Without conscious decision, Scylla found herself walking across the grass. She stood before him. She was much taller. Looking at his slender figure and seeing a smile kindle his face as he gazed back at her, she was swept by a desire to do what the bear had failed to do—hug him to her until she felt his ribs breaking. If he dared raise his candelabra of a hand to melt her will with blue flame, she would seize that arm, whirl him off his feet, smash him to the ground.
He did not raise his hand. But one lock of black hair turned red-gold. She couldn’t stop herself from gasping.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“Your hair’s on fire.”
“No it’s not.”
“I see it. Some of it’s burning.”
“Just changing color,” he said. “It’s not hot. Feel …”
He tried to take her hand and put it on his head. She bit him. He stared at his bleeding hand in wonder, then stared at her. She was licking the blood off her lips.
“You bit me,” he murmured.
“You tried to burn me.”
He shook his head, a head that changed as she watched. His hair became feathers. His eyes grew huge and flared with wildness. Nose and mouth merged and solidified, became a sharp beak. It was a hawk’s head he wore. Great wings sprouted from his shoulders.
“What are you doing?” she cried. “What are you?”
“A prince of Egypt,” he said. “Rightful heir to a throne I shall never occupy. Nevertheless, blood is stronger than politics, and Egypt’s rightful king on certain great occasions can become an earthly mode of Horus, the hawk-god.”
“Can you use those wings?”
“On great occasions.”
He seized her. She drew back her fist, preparing to knock him senseless—for a blow from that fist could fell a full-grown stag. But before she could strike she felt herself being lifted into the air, a feeling so delicious that she unclenched her fist and wrapped her arm about his waist as he bore her upward through the shining air.
They were level with the cliff top now. Beyond it she could see a great blue drench of sea. Looking down over her other shoulder she saw all of Corinth beneath her, and realized for the first time that what had seemed large as the world to her was only a narrow land bridge between two landmasses.
Nisus sent a prayer eastward. “Dear Thoth, cross my flight. Appear to us and bless our marriage.”
His heart thrilled as he saw a great bird coast down toward the cliff and clutch a spur of rock. He swerved in the air and headed toward the cliff, holding her more tightly. They landed on the shelf of rock, and Nisus saw that the winged one that had answered his call was not the holy white ibis but Sekbet, the vulture-headed goddess of the Sinai.
Scylla heard her hawk-man utter strange gargling words to the towering vulture-headed female, crying “Sekbet … Sekbet.…” Nisus knelt before her and pressed Scylla to earth. She felt rage growing in her, but was dazed by strangeness and did not resist.
Sekbet was saying words above their heads. She shadowed them with her wings, grasped the arm of each in her clawlike hands and lifted them to their feet. Scylla felt her face being pressed to the hawk’s face. Then Sekbet flew away. Nisus balanced on the shelf of rock, watching her dwindle in the shining air. He turned to Scylla.
“We’re man and wife,” he said.
The words meant nothing to her. Wrapping her arm tightly about him, she crouched on her powerful legs and sprang off the rock so that he had to stretch his wings and coast on a current of air. She laughed with joy. He meant nothing to her but the wonderful new idea of flying.
Their marriage was an uneasy truce. He had taken her high and tamed her with pleasure. But when they returned to earth, when he put off his hawk’s head and wings, then she resented him. He had worked a sorcery upon her, she knew. He was happy, this stranger. He was exulting because he had tamed the wolf in her. He dared to glow with a pride of ownership, and her resentment grew.
The ibis visited the prince’s sleep and said: “You really can’t tame a wild animal. You can cage it and bribe it and beguile it, but you must never let your attention lapse or it will turn on you and rend you.”
But for the first time in life Nisus chose to ignore a warning from Thoth. He was obsessed with his big gray-eyed, leaf-smelling girl. Each time he embraced her he entered the core of mystery—felt himself touching the primal power that had formed a rubble of chaos into the garden of earth, and ignited its mud to life.
7
The Beast-gods Strike
There was a species of earth-goblin with stunted legs, shovel hands, and big yellow blunt teeth, and these misshapen creatures had proven very destructive when Egypt began. They had almost caused it to end as soon as it began because they attacked crops from underneath, pulling plants down by the roots and devouring them so greedily that they often bit their own fingers. And the people and animals were left to starve among their stripped fields—men and women and children and cattle.
They prayed for help, not really expecting any, but not knowing what else to do. But the god Thoth, always a friend to humankind, heard their prayers. He sent the goblins a collective dream; they saw a stand of delicious fat tubers growing on the slope of a certain mountain. Drunk with greed, the entire tribe came above ground and rushed to the mountain—where Thoth was waiting with a great net.
He cast the net and caught the goblins, and bore the packed screaming mass to a dead crater. He dangled the net above the crater and threatened to throw the goblins in, then hurl huge boulders down upon them. His captives screeched and wept and pleaded with him—until he agreed to spare them on one condition: that they would devour no more crops but feed only on underground herbage and earthworms. He bade them swear a mighty oath, then released them, and they scurried down the nearest hole, so frightened that they shunned ploughed fields forevermore.
Now it is not the nature of gods to accept defeat, and among the Egyptian gods, the evil ones far outnumbered the good ones, and were even more stubborn. And Buto and Bast were perhaps the most stubborn and vengeful. Thwarted in their effort to bind Nisus to their purpose, they cast about for another way to locate mandrake roots and make the Nile wives more fertile so that they might produce more babies for the slave trade.
It was a scorching day. The cat-goddess and the cobra-goddess had buried themselves up to their heads in Nile mud, trying to keep cool. Those heads were hissing and whispering to each other:
“I was thinking,” said Buto. “Do you remember an ancient tale of vile little goblins who used to eat all the crops before Thoth stopped them?”
“Dimly,” said Bast. “What about them?”
“I don’t know,” said Buto. “But I may have the glimmer of an idea. I’m going to leave you now.”
“Leave this cool mud and go out under that sun? You’ll regret this.”
“No, I shall find a hole and slip underground. It’s quite cool if you go deep enough, and I want to do a little hunting.”
“Hunt what—worms?”
“Farewell,” said Buto, and slithered out of the mud.
The cat-headed goddess settled herself more deeply, closed her eyes, and slept. She was awakened by a sound of weeping. A purple dusk had closed in and Buto had returned bearing something in her jaws. She set it on the ground for Bast to see. It was a squat twisted figure with bowed legs and shovel-shaped hands and blunt yellow teeth. His face was writhing with fear, and he was weeping.
“What is it?” said Bast.
“One of those goblins I was telling you about,” said Buto.
“Can you make it stop that horrible blubbering?”
“You heard my friend,” said Buto. “Shut up!”
The goblin wept louder than ever. With one hand Buto seized him by the neck, with the other she scooped up some mud and stuffed it in his mouth. He choked and coughed, and spat out the mud—and clamped his teeth tight so that he would not sob.
“That’s better,” said Buto. “You might as well
start learning to be obedient. You’re going to spend a long time serving us and any disobedience will bring much pain.”
“If we must have a servant, let’s get a prettier one,” said Bast. “I can’t bear to look at him.”
“You won’t have to. He’ll be gone most of the time, digging up mandrake roots.”
“Him?”
“Certainly,” said Buto. “I tortured him a little on the way here and learned all the goblin secrets. Dwelling underground they know more about plants than anyone. Nisus may have learned the secret of the mandrake from Thoth, but these creatures were born knowing it. He’ll bring us armfuls of roots every evening. We’ll make him come by night so we don’t have to see him. And so the pauperized Nile wives will bear many children. The slave traders will buy them and pay us a rich commission.”
And it all happened that way. But success did not lull their hatred of Nisus. For among the traits that compose an evil personality is the tendency to forget friends in prosperity, but not enemies. And the cat-goddess and the cobra-goddess remembered Nisus with loathing, and often discussed what they would like to do to him if he were not protected by the magic of the golden cattle.
“We’ve amused ourselves by talking about that scurvy little rat long enough,” said Buto. “It’s time for action.”
“What kind of action?” said Bast. “He’s girded about with those accursed golden cattle and is immune to our direct assault.”
“There’s such a thing as indirect assault.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Let us fly to Corinth, you and I, and make some on-the-spot observations, what do you say?”
Bast purred agreement. They spread their wings and flew north by west over the Middle Sea.
The beast-goddesses separated when they reached Corinth, for they had agreed to divide the task—Buto to learn all she could about Nisus; Bast to pick up information about the strange girl he had married.
They met again three days later, and each knew that the other had much to tell. “You go first,” said Bast.
“Well,” said Buto, “it seems that our little fugitive has prospered in this place. There is a verse about him on everyone’s lips; it goes like this: ‘Rich in cattle, strong in battle’—for Nisus has made himself the most powerful man in Corinth. His herds have increased, and with the increase, his influence has grown. He has been able to pacify the twenty warring chieftains whose tribes were always massacring each other. Some he was able to persuade, others he vanquished on the field. In short, he imposed peace upon them, and became, in effect, king of Corinth, although he does not call himself so. The one thing he is not praised for is his marriage. His bride seems to be no one’s idea of a queen.”
“Aha!” cried Bast. “I have learned much about her. She’s a half-savage thing, they say—raised among wolves. He practically snatched her out of her den, it seems, and forced her into marriage. Well, not forced her, perhaps, but he was able to put on the hereditary Horus form, assume hawk-head and hawk wings, and introduce her to flight. And that pleased her so much she agreed to marry him. But now, it appears, he never puts on his wings; they have virtually stopped flying, and she grows restless.”
“I heard something else that may prove important,” said Buto, “although it may only be rumor. It is said that Minos, king of Crete, from whom Nisus stole the golden cattle, has decided to come with an invasion fleet, reclaim his cattle, and punish Nisus. All in all, my dear Bast, the situation seems ripe for some creative mischief making.”
“Ripe indeed,” purred Bast. “And I think we should start with this wild waif he took to wife. What do you say we cook up an interesting dream for her?”
“Excellent!” cried Buto. “We’ll do it this very night.”
In her dream, Scylla found herself near the great roasting pit in the courtyard of the castle. The fire blazed and the flayed sheep was turning on the spit. She was very hungry, but the odor of the roasting sheep revolted her, and she knew that she would never eat cooked meat again.
Then she was on the bank of a narrow, swift river, kneeling next to a wolf that was hooking fish out of the rushing water. He was teaching her, and she was able to snatch fish out of the river with her hand, and eat them alive. And the taste of the living food was a powerful boon to her, and she knew that she must again dwell among the wolves, and shun the enclosures of humanity forevermore.
Then it was night. She was among the wolves, throbbing with joy, climbing a hill to greet the new-risen moon. For summer had gone; the air was crisp, and the wind freighted with the smell of game—and the risen moon that night would be a hunter’s moon. The pack climbed to the very top of the knoll and began to call the moon to its full rise. And the howling was music to her ears.
The wind had shifted to the east now and was bringing a new smell, not of deer, but of rich beef, sleek and fat and slow of foot. She howled louder than the others and began to run down the slope, calling the pack to follow, racing to the meadow where the golden cattle grazed. She was flanked by her den brothers. She dug a hand in the ruff of each and felt herself being borne along, her feet barely skimming the earth.
She awoke from her dream. Her husband was asleep. Quiet as a shadow, she slipped out of bed and out of the chamber.
8
The Wolf Pack
Nisus awoke in the middle of the night to find himself alone. He hadn’t heard her leave, but she could move with absolute silence when she wished. He went to an arrow-slit and looked out upon the garden. It was swimming in moonlight. He went back to bed but could not sleep.
She came with the dawn, stepping silently. He did not question her, just stared. Her nature was too direct and violent for pretense. She stood stiffly, her hands clenching and unclenching. Her eyes were glowing, her lips swollen. He saw that she was trying to subdue a profound excitement. When she spoke her voice was hoarse and clotted.
“Some nights I can’t sleep. I must run beneath the moon.”
“Where did you run to?”
“Nowhere. I kept within the castle grounds.”
He felt his hair glowing. The chamber disappeared. He saw a moon-silvered meadow, huddled cows, shadowy shapes leaping, eyes that were pits of green fire, flashing teeth. He heard howling, snarling, the phlegmy scream of a cow in agony. He saw that cow lying on the ground, belly torn out, something dragging at its entrails.
He put on his cloak and took his spear, and without a word to his wife left the chamber. She looked after him, growling deep in her throat. She knew where he was going and what he would find.
A wolf slid into the room—a great gray male with black markings. It laid its head in her lap, then took her hand in its jaw, those jaws which could bite through the thighbone of a running stag, but which could also hold an egg without breaking the shell. She withdrew her hand and pushed the head away. She spoke to the wolf—not in shaped language as humans speak, but in grunts, yelps, whinings, faint howls. Most of it was without sound, though; she probed its eyes with hers so that her thoughts could pierce its head, and the wolf could send its thoughts back.
“Why are you here? I bade the pack leave Corinth tonight and hide in the hills beyond.”
“I came to get you. We want you to come with us.”
“I can’t. I must stay here.”
“Why?”
“You wouldn’t understand. I don’t understand, myself. But I must. At least for now. Leave me, Brother. Gather the pack and hasten out of Corinth to the hills beyond.”
The wolf stood on its hind legs and put its forepaws on her shoulders, and licked her face. It dropped to all fours and sprang out of the room.
Tears welled from her eyes and ran down her face, but she made no sound of weeping. “They still have time,” she thought. “He’ll find the dead cattle and wolf tracks, but he won’t be able to organize a chase until morning. By then they should be safely away. But will he know that I ran with the pack under a hunter’s moon? That I did what I have longed to do for so m
any months? That I howled upon the hilltop and called them together—and we ran the cows as if they were deer, and, oh glory, once again I used myself as I should be used, hamstringing the first cow and bringing her down so that the others could feed? Oh, the sweet wild taste of blood in my mouth, the immense fellowship of furry shoulders pressing mine, crisp air in my lungs as I ran and ran with my brothers, and the dazzle of the low-riding moon in my eyes—Yea, the hunter’s moon, lighting up our prey, but etching shadows so that we could not be seen. Such a night is worth dying for, which I well may do, if he learns that I actually hunted with the pack tonight.”
Scylla, however, had underestimated her husband’s weird insight, which canceled time and abolished distance. He didn’t have to visit the meadow to know what had happened to his cattle. Before leaving the castle he ordered his archers and spearmen to ride out with him on a great wolf hunt.
The horses were swift, and the wolf pack, unused to fleeing anyone, traveled at a leisurely pace. The hunters caught up with the wolves as they entered a deep valley. Nisus ordered one party to ride ahead and block the outlet of the valley. He stationed another group at the valley mouth. Then he arranged his archers along the sides of the valley where they could look down upon the file of wolves trotting below.
“Now!” cried Nisus.
The archers launched a deadly hail of arrows. The spearmen rode down and drove their weapons into any wolf that was still alive. When all the wolves were dead, Nisus ordered their heads cut off. Returning to the meadow at dawn, he bade his men stick a wolf’s head atop each spear and drive the hafts into the ground.
Then he galloped to the castle and asked Scylla to ride out with him. He led her to the meadow and showed her the furry heads grinning atip the spears. “This bloody palisade,” he said, “will serve as a warning to all beasts who seek to ravage my herds.”
Scylla did not answer. She turned her head so that he could not look into her eyes.
9
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two Page 33