Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two

by Bernard Evslin

  But someone did ride that skiff, one who did not wish to be seen. He sat in the stern wrapped in a black cloak, face pulled into its hood, hands tucked under its skirt, so that no glimmer of him could be seen. The occasional hissing word he spoke could scarcely be distinguished from the wind among the reeds. It was serpent talk he spoke, a serpent he was speaking to. The great snake’s tail was hooked into a ring bolted into the bow, the entire thirty-foot length of it lay awash as it pulled the skiff down the river. Frogs hopped frantically onto shore, fish dived, birds grew still as the serpent rippled by. The only sound the man heard was a buzzing of two bees sipping willow blossoms.

  A tiny sound, but it made the man hiss something to the snake, who stopped swimming and moved its tail so that the skiff floated under the overhanging willow. The man listened intently to what the bees were saying, then hissed again. The serpent glided to shore, beaching the boat. The man climbed out and began to hurry through the trees, the serpent slithering alongside. But the man could not go fast; he limped. He spoke again to the snake, who immediately flowed up a tree, then swung down from a branch, and the man climbed him like a rope. He rode the serpent then as the strand of living muscle thrust itself from tree to tree in a smooth rush, going so swiftly that the man had to put his arms over his face to ward off the whipping branches.

  They came to a clearing in the forest. There stood a huge oak. Under it lay three bodies. The man hissed. The snake wrapped itself about a limb and let itself hang to the ground, and the man slid down.

  Palaemona felt herself being pulled up through fathoms of darkness. It was if someone had noosed her while she was swimming underwater and was pulling her up before she was ready. She arched her body, trying to curve downward into a dive again, trying to plunge back into that icy nullity.

  “Convulsion,” she heard someone mutter.

  She felt hands upon her, firm hands swimming over her body, spreading an oily warmth. Mercilessly, light and heat invaded her, piercing her to the marrow, dragging her up into the agony of consciousness. She opened her eyes. A face floated above her. White hair, white beard, burning black eyes. A serpent’s head dipped in next to the man’s head and poised there looking down at her. She tried to greet him but couldn’t make her voice work.

  The man’s wrinkles kindled; he smiled, snag-toothed. She saw him lift a vial and pour a little oil into the cup of his hand. His hands came down on her again. They were very gentle, hard behind the softness, moving with great authority upon her belly, her legs, her shoulders, her chest. She felt the soles of her feet being massaged, and each arm slowly along its whole length, wrist and knuckle and palm. Fingers forked her nose, moving down over cheekbones, over lips and chin. And where the hands moved they dragged sleep behind them. She slid into a different darkness.

  When she awoke again, the light had changed. It had been torchlight before, flickering and ruddy; now there was a pale seepage from one side, and against it, the man’s head, black as a cutout. She was in a cave, she saw. She lay on a pile of rushes; he was sitting at the mouth of the cave, chin on chest, asleep. The serpent was gone.

  She lay there, breathing easily, smelling the damp mustiness of the cave and the sweet odor of freshly cut rushes. There was a heaviness on her arm. She turned her head to look at it. The arm was bandaged. She lifted it, flexed it; there was a soreness. She sat up, trying to make no noise. She stared at the sleeping man, impatient of the faulty light because all she could see was his hair and beard.

  Something flickered behind his head. The flicker became a swarm. A foul stench filled the cave. They were bats. They had leathery wings. Not bats. They had brass claws and tiny hag faces. She screamed. They screamed. The man was on his feet. He scooped up two rocks and clapped them together, catching one of the things between; it fell to the ground but was not crushed. It scuttled out, trailing one wing. They circled his head, diving at him, trying to gouge his face with their brass claws. He clapped his rocks furiously. They screamed in chorus and flew away. He hurled the rocks after them.

  He turned to her. “Come,” he said. “It stinks in here.”

  He left the cave and she followed. She could not believe that so deep a voice had come out of this small, emaciated, limping man. He sat cross-legged twirling a fire stick into a log. A spark winked; he blew on it gently, fed it twigs. It fattened into flame. He dipped into his pouch and pinched out some dust, which he dropped onto the fire. A fragrance arose. He waved his hand, sending the smoke into the mouth of the cave.

  “That will drive out the stench,” he said.

  “What were they?” she said. “What were those things?”

  “Empusae.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They are the small demons who attend Hecate, Queen of the Harpies, as she goes her rounds in Tartarus tormenting the shades. These scurvy creatures have one donkey’s hoof each, and one brass hoof. Their hands are claws; they have leather wings. Sometimes they are sent up here on special errands.”

  “What kind of errands?”

  “The kind you saw. They are sent to torment me, in the first place; also to report what I am doing.”

  “Why? Why should anyone want to torment you?”

  “They serve Hecate. Hecate serves Hades, King of the Dead. And Hades hates me.”

  The serpent thrust swiftly between them. He cast a single loop about Palaemona’s shoulders, put his hard head against her cheek, then whisked away and coiled between them, rising out of his coils until his head was level with the man’s. “Did they come again?” the snake asked.

  “They did,” said the man.

  “So much for black cloaks and night marches. It’s no good; they find you wherever they go. You simply must not go anywhere.”

  “Do I have a choice?” said the man.

  “Choice? You? Are you not the great spokesman for choice, even among the helpless? Are you not he who preaches that illness itself is a matter of choice?”

  “Sometimes I regret having taught you logic,” said the man.

  “I wish I could teach you the essence of serpent lore, which is self-preservation.”

  “Why does Hades hate you?” said Palaemona.

  “My eloquent friend will tell you,” said the man. “Stand up, please.”

  The man knelt as she stood and put his ear to her chest, listened, then moved it to another place. She stared at the white head under her eyes; she could see the pink skull underneath and smell its piney smell. She clung to the snake’s hissing voice.

  “This man is Melampus, the healer. So miraculous are his skills that he pulls people back from the brink of death. In fact, he has been known to retrieve those who have gone over the brink. Thus, he robs Hades of subjects and is loathed by that dread lord. Empusae were sent against him today. The next time it may be Furies, and they are a different matter, a thousand times worse. They’ll scourge the flesh from his bones. His only hope is to let the dying die and not meddle with the dead at all.”

  “True, true,” muttered the man. He ruffled Palaemona’s hair and arose. “You’re all right, my girl. You’ll be able to take that bandage off in a day or so.”

  “Let us go, Master,” said the serpent. “The sooner we’re back in Thessaly, the better. You’ll have to stay there no matter how many fishermen get their stupid heads bashed in.” The serpent turned to Palaemona. “He promised me he’d keep out of sight until Hades cooled off. But this message came—that the river clans here had begun to fight over fishing grounds, and battered bodies were strewn about the banks. So he forgot all his promises.”

  “I took precautions,” said Melampus. “I came in deepest secrecy. No welcome, no torches, no display. Slipped in, worked fast, and slipped out.”

  “Deepest secrecy,” said the serpent. “That’s why the Empusae knew exactly where to find you.”

  “They wouldn’t have known if we hadn’t stopped to do what had to be done.”

  “Yes,” said the serpent. “We would have been in Thessaly by
now except he heard some bees bragging about people stung to death and the honor of the hive upheld. So the good doctor left his skiff and came inland, restored the others and worked on you all night. Delighted to see that you’re yourself again, little one, but now I must get him into hiding before Hades learns that he has been deprived of three perfectly good corpses in one night.”

  Melampus had put on his black cloak. “I’m ready,” he said.

  “Take me with you,” said the girl.

  “What?”

  “I want to go with you.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Please, sir, I’m so lonesome. The people I lived with, the woodsman’s family, were all killed or kidnapped—all except me. And I have no friends here except a few animals … and this young man who doesn’t even know he’s my friend. So please take me.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Please. I need to go with you.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking. I live alone except for this fellow now and then, and some other attendant beasts. Because of Hades’ anger I don’t even treat humans anymore, if I can avoid it. Just animals. I live the simplest, roughest kind of life.”

  “Sounds wonderful. Please take me.”

  She moved close but did not dare touch him. She turned her face up so that he could see all she meant.

  “As I see it, doctor,” said the serpent, “she might be useful. I licked her ears, you know. She understands the language of beast and bird. You could use an unsalaried assistant in that unpaid practice of yours.”

  “Why did you come to her with the gift of tongues?”

  “I was sent.”

  “I see.”

  He had not looked down into her face. Now he did. The black fire of his eyes stabbed down into hers. “By all the fiends of hell, have I not troubles enough that I have to take on this weird little runaway?”

  She shivered in the rough music of his voice.

  “Oh, thank you,” she whispered.

  Again that night the black skiff slid down the river, towed by the serpent. There was no moon, and Melampus sat in the stern with his head unhooded. Palaemona crouched in the bow, listening to the frogs and the birds who fell silent as the snake passed. This smooth rush through the darkness, the faint chorus of strange, intelligible voices resembled the voyages of sleep, and she was terrified lest she awake in the woodsman’s hut, having dreamed the bloody head and swift Rhoecus and the giant bee—having dreamed the hands of Melampus. Must she awake to find herself as she had been before dread and joy? But she was awake; it was all happening. She was on her way to Thessaly with him. And the joy swelled until she could not sit still. She wanted to laugh, shout, sing. She wanted to jump in the river and swim. But she had been told that she must not even whisper until they came out of the river into the sea.

  Her thoughts began to float. She bit her hand to keep herself awake. She resolved not to sleep until they reached Thessaly. Until then there was still some chance she might awaken into the old mode—dwarfed, frozen, calling after playmates who ran away.

  The trees paled; birds clamored. Palaemona slept. They passed through the mouth of the river and into the sea. The serpent pulled the boat around a headland and held it still as Melampus raised sail and fixed a rudder oar. The serpent swam to the stern and raised his head.

  “I must go now,” he said.

  “Thank you, friend,” said Melampus.

  “I’ll come to you as soon as I can.”

  “I know.”

  “Please go into hiding.”

  “I mean to keep out of sight.”

  “Farewell,” said the snake, and slid away.

  Palaemona awoke to a tilting sail and a new movement—a surge and a lilt. She rubbed her eyes. They had come out of the darkness into a great wash of light. Melampus sat in the stern, steering with a big, hinged oar. The wind tugged at his hair and beard.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Where did the serpent go?”

  “To his master.”

  “Doesn’t he belong to you?”

  “No one owns him, not even Apollo, whom he serves. He is an oracular serpent, one of the seven sacred pythons of Delphi. But he is the wiliest of all, and other gods borrow him for special tasks. Befriending me was his own idea. He comes to me whenever he can, but it cannot be often, for I am no favorite of the gods.”

  “I thought only Hades hated you.”

  “He is the worst.”

  “Has he always pursued you?”

  “Well, ever since I took up the family trade, which I started training for when I was a lad. Actually, the feud goes back much farther. It began with my ancestor, Asclepius, who was a healer such as the world has never seen. He answered every call, took no fee, and descended upon battlefields more swiftly than the vultures to work among the wounded. He saved so many people that he kindled the wrath of Hades, that black curdling rage that will pursue the Asclepiads unto the last generation …”

  He fell silent, and gazed across the water.

  “Tell! Tell!” cried Palaemona.

  “Well,” said the man, “Hades came like a whirlwind out of Tartarus, roaring up the slope of Olympus. He appeared before Zeus and lodged his complaint. The King of the Gods listened attentively to his eldest brother, who accused Asclepius of trespass, robbery, and sacrilege, of offending the dignity of all the gods by challenging the authority of any god.

  “Zeus nodded. He hurled a thunderbolt. Asclepius was in a hut in Thessaly, tending a shepherd lad who had been crushed by a falling rock. Thunder spoke from a clear sky. A tongue of flame hooked down, touching the straw roof of the hut. It flared like a torch. Asclepius was burned to death. The shepherd also, and his parents, and his dog.”

  “I hate Zeus!” cried the girl.

  “Hush! Never say that.”

  “I don’t care! I do! I hate Hades and I hate Zeus.”

  He clapped his hand over her mouth. “Hush, I said.” She began to weep. He drew her down to his lap and held her. A dolphin leaped clear over the boat. The sea was a million points of light. He stroked her hair. She tried to stop crying but could not. She thought of Asclepius—whom she pictured as looking exactly like Melampus—saw the flames, heard the screams of the shepherd lad. Tears poured down her face and into her mouth.

  He pushed her off his lap and stood up, holding her by the arms. “You know,” he said, “I think you’ve grown taller.” She stopped crying. “Look,” he said, “we met only three days ago. You came just to here on me. Remember? Now you come up to here. You’ve grown that much in three days.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she whispered. “You’re just trying to …”

  “I’ll tell you why. It’s because you did the other kind of crying.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are two kinds. Mostly we weep because we are sorry for ourselves. And these tears of self-pity diminish us. But there is another kind of grief, one that pierces an unsullied heart when others suffer. Such tears enlarge us. You weep for Asclepius dead. And you grow, my child.”

  She stared at him silently.

  “And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I shall tell you many sad stories, and we shall catch your tears in a jug and pour them into a barrel. When you have a barrelful you may drink it, and—”

  She whipped away from him, huddling in the boat’s stern, looking back at the wake. “A barrel isn’t enough,” she said. “I’m so hatefully small I’d have to drink a lakeful.”

  “Careful,” he said. “You’re beginning to grieve for yourself. You’ll shrink again.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Yes, you do. So do I.”

  Her yellow eyes flared. He smiled. “Now Palaemona, if you’re very good and believe all my sad stories and weep barrelsful, you shall drink of them. And instead of being the smallest girl in the world, you will be the tallest.”

  He saw that her face was wet. He drew her to him and kissed her eyes
. “Too salty to drink,” he said.

  She shuddered. His lips were gentle and cold, like those of a nurse kissing a child.

  5

  The Garden

  Palaemona had not eaten meat since seeing the flies clot on the head she had broken with a rock. At first she thought her distaste would vanish with time. But then she had learned the language of animals, and it became unthinkable to eat anything she could talk to. Melampus, who had conversed with bird and beast since childhood, also refrained from meat, and had come to consider a spare diet essential to health. He did not forbid meat to his patients, but encouraged substitutes such as cheese, nuts, and unfertilized eggs.

  It was important then to grow a garden near the cave in which they dwelt, an abandoned bear’s den in a foothill of Mount Pelion. Melampus dug the garden in a flat, sunny spot near the base of the hill and, after some weeks, left it wholly in Palaemona’s care. During her lonely childhood she had helped the woodsman’s wife care for a kitchen garden, and knew about mulching, manuring, weeding—but Melampus taught her much more. He taught her to listen to the plants. Listen isn’t quite the right word, however, for much of what they uttered could not be heard; most of it was gesture, which he taught her to read. It is a difficult language, but less so when you have learned to converse with a creature like a turtle, who has almost nothing to say and says it badly.

  She learned the language of plants and was able to understand when they told her of their changing needs in all weathers and all seasons. She grew beans, onions, tomatoes, pepper, garlic. She had a garden of herbs and a small stand of barley. She did not have a separate flower garden because Melampus had taught her that certain flowers sowed among the rows of the vegetable patch served to drive away harmful insects.

  Melampus also kept goats: three milk goats and a billy goat. They also fell into her keeping. Being able to speak to them, she controlled them by voice and did not need the services of the big shaggy dog whom she kept for companionship, and who insisted nevertheless in officiously herding the goats here and there.