“We all know one another here.”
“Where can I find him?”
“You can’t. He’s holed up somewhere trying to finish some tedious epic. Take him all summer, probably.”
“I’ll go dig him out of his hole.”
“What do you want him for? Did you commission some verses? Actually, he’s nowhere near as good as people say. I’ll write you a poem. I’m much better than people say. Any subject, two drachmae a line. Discount, over fifty lines. Be twice as much for anyone else, but I always make a special price for goddesses.”
“You take me for a goddess?”
“Certainly. You’re Artemis.”
“Are you sure?”
“Recognized you immediately—so tall, so silvery, bearing bow and arrows. You’re the moon, come at noon. See! I’m rhyming already. How about it? Two drachmae a line. Forget about that old has-been. Take me.”
“I’m not Artemis, little man. Not a goddess at all. And if I take you you’ll have no time for writing.”
“Not write? What will I do?”
“You’ll be taught your duties soon enough. Come along.”
“Where to?”
“Scythia.”
“Oh, no, too cold. Freezes the ink.”
“What’s your name?”
“Malo.”
“Come along, Malo.”
He smiled at her, but did not move. She swooped, swung him off the rock, tucked him under arm, and trotted to where her mare was tethered. Amazons rode into battle bareback, but used a saddle when traveling so that they could hang their gear. She was about to fold him over the withers of her mount, then remembered that her water bag would have to be refilled for the journey home. This meant that she had to leave her captive and find a spring. She stretched him on the ground, face down, pinning him under her big bare foot, as she unlooped a rope from the saddle. Kneeling, she trussed him like a calf, then lifted him again and carried him into the shade of a tree.
She found a spring, filled her water bag, and hurried back. From far off she saw a tangle of ropes under the tree. Long legs flashing, she raced like a deer to where she had left him. He was gone! She heard his voice, and whirled about. He was plucking grass and feeding the mare, talking to it softly.
In two steps she was upon him—swung him off the ground, lifting him until his face was level with hers. “How did you get loose?”
“I was a deck boy once. Learned about knots. I can slip any bond.”
She set him down but kept his shoulder clamped. “Why didn’t you run away while you had the chance?”
“Run away—after being captured by the moon? Flee the light? What kind of poet would do that?”
Her grip tightened on his shoulder as she bent to him. His eyes were dancing. “Are you mocking me?” she growled.
“Would I dare?”
“I’m not a goddess, I told you.”
“How do you know? It’s the worshiper who decides. Let’s not go to Scythia, though. Vile climate. We’ll stay here. I know a nice vacant cave on the south slope.”
“You are mocking.”
“No, my silvery huntress, no.”
“You’re too clever for me.”
“And you’re too big for me. But we can work things out.”
She sat on a rock and lifted him into her lap. “Show me,” she murmured.
9
Artemis in Scythia
News travels fast on Olympus, twice as fast if it’s spiced with malice. And there were many who delighted in telling the haughty Artemis that a tall, fleet, lovely Amazon had come to Helicon and was being worshiped as a goddess. Every bard there had dropped all projects to sing her praises. At first they kept comparing her to the moon goddess, but now declared that she was more beautiful.
Enraged, Artemis flew to Helicon. She hovered invisibly, observing everyone, getting angrier all the time. She was about to descend and slay them with her silver arrows, but remembered Zeus’s decree forbidding any god to kill more than six mortals a month.
“Never mind,” she said to herself. “I can contrive a more painful vengeance.”
She flew then to Scythia, coming to earth on a vast plain where stood the bearskin tents of the Amazons. It was a busy scene. The tall young women milled about—breaking horses, practicing archery, disciplining their men. A rich clamor filled the air: the neighing of horses, swish of arrows, meaty thwack of hand against husband, women yelling, dogs barking, men sobbing.
Artemis spotted the one she was looking for, the largest woman, almost middle-aged, very stately, wearing a crown. It was Hippolyte, the Amazon queen. The goddess made herself visible, appearing before Hippolyte in all her brightness.
“Come into the glade,” she said.
“I am your servant,” said the queen.
“I bring you news of Thyone.”
“Thyone! Our silver filly! She went a-raiding and vanished. We thought her dead.”
“Not dead. Wed.”
“What?” cried Hippolyte. “A wife?”
Artemis then told her what she had seen on Helicon. “… And she’s living very contentedly in their cave, hoping to bear his child.”
“Then she really loves him?”
“Certainly seems like it.”
“But he’s so very small, you say.”
“Very tricky, too. Knows how to transform handicaps into attractions. He uses his smallness.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He works up close. And has convinced her that his exact size is the ideal of manly beauty.”
“Goddess, are you really telling me that this runt has so befuddled our proud young filly that she’s doing unwomanly house chores?”
“Just the heavy work. Chops wood, lifts things that are beyond his strength—which are most things. She does the hunting, of course. He does the cooking. He’s good at it.”
“Well, it’s all too disgusting,” said Hippolyte, “and cannot be permitted to go on. This Malo must be a wizard of some kind, and has bound her with vile enchantments.”
“Indeed … he can weave a spell with words.”
“Our sister must be rescued, and those evil ones taught a lesson. We’ll ride to Helicon and finish them off. Keep a few of the biggest, perhaps, and kill the rest.”
“I must warn you,” said Artemis. “She’ll fight like a tigress to protect him. You’ll have to kill her too.”
“If necessary, we will,” said Hippolyte. “Death before dishonor.”
Hypnos was the kindliest of the gods, and could not forget the dream he had brought to Thyone. He knew that Ares had meant mischief, but didn’t know what kind. So he decided to keep his eye on things.
As it happened he had much business over Helicon. Poets use up dreams at an alarming rate, and don’t always wait until they’re asleep. So Hypnos overflew Helicon every night, and was pleased to see that Thallo was unhurt, and that the young Amazon was living happily with someone else.
But then he learned that Artemis had begun to hate the Heliconians even more than Ares did, and was mobilizing the Amazons for a murderous raid. He fretted about this. But he was of a very peaceable nature, and never opposed anyone in anything.
Finally, though, he decided to do something in his own way. “It will take a truly heroic effort,” he said to himself, “to keep those wild women from wholesale bardicide. They’ll simply mangle the poor poets unless they’re stopped. But who can help? No god will take the trouble, and the Muses need a year to make up their minds about anything. It will have to be a mortal. But who? … Hercules, of course! He is the one most willing and most able to help the weak against the strong. I’ll do a dream for him this very night.”
10
Hecate’s Idea
Botanus, the hundred-handed giant who was the gods’ gardener, traveled the world over seeking the most exquisite blooms so that he might bring them back to Olympus. He was now showing his latest cuttings to Hera.
“Yes, very nice,” she said.
He told then about a very curious plant he had discovered in a distant jungle. “Gorgeous, My Queen. Something like an orchid, but evil. Twice a day, at dawn and dusk, its blooms open—then snap shut on whatever insect or small bird is sipping its pollen.”
“Does it eat them?”
“It does, it does.”
“Are there any large enough to eat men?”
“Not that I know of. The ones I saw were orchid size.”
“Well,” said Hera. “You’ll oblige me if you can find some really big ones. I’d like to give a bouquet to someone.”
Just then Hera heard a shout from above, and turned to see Hecate coasting in on brass wings. The giant sidled away. For all his size he was afraid of Hecate. The Harpy queen ran toward Hera, shouting.
“Good news!”
“About time,” said Hera. “What’s happening?”
“Fortune, which favors the fortunate—namely us—has called poetry to our aid.”
“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“As it happens, Hercules is on his way to Mount Helicon, where the Muses dwell. He’s on one of his absurd missions of mercy—to rescue some oppressed bards. They’re always whimpering about one thing or another, you know.”
“How does all this help us?”
“Listen carefully,” said Hecate. “We shall manage the weather and clamp a great heat on Helicon when he gets there. So he’ll be very thirsty and drink deeply of the pure crystal waters of the Hippocrene Spring, which casts those who drink it into a gentle frenzy. They believe their own visions and grow drunk on the music of words. In short, the hero you loathe will be transformed into an apprentice poet. Bits of verse boiling within him will slacken his warrior fibre. His wits will be addled. He’ll lose muscle tone, and his reflexes will falter, then vanish. So he should be easy prey for Ladon.”
“Don’t speak to me of Ladon!” cried Hera. “I’ve told you he’s useless now. He’s slobbering over that redheaded slut. It’s absolutely disgusting.”
“No, it’s good.”
“Good? What can you possibly mean?”
“I mean,” said Hecate, “this unlikely love affair can play into our hands also. I have thought the matter through, O Hera—forward and backward—and I have a further idea, one that will bind things together so that we may solve all our problems at once.”
“Sounds like fantasy,” said Hera. “But please tell me. I need something to lift my spirits.”
“We’ll get word to Iole that Hercules is on Helicon. She’ll hurry there, and Ladon will follow, for he can’t bear to let her out of his sight. When she sees Hercules she’ll rush into his arms, of course, and this—mark my words now—this will make the serpent madly jealous. He’ll forget all that vegetable nonsense and attack Hercules, who, weakened by poetics, will be unable to defend himself.”
“Sounds all right,” said Hera glumly, “but a lot of things do till you start doing them.”
“You’ll feel better when we go into action,” said Hecate.
“Where shall we start?”
“The first thing is to get word to the wench about Hercules’ whereabouts. She’s at sea, probably, with her snake. Your brother, Poseidon, can help us here. He has shoals of gabby Nereids who can spread the news.”
“I’ll send him a message immediately,” said Hera.
She did. Poseidon spoke to his Nereids, who fanned out, jabbering to each other. Now gossip spreads even faster underwater than on land. And before long, Iole, who often dived off Ladon’s head to frolic with sea nymphs, learned that Hercules was visiting Mount Helicon.
11
The Raid
A waking from the night-vision sent by Hypnos, Hercules knew that a mountainful of poets was in dreadful peril. He didn’t quite understand the nature of the threat, but knew that he was being called on to help. Whereupon he set off for Helicon, beginning a journey that was to cover more distance than he thought.
But the Amazons were already on their way, riding swift horses, while Hercules went on foot. So the warrior women reached the mountain before he did. They climbed until they reached a grassy plain cut by a stream. Here, Hippolyte called a halt.
“Hearken, sisters,” she called. “Dismount and let the horses drink; then proceed on foot. Fan out and comb the slopes. Those you hunt are on their home ground and know every hiding place. They’ll dive into holes, wedge themselves in hollow trees, and burrow into caves. But I want them taken, every last one.”
“Do we kill them on the spot?” called one girl, unfurling a whip. “Or can we have some fun first?”
“Neither,” cried Hippolyte. “This will be our collection point. I want them all brought right here so we can sort them out. There may be a few we’ll want to take home. The others you can do with as you wish before finishing them off. But I want them all here first, cleaned up and ready for sorting. The Second Squad will be the scrubbing detail. Take ’em downstream for their bath, and scrub hard; they’re a filthy lot, I hear. Better burn their clothes too, or we’ll catch fleas. That’s it, ladies. Good hunting!”
Yelling and laughing, the girls ran up the slope. Each bore bow and quiver as well as a length of rope, or a net. Long-legged and effortlessly fierce as storks hunting frogs, they fanned out in a skirmish line as they raced up the mountain.
The stream purling swiftly downhill formed a natural pool at the end of the meadow. Here was where the captives were to be bathed. While waiting for the first men to be brought in, the girls of the scrub detail flung off their tunics and dived into the pool. Singing and laughing, they cavorted in the cool water; they were sleek and powerful as dolphins.
Nycippe was stalking through an oak grove. Somewhere in the wood men were screaming, which meant they were being captured. But she hadn’t caught anyone yet, and itched for action. She felt a sudden craving for something sweet, and began to search for honeycombs. She found a hollow tree and reached in—and touched something alive. It moved. She closed her hand on what seemed like an animal’s pelt. Bracing her legs, she pulled a little man out by the beard. He made no sound, but looked at her out of big black eyes. She hoisted him over her shoulder and trotted downhill.
Her companions were streaming downhill, too. Each had caught at least one man. They carried them over their shoulders or tucked under their arms, or upside down, dangling by the ankles. One group of girls who had caught two men each had tied their nets together, stuffed their whole catch in, and were dragging the net downhill. The men struggled like herrings, trying to get to the center of the net bag because the outside ones were being bruised as they bumped over rocks.
Nycippe took her man to the pool and was about to throw him to the scrub girls, but suddenly decided to bathe him herself. She carried him into the pool, and after ducking him a few times and swishing him back and forth in the water, she pulled him out and stretched him on a flat rock. She had taken sand from the bottom and now began to scour him. The dirt came off, but she kept scrubbing. A fierce curiosity had seized her; she felt she was unpeeling him to discover what was within. She scrubbed harder and harder, then saw that his skin was actually peeling off. He was in pain, she knew, but he made no outcry—although the other men in the pool were weeping and screaming as the girls worked on them.
“What am I doing wrong?” called Nycippe.
“You want to mix oil with the sand before scouring,” said a scrub girl.
“No use bothering with that one anymore,” said another. “Look at the poor thing. You might as well drown him.”
Nycippe was rambunctious, but not really cruel. Now, she didn’t recognize her feelings. She turned the little man in her hands to see how she had misused him. He looked like a half-flayed rabbit. He was a rabbit, and she felt herself turning into a leopard to rummage his bones. She saw the others looking at her, and knew they expected her to drown him.
She pretended to be pushing him under the water, but hid his face under her hand so that he could br
eathe. When the others were too busy to notice, she bore him to the shore and scooped some moss over him. He didn’t say anything but his black eyes questioned her.
“You’re not much to look at, but you’ve got guts,” she whispered. “Maybe I can whip you into shape. Stay right here until I come back.”
Now, Thyone had not let herself be lulled into carelessness while living happily with Malo. She had always suspected that the Amazons might come after their lost sister, and she had prepared against invasion. High up, near the mountain peak, she had arranged huge, round boulders, balancing them so that a slight shove would send them thundering down to crush anyone who might be climbing the slope.
Now, when the first sounds of the manhunt reached her cave, she snatched Malo up, set him on her shoulders, and raced toward the peak, letting him off only when they had reached the circle of rocks. She said, “I know you want to go down there and help your friends, my brave darling, but I won’t let you.”
“You won’t?”
“Absolutely not. You’d never come back. One of the sisters will take you to Scythia and peel you like an onion to see where the song comes from.”
Now, Malo’s courage was confined to daring metaphors. The last thing he wanted to do was go down and fight. But he had always encouraged her to overestimate him. He heaved a deep sigh and said, “Very well, I’ll stay up here—but only to please you.”
“Oh, thank you, sweetheart.”
In the pure hush of the mountaintop they heard faint screams drifting up from below. “Listen to them,” said Malo. “They’re having an awful time. I really should—”
She swung him off his feet and hugged him tightly to her. “You can’t go! You promised! Anyway, you told me you write better about battles you haven’t been to. Didn’t you tell me that? Didn’t you?”
“True, true,” he murmured. “I shall want to write about this one, and had better not confuse myself with facts. Put me down now; you’re breaking my ribs.”
12
The Hippocrene Spring
The Amazons, coming from Scythia, had ridden up the northern slope of the mountain. Hercules, coming from Thebes, was mounting its steeper southern slope, and was unaware of what the warrior women were doing on the other side.
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two Page 8