Butes understood that his beasts could not be allowed to enter the garden because they would eat the flowers. He led them a short distance downhill, then turned them out to pasture on the slope.
The peaks of the Olympian range wear snow in the winter, but the dwelling of the gods is divinely shielded from the weather. In palace and garden it is always June.
Dusk had fallen by the time Butes had climbed the slope again. The gods were preparing to dine. Their table stood in the garden. It was a massive slab of marble resting on four tree stumps. This evening, the younger gods were dining alone, for their elders had been summoned to High Council by Zeus, and were meeting in his throne room.
The hundred-handed Briareus had a brother equally well-furnished with hands, who was the gardener for the gods. His name was Botanus, and he had traveled the world over seeking the most exquisite flowers to transplant upon Olympus. He had also hunted down those songbirds whose voices were sweetest and brought two of each to nest in the trees around the palace. At dusk in that garden the voices of the birds thronged the air, and the scent of the flowers hung most heavily. Music and fragrance became one, a distillate of that happiness which is the natural element of the gods—who, walking in their garden at dusk, were reaffirmed in their divinity, and worked up an appetite for dinner.
Butes passed between the marble pillars and into the garden where the gods had begun to dine. The lad dared not approach. He clutched the flask of nectar and stood there, gawking.
The gods were clad in light. Apollo in golden light, shot with crimson. His sister Artemis in pearly shifting hues, hot silver fading to silver-brown, turning to sunken fires as when the moon hangs over the sea, watching itself drown. Ares was cloaked in the ominous smoulder of watch-fires, the tragic glare of funeral pyres. Hephaestus was lit by the bright open flame of the forge. Hermes was clad in a strange, blue-silver light, as of cold intellectual fires. Athena brooded in owl-light, the murderous dusk in which the great bird hunts.
Bewildered by radiance, diminished by awe, Butes fell to his knees before the glorious assemblage. He wanted to sink lower than his knees, roll in adoration before them like a dog rolling in the dust. As he knelt there, a fragrance reached him. The fragrance became music, the music of a voice speaking just to him, murmuring, “Butes, arise!”
He arose, feeling himself fill with powerful joy. At the end of the great table he saw another light—a soft light, but one that seemed to swallow all the rest. A soft pink flame as of roses filtering sunlight, becoming fragrance, turning to birdsong. He saw the rosy light parting, as when a beautiful woman brushes away a plume of hair that veils her face.
There, at the end of the table, was the naked face of beauty itself—the face of Aphrodite, Goddess of Love.
Forgetting all that Cora had warned him against, he leaped onto the table. Threading his way through flagons and platters and past the astounded faces of the feasting gods, he raced toward Aphrodite. Kneeling before her, he thrust the flask at her with both hands, crying:
“For you, Aphrodite! For you alone!”
By the last glimmer of twilight, Aphrodite led Butes through the garden. She was murmuring to him, but he couldn’t answer. He was choked with joy. She wore a blue tunic, and her feet were bare. A dove rode her shoulder. She led Butes to the roses. The rose was her flower as the dove was her bird. Among trees, the apple was sacred to her, and the myrtle.
“I value your gift,” she said. “And I value him who brings it even more. But you have been rash.”
“Because the other goddesses will be jealous?” asked the lad.
“Yes, sweet boy.”
“I would risk more than their wrath to please you, my lady.”
“Nevertheless,” said Aphrodite, “their anger is to be feared. When you leave this place, I want you to take certain precautions. Do not go hunting. For Artemis is the Huntress Maiden, Queen of the Chase; she can turn an arrow or spear in mid-flight. And some hunter, trying to aim at a deer or a wild boar, will find himself accidentally killing you.”
“I shall shun the chase,” said Butes. “I don’t like to kill animals anyway.”
“Do not walk across ploughed fields,” said Aphrodite. “They are ruled by Demeter, who may send a snake to bite your heel.”
“I shall avoid ploughed fields,” said Butes.
“To fend off Athena’s wrath is more difficult,” said Aphrodite. “She is implacable when seeking vengeance. I shall have to buy her mercy. She covets a certain marvelous mirror made for me by my husband, Hephaestus; it permits me to see the back of my head when combing my hair. I don’t know what good it will do her; she’s always wearing that ugly helmet—but she wants it anyway. I’ll give her the thing if she agrees to forgive you.”
“Your beauty is matched only by your kindness to me, O Queen of the Night.”
“We may fail to appease their wrath, no matter what we do,” said Aphrodite. “So I shall try to protect you with my most potent charm. By rose and by dove, by apple and myrtle, I enjoin that no harm shall come to you for what you have done today. In the name of love and beauty and brave, foolish enraptured generosity, let all hear this:
Butes, Butes,
I give you power
over bird and flower.
Things with wings
shall attend you,
and night and morn,
the watchful thorn
defend you.
She took him in her arms and kissed his face. “Now leave this place,” she said. “As swiftly and silently as you can. Collect your donkeys and hurry home to your meadow. And be very careful along the way.”
But the other goddesses were waiting beyond the garden wall, and even Aphrodite had not gauged the depths of their jealousy.
“Remember the early days?” said Artemis. “When we used to thin out the swarming mortal herd by a great all-night hunt with dogs and horses and torch-bearers? There’s nothing I’d rather do tonight. Anyone else in the mood?”
“Why, I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more!” cried Athena.
“That ill-mannered little wretch seems to move quite spryly,” said Artemis. “He should give us a good run.”
“I’m definitely in the mood,” said Athena.
“So am I,” said Demeter.
“It seems a bit cruel,” said gentle Hestia. “But our dogs do need the exercise, don’t they, Artemis? So it would be a kindness to them, wouldn’t it?”
“We’ll give him a sporting chance,” said Artemis. “Allow him a big headstart and course him in the forest instead of the open field, so that he’ll be able to dodge around and hide behind trees and so forth. It’ll be a great chase.”
“How will we get him away from Aphrodite?” asked Demeter.
“She won’t keep him in the garden long,” said Artemis. “He’s too small for her. Besides, I happen to know that she’ll be otherwise engaged this evening.”
“Oh? … With whom?” asked Demeter.
“Apollo, Ares, Hermes … anyone but her husband. Now I’m off to fetch my hounds.”
“I’ll go call the torch-bearers,” said Hestia.
“I’ll round up the horses,” said Athena.
“I’ll stay here and see that he doesn’t slip away,” said Demeter.
The goddesses separated. The gods were still at the table. It was a hunter’s moon, almost full, bright enough to cast shadows.
7
Manhunt
All night long, Butes had been running for his life. Now at dawn, he was still fleeing, pursued by the hounds, and torch-bearers, and screeching goddesses. By daybreak, the pack had flushed him out of the woods and into an open field. He could run like a hare, but he was weary now, and the dogs were gaining fast. Mingled with their baying was the thunder of hooves and the bloodthirsty screams of the goddesses, riding close behind the hounds.
“This is it,” thought Butes. “I’m about to die. Pity … it’s too beautiful a morning for such sad things to happen. Not that I’d
go gladly even if the weather were foul. But my options seem to have run out. Let me try to persuade myself in these final moments that a kiss from Aphrodite is worth a painful death. So I’ll take a last look at that kindling sky, and try to be thankful. Last looks are too late, but what can I do?”
He fixed his eyes on a strange opalescent cloud that was floating above his head. He didn’t know that he was looking at the underside of dove wings—those of Aphrodite’s messenger pigeons, whose colors changed with every changing light. They were not there by chance. Aphrodite had dispatched them on an urgent errand. Each one carried a rose-branch in its beak.
The dogs’ howling turned to snarls as they came in for the kill. Their glittering eyes and savagely grinning muzzles were very close now. Behind them Butes saw weapons gleaming: the spear of Athena, poised for throwing; the silver arrow that Artemis was notching; Demeter’s sharp pruning knife.
Things were dropping between him and the dogs. Butes cringed away; he thought the goddesses had begun to throw their weapons. What pierced the ground, however, were not weapons, but rose-branches dropped by the pigeons. They were planting themselves, as Aphrodite had instructed. Magically empowered by the blessing of the love goddess, the rose branches dug themselves into the earth, and a wall of thorns began to grow. A thick impenetrable hedge of barbed branches wove themselves about the crouching boy.
The springing hounds found themselves impaled on the thorns. They tore free, and fled, whimpering. The goddesses reined back their horses and rode around and around the hedge. Artemis shot her silver arrows into it. Athena flung her spear. But neither could pierce the densely woven thicket. Cursing, Athena scooped up her spear and flung it again. It stuck harmlessly in the tangled branches.
“Let’s burn it down!” cried Demeter. “I’ll command the torch-bearers to relight their torches.”
“Those branches are too green to burn,” said Hestia.
“Not if the fire is hot enough,” said Athena.
“Besides,” said Demeter, “even if they only smoulder, the smoke will suffocate him.”
Then, to the astounded goddesses, it seemed as if their very words had summoned fire. A zigzag bolt of blue lightning sheared the air. Thunder spoke out of the clear sky. The thunder became the voice of Zeus, and that voice was full of fury.
Aphrodite, after dispatching her doves and her roses to protect Butes, had flown to the King of the Gods, and cried:
“Your daughters and your sisters defy you, Zeus! At this very moment they are disobeying your edict against man-kill. Bearing a grudge against a poor lad, they are hunting him to his death. Look down, look down! Behold how your subjects disport themselves as your benign attention is occupied with mighty matters of state. Behold!”
Zeus, who always found it difficult to resist Aphrodite, looked down and saw that she spoke the truth. He was enraged, and made himself even more majestic in his fury because Aphrodite was watching, and he wanted her to admire him. So he flung his lightning bolt and spoke in a voice of thunder, frightening the four goddesses out of their wits, causing them to turn their steeds and scatter in every direction.
Aphrodite seized the great knotted hand of Zeus and kissed it. She smiled her most radiant smile, one that told him her gratitude knew no limits. Then she raised her arm, and the thorn-hedge fell away from Butes.
The field was empty. The sun had climbed now. Birds rejoiced. It seemed to Butes like the most beautiful morning he had ever known. And life—every breath and throb and leaf whisper and birdnote—seemed infinitely precious.
“Thank you, Aphrodite,” he murmured. “And my thanks to you, O thundering Zeus. The nectar my nymphs shall make for you will be sweeter than ever. And twice as often now, shall we bear our brimming kegs to your mountain home.”
But Butes was never to see his nymphs again. For Athena, festering with hatred, leaped off her horse and whistled up her owl-chariot. The great white arctic owls—larger than eagles—drew the chariot swiftly through the sky until they were over the meadow where the nymphs dwelt.
Cora and her party were among the flowers, plundering them of their sweetness. The chariot dipped. Athena pointed her hands and mumbled a curse the way a snake shoots venom through its hollow teeth.
To the nymphs below it was as if the summer afternoon had become a hot golden fist. They were gripped so tightly that they couldn’t move their heads to look down at themselves. But each could see the others darkening, dwindling, sprouting hair upon their bodies—saw many-paned eyes bulging, membranous wings growing. By the time Athena drove off, cackling triumphantly, the entire clan of lovely meadow nymphs had become a swarm of bees.
They tried to speak to each other, tried to call to Zeus and Hermes who had once praised them. They pled with the gods to annul the curse, to restore them to themselves. But instead of their own voices, they heard only the sound of buzzing and realized that their prayers would not be answered, and that they would never be permitted to return to their own shapes.
Of all things in the world, love clings most stubbornly to old forms, and Cora so passionately wanted to be recognized by Butes when he returned that she was partially shielded from Athena’s curse. Though transformed into a bee like the others, she had become their queen, and for an hour each day was granted speech.
And it was Cora who told Butes what had happened when he returned to the meadow and found the nymphs gone, replaced by a swarm of strange creatures among the flowers. He tried to choke back his tears, tried not to show how horrified he was at the sight of the fat black and yellow bee that hovered at his ear, whispering.
“Do not grieve, my boy. But look to your own safety. For the ruthless Athena hates you still. You must leave this place, go as far as you can, as swiftly as you can.”
“No,” he cried. “When I leave here I shall go to Aphrodite and beg her to restore you. She saved me from the wrath of Athena; perhaps she’ll do the same for you.”
“No, no,” cried Cora. “You must not go to her. I am enchanted now, even though the enchantment be foul, and am able to see the future. If you return to Olympus, you are doomed. What you must do is go to sea. You wanted to do that once—remember? Well, now you must. For Poseidon, Lord of the Sea, is Athena’s enemy and may protect you against her.”
She darted off suddenly and vanished among the flowers.
Butes, blinded by tears, stumbled out of the meadow and headed for the beach.
“There’s nothing for me here,” he murmured to himself. “If there’s anything for me anywhere, perhaps I’ll find it at sea.”
8
Butes
Athena appeared to Circe on the Isle of Sobs and said: “A ship sails this way. On board is a youth whom I loathe beyond anyone else in the world. His name is Butes.”
“Well, my lady,” said Circe. “If he lands here, you’ll soon be rid of him.”
“Listen carefully,” said Athena. “I want you to bestialize the crew, but not Butes.”
“He is to be spared?”
“Certainly not. I don’t want him alive in any shape or form. I’m lending you my owl-chariot. You’ll be able to fly over the ship and drop a spell upon the crew, turning them into a pack of starving wolves. But allow Butes to retain his own form. He won’t keep it long. The wolves will tear him to pieces.”
“All shall be done according to your wish,” said Circe. She climbed into the owl-chariot and flew off.
The chariot streaked across the sky until Circe spotted a ship below. The owls flew lower, and the sorceress studied the deck to see if she could identify Butes, whom Athena had described.
But she herself was being identified by two pairs of very sharp eyes. She had come near enough to the reef for the Sirens to recognize their enemy. Their song changed, rang with trumpet notes, became a battle hymn, as they rose off the rock and flew toward the chariot.
Their wings were powerful. High above the owl-chariot they arced—then dived, screaming. The owls saw what seemed like eagles diving upon them
, talons poised. Like terrified horses kicking a coach to pieces, the owls frantically pecked themselves free from the traces and flew away as fast as they could.
The chariot, of course, plunged toward the sea. Circe barely had time to turn into a bat and slip out before Athena’s chariot hit the water and sank.
Circe had done well to become a bat for it flies faster than any bird, and the one thing she wanted now was to escape the Sirens. She sped homeward and was so frightened, and so unused to being frightened, that she remained a bat for hours before returning to her own form.
The Sirens flew back to their rock and began to sing their triumph. But their joy turned to astounded grief when they saw the ship they thought they had saved rushing toward them. The wind was gusting. “Pray that they’re blown away from the rocks,” whispered Teles.
Just as she spoke, the vessel was caught in a crosswind. Its sails flapped. The ship yawed, but before it could be blown away from the reef, sailors began jumping overboard and swimming toward the magical song.
The Sirens kept singing and their voices filled with grief as they saw the enormous slime spreading toward the swimmers.
The ship was heading straight toward them. A slender lad had lashed himself to the great sweep-oar, and was guiding the ship upon the reef. Again the wind shifted, growing into a gale, hurling the vessel toward the line of sunken boulders. It hurtled between the Sirens’ rocks. As it passed, the helmsman swung a knife, cutting himself free of the steering oar, and leaped off the deck.
As he fell, Ligiea, still singing, rose into the air and caught him in her arms. She set him down gently on the rock. Teles flew over and joined them.
Butes lay sprawled between the bird-women, breathing their salt fragrance, and wrapping himself in the sound of their wonderful voices. As he listened he began to feel alive for the first time since losing Cora. Felt himself fill with a wild inventiveness.
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two Page 39