Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two

by Bernard Evslin

Basher

  CHAPTER V

  Bender

  CHAPTER VI

  Shady

  CHAPTER VII

  The Inn

  CHAPTER VIII

  Evander

  CHAPTER IX

  The Great Sow

  CHAPTER X

  Wild Mushrooms

  CHAPTER XI

  Rehearsal for Vengesnce

  CHAPTER XII

  The Bent Pine

  CHAPTER XIII

  The Man with the Club

  CHAPTER XIV

  The Edge of the Cliff

  CHAPTER XV

  The Procrustean Bed

  1

  The Robber Clan

  Once, there was a murderous father and his three bandit sons who had never learned to pronounce their own names but called themselves Basher, Bender, Shady, and Stretch—which also described their specialties. They worked the road from Troezen to Athens, each staking out a different section where he practiced his particular brand of banditry.

  The son Basher bore a huge brass club and bashed travelers over the head—but robbed them first because he didn’t like to handle loot that was spattered with brains.

  His brother Bender stationed himself at a curve in the road girded by pine trees. His specialty was to bend a pine to the ground when a traveler was passing and invite him to observe a curious bird’s nest in the branches. No one seemed to welcome this invitation, but the bird fancier was much too big to say no to. Bender would courteously keep the enormous bow of the pine tree bent until his guest was leaning over its boughs searching for the nest—then let go. The tree would whip up with terrific force, hurling its victim into the air. It was usually a corpse that fell to the ground; it was surely a corpse that lay there when Bender left.

  The third brother’s post was a narrow ledge of road hugging a cliff that overlooked the sea. Now, one of his feet happened to be much larger than the other, so large that he was able to hold it over his head, shading himself from the sun. There he squatted and waited for someone to pass. At the base of his rock stood a bucket full of water.

  “This is a toll road,” Shady would tell the traveler. “And your fee is to wash my feet. Drop your moneybags right there; that’s right—hurry, please! My feet are very hot and dusty. The big one’s hot, the small one’s dusty.”

  Shady was even bigger than Bender, who was bigger than Basher, who was twice as big as anyone coming down the road. And no one had ever refused to do as Shady asked. He would sit, relaxed, smiling and chatting as his feet were soaped and scrubbed, then, with one clean kick, send the washer over the cliff. Some were broken against the rocks, others drowned; still others might have survived the fall and swum away were it not for a giant turtle who lived in the tidal pool under the cliff and had changed his diet from algae to fresh meat.

  The father, Procrustes, called himself Stretch. He practiced a more leisurely form of larceny. He kept an inn on the southern slope of the final mountain and was the worst robber of all.

  Procrustes himself had educated his sons. He trained them the way he drove oxen—with a heavy whip. His major subject was how to get hold of someone else’s property in the quickest possible time and with the least resistance from its owner. He used lectures and fieldwork, peppering both with liberal applications of the whip. Some mornings started with a lecture in the boneyard. The boys sprawled among fragments of skeletons, drawing designs in the dust with splinters of bone. When they were smaller they had perched on the skulls. Their father towered above them, his voice booming down with such thunderous force that they felt the words vibrating inside them.

  “To be a successful robber you must be able to tell a rich man from a poor one, even if they’re wearing each other’s clothes. For merchants will do that—try to deceive a hardworking bandit by exchanging clothes with their slaves. So you want to be able to tell one from the other, no matter what they wear, and you will thank me one day for beating such lessons into you.”

  Then Stretch would lead his sons out to prowl the mountain paths until they came across a caravan carrying goods to market and he could test their knowledge.

  Upon another morning he might say:

  “Remember, what you don’t want are witnesses. So kill ’em first and rob ’em later. Could get a bit messy, but it’s easier to wash the blood off your hands than to chase some slippery devil over the mountain. I’ve tried it both ways, boys, and believe me, corpses are convenient.”

  And, he might add: “These greedy, deceitful rascals won’t always be carrying bags of gold, you know. They will sometimes exchange coin for gems, which are easier to hide. Now, it takes too much time to search everyone in the caravan—every merchant, slave, porter, and drover, and every bale on every beast. So you must learn the smell of jewelry. You must be able to sniff out the presence of precious stones and tell which is which. For every gem has its own special fragrance. Diamonds smell like fresh snow, rubies like cinnamon, sapphires like fog, emeralds like crushed grass.”

  Again he would lead them out upon the mountain paths, in search of a caravan. And the sons of Procrustes would go sniffing about until every jewel was found. Otherwise, they knew, their father’s lash would take their hides off, patch by patch.

  The boys had grown into young giants by the time they left home, outgrown their father’s whippings but never quite their fear of him. They followed his precepts and, indeed, were grateful for what he had taught them. Only Basher was unorthodox. He, as we have seen, preferred to rob his clients first and club them afterward. Despite this dainty habit, however, he left no witnesses, so his father forgave him.

  The three brothers did their robbing separately but pooled the loot. Every seventh day they would take the week’s receipts to their father’s inn, where he would divide everything equally, keeping an equal portion for himself. He tried to teach them a little arithmetic by taking more than his share, but they always accepted his calculations without question. He soon realized that he would never drive any numbers into their thick skulls and took their money anyway. Not all of it; he left them enough to gamble with, knowing it would end up in his pocket before the night was through.

  All four were passionate gamblers. Procrustes had made a set of dice out of knucklebones from the skeletons of those who had been his guests. Every week, after dividing the spoils and eating and drinking hugely, the family gambled through the night, and Procrustes won all the money he hadn’t stolen. His sons didn’t care. They knew that traders would be coming down the road all week, bearing moneybags, bales of merchandise, and hampers of food and wine, which would provide the stakes for the next game, as well as the refreshments.

  Thieves and murderers were hardly a rarity then—or now—but this monstrous father and his sons entered legend not only because they were at the top of their profession, but also because playful gods had caught them up in the deadliest game the world had ever known.

  2

  The Wager

  At this time the gods had been growing more and more fascinated with the pageant of human life. Man’s idea of himself convulsed them with laughter. Just as we are tickled by the sight of a poodle walking on his hind legs and trying to act like a person, so the gods felt when they saw some little man imitating them, actually brandishing sword and spear and riding forth in a bronze chariot.

  The Olympians were so entertained that they decided to be more than spectators. Every once in a while, they shrank themselves to people size and mingled with the human herd. They boarded ships; they walked the city streets; they went into battle on one side or the other. Gods wooed mortal maids, and goddesses chose mortal men. This crossbreeding produced demigods and demigoddesses, and, occasionally, monsters.

  When they returned to Mount Olympus, the gods would follow the careers of their heroic offspring, celebrating victories and mourning defeats. They particularly enjoyed themselves when their children battled each other, for then they could wager on the result. Naturally, they all cheated. They ceaselessly m
eddled, starting an avalanche here, rolling a tidal wave there, always trying to help their favorites and cripple the opposition. They didn’t view any of this as cheating. How could anyone not try to win a bet? You did what you could and cried “foul” when your opponent did the same. It was all part of the game.

  Now, as it happened, Zeus had abducted a mortal princess named Europa and left her with a son named Minos, who took the throne of Crete and became the most powerful tyrant of the ancient world. About this time Poseidon spawned a mortal son named Theseus. This boy was much younger than Minos, less than half his age; but, of course, twenty years is nothing to a god, just the wink of an eye.

  Poseidon, to pass an idle hour, planned some far-reaching mischief. He visited Zeus and predicted that Theseus would grow up to defeat Minos and take his crown.

  Zeus roared with laughter. “You were never too bright, brother, but this is ridiculous! My son Minos is not only king of Crete, he has extended his sway over all the lands of the Middle Sea. He is the richest, most powerful ruler the world has ever seen. His army is invincible; his fleet sweeps the sea of enemy ships. How can that pipsqueak you left in some mountain village possibly prevail against him?”

  “Would you be interested in a little wager?” asked Poseidon.

  “Of course! Double whatever you have in mind!”

  “It’s a bet,” said Poseidon. “Will you give him … say five years?”

  “Five years it is,” said Zeus. “Must you go now? Won’t you be my guest for a while? Give yourself a chance to dry off? You’re looking a bit mildewed.”

  “Thank you,” said Poseidon. “Another time. I must go home now and blow away a coastal village that has offended me.”

  After Poseidon left, however, Zeus grew thoughtful. “I can’t understand it,” he said to himself. “He seems confident about winning this crazy bet. There’s a mystery here somewhere. I’d better find out about young Theseus.”

  Zeus sent for his favorite son, Hermes, the messenger god, whom he entrusted with his most confidential errands. Hermes turned himself into a heron and flew to the coastal village of Troezen, where Theseus lived with his mother. A week passed, and Hermes had not returned. Zeus wondered about the delay but knew that there might be good reason for it. Then, on the eighth day, Hermes came back in his own form. Ankle wings whirring, he landed before his father and bowed to the ground.

  “Greetings, oh king and sire,” he said. “I have done your bidding.”

  “You’ve certainly taken your time about it,” said Zeus.

  “I have had much to observe,” said Hermes. “I went as a heron, you will recall. I flew to Troezen and passed low over the village, searching for boys at play. I found them on the beach, wrestling, and was intrigued to see that the smallest one of all was winning every match. I dipped lower and saw the color of his eyes. They were neither blue nor gray nor green, but like pools of seawater, changing as the light changes—Poseidon’s eyes knew that the lad must be his son.”

  “When the boys had finished playing and were heading home, I transformed myself into a fisherman. I fell into conversation with Theseus, praising his wrestling skill and wondering who had taught him.”

  “‘I taught myself,’ he told me. ‘I am quite small, as you may have noticed, bullying size, actually. And since I’ve never allowed myself to be bullied, I was always getting beaten up. This was intolerable to me, and I decided to do something about it. Wandering the beach alone, observing the gulls, I noticed that they broke clams open by dropping them on the rocks. They couldn’t do that to shrimps or scallops, though, which weighed less and fell lightly. I saw that the gulls were smashing the clams by using their own weight. Pondering this, I decided that there was a message here from the gods, and I tried to puzzle out what it meant. I had an idea but needed to test it in action. I hunted up the boy I liked least and explained to him what a stinking bully he was. When he realized what I was saying, he went crazy with rage and struck at me with all his might.’”

  “‘Well, sir, I’ve always been quick, very quick. I slipped inside his swing, caught his wrist, and pulled him in the direction of his blow. He sailed over my shoulder and landed on his head. I invited him to get up and try again, but he just lay there. Whether he was out cold or faking it I didn’t know, but I could see he wasn’t about to resume hostilities. So I went looking for other boys who had given me trouble.’”

  “‘I won’t go through my other bouts blow by blow and throw by throw, but they all ended in the same way, and by the end of the week I knew that no one in the village would bully me again. But it’s a very small village, isn’t it, sir? Soon I’ll have to tell my mother I’m going on the road.’”

  “After he left,” continued Hermes, “I became a heron again and hovered about a few more days, watching him. What can I tell you, sire? He’s very young still but with the stuff that heroes are made of.”

  “So,” said Zeus. “You went to this village and watched a fast-moving runt whip some overgrown louts. Is this enough for you to project so splendid a destiny for him?”

  “I seem to be arousing your displeasure, my lord.”

  “I’m only trying to understand. Among your duties is to usher the dead to Hades. This requires you to visit battlefields and mobilize the day’s corpses for the long journey to the Land Beyond Death. Which means that you witness the work of the world’s mightiest warriors. Is that not true?”

  “True, my lord.”

  “Nevertheless, you still rank young Theseus so highly?”

  “As you say, I have seen the champions of every nation in glorious action and am not likely to be impressed by a young boy who can wrestle a bit. Something else impresses me, sire. He is wise beyond his years. Watching gulls feed, he detects a coded message from the gods and seeks to decipher it. The lesson he learns he then applies to his own life. And, although his battleground is local, rude, and narrow, he achieves a total victory. Then, instead of going drunk with pride, he studies that victory for further lessons. Wit, my lord, is what this nephew of yours possesses. What it comes to is that there is more of his uncle in him than his father. In his breast burns a spark of your own divine fire … which I do not detect in your son Minos for all his conquests.”

  “What it comes to is that you like young Theseus?”

  “Yes, I do, sire. But you should know that I do not allow affection to cloud my judgment.”

  “I know the depth of your loyalty, my son—and the quality of your judgment. And I appreciate both. But now I’m getting unhappy about this bet I made.”

  After Hermes flew away, Zeus grew even more thoughtful. At this time the king of the gods was experimenting with the idea of justice. He took what he wanted, but sometimes paid for it. He felt obliged to obey his own law prohibiting a god from killing a human just to win a bet. Otherwise, he would have made his wager safe simply by hurling a thunderbolt and gaffing Theseus like a fish.

  “I’ll have to get hold of some skilled assassins,” he thought. “If I hire someone else to do my killing, I’ll at least be following the letter of the law; further than that no one will dare question me. But I’m out of touch with things down there and don’t know where to find a competent cutthroat.… I know! I’ll consult Hades, who rules the dead. He is always striving to enlarge his kingdom and offers rich rewards to those who send him quantities of fresh corpses. Yes, he’ll be able to advise me.”

  Thereupon, Zeus recalled Hermes and gave him new instructions. On his next day’s journey to Tartarus he was to question Hades and return with a short list of the world’s most successful murderers. The messenger god did as he was bid. He reported back to Zeus, then hurried away from Olympus.

  He flew down to the sea, stood on the shore, and whistled for a sea nymph. She emerged, dripping and smiling, but he asked her only to swim down to the great coral and pearl castle of Poseidon with an urgent message. This was not what she had expected to hear, but she was very willing to carry out the request, for Poseidon was gener
ous to those who served him.

  The sea nymph swam away, swift and sleek as a dolphin. Soon Poseidon came riding the wave to shore, tall and green-robed, flourishing his trident.

  “Nephew!” he boomed. “You are several centuries younger than I. Would it not be more courteous for you to come to me?”

  “I beg your pardon, I mean no discourtesy, I assure you,” said Hermes. “I am here on your business, not my own, and I judged that business so urgent that I have taken the liberty of asking you to meet me here.”

  “What is this urgent business?”

  “It concerns your wager with my father, Zeus. As you know, I serve him in all things and have never betrayed his trust. But now I must, for it concerns young Theseus, in whom I detect a budding hero—a leader, who will perhaps accomplish great things for mankind—if he is allowed to live. But that likelihood is dimming fast. And you stand in danger of losing your wager, for Zeus has obtained a list of the world’s most proficient murderers. He sent me to Hades for that purpose, and he plans to manipulate events so that Theseus will encounter those that head the list—three giant brigands who infest the road running through the Saronic Mountains and their unspeakably evil father, Procrustes, who keeps an inn at the end of the range.”

  “What do you know about them?” asked Poseidon.

  “A great deal, and none of it good.”

  Whereupon Hermes told the sea god all he had learned about Basher, Bender, and Shady—and their father, Procrustes.

  “Thank you,” said Poseidon. “This information is very helpful. Theseus must prepare himself to cope with these brutes.”

  “He’s too young,” murmured Hermes.

  “He is,” said Poseidon, “and terribly overmatched. That’s how it is with heroes, though; they’re defined by ordeal. I’ll try to help him, of course, but I’m somewhat overmatched myself contending with Zeus.”

  Among the lesser gods was Hypnos, the god of sleep. He was the son of Night, little brother to Death, and the father of dreams. Outside his cave was a garden of herbs where poppies grew along with lotus and other flowers that bring sleep. Hypnos was also known as the Lord of the Two Gates, these being the Gates of Ivory and the Gates of Horn. Through the Gates of Ivory thronged those dreams that teased folk at night, tempting them into foolish ways. Through the Gates of Horn flew forth true dreams of prophecy and inspiration.