Hercules

by Bernard Evslin

  There was only one thing to do. He lifted the bull and let it fall, doing it carefully so that the animal landed on its legs and was able to gallop off. He knew that Geryon was so enraged that he would keep chasing him anyway. And he was right. Geryon ignored the bull and plowed on after Hercules, who, relieved of the bull’s weight, was able to regain the ground he had lost. Nevertheless, he knew he couldn’t run much longer.

  He headed up the mountain path. Up, up he ran. Far ahead, he heard the bleating of the sheep and the snorting of the angry boar. He put on a burst of speed and reached the trees where the animals were tethered. He broke the chains of the boar and snapped the ropes binding goat and sheep. He slung the boar to the right, the goat to the left, and hurled the sheep straight ahead up the mountain path.

  The three bodies of Geryon, coming up the road, saw their favorite food fleeing before them. These bodies were famished; they had never gone more than two hours without eating in their entire triple life, and, by now, they had missed three meals. And each one saw the meal it craved running away from him and was maddened by hunger. The left-hand body tried to swerve to the left after the goat; the right-hand body turned right after the pork; while the middle body tried to forge ahead after the bounding sheep.

  Of course, trying to go in three different directions, they went nowhere. They stopped. They tried to run again. The more violently they moved, the less they could go. Enraged, the bodies fell upon each other. The six legs began to kick at each other’s bodies. The six hands closed into fists and began to pound at the next face. The three mouths tried to fasten their fangs in each other’s necks.

  And, as Hercules watched from behind a tree, the three bodies of the single giant, ravaged by hunger, confused by wrath, fought savagely with themselves, and did Geryon the harm that no enemy could do. They battered faces to a pulp, kicked ribs in, and strangled themselves to death.

  Geryon fell like a squashed spider and twitched in the dust.

  “That was the joker in the prophecy,” said Hercules. “He could be killed by no one else, as some god or demon had promised for some reason we’ll never know. But split by wrath, each self hating the next self, he could be torn by a terrible inner war, and destroy himself. And I’m very happy to have thought of a way to make it happen. Now, all I have to do is swim a herd of bulls ten miles across the sea to the mainland and drive them a hundred miles to Mycenae. But that will seem easy after the work I did this afternoon … and I’m about ready for a swim.”

  THE SPEAR-BIRDS OF THE MARSH

  OF ALL THE THINGS with wings in the world of long ago, the Spear-birds of the Marsh were the most dangerous. There were those who said that dragons—which also have wings—were worse, but these people were mistaken, because dragons always hunted alone, while the Spear-birds did their killing in flocks.

  They were very big birds, larger than eagles, with stiltlike legs and an enormous wingspread. Their long sharp iron beaks could break rock or pierce the strongest shield. They were always hungry and ate everything that moved. But their favorite food was a nice juicy human being.

  To get rid of these deadly creatures was Hercules’ next task. What made it even harder was that the Spear-birds lived in a marsh that sucked like quicksand. Its mud swallowed everything that touched it; not even a crocodile could live there. In fact, the only creatures that could dwell in the marsh were water snakes and the Spear-birds themselves, who fed on the water snakes. Their stilt legs held them safely above the sucking mud, and their powerful wings could lift them clear when they wanted to fly away.

  When Hercules came near the marsh he knew he was approaching a place of death. The edge of the swamp was littered with bones: shoulder bones and leg bones, spools of spine, rib cages, and skulls. So many kinds of skulls. Cow skulls, sheep skulls, and many human skulls with their terrible smiles. Skeleton hands held rusty shields.

  Hercules studied everything very carefully. The Spear-birds were feeding. He watched them drive their long beaks deep into the mud and come out with long wriggling water snakes, which they killed by snapping them in the air like whips. He watched a bird toss the limp body in the air, catch it as it came down, and swallow it whole. He tossed a stick into the marsh to test the sucking power of the mud, and the mud swallowed the stick just as the bird had swallowed the snake.

  “I can’t go in there after them,” he thought. “I’ll have to make them come to me. But how shall I fight them? What weapons shall I use? The best way would be to make them rise in a flock and shoot my poison arrows into their midst. Yes, that’s how I could kill the most of them with least danger to myself. But I would be endangering others. I would be threatening the whole countryside, for the dead birds would fall back into the marsh and their bodies, poisoned by my arrows, would poison the marsh. This huge marsh feeds a whole river system by underground streams, and the rivers would be poisoned. Cattle drinking out of these rivers would sicken and die, and people, too. No, I will not use my poison arrows, even though it would be convenient. I must think of another way. But what? If I fling a lance among them, I might hit one or two, but that’s all. And to use sword or knife I’d have to bring them close enough for them to use their terrible beaks on me. Nevertheless, I do have to get them close.”

  He thought some more. At last he decided that the best way to fight the birds was to put on his lion-skin armor—which even those iron beaks couldn’t pierce—and to stand there on the shore, letting the birds dive down at him. They would blunt their beaks against the lion hide, and he would be able to finish them off with sword or knife.

  He put on the lion-skin armor, the lion-head helmet, and the great gauntlets of lion hide. He took up two of the fallen shields and clanged them together, making a hideous clattering noise. The startled birds rose in a great cloud and hovered over the marsh. Hercules danced up and down, shouting at them, beckoning to them, trying to make them attack, then stood there, sword in hand, waiting.

  One of them swooped low and came at him. He took a deep breath and waited. Down, down, it came, so close that he could see its snake face and the sun flashing off its iron beak. It came closer, closer, as he crouched, waiting. The bird swerved, swooped upward. He felt the draft of air from its mighty wings, but its beak never touched him, nor did it come within reach of his hands. He watched it as it climbed away.

  Another bird dived. He waited. It came closer, very close. Then the same thing happened. When it was close enough for him to see the light splintering off its beak, it swooped up, sailed away, and joined the flock.

  This happened several times. Then Hercules saw the flock coasting down. He watched the birds as they settled in the marsh again and began to feed.

  “I know what it is,” he said to himself. “They smell the lion skin and think I’m the lion. They’ve flown over Mount Nemea, these birds; it’s not far from here. And a lot of them probably got killed by the lion before they learned to keep their distance. And now they won’t come near me as long as I’m wearing the lion skin. But do I dare meet them uncovered? Those iron beaks will make a sieve of my body. I don’t know. I have to get them close, and I can’t wear the hide, so I’ll have to risk it.”

  He cast away the lion skin, lifted the shields, clanged them again, and stood there bare-chested as the birds rose from the marsh and darkened the sky. Half-naked he stood there, watching them hover. Again he called to them and danced and beckoned. And watched a bird peel off and dive.

  Hercules’ breastbone was like a curved piece of brass. His own bronzed skin was tougher than leather. Between bone and skin was a great sheathing of muscle. The Spear-bird came diving so fast that Hercules had no time to swing his sword before the bird was on him, driving its beak into his chest. The beak stuck, couldn’t go through.

  Hercules felt a sickening pain, but the pain did not make him lose strength. His hand grasped the Spear-bird’s neck and twisted the life out. The bird went limp. But another bird was on its way and drove its beak into his chest. He chopped with the ed
ge of his hand, breaking that bird’s neck. Now two iron beaks stuck in his chest, two dead birds dangling from them. He plucked them out of his body and flung them away. Blood poured from his chest.

  And the birds were coming.

  One by one, they swooped down at him, stabbing with their iron beaks. The beaks bent on his massive chest, but tore the skin until the white bone showed. As they dived and stabbed, they fell into his hands, and he broke their necks. His shoulder muscles stood out in great ridges, his back muscles in great clumps, as he twisted those necks that were tougher than bull whips.

  His arms were so tired now that he could hardly lift them. Dead birds were heaped about him, but there still seemed to be as many as ever hovering above. They kept diving. He was covered with blood. He knew that he had lost too much blood. He felt himself tottering. Felt his head swarm with dizziness. He knew he couldn’t keep it up.

  Now, he had been very careful about choosing the place to take his stand. The marsh was ringed by boulders. Beyond the boulders was a grove of pine trees. He had chosen to meet the birds at a place where one rock lay over two others, making a kind of shelter, which he had known he might need if he were losing the battle.

  He needed it now. He dropped to the ground and crawled into the open cave. Just in time. As he pulled his leg under, a beak drove into the ground; a second later and he would have been nailed there with a beak through his foot. Before the bird could pull away, he smashed its head in with a rock. Then he crouched under his boulder roof as the birds, enraged, dived at the boulder, driving their beaks against it.

  To his horror, he heard the huge rock begin to crack. He had been told that the Spear-birds could crack rocks with their beaks, but he hadn’t believed they could do anything against that heavy boulder. He heard them diving down at it, chipping away at it. He saw small rocks falling off like hailstones.

  “By the gods,” he whispered. “Another hour of this and they’ll break through that boulder and I’ll be like a turtle without its shell.”

  He saw that the low opening of his rock shelter was filling with red light, and he knew that the sun was sinking. He tried to think how long it would be before darkness fell. It was important, because these birds flew by day and roosted by night and would not keep up the attack after dark. So he crouched there listening to the boulder crumble over his head, watching the rocks slide off to make a heap of rocks, watching the red light fade, trying to think of a way to defend himself if the monster birds did break through. So busy was he measuring the light and planning what to do that he forgot about his pain and just prayed for darkness.

  The red light faded, became a purple light, a blackish-blue light, then blackness. He kept watching the boulder overhead, listening to the beaks drive into the rock. And just as the last light went, a beak did come through. But it disappeared immediately and he heard a beating of wings and felt a trickle of draft through the hole in the boulder roof. He knew that the birds were flying away into the darkness and that he was safe until dawn.

  “I can’t sit here,” he said to himself. “I must use this night I have been given. I’ve got to stop this bleeding, get some strength back, and prepare for dawn. They’ll be back at the first light.”

  He pulled oregano leaves from his pouch and chewed them into a pulp, which he then spread over his wounded chest. Chiron had taught him that the leaves of the wild mint plant called oregano had great healing power over wounds made by iron. He felt the pain draining out of his chest, felt the blood beginning to clot. But he had bled so much that he was still weak as he crawled out from under the rock and made his way into the grove of trees.

  For he had a plan. It was a desperate plan, but it was the best he could do. He went among the pine trees, took vines, and braided them into a rope of vines. Then braided the ropes into a cable of vines. He found a young pine tree and bent it to the ground, then let it go. It whipped out of his hands with terrific force, snapped through its own arc, and touched the ground on the other side. He broke off a heavy branch from a fallen tree, fitted its forked end against the top of the pine, and bent the young pine again. He bent it to the ground and let it snap up. Like a giant bow it hurled the stick of wood toward the sky. Hercules bent the pine tree again, tied one of his vine cables to it, and tied the other end of the cable to the base of a nearby tree. It was a clear night, luckily, and he could see by moonlight. He found another young pine and did the same thing. He kept bending pines and tying them in a bent position until he had cocked some forty trees.

  By now he was very tired. The wounds on his chest had opened again and were bleeding. He chewed more oregano leaves and plastered them to his chest with great scoops of marsh mud. Now half his work was done; but he still had the other half to do, and the sky was growing pale. He had only an hour until dawn.

  He raced back to his rock shelter, spread out his lion skin, and shoveled the chipped rocks onto the hide. Then he drew the four corners of the lion skin together into a great sack and swung the sack to his shoulder. It was so heavy it made him walk bowlegged, but he toiled back into the grove of trees again. One by one, he visited his bent pine trees and stuck rocks into the top branches, wedging them carefully—tightly enough so that they would not fall, but loosely enough so that they would fly out of the trees when the time came. The bent trees strained and quivered against their binding of vine as he wedged in the rocks that the Spear-birds had broken for him. But the vine cables held, and Hercules kept working until the sack was empty and the bent trees were loaded with rocks.

  Now the sky was pink. He heard a loud rusty cawing as the birds settled on the marsh and began to hunt water snakes. But feeding kept them too far apart. Each bird had its own territory and drove its beak into its own space, spearing the snakes. He needed the birds in one tightly packed flock.

  He picked up the two rusty shields again, stretched his arms wide, and clapped the shields together, making a horrid metallic din. The birds beat their wings, tearing their legs from the mud, rising in a great cloud out of the marsh, blotting out the pink sky.

  Hercules turned and bolted toward the grove of trees. The birds hung in the air, waiting for him to show himself. But now he was among his bent pines. He drew his knife and lashed a vine cable. The young pine whipped in an arc, loosing a storm of stones. With all the force of the springing pine behind them, the rocks hurtled more swiftly than an arrow shot from a bow or a stone flung from a sling and swept through the flock in a murderous hail.

  Birds dropped. Hercules watched them fall. He yelled for joy and sprang from tree to tree, slashing vines. The trees whipped up, loosing their hail of stones, sending them among the flock. The flock broke. Single birds began to scoot away. None dived.

  The pink sky was yellow now, a glorious full dawn. The marsh was free of birds. Dead birds lay among the bones of the creatures they had killed, and soon their bones would be added to the rubble.

  Hercules was very weary. He had lost much blood. But he had scattered the flock and killed most of the Spear-birds. It would be a long time before they could terrorize the countryside again. He picked up his lion skin and his weapons and limped away from the marsh, heading for a river where he could swim and cleanse himself.

  “Then,” he thought, “I’ll sleep for the rest of the day and all tonight. And tomorrow I’ll set out, but not for Mycenae. No, I’ve earned a bit of rest. I shall go to Thebes and see my parents and tell Iole the story of my adventures.”

  THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA

  IN THOSE DAYS, EVERYONE knew that the earth was flat and that the sky was held up by mountains. But at the very northwestern corner of the world, in the uttermost island behind the West Wind, that part of the sky was held up by a Titan named Atlas, who did a mountain’s work. He was there because in the beginning of time he had fought against Zeus, and it was his punishment to stand in that orchard forever holding the sky on his shoulders.

  The place he stood was called the Garden of the Hesperides, but it was more of an orchard th
an a garden. Apple trees grew in that orchard, and one tree bore apples of solid gold. This tree had not always been there. It was Mother Earth’s wedding gift to Hera and had been planted in the Garden of the Gods on Olympus. Hera had been very selfish about these apples and would never give any to the other gods, who, after a while, began to help themselves. So she dug up her tree, took it as far as she could—to the western edge of the world—and replanted it in the orchard there. And to make sure that the fruit would not be stolen, she set a giant serpent to guard the tree. It wound itself around the trunk and devoured anyone who came near.

  To fetch one of these golden apples from the dangerous orchard on the western rim of the world, where the Titan, Atlas, held the sky on his shoulders, became the next task facing Hercules.

  Hercules was given this message as he stood before the iron gates of Mycenae, and again it was Copreus who brought him the king’s commands.

  “I’ll need some directions, my friend,” said Hercules. “Everyone has heard of this tree and these apples, but no one seems to know how to get there.”

  “Only one creature in the world can tell you that,” said Copreus. “The Old Man of the Sea alone knows the secret of the orchard.”

  “And where do I find him?”

  “He dwells on the island of Ner, which is his kingdom. His own name is Nereus, but he is known as the Old Man of the Sea. And I must warn you: he’s a pretty unpleasant sort of fellow. Not at all easy to deal with.”

  “I’m getting used to that,” said Hercules. “Everything about these missions gets unpleasant sooner or later. Farewell.”

  Hercules, as usual, felt very much alone in the world as he set out on his mission. But this time he was less alone. For someone else was also thinking very hard about the Old Man of the Sea. It happened this way.