Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two

by Bernard Evslin

  CHAPTER VII

  An Amazon’s Dream

  CHAPTER VIII

  Thyone Goes Hunting

  CHAPTER IX

  Artemis in Scythia

  CHAPTER X

  Hecate’s Idea

  CHAPTER XI

  The Raid

  CHAPTER XII

  The Hippocrene Spring

  CHAPTER XIII

  The Silver Stag

  CHAPTER XIV

  Hero Meets Monster

  1

  Food that Isn’t Fish

  Not long after things began, certain homeless gods were offered a garden called Earth where they might grow fruit and grain and flowers. Animals, too, were promised, and a special clever one who would look like a cross between ape and god, and be prone to the kind of misadventure that most amused the Mighty Ones.

  At first, though, this new place was just a bowl of red-hot rock full of water that hissed and boiled and bubbled. Gods hunched above it, trying to peer through the steam. When the bowl cooled they saw that it held a vital broth. Powerful new life was sprouting, casting itself into a wild variety of shapes, which swam off and began making more of themselves. And when they weren’t breeding they were eating. Down through the entire life chain, what was bigger fed on what was smaller. But creatures of every size bred so fast that there was always enough to eat.

  During those earliest years when a few islands had thrust themselves out of the roiling tides, another form of life was slowly blossoming. When it appeared, even the gods were dismayed.

  Monsters!

  Deep undersea, enormous eggs cracked and the first monsters wriggled out. They began growing as soon as they left the egg, and reached full size in a single day. These huge misshapen beasts not only ate everything in sight but seemed to be of a different nature, seemed to kill not only for food but for pleasure.

  Dread and Evil had entered the world—which was now ready for man to appear.

  The first humans in the Garden of Earth found themselves among fruit trees, and fed upon olives and figs, quinces, pomegranates, and the rich seeds called nuts. All this kept them alive and healthy, but there was something else they wanted; they didn’t know what. This craving led them deeper and deeper into the orchard until, finally, they came upon a tree that bore golden fruit.

  Uttering glad cries they rushed upon the tree, tore fruit from the branches and crammed it into their mouths. It was so delicious and they were so happy to be eating it that they ignored the thing that was wrapped about the trunk in huge, green coils—or, perhaps, they took it for a thick vine.

  It was not a vine. It was a serpent called Ladon, one of the first monsters, and the very first to crawl out of the sea in search of food that wasn’t fish. On his way through the orchard he had eaten a stag, a bear, and a flight of wild geese, and still wanted more.

  Obeying some instinct, he stopped hunting; he wrapped himself about a tree and waited for a meal to come to him. It came—a troop of naked men and women, all fresh and shining, and very hungry. He watched them eating fruit for a while, then began eating them.

  When he was finished he fell asleep, still draped about the tree, but more tightly because he was fatter.

  Islands kept rising from the sea; on every one of them animals began to breed, including men. Ladon swam from island to island, stalking the larger animals through field and wood, but stopping always at a village when he could find one, because he had formed a special craving for human flesh.

  When he returned to the immense sea-cavern where monster eggs were hatched, he told his family about these new islands where the hunting was so good and the game was so delicious. And certain of his brothers and sisters followed him when he surfaced again. They crawled ashore after him and began to hunt.

  These were his sister, Echidne, the sea viper; her son, the three-headed dog named Cerberus, who refused to eat humans and fed on wild boar; a cousin, Polypus, the sea blob, who had no jaws but simply dropped his jellylike mass on his prey and digested it alive; and Ladon’s niece, the Sphinx, a winged lion with a woman’s head. Once ashore, she discovered the use of her wings, sprang into the air and began to hunt like a giant hawk, striking from above and devouring bears as if they were rabbits, and eagles as if they were doves.

  But Ladon’s parents, Ceto, the triple snake, and Phorcys, the sea hog, refused to leave the depths of the ocean. They didn’t like the land or anything connected with it, and fed happily on sharks and octopi and enormous turtles.

  Thousands of years passed—only a few months in the life of a god or monster—and islands were sliding together to form continents. On the most beautiful peninsula, where hills ran down to the Middle Sea, there stood a high mountain, called Olympus. Upon its peak, Zeus, the King of the Gods, built his cloud castle, and dwelt there with his wife, Hera, Queen of the Gods.

  But Zeus courted a young princess of Thebes, Alcmene, Lady of the Light Footsteps. She bore twins. One was the son of her husband; the other—a giant, shining babe—was the son of Zeus. She named this one Hercules. And from his infancy on, Hera hated him and vowed to destroy him. She couldn’t kill him herself because Zeus favored the lad and would be most displeased.

  So she employed monsters.

  But Hercules slew the first two she sent against him—the Nemean Lion and the Hydra, each of whom had wasted their districts, devouring herds, herdsmen, villagers, and warriors. And with each of the young man’s victories Hera’s hatred festered and swelled, filling her to the brim with its venom.

  2

  The Harpy Queen

  Hades, Ruler of the Dead, also loathed Hercules and had taught his fiends and demons to do so. For by killing monsters the young hero saved the lives of mortals, depriving Hades of subjects, and the fiends and demons of those they might torment. So it was that Hecate, Queen of the Harpies and Hades’ most trusted murderess, was often sent to the upper regions to confer with Hera—who welcomed her advice.

  Hecate knew that it was Hera’s habit to finish the day by strolling in the Garden of the Gods, when dusk bewitched the sight and the evening breeze was heavy with fragrance. The hundred-handed giant who tended the garden did his best to please Hera, who was very hard to please. Each day he wove her a different chaplet of flowers. And upon this dusk, as Hecate folded her brass wings and landed on the grass, she saw that Hera wore a crown of iris and rose and gentian. Soft flames of blue and deeper blue and crimson mingled in her dark hair.

  Hecate gasped with pure pleasure. “That creepy gardener of yours has worked well today, O Queen. His chaplet of flowers burns upon your head more gorgeously than any wrought of jewels.”

  “I’m glad to see you, dear friend,” said Hera. “I’ve been in a foul mood all day long.”

  “Any reason?”

  “The same reason. The same damned thing has happened again despite all my efforts. Hercules has killed the Hydra and come out of the battle without a scratch. I can’t understand how it happened.”

  “Let us reason it out together, My Queen. Reports of the battle have drifted down to us, remote as we are from your business up here. And from what I understand Hercules went in very well prepared. He was armored from head to toe in the hide of the Nemean Lion—his first kill, as you will remember—and that hide cannot be pierced by any weapon. Yes, his entire body was covered; he made leggings and boots of the hide, gauntlets too, and wore the lion’s skull as a helmet. So he went untouched by the poison fangs of the hundred-headed monster. We must ask ourselves why this rash youth prepared himself so carefully this time.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “I think someone is feeding him valuable information.”

  “You’re saying my secrets are being betrayed?”

  “Yes.”

  “By whom?”

  “By someone you confide in. Someone close to you.”

  “I confide in almost no one beside you.”

  “Then the traitor should be easy to find. How about that creature who flits about on your erran
ds?”

  “Iris?”

  “I mean the loony thing who flutters out after storms, flinging those stupid colors around.”

  “That’s Iris, Caster of Rainbows, and my messenger.”

  “Does she know your secrets?”

  “A few, perhaps. Not all.”

  “Something tells me she’s the one,” said Hecate. “She has a treacherous look. All smiles all the time, and soft words. No one can be that sweet.”

  “You just don’t like her.”

  “Do you—really?”

  “Well,” said Hera, “I admit her sugary ways gripe me sometimes, but she’s been useful to me.”

  “I think she’s been even more useful to Hercules.”

  “As it happened, I kept her close to my side before the battle. She wasn’t out of my sight for a second. There was no way she could have gotten to him.”

  “Couldn’t she have sent anyone?”

  “She has a daughter,” said Hera. “Impudent, nosy brat. I suppose she could have sent her. But I can’t believe she’d dare to. She knows what would happen if I found out.”

  “If I were you I’d start making it happen,” said Hecate.

  “I can’t—not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “We have no hard evidence of her guilt. If I do dreadful things to her out of mere suspicion there will be an uproar in Heaven. She’s a general favorite up here, you know.”

  “I’ll go digging for evidence, My Queen. I’ll visit the grove at Lerna and try to find someone who actually saw the battle.”

  “No people would have been there,” said Hera. “Mortals fled the very name of the Hydra.”

  “Birds would have been in the trees or flying overhead,” said Hecate. “Birds make excellent witnesses. And I know how to question them. They trust me because I have wings.”

  3

  Flight of the Rainbow

  In a great meadow in Arcadia dwelt a clan of flower nymphs. It was their task to gather wild blossoms and steep them in a vat, making dyes for the rainbow goddess. Iris visited the meadow before every storm, dipped her streamers in the dyes, then, when the storm was finished, flung them across the sky in an arc of colors.

  The flower nymphs were her most trusted friends. She left her child, Iole, in their care. And here the tiny girl had grown into a lovely, long-legged one, supple as a sapling.

  Now, upon this blue and gold day, the nymphs were surprised to see Iris floating down. “Greetings!” one cried. “We did not expect to see you today. The sky is clear and the wind is from the west.”

  “Another kind of storm is brewing,” said Iris. “I’ll explain later, dear friends. Right now I must speak with Iole.”

  She drew her daughter aside. “What is it, Mother?” cried Iole. “You look so serious. Oh, I know, I know!”

  “What do you know?”

  “You’ve learned that Hera is planning a new peril for Hercules, and you want me to warn him. Well, I’m ready. I’ve been longing to search for him anyway, but had no excuse.”

  “Well, my child,” said Iris. “It is we who face peril. Hera suspects that we helped him against the Hydra. We must flee.”

  “Where to?”

  “Anywhere … everywhere. She’ll ransack every corner of the earth, and the seas also.”

  “But we move lightly and swiftly, Mother. And know how to melt into thin air or merge with the shadows. So perhaps we can elude her.”

  “Perhaps, but we must separate,” said Iris. “If we stay together she’ll surely find us. You go one way and I’ll go the other. And we shall meet in better times, my darling.”

  “I’m ready. Farewell.”

  “Farewell, lovely child. Kiss me.”

  They embraced. Wept a tear or two. Then smiled bravely at each other, kissed again, and parted.

  Iole fled so lightly over the meadow that the grass didn’t bend beneath her feet. She disappeared into a fringe of trees, singing as she went. Released from her mother’s care, she could now search for her beloved Hercules. And this made her very happy.

  On brass wings Hecate flew back to Olympus, and alighted in the Garden of the Gods. It wanted an hour till dusk—Hera’s time to walk in the garden. And Hecate amused herself by taking a twig and scratching lines in the damp earth. An idea had struck her for a new torment to be called the Marrow Log, and she was sketching its design. When she saw Hera coming she flung the twig away and arose to greet her.

  “I’ve done it!” she cried. “I have the proof we need. It was indeed Iris and Iole who betrayed you. Iris overheard our conversation about the Hydra’s poison fangs and sent her daughter to warn Hercules that he must wear lion-skin armor.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I caught a flower nymph and tortured her a bit. She wasn’t much fun. I’d hardly gotten started before she yammered out all she knew.”

  “Very well,” said Hera. “Let’s go catch them. We’d better hurry, though. Iris may suspect something. She can read my mood even at a distance.”

  “I’m ready,” said Hecate.

  Hera whistled up her swan chariot. In a rush of white wings the great birds drew the chariot to the garden. Hera jumped in. The swans beat their wings again and the chariot arose. Hecate spread her wings and flew easily alongside.

  They sped high and low, searching sky and earth. They dipped into the valleys, searched the slopes, skimmed the treetops. Hecate descended sometimes to question birds. But search as they might, they could find no trace of the rainbow goddess or her daughter.

  4

  A Suitable Monster

  Hera prowled the mountaintop, raging. “What’s the use of being Queen of the Gods if I’m thwarted every place I turn? I can’t punish Iris or Iole because I can’t find them. Nor can I find a suitable task for Hercules. Since he slew the Hydra, monster activity has slowed down to a crawl. All the best serpents and dragons and spear-birds and giant boars seem to be stuck in their holes or dens or undersea caverns or wherever the hell they lurk … This can’t go on. Surely, somewhere, there’s some powerful, murderous beast I can use. But I hear of no countryside being ravaged, no crops uprooted, no herds devoured, no villagers massacred. And that muscle-bound young lout is lolling at his ease somewhere, safe from my vengeance. It’s unbearable! I simply must find a suitable monster and arrange a fatal encounter.”

  On impulse she whistled up her chariot and ranged over the Middle Sea from the southern shore of Attica to the northern edge of Africa. For the most dreadful monsters, she knew, were to be found in the sea.

  Flying west toward Iberia, she saw a three-decked ship running before the wind. She watched it idly as the wind dropped and the sail flapped, causing the men to spring onto the rowing benches and unship their long oars. The oar blades flashed and the ship crawled over the glittering water. Then she saw something else.

  A huge, wedge-shaped head poked out of the sea. Coil upon coil, the impossibly long body of a serpent heaved out. The head swiveled toward the ship; its loops flattened and it began to swim after the vessel. It seemed to be gliding through the water without effort, yet it was catching up to the ship.

  The sailors hadn’t seen it. They kept rowing, and sang as they rowed. Hera had dipped her chariot closer and could hear them sing. But the song turned to wild yells as the serpent cut in front of the bow and began to uncoil. Up, up it went until it towered above the mast. The men had cast away their oars and were wielding swords and spears and axes.

  The serpent flexed until its head was level with the deck. Then it opened its jaws, and the horrified seamen were looking down a hundred yards of gullet, lined with teeth. The jaws closed over the entire ship from stem to stern. Hera heard the hull cracking, heard muffled screams as the men vanished.

  The serpent lifted itself slightly again and spat out mast, oars, cordage, weapons, bits of sail. The debris floated in the reddening water. The serpent slid under and was gone.

  “Magnificent!” cried Hera. “That’s the monster
for me! I must find out more about him.”

  She returned to Olympus and sent a message to Tartarus, summoning Hecate, who came immediately. This time Hera received the Harpy queen in the courtyard of the cloud castle, and described what she had seen the day before.

  “Sounds like Ladon,” said Hecate.

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He’s the son of Ceto and Phorcys, and of all the monster brood is probably the most powerful. Uncoiled, he would stretch higher than that cedar. And his jaw hinge is located near his tail. While hunting in the sea he seeks whales because of his size but, as you have seen, will swerve away from a pod of whales to chase a ship.”

  “Yes, yes!” cried Hera. “And when his jaws closed he was crunching the ship—mast, oars, sails, and all. It happened too fast for anyone to escape. He swallowed the whole crew and spat out the wood. Not a man was left alive. I saw it happen, O Hecate, and the darkest closet of your Hell can offer no sight more stimulating.”

  “We have our moments,” drawled Hecate. “You haven’t visited us lately. We’ve added an interesting torment or two.”

  “Forgive me, dear. All I can think of at the moment is Ladon. What a splendid beast—exactly what I need for Hercules. I can just picture those wonderful long jaws closing on that misbegotten cur. Chomp … gulp … nothing left but a bloody rag of lion skin and some splinters of oaken club. I can’t wait.”

  5

  Another Hunger

  Iole was wandering through a wood. She heard voices raised in terror—yelling, shrieking, sobbing. Moving swiftly as a cat she climbed a cedar that towered over the other trees, so that she was able to look down past a fringe of willows into a clearing where a village stood.

  There she saw a serpent with huge, gaping jaws. He lay in a circle. His lower jaw rested on the ground; his upper jaw was lifted high, high. With his tail he was sweeping people into his mouth. He had encircled the entire population of the village, had eaten most of them, and was now finishing the rest. When the last one was gone, he spat buttons and bits of cloth, then carefully arranged his bulging coils and went to sleep.