Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two

by Bernard Evslin

  The long oars poked out of the row-holes, projecting beyond the width of the hull. And Scylla, lying in wait just beneath the surface, seized two of the oars and dragged the ship toward her. Ulysses saw the polished shafts suddenly snap like twigs. The deck tilted violently. He was thrown against the rail and almost fell overboard. He picked up his sword and climbed to his feet, and saw enormous fanged heads arching over him.

  He leapt toward a wolf-head and slashed at it with his sword. Its head-bones were strong as iron; he could not cut through. He reversed his sword and hammered at its teeth with his hilt. Useless. But his attack had slowed the wolves; some men were able to scurry away, but four of them were caught. He heard them screaming as they were eaten alive. Ulysses himself suffered a mangled forearm.

  By then the ship had passed beyond the monster’s reach. Four torn, bleeding bodies lay on deck. “Do not throw them into the sea,” said Ulysses to his crew. “Mop the blood off the decks and wash the bodies of your comrades. When we make landfall we shall build them funeral pyres and dispatch their ghosts in honorable fashion.”

  So ended Ulysses’ encounter with Scylla and Charybdis, nor when the voyage was over did he count this his worst disaster, for he had lost but four men. But the memory of the monster who was half beautiful sea nymph, half wolf pack, held a singular horror for him. He could never forget the sight of the Nereid turning gracefully in the water and becoming six pairs of savage jaws.

  As for Nisus, he had suffered too much as a human ever to resume his original form. He remained a hawk and served Thoth in his ceaseless struggle against the beast-gods of Egypt.

  THE SIRENS

  The goddess Athena promised a tiny

  fishing village that it would become

  the most famous city in the world if

  it took her name. And, as a sign of

  her pledge, she planted a wonderful tree.

  Thousands of years later, a little girl

  took the name of this tree as her own.

  It is to her, my granddaughter, Olivia,

  that I dedicate this book, which she will

  read in time to come.

  Characters

  Monsters

  The Sirens

  (SY rehnz)

  A pair of winged sea nymphs, Teles (TELL uhs) and Ligiea (LY gee uh), whose voices call sailors to drown

  The Jellyfish

  A clot of the primal slime that feeds upon everything within reach

  Gods

  Zeus

  (ZOOS)

  King of the Gods

  Poseidon

  (poh SY duhn)

  God of the Sea

  Athena

  (uh THEE nuh)

  Goddess of Wisdom

  Hermes

  (HUR meez)

  The Messenger God

  Apollo

  (uh PAHL oh)

  The Sun God

  Artemis

  (AHR tuh mihs)

  Goddess of the Moon

  Ares

  (AIR eez)

  God of War

  Demeter

  (duh MEE tuhr)

  Goddess of the Harvest

  Hestia

  (HEHS tih uh)

  Goddess of the Hearth

  Aphrodite

  (af ruh DY tee)

  Goddess of Love

  Helios

  (HEE lih ohs)

  A Titan who drove Apollo’s sun chariot across the sky

  Demigods

  Circe

  (SUR see)

  Daughter of the sun’s charioteer; a highly skilled sorceress

  Proteus

  (PROH tee uhs)

  A changeable demigod who serves, and betrays, Poseidon

  Cora

  (KOH ruh)

  A meadow nymph

  Mortals

  Butes

  s (BU teez)

  A brave youth

  Ulysses

  (u LIHS eez)

  The greatest captain of antiquity—and since

  Contents

  CHAPTER I

  The Owl Goddess

  CHAPTER II

  The Isle of Sobs

  CHAPTER III

  The Sirens Sing

  CHAPTER IV

  Cannibal Fat

  CHAPTER V

  The Meadow Nymphs

  CHAPTER VI

  A Fatal Gift

  CHAPTER VII

  Manhunt

  CHAPTER VIII

  Butes

  CHAPTER IX

  A Taste of Nectar

  CHAPTER X

  Ulysses and the Sirens

  1

  The Owl Goddess

  An ancient proverb says:

  When gods are at odds,

  they bloody the sky,

  and rivers run dry.

  Monsters slay,

  mortals die.

  Indeed, the strange tale of the Sirens and their victims is rooted in the feud that raged between Athena, Goddess of Wisdom, and Poseidon, God of the Sea.

  In the beginning, everything was alive. The earth twitched like a sleeping bear. The sea threw vast tantrums called tidal waves. Trees capered, rocks sang.

  “This must cease,” said Zeus to his High Council. “We gods can float serenely above such disorder. But the race of humans we have planted upon earth is a more fragile breed—unable to abide amid rollicking seas and frolicking trees and mountains that skip like rams. We shall have to impose a little order.”

  Thereupon, with one gesture Zeus froze the revels. Rocks fell silent; trees stopped dancing.

  But there were creatures who inhabited the wild secret places; there were the nymphs of river and sea, of mountain, wood, and field; there were the goat-haunched satyrs of the grove, strong as stags, but so lightfooted no blade of grass bent under their hooves. These creatures, the naiads, dryads, and oreads, these musky antic satyrs, refused to obey the edict. Gathering all the vital mischief of the locked tides, the silenced rocks, and rooted trees, they roamed sea and earth trying to break the great taboo and recall everything to life, trying to kindle the untried hearts of those called human with a spark of the old green fire.

  This thwarted wildness festered also in the hearts of the gods, who sought to amuse themselves by fighting with one another. Their feuds, that flared like summer lightning, blasted the total harmony designed by Zeus and shattered his enormous repose. He again summoned the gods to his throne room and imposed a second truce, promising eternal punishment to anyone violating its terms.

  Now it was that a demigod named Proteus received a message from Athena, asking him to visit her. This Proteus happened to be a strangely talented creature who could change his shape in the twinkling of an eye and become any living thing he wished. He was also Poseidon’s most trusted servant, and general tutor to the beautiful, sleek nereids who swarmed the Ocean Stream. Proteus was very surprised by this invitation from the owl goddess, for Athena was Poseidon’s sworn enemy. But curiosity was stronger than doubt, and he hastened to her.

  The place the goddess had chosen as her own was a certain mountain of the Olympian range. There she had set up a gigantic loom and spindle. Enthroned on her mountain, plucking cloud-wool and dyeing it in the lights of sunrise and sunset, she wove marvelous tapestries which she flung in colored scrolls across the sky.

  Nearby loomed a strange rock formation—a cup-shaped boulder and, propped within it, a stone shaft, knobbed at one end. Together they resembled pestle and mortar, but enormous ones.

  Although his curiosity was aflame, Proteus approached hesitantly. He was a bit afraid of the goddess. In all his changes he preferred small, meek females, and Athena was very tall, and anything but meek. For the hard climb he had transformed himself into a mountain goat, but just before reaching the top he resumed his favorite shape as a white seal.

  “You are a welcome sight,” said Athena, “although a strange one. It is not often that a seal is found at these altitudes.”

  “Not a bad choice, my lady. A fur coat is
useful up here. The wind blows chill.”

  “Do you have any idea why I have sent for you?”

  “None … but I am honored by the summons.”

  “As you may know, Zeus has declared a truce, prohibiting us gods from feuding with one another. And those of us who have no desire for peace shall have to find others to carry on our vendettas. My own plans for pursuing my quarrel with Poseidon are quite extensive, and I need your help.”

  “You wish me to betray my master?”

  “Precisely,” answered Athena. “Are you bribable?”

  “In matters of morality we lesser breeds model ourselves upon the gods.”

  “Then you are bribable,” declared Athena.

  “What do you offer me to betray my master?”

  “I am not so rich as Poseidon, you know, who commands the vast bounty of the sea. Nor as rich as Hades in whose inlaid ceiling of sky diamonds imitate stars, and whose floor of earth is veined with gold and silver. Basically, O Proteus, I have only wisdom to offer.”

  “I see.”

  “I know it doesn’t sound like much compared to what is held in the coffers of earth and sea. But remember this; wisdom is the key that unlocks the secrets of nature. He who possesses only one of these secrets can enrich himself beyond the dreams of avarice.”

  “You don’t know how avariciously I dream, O goddess.”

  “Beware, Proteus, I am not one to forget a favor refused. I don’t ask that many, nor am I refused that often. And, in all modesty, I make a dangerous enemy.”

  “Please, Athena. Your threats frighten me so that I shall have to go to Poseidon with my tale. And he, in turn, will report to Zeus that you are planning to break the peace.”

  Her pale eyes were upon him. They were the color of the northern sea as it turns to ice. Proteus felt himself shudder. Sealskin is extremely tough, and very densely furred, with a layer of blubber beneath it to give seals perfect protection against the arctic blasts. Nevertheless, those eyes stabbed through him like twin icicles, freezing him to the marrow. He found himself wondering how he had been able to muster courage to refuse this goddess anything.

  Finally, her face broke into a smile. A wintry smile, to be sure, but better than the frown she had been wearing.

  “Well,” said Athena. “As dispenser of wisdom, I should be wise enough myself to know when a craving must go unsatisfied. I bear you no grudge, Proteus. And you must try not to think so unkindly of me.”

  “O goddess,” cried Proteus, “I am overwhelmed by your forebearance, and truly regret my inability to help you. Permit me, by way of apology, to offer you this pearl I produced during my recent stint as an oyster. It is a flawless gem, as you can see—although, I must admit, your own beauty must dim the luster of any jewel.”

  “You are courteous and sweet-spoken, Proteus. Is there anything I can do for you before you leave?”

  “Tell me, what is wisdom exactly?”

  “Ah, my friend, it is too vast an attribute to be described in one sentence. I’ll tell you this though: its central idea is ‘know thyself.’”

  “Is that better than knowing yourself?”

  “Same thing, but in god-speak. More impressive.”

  “You see, goddess, I am very changeable. I have so many selves that I don’t know which is the real me.”

  “The real you, eh? Shall I help you find it?” asked Athena.

  “Can you?”

  “We can try—together. Why don’t you run through your changes for me?”

  “Here? Now?”

  “Here and now are two of my favorite words, Proteus. I have steeped them in wisdom.”

  “Do you want to see all my transformations? There are so many.”

  “First, answer a question for me out of your own special knowledge. Is it true that every enchantment bears within it its own thwart?”

  “If by that, my lady, you mean a counter-spell, one that nullifies or reverses the magic, the answer is yes. But I’ve never tested the theory personally.”

  “Has no one ever tried to thwart your transformations?”

  “They have. They have. But they have failed. From the first, I knew that whoever could seize me and hold me through three metamorphoses would prevent a fourth change and return me to the shape I first adopted.”

  “And no one has been able to do this?” asked Athena.

  “No one,” said Proteus. “You must understand that I can change myself into a wolf or crocodile, and snap off any hand that grasps me. Or become a viper, for example, and sting my captor to death.”

  “I see.… I see. Very interesting,” said Athena. “Now, why don’t you show me a few of your favorite transformations, where the real you may perhaps reside. I know! Become once again the creature you were born.”

  “That is by no means my favorite incarnation,” said Proteus. “In fact, it doesn’t please me at all.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Athena, “as I think of it, I do want you to begin there. I believe it will give us a clue to what we seek.”

  Proteus was thinking very fast. There was something about the situation that was making him uneasy. He never transformed himself idly, but only in response to some specific task, or some emergency. And the more he thought about it the less inclined he was to go through a series of changes under the gaze of this stern goddess who seemed to be growing taller every moment. Her shoulders and arms gleamed like marble now in the gathering dusk. And the icy stilettos of her eyes were skewering him, paralyzing his will.

  He tried to fight free of her gaze, to simply bid her farewell, and depart. He heard her say, “Well, I’m waiting.”

  Still, he hesitated.

  The goddess spoke again. Her words seemed to be falling from a great height. “Proteus, begin!” It was no longer a request; it was a command. He was unable to disobey. Hating himself, he returned to the shape he had worn when entering the world.

  “What do you call this thing you’re now being?” asked Athena. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

  “Sea-blob,” he muttered.

  “You look something like Phorcys, but even uglier, if possible. And smaller.”

  “Yes, I’m sort of a cousin to the Sea-hog.”

  “Very odd … let me look at you.”

  Her long arm reached out; she scooped him up and held him to her face. To his horror Proteus felt hands stronger than any he had ever felt before tightening about him.

  Immediately, he changed himself into an eel and began to wriggle out of her clutch. But her strong fingers shifted, found a new grip, and squeezed tighter.

  He became a bull in her grasp. His massive weight forced her arm down. He crashed to the ground, landing on his hooves, and whirled to gore her with his horns. But she had fallen with him, still clutching as she fell. Her grip grew tighter and tighter; she was under him. He rose into the air, trying to somersault and come down horns first, impaling her.

  They were wrestling beside the giant loom. Still gripping him, Athena reached with her other hand and snatched a skein of thread. Moving with the weird celerity of a spider, she wrapped him around and around. Now, this thread was not spun from cloud-wool or sheep’s wool or earthly flax, but had been given to Athena in another story by Atropos, Destiny’s Hag, who with her crone sisters spun the thread of life, measured it out, then stretched it or cut it. And this unique thread was fatal to freedom, and could bind anything in the world, however strong.

  The bull lay trussed, helpless. Proteus changed into a tiger and slipped his bonds. Blazing with hatred, he sprang full at Athena, wanting to sink his claws into that snowy flesh and rip her to bloody rags.

  She caught him in mid-leap and held him away from her body so that his claws could not reach her. He curled up, meaning to rake her with his hind claws, and tear her guts out. But all this time her arctic grey eyes were stabbing into the pools of green flame that were his eyes. Again, their ice entered him, cooling his tigerish blood, freezing his will. He tried to strike with his bac
k claws but she held him off. She sat upon her throne, drawing him onto her lap. Her fingers were rods of power, sinking into his pelt, welding themselves to him. Her other hand stroked his fur.

  All his rage dissolved. He felt a delicious languor filling him. He was a pussy-cat in the lap of a goddess. She had held him through three transformations. He felt his tiger bones shrinking, and his gorgeous hide turning into aspic. And he was again what he had been born—a Sea-blob, magic thwarted, helpless in her hands.

  Proteus felt her turning his head so that he had to gaze upon the great stone pestle and mortar. “See that?” she asked.

  “Yes, goddess.”

  “Know what I use it for?”

  “No, goddess.”

  “I heap flowers in it and crush them to make the dyes that color my stuffs. Not only flowers—sometimes I crush other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “Those that need crushing. Now do you understand why I wanted you to become a Sea-blob?”

  “I hope not.”

  “In your present form you will fit very comfortably into that mortar, and should prove eminently crushable. I shall pound you into a jelly and boil that jelly into a potion. Use of that potion together with certain magic spells should enable me or anyone I designate to transform others into what shapes we will, giving us a distinct advantage over our enemies.”

  “Please, Athena! Don’t pound me into a jelly. Don’t boil me into a potion. I can be more useful to you, alive and intact.”

  “What, you!—who refuse me a small favor?”

  “I am yours, body and soul!” cried Proteus. “Yours in all my variety; yours, flesh, bone, marrow, and wit. The cold blades of your eyes have cut my own will out of me as a fishwife fillets a flounder. I am yours, entirely yours. Command, and I perform.”