Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two

by Bernard Evslin

  But thinking of sailors made them remember the two enchanted lads they had left on the Isle of Sobs. What would become of the monkey and the cat who had been Pero and Procles? Would Circe pursue them with her vengeance? Feed them to a lion or a crocodile? Or would she forget about them and let them mingle with the rest of her zoo? If so, would they be locked in their animal shapes forever? Could they be rescued? The winged nymphs had much to wonder about as they sat on their rocks and gazed back toward Circe’s island.

  Out of their joy and grief and terror and wonder, they began to sing. And, hearing themselves, they realized that bird-notes had entered their voices now and made them more beautiful than ever. The heart-wrenching emptiness of the ocean waste was in their song, the seethe and chuckle of the tides, and all the shifting colors of light upon water.

  They gave their song to the south wind, and it drifted out to sea. They sang and sang. The sun was sinking. Bloody light streaked the waters; the sea grew dark, then purple.

  Suddenly, the sisters saw the lilac darkness bulge with a greater darkness. They heard a whipping of sails, a wrenching of wood and metal, and a clamor of men shouting. The nymphs dived off their rocks just as a ship rushed between them and broke upon the reef. The sunken rocks had torn the bottom of the ship out. It sank in a matter of minutes, dragging most of the crew with it.

  A few men were struggling in the water. The sisters pulled them out and hauled them onto the rocks, where they stood, huddled and shivering.

  “Sister, sister!” called Teles. “Let us not keep them. I have my reasons.”

  “I know,” called Ligiea. “I’m growing hungry too.”

  “What shall we do?” cried Teles. “If we throw them back, they’ll drown. They can’t swim to shore.”

  “We’ll fly them there,” answered Ligiea. “But let us do it now, quickly!”

  Each nymph clutched two amazed sailors in her talons, lifted them off the rock, and flew them to dry land. They set them gently on the beach and flew away as fast as they could.

  The sisters returned to the rocks and sang to the moon. A new loneliness entered their song, a new amazement, and a greater hunger.

  Circe’s owl flew from the Isle of Sobs to the mountaintop where Athena dwelt and told the goddess all that had happened. Athena flew off and sped to the bird-women’s rocks. She hovered invisibly over their perch. She listened to them sing and understood what happened to ships that sailed within reach of their voices.

  All this pleased her mightily. “Ha, ha, ha,” she chuckled to herself as she flew away. “Those rebellious nereids are more useful to me now than they were on Circe’s island. Perched atop their rocks, singing with the voice of the sea itself, they cast their song like a silver loop about passing ships and draw them onto the reef … Yes! They will become a great navigational hazard, as wonderfully destructive in their own way as Circe is in hers. And every sailor that is drowned shall weaken the worship of Poseidon among seafaring people. I am pleased, very pleased with the way things have worked out. I shall give those sisters a new name: Sirens!”

  The word meant “noose-throwers,” or “those who bind.” And that is the name the winged sisters were to bear till the end of time.

  Afterward, however, Athena pondered the matter more deeply. “The Sirens have one weakness,” she thought to herself. “They’re destructive without meaning to be. They pity the shipwrecked crews, and, one day, may give way to that stupid compassion. They can’t stop singing any more than a pair of nightingales can, but they may start pulling sailors out of the water—which wouldn’t do at all. Now, I want to keep them where they are, singing ships onto the reef, but it behooves me to make those waters even more deadly. But how? Shall I plant a school of sharks there? No, they’re very brave and strong, those nereids, and, once their pity is aroused, would not hesitate to pull a sailor out of the very jaws of a shark. I’ll have to think of something worse.”

  She thought and thought, and finally produced a truly hideous idea.

  4

  Cannibal Fat

  The elder gods knew that a fire as hot as the sun smouldered deep beneath the earth, sometimes burning through its crust and into the bowels of mountains, making volcanoes.

  To contain this buried heat something was needed as unimaginably cold as the fire was hot. And, in the dawn of time, Uranus, the First One, accompanied by the Cyclopes and the Hundred-handed Giants, had traveled to the iciest wastes and quarried the frozen seas for what became known as “black ice”—the only substance in the universe capable of insulating the earth’s surface from the fire below.

  Enormous blocks of this black ice were used to construct a wall to hold the fires where they were, and to keep the surface of the earth cool enough for the seeds of life to grow. Eons later, when fish and birds and animals and man had been planted in the world, the spare blocks of black ice were kept in a cave gouged into the slope of Mount Olympus. And in this same den of abysmal frost were stored the leftover seeds and stuffs of creation.

  Uranus had stationed a dragon at the mouth of the cave, for he wanted no one to enter. In time, Uranus was deposed by his own son Cronos, who then became King of the Gods, only to be deposed in turn by his own son, Zeus, who, in the family tradition, after getting rid of his father, named himself king. But under each reign, the cave remained a forbidden place, and the dragon stood eternal vigil.

  Now, however, Athena needed to visit the cave to help herself to some of its taboo stores. She knew what manner of beast squatted before its portals, but the warrior goddess was not one to be dismayed by a dragon. Wearing breastplate and helmet, she carried her long spear in one hand and her shield in the other. This shield, unlike any other, was useful for more than defense; it proved deadlier than the spear. For it had belonged to the young hero Perseus—and was the one into which the image of Medusa’s snake-haired head had burned itself.

  Athena came striding up to the cave. The dragon flailed its tail and spat fire at her. Athena lifted her shield to deflect the flames. At the same time, however, the dragon looked upon the image of Medusa and was immediately turned to stone. The goddess stepped lightly over the stone dragon and entered the cave.

  She searched among sacks of seed and huge bins until she found what she wanted. It was an enormous keg, bound with hoops of copper. She broke it open; out bulged a mass of something that quivered and pulsed and glistened. She had uncovered a mass of cannibal fat, some of the primal stuff of creation, a bit of which became part of every living thing. It fed upon other forms of life and converted them to energy for its own host—whatever form that took, be it ape, dove, crocodile, or crocus.

  Wielding her spear, using its sharp, leaf-shaped head as a knife, Athena sliced off a throbbing lump of blubber. She stuffed it into an empty keg, hoisted it onto her shoulder, and strode out of the cave.

  On her way out, Athena knelt and breathed into the stone mouth of the dragon. The stone hide cracked, became leathery scales; the spike tail twitched; flame flickered about its maw. It was alive again, as Athena had intended. She wanted the cave to appear undisturbed so that her theft would not be discovered.

  The next ship that approached the Sirens’ fatal reef happened to be captained by an old, very stubborn seaman, who insisted on acting as his own helmsman, although he was quite deaf. But it was this deafness that saved his vessel. The Sirens’ song didn’t captivate him because he couldn’t hear it, and he steered his ship clear of the reef. But his crew were young men who heard perfectly. They were noosed by the song, and jumped overboard.

  The Sirens saw men swimming toward them; then they saw that the water was churning strangely. A large, glistening blob floated to the surface. They couldn’t make out what it was; they had never seen anything like it before. It was a jellyfish, but huge, twenty times larger than any they had ever known. It was altogether transparent; they could see its pinkish entrails clenching.

  The sailors were swimming toward it. Instead of slithering away, it moved toward them, o
ozing out from its own center, spreading over the surface of the water. The living aspic covered the men, curled about them, folding over on itself. And the horrified nymphs saw that the men were inside the creature, completely wrapped in glistening jelly.

  The Sirens tried to scream but couldn’t interrupt their song. They kept singing as they watched the men being digested.

  The sisters had no way of knowing that it was Athena who had dropped that primal lump of cannibal fat into the sea, where it became, quite naturally, a carnivorous jellyfish. What they did know was that it meant certain death for any sailor to fling himself overboard in those waters—knew that their song was a death-song now, made more deadly by its very beauty. Nevertheless, they couldn’t stop singing any more than the wind can stop blowing or brave men can turn back from danger.

  5

  The Meadow Nymphs

  Before bees began, there was a clan of meadow nymphs who had learned to plunder flowers of their sweetness and to distill the fragrant juice with the cider of apple, fig, and pomegranate, making a drink so magically delicious that anyone who tasted it wanted nothing else.

  One day when the nymphs were brewing their potion in a big pot, the odor floated to the top of Olympus where the gods dwelt. Down swooped Zeus and Hermes to see what smelled so good. They smiled with pleasure when they saw the cluster of meadow nymphs, for the leaf-clad creatures were very fresh and lovely. Two nymphs drifted toward them, bearing dripping ladles, and crying “Taste! Taste!”

  Zeus gulped down a ladleful of the drink. He drank again, then raised his arm and spoke:

  “O lovely creatures of meadow and field, I thank you for concocting this marvelous potion. But you must control your overflowing generosity, my dears. For all sweetness carries a sting, and those tasting this drink will find their idea of themselves foolishly enlarged. They may fancy themselves immortal—a condition reserved, as you know, for me and my family. Therefore, to avoid trouble, this drink, fit for the gods, is hereby declared fit only for the gods. All lesser breeds shall be forbidden to drink it. Is this understood?”

  “Yes … yes …” murmured the nymphs, pressing about him. They never really listened to what any male of any species had to say—god, demigod, or mortal—but they were expert at reading face and gesture, and knew that Zeus was feeling very pleased and important. So they pretended to understand what he had said, and queued up for his blessing—which he bestowed heartily upon each, with a hug and a kiss, Hermes assisting.

  Whereupon, the gods flew off believing that they had passed a solemn law, and the nymphs drifted to their flowerbed, giving no thought at all to what had been decreed.

  So it was that the drink became known as nectar, or “deathless”, and was not only the favorite beverage of the gods but the foundation of their diet. Boiled with ground yellow wheat kernels, it was used as a food, and was known as ambrosia, or “immortality”. And the gods feasted daily upon nectar and ambrosia.

  It happened one day that a nymph running across the meadow found her way blocked by a flock of sheep. Without pausing, she leaped onto the back of a ram and, stepping lightly from sheep to sheep, raced over the tightly packed mass. Then she heard a curious mewing sound. She leaped down and ran to a ewe that was sprawled on the grass somewhat separated from the others. Kneeling, the nymph saw that the ewe was suckling a human infant, a boy.

  Looking about, she saw bloody rags on the grass, a bloody tuft of wool, some raw bones—and realized that the child’s parents must have been eaten by wolves, and that the baby had found his way to a mother sheep whose newborn lamb had also been eaten. The nymph cradled the infant in her arms and raced back to her sisters who shouted with joy when they saw the beautiful babe. They immediately adopted him, vowing to care for him as no child had ever been cared for. Indeed, they raised the child tenderly and merrily, and he was very happy among them. But Cora, the nymph who had found him in the field, was always his favorite, and she doted on him. Butes was the name he was given, meaning “herdsman.”

  He grew into a boy, golden-skinned, lithe as a satyr, with a poll of reddish-brown hair and amber eyes that could turn almost yellow. The nymphs swore that those eyes glowed in the dark—like a cat’s.

  The beautiful boy grew into a beautiful youth, and was the cause of the first quarrels among the clan. For every nymph in the meadow planned to marry him as soon as he was ready. Now, this was the only flaw in the boy’s happiness. Butes loved them all, and couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing any one of them. Actually, he felt quite ready to select a mate—but was trying to put off the day of decision by pretending to be more childish than he felt.

  Nymphs are not easily fooled in such matters, though, and things were growing tense. One of the larger ones lost her patience one evening, slung Butes over her shoulder, and began to run off into the woods with him. But she was caught by Cora, who broke a branch over the head of the abductress, and snatched him back.

  Then she took him aside, and said: “My child, you are a child no longer.”

  “Of course not!” he cried. “I’m grown up—or almost.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You’re almost a young man—almost ripe. And my sisters of the glade are growing restless, very restless. Each of them wants you for her own, and they are accustomed to going after what they want.”

  “Dear Cora,” said Butes. “Please understand that I have done nothing to encourage them.”

  “They don’t need much encouragement,” said the nymph. “One look at you is enough. And spring is almost upon us. The moon kneels lower each night, and shines more hotly. I can’t keep knocking them over the head one by one, as they try to carry you off.”

  “What can I do about it? Go away?”

  “Just for a little while,” said Cora. “Just to give them time to roam meadow, grove, and stream for shepherds or woodsmen or satyrs—enough for all.”

  “I don’t mind going,” said Butes. “I’m getting restless too. Perhaps I’ll go to sea.”

  “To sea?”

  “Sometimes I walk on the beach and watch the ships spreading their wings to the wind, and I want to be aboard.”

  “No, no!” cried Cora. “Sea voyages are too long. And too perilous. There are storms, shipwrecks, monsters—all sorts of dreadful things can happen.”

  “You know, I think I’d like danger. I’ve never even seen a monster.”

  “If I have my way, you won’t,” said Cora. “But you can see something even more exciting. As you know, twice a year we of the Meadow Clan deliver our nectar to the gods. We take turns making the journey to Olympus. My idea is for you to make the next trip. It will take you away from here for a month or so. Give you a chance to visit the gods in their own wonderful home, and perhaps make some useful contacts. A friend or two in high places do a young man no harm. By the time you come back, each nymph will be paired off, and you will be safe for another year—by which time, perhaps, you will have chosen someone for yourself.”

  “That can only be you, dearest Cora.”

  “We’ll see.” she murmured, kissing him in a way that meant she had already seen all she had to. “But go, my child,” she whispered. “You must not linger. By first light, we shall begin loading the donkeys, and off you shall go.”

  Indeed, the nymphs began to load the donkeys at daybreak, and had finished before the sun was high enough to dry the grass. Butes, wrapped in a cloak against the morning chill, kissed each nymph goodbye, saving Cora till last. She drew him aside, and gave him a crystal flask.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Something you’ll need,” she said. “I had a dream last night, the kind that shines a light into the darkness of time to come, showing us more than we want to know. Monstrous perils are to be flung into your path, my lovely boy. If you are to live long enough to be my mate, you shall need the special protection of a god.”

  “Which one?”

  “You shall meet them all on Olympus, and be able to choose for yourself. When you sel
ect one, be it fierce Ares, subtle Hermes, radiant Apollo, or deft Hephaestus, give him this crystal flask, making sure no one else sees you do it.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Nectar. Ordinary nectar. But you shall describe it as something extraordinary—drawn from a blossom hitherto unknown and of matchless flavor, and especially brewed by the clan-mother herself for the exclusive use of whichever god you offer it to.”

  “But,” said Butes, “when he tastes it, won’t he know it’s the same nectar he’s been drinking every day?”

  “No,” said Cora. “He’ll believe what you have told him. It is a god’s nature to welcome praise and to magnify it even as he hears it. He’ll swallow every word of your tale about the special nectar in the flask. Vanity will combine with imagination to convince him that your gift is all you say it is. And he will stand ready to befriend you—at least until someone else gives him a better gift.”

  “I shall do as you bid, dearest Cora. But must it be a god? How about a goddess?”

  “No!” cried Cora. “Not a goddess! Any goddess you give that to will immediately boast about it to the other goddesses to make them jealous—and she’ll succeed. You’ll have gained one goddess as a friend, and the rest as enemies.”

  “You are as wise as you are beautiful,” said Butes. “I’ll do exactly as you say.”

  “The sun is climbing fast. You must be off.”

  “Farewell,” said Butes. “I shall return.”

  6

  A Fatal Gift

  When Butes led his string of donkeys through the marble pillars that marked the entrance to the garden of the gods, he was met by a hundred-handed giant named Briareus who served Zeus as doorman and porter. The giant swiftly unloaded the donkeys, and holding a heavy keg of nectar in each pair of hands—there were fifty kegs—he carried them easily up the garden path toward the palace.