon was flying his way again.

  “These rhymes and riddles spoken by gods and oracles seem to come true,” he said to himself. “If only I could get the meaning of this one. But it’s a puzzle, and I don’t have much time.”

  To make the dragon yield,

  Let him dread his head

  Upon your shield.

  “Well, I have a shield all right, but what does that have to do with the dragon’s head?”

  Cadmus had been wiping the muddy shield all this while with a handful of rushes. Now he studied it intensely. What he saw was his own face. The bright shield was a mirror.

  “That’s it!” he cried. “I understand! I must let the dragon see himself in the shield. But to do that he will have to get very close…much too close for comfort. Now may all the gods help me, for here he is!”

  Indeed, the great shadow had darkened the plain again. The hot breath of the dragon was scorching the grass. Cadmus saw the dragon, jaws yawning, swooping toward him in a long curving dive. “He’s stopped spouting flame,” thought Cadmus. “He must want to eat me and doesn’t want me over-cooked.”

  The dragon swooped low and struck at Cadmus with one great brass claw. Brass rang on brass as the claw struck the helmet Vulcan had made. But Cadmus was not touched; the claw did not pierce the helmet. The monster swerved in the air and flew back, flailing with his great tail. But Cadmus was ready. He sliced off the tip of the dragon’s tail with the sword Vulcan had made. The beast howled in agony, rose to a great height, and came diving down, furiously beating his enormous wings and lashing his wounded tail. The dragon was falling with all his tremendous weight but Cadmus stood his ground. He looked up, and saw the terrible monster hurtling toward him — jaws open, teeth flashing like ivory daggers.

  “Now is the time,” he thought.
“I must test Mercury’s rhyme.”

  He held up the shield, stood with its bright brass disk covering his face and torso. The shield was on his bent left arm, his right arm held the sword. He stood rooted to the ground. He did not let his arm tremble, but held the shield steady as the dragon dove straight at him. The monster fell headfirst toward the shield, and on it saw a sight so horrible that it penetrated even that dim dragon brain. It was, of course, his own reflection in the mirror of the shield. But the dragon had never seen himself before and he did not know he was looking at himself. He thought another monster was attacking him. When he spit flame at the shield, he thought the monster facing him spit flame right back. When he saw this, the dragon gasped in horror.

  Now when you gasp in horror you draw your breath in. That is what the dragon did. He drew in a great breath, not of air but of fire, for he was spitting flame at the time. He inhaled his own flame. Fire entered him and scorched everything inside. Lungs, liver, and heart were burned to a crisp. With a terrible choking shriek of agony the dragon fell to the plain. The fire had worked itself outward, and as Cadmus watched, the whole great length of the monster burned in a bright blue flame. The air was filled with bitter smoke, but it was sweet to Cadmus, seeing his enemy perish before his eyes. The dragon burned away completely, leaving only a handful of brass scales and his ivory teeth, for ivory does not burn.

  In the thrashings of his last agony, the dragon had scorched and trampled the grass in a great circle so that it looked as if a city were being built.

  “Thank you, Mercury!” cried Cadmus. “Thank you, great Zeus! You have sent my enemy and given me the courage to fight.”

  “Good work, Cadmus!” said a voice. “Mercury sends his congratulations.” It was the purple bird again, circling slowly about Cadmus.

  “I bid you welcome, purple bird. And thank you for your words of good advice.”

  “Mercury sends this last word to you, Cadmus,” said the bird. “Listen well.

  Set blade to earth and dig beneath

  Then plant the dragon’s teeth.”

  The bird flew off swiftly before Cadmus could question him further.

  “Well, all the other riddle-rhymes worked,” thought Cadmus. “No reason why this one shouldn’t.”

  He picked up his sword and poked its point into the earth, to make a hole. Then he walked across the field, making a neat row of holes. When he finished one row, he began another, until he had a hundred holes, enough for the dragon’s hundred teeth. He went to the pile of ivory and brass, all that was left of the dragon, and filled his helmet with the teeth. Then he went from hole to hole, planting a tooth in each, and carefully covering it over with earth. He planted fifty of the dragon’s teeth in this way. But he had no time to plant the rest. Before his astounded eyes metal spikes came up out of the earth. As Cadmus watched, fifty armed men grew swiftly from the holes and stepped out on the field. Each of them wore a helmet, breastplate, shield, and either carried a sword or battle-axe. They were huge fierce-looking men. They glared about angrily, suspiciously, not knowing where they were. Cadmus ducked behind a rock. He had led men in battle, and he knew when men were in a killing mood.

  “Fifty of them,” he said to himself. “Too many. I’ll have to reduce that number.”

  Hiding behind the boulder, he threw out a stone. It struck the helmet of one man, who turned furiously on his neighbor and hit him with his axe, killing him. Then the man next to the man who had fallen attacked the first warrior. Then he was attacked immediately by two others. The fighting spread. Cadmus kept himself hidden behind the rock, occasionally throwing out another stone when he thought the fighting might stop. Cadmus let them fight until all but seven were killed. Then he sprang out of his hiding place, stood upon the rock, and raised his sword.

  “Stop!” he shouted.

  The men stopped fighting and gaped at him.

  “I am your king. I am Cadmus. The gods have sent you here to this plain to help me build a city, and found a kingdom. You shall lead my armies.”

  But the men were not ready for such words. They were still full of anger. They charged Cadmus, who sprang off the rock, and met them head on. The helmet made by Vulcan could not be dented. The shield made by Vulcan could not be pierced. And the sword made by Vulcan sheared through the attackers’ armor. Swiftly, he killed two of them. The others fell back.

  “You see,” he said. “It was meant to be. The gods protect me and the gods speak through me. I am your king. You are my captains. Now let us build our city.”

  They knelt then before Cadmus and swore to serve him faithfully. Under his direction, the five men built a city that was first called Cadmea and then called Thebes. Each of the five led an army that marched forth to conquer their enemies and make Thebes into a great kingdom. All that took years, of course. But it started on that bright morning when Cadmus held his ground and trusted his destiny.

  Cadmus did not see his sister again. Years later, when Thebes had become a great kingdom, and Cadmus a great king, he married a beautiful goddess named Harmonia, daughter of Vulcan and Venus. The wedding of Cadmus and Harmonia was the first wedding of a mortal ever attended by the gods. They all came, and they all brought gifts. Europa came too. Brother and sister embraced again. And Europa ever after treasured the gift which her brother, Cadmus, gave her — an ivory necklace made of the dragon’s teeth which Cadmus had not planted.

  The Beautiful Witch

  Ulysses was sailing home with three ships and a hundred men. But in the first two weeks at sea, he lost two ships and most of their crew. One ship was driven onto a reef by a sudden gale and wrecked completely. Another ship was stomped to splinters by angry giants who would not allow anyone to land on their island. As for the men, many drowned, many more were devoured by sea monsters and man-eating ogres.

  Now, in his third week at sea, Ulysses was left with only one ship and a crew of thirty men. He was in an unknown part of the sea, among strange islands. He did not want to risk another landing. But food and water were running low, and he knew he had to take the risk.

  He moored his ship off a small, heavily wooded island, and ordered his men to wait on board until he signaled to them. He wanted to explore the island alone before disembarking his crew. Ulysses rowed toward shore in a small skiff, beached the boat and then struck inland. He climbed a low hill, then up a tree near the top of the hill. Now he was high enough for a clear view on all sides.

  A feather of smoke, rising from a grove of trees, caught his eye. He climbed down and made his way toward the smoke. Glimmering through the trees, he saw what looked like a small castle of polished gray stone. He did not dare go near, for he could hear strange howling sounds. A pack of dogs, he thought, but they sounded unlike any dogs he had ever heard.

  He left the grove, and made his way back toward the beach. He couldn’t decide whether to sail away immediately or take a chance on having his men land. He didn’t like the sound of that howling. There was something in it that chilled his bones. Still, he had no real choice. His men were hungry and the little island offered plenty of game to hunt and streams of pure water. So Ulysses signaled his men to come ashore on five small boats. When they landed on the beach, he divided them into two groups. One group he led himself. The other he assigned to his most trusted officer, Tyro. He ordered Tyro to scout the castle, and then, with his own party, left to explore the coastline.

  As Tyro and his band of men approached the castle, they heard the strange howling. It grew louder as they approached. Some of the men drew their swords. Others notched arrows to their bowstrings as they pressed on preparing to fight. When they passed the last screen of trees and came to the walls of the shining gray castle, they saw a terrible sight. A pack of wolves and lions were running together, like hounds, racing around the walls.

  When the animals caught sight of the men they flung themselves on the strangers. So swiftly did this happen that no man had time to use his weapon. The great beasts stood on their hind legs, put th
eir forepaws on the men’s shoulders, and licked their faces. They uttered low growling whines. Tyro, who was half-embracing a huge tawny lion, said, “These fearsome beasts greet us as though we were their lost friends. Look at their eyes. How sad they are — as if they were trying to tell us something.”

  Just then they heard someone singing in the castle. It was a woman’s voice, so lovely that without seeing her they knew the woman was beautiful.

  Tyro ordered his men to go into the castle and then report back to him. “I will stay here and make sure you are not surprised,” he said.

  Tyro stood watch at the castle gate — sword in one hand, dagger in the other, and bow slung across his back. The rest of the men entered the castle. They followed the sound of singing through the rooms and out onto a sunny terrace. There a woman sat weaving. The bright flax leaped through her fingers as if it were dancing to the music in her voice. The men stood and stared. The sun seemed to be trapped in her hair — it was so bright. She wore a dress as blue as the summer sky, matching her eyes. Her long white arms were bare to the shoulders, and when she stood up and greeted them, they saw she was very tall.

  “Welcome, strangers,” she said. “I am Circe, daughter of Helios, a sun god. I can do magic — weave simple spells, and read dreams. But let us not talk about me, tell me about yourselves. You are warriors, I see, men of the sword. I welcome you. I shall have baths drawn for you and clean garments laid out. And then, I hope, you will all be my guests for dinner.”

  When Ulysses’ men had bathed and changed, Circe gave them each a red bowl, into which she put a kind of porridge made of cheese, barley, honey, and wine — and a few secret things known only to herself. The odor that arose from the food was more delicious than anything the men had ever smelled before. And as each man ate he felt himself doing strange greedy things — lapping, panting, grunting, and snuffling at the food. Circe passed among them, filling the bowls again and again. And the men, waiting for their bowls to be filled, looked about. Their faces were smeared with food. “How strange,” they thought. “We’re eating like pigs.”