Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two

by Bernard Evslin

  A dry riverbed called a wadi served as a burrow for the Sphinx. Bones littered its banks—the long leg bones and sharp rib cages and oval skulls of the camels she had devoured. Jackals searched the bones, cracking them for their last crumbs of marrow. The place stank. And Thanatos was grateful for the small wind that had arisen when the sun fell.

  He moved upwind of the wadi and peered over its silted bank, and gasped at what he saw. “So the tales are true,” he murmured. A lion’s body she had, but of a lion as big as an elephant. Her head was hidden under her wing, and he couldn’t see her face. Then she grunted and shifted, and in the bright moonlight he saw her face—that of a young woman—but her teeth were the fangs of a great cat. Her hair flowed cleanly back from her face and became a lion’s mane.

  He looked up. The stars flared like torches in the vast desert sky, and the moon seemed to be climbing as he watched. He raised his arms and began to spin, muttering as he spun.

  Now, it must be understood that Thanatos was half brother to Hypnos, God of Sleep, and shared the family talent for dream management. It was this talent he now began to use in the service of his master.

  He turned toward the north, singing wordlessly. In his song were the mingled voices of cold beasts—polar bear growl, seal bark, howl of the white wolf, cry of the great Arctic owl. The wind strengthened and swerved, and blew now from the north. An icy puff of it traveled down his outstretched arm and along his pointing finger—and blew down into the wadi, into the Sphinx’s sleep.

  She saw herself on the desert, in bright sunlight, moving toward her burrow. But the desert had changed. A wind scythed down from the north, lifting the sand into spouts. One of them whirled about her. And she, daughter of the sandstorm princess, whirled exultantly within it. But the old frenzied heat did not seize her; she was cold, horribly cold. The whirling cone was not sand; it was snow, fine granulated snow where no snow had ever fallen. She beat her wings, scattering the spout, and rushed toward her burrow.

  But the riverbed had become a river again, and was frozen. Sunlight, hitting the strange ice, splintered and mingled with the blowing snow. Icy needles of light seemed to be aiming themselves at her very marrow. She shuddered deeply, half-knowing that she was asleep, hoping she was. She tried to awake, but could not. She was locked in sleep, caged in her dream, imprisoned in weird frost.

  When Thanatos heard her utter a shuddering moan and heard the loud chattering of her fangs, he turned to face the south. The wind shifted, and was striped with hot airs. Thanatos directed the wind down into the wadi where it blew into the Sphinx’s sleep and thawed her dream.

  The snow was gone. She was in a different place, hotter than the desert, and more interesting. Almost too hot. But not quite. She stretched blissfully. She seemed to be perched on a basalt ledge overlooking a lake of fire. Steam arose, a great cloud of it. She couldn’t quite see the swimmers, but knew they were there, for she heard their screams. And these shrieks of agony seemed to belong to the heat. It was diabolical heat, suiting her completely.

  She spread her wings and flew off the ledge to explore the place. She saw twisted, frothing demons wielding pitchforks, herding pale shades toward the open roasting pits. She floated low over the pits, feeling the heat of their fire. It was good, very good; she was where she wanted to be. But she wasn’t quite sure where that was.

  Then, still half-knowing that she was asleep, but hoping now that she wasn’t, she saw someone prowling the margin of her dream. And the fiery landscape slowly began to close like the iris of an eye, focusing on the black-caped figure. And she knew that she must shake herself awake and give herself to the instructions of this one who traveled freely over the frontiers of sleep, and who alone could tell her what her dream meant.

  She found herself awake in her burrow under the pulsing stars. She lurched out of the wadi and stood among the grinning camel skulls. She looked up and saw the cloaked figure floating above her, black as a cutout against the moon.

  “Who are you?” she croaked.

  “I am Thanatos, who serves Hades, Lord of the Land Beyond Death.”

  “Hell?”

  “Some call it Hell.”

  “Is that where my dream took me—that blissful, flaming realm?”

  “It was.”

  “Did you send the dream?”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my master may ask you to make your home there, and serve in a very important post.”

  “What post?”

  “Queen of the Harpies, who were formerly led by Hecate.”

  “Yes, yes! Let’s go down there!”

  “Not so fast. My master likes what he has heard about you, but his standards are very high. He will want to examine you first, and perhaps set you a task so that you may prove yourself.”

  “I’m ready to meet him.”

  “No, you are not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hecate was hellishly intelligent, you know. If you expect to replace her you will have to become as powerful in mind as you are in body. Before meeting Hades you must hone your wits and accumulate knowledge.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. That’s not my line at all.”

  “Make it your line.”

  “But how?”

  “That how is the first of your tasks.”

  “Impossible! I can’t do it.”

  “Before giving up, be aware that we have informed ourselves of your tastes and have stocked the Styx with singing whales.”

  “Singing whales? Really?”

  “Frisky beasts. Keep capsizing the ferry. We’ve lost some veteran boatmen and shoals of shades.”

  “You’re making me hungry.”

  “And the silvery apes. Oh, my dear monster, you have no idea of the amount of effort we spent rounding them up. They’re almost extinct, you know. We had to literally snatch the last of them out of a jungleful of ravening tigers and leopards. If you do join us, we’ll set up a breeding farm to raise a fine population of silvery apes.”

  “Singing whales … silvery apes. I must put myself among those toothsome creatures; I must, I must! I’m off, Thanatos—on my way to hone my wits and gain knowledge. Not that I know how.”

  “Perhaps greed will teach you. Good hunting.”

  9

  An Unwilling Bride

  Hades was having a hard time with his flower maiden. Accustomed to being obeyed in all things, he was confused by her resistance. He went to great lengths to please her. In his kingdom lay the world’s trove of gold and silver, of diamonds and rubies and sapphires. He heaped her with jewelry and had his slaves spin her gowns of silver and gold thread. He called out the nimblest of acrobats, the most graceful dancers, and the sweetest singers from among his shades to provide her with entertainment. Still she would not speak to him, would not look at him—nor would she eat.

  And her resistance fueled his desire until it was a raging furnace. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t dare use force; he knew it wouldn’t work. Cold as an icicle now, this radiant slip of a goddess, he knew that if he tightened his grasp she would, like an icicle, change form and vanish. For all his vicious temper, though, the Lord of the Underworld had great control over himself. Boiling within, he let nothing show.

  Still determined to please her, he sent instructions to the smithy. The Cyclopes hammered out a great sheet of gold leaf, shaped it into an enormous globe, and punched it full of holes. The globe was cunningly hinged so that it opened like a shell, allowing smiths to insert torches. And these fatwood torches were lighted by fire taken from the very center of the earth—the primal flame, hot as the sun.

  Light streamed out of the golden shell, fiery light. And this he had done, Hades told Persephone, so that she might be warmed by artificial sun and feel more at home underground. But Persephone did not thank him, nor smile, nor say anything, but did look him in the face and hold his gaze for a moment. Then she turned and strolled toward the cypress grove. But, he noticed, she did
stop before the tree line and lift her face into the new golden light.

  And this was a bit of comfort to him, but not enough.

  As Persephone basked in the jeweled light of the artificial sun, she saw someone approaching. The figure was so tall she thought it must be Hades coming after her. She tensed, preparing to dart into the grove and lose herself among the trees. But then she saw that it was not Hades, but a mortal. A massive youth in a torn tunic. He was followed by one of the nymphs who had attended her in the meadows of home. The youth approached. He had a thatch of red hair. His arms and legs were cables of strength; his neck one column of muscle. And to the scorched air he brought an aroma of the Upper World—of a river and real sunshine and free wind. His voice was slow and deep; he spoke as one who used words rarely.

  “Are you the goddess Persephone?”

  “I am. Who are you?”

  “My name is Charon. I bear a message from your mother. Eat nothing.”

  She widened her eyes. “Really?”

  “Or perhaps you have already?”

  “No, sir.” She smiled at him. “And I’m getting very hungry.”

  “I’m sure you must be, missy. But I’m only telling you what your mother told me to say.”

  “And very good of you, young sir, to bring me a message. Have you had a long journey?”

  “From Eleusis.”

  “Yes, a very long one. But you’re so big and strong you can probably do even harder things.”

  He didn’t say anything. He was too busy staring. She was clad in the colors of spring flowers; her hair was yellow as forsythia, her eyes like wet violets, and she wore a tunic of lilac and rose. And when she had drawn cat faces on pansies it was after gazing at her own image in a pool.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Staring.…”

  “You’re so pretty, I guess.”

  Persephone looked at the nymph who was standing behind Charon. She recognized her now; her name was Menthe. She had been one of those who had attended the April Maiden as she plied her paintbrush among the wildflowers, and Persephone had always been fond of the big, vital wench, but now, suddenly, she disliked her.

  “Menthe,” she said. “Why don’t you go off a bit—toward the castle, say—and warn us if anyone approaches. I wish to have a private conversation with my mother’s messenger.”

  The nymph smiled a small smile, then curtsied so low it seemed almost like mockery—but arose and glided over the black grass toward the castle. Persephone looked after her, and said:

  “D’you think she’s pretty, too?”

  “Menthe?”

  “Who else could I mean? Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Prettier than me?”

  “No.”

  “As?”

  He shook his head slowly. “Nobody is, I guess.”

  “That’s all right then,” said Persephone. “Now tell me exactly what my mother said.”

  “Oh, she said a lot of things. I can’t remember all of it. She was very angry—screaming and hollering and throwing famines around. But what she told me to tell you was ‘Don’t eat—and your mother will save you.’”

  “How long am I supposed to go on starving?”

  “She didn’t say. But you won’t starve to death because you’re a goddess and can’t die.”

  “How about you, large youth? I suppose now that you’ve delivered your message you’ll scoot back up with your hussy.… Well, when you and she are stuffing yourselves with roast lamb and lentils and cheese and olives and honey, just think of me down here, growing thinner and sadder, thinner and sadder. Even if goddesses can’t die, they can suffer, you know.”

  “We’re not going anywhere, Princess. I’m to stay here and man a ferry across that ugly black river, and be ready to help you when the time comes. And Menthe will attend you, if you like.”

  10

  Instructing the Sphinx

  The Sphinx finally sent word by Hermes, the messenger god, that she had prepared herself to meet Hades and would soon be there. Thanatos hastened to the throne room.

  “She’s on her way, my lord,” he said, “but you won’t enjoy her company.”

  “Eh?”

  “To put it plainly, the Sphinx stinks.”

  “We’re used to strange smells here—charred souls, basted sins, ashy tears. When did you get so finicky?”

  “We’ve never experienced anything like her stench, O King. The lion-smell of sulphur, dung, and rotting meat, but multiplied a thousand times.”

  “Oh well, I’ll make her keep her distance. Have someone carry my instructions to her. You, perhaps, Thanatos. I hereby appoint you special envoy to the creature. Don’t shudder; I’m only joking. We’ll get one of the Harpies to do it.”

  “Thank you, Majesty.”

  “Besides, I must tell you that my bride-to-be, the Flower Princess, will envelop me in such fragrance that no unpleasant odor will penetrate.”

  “A very pretty sentiment, my lord. Shall I simply then take the Sphinx to you when she gets here?”

  “Well,” said Hades, “why don’t you bring her by way of the Styx? Tell her it’s my wish that she swim across rather than fly over. That strong river should wash away some of the stench.”

  Just past the black iron gates that are the portals of Hell stood a grove of trees—cypress and alder, and within that grove gushed a crystal fountain. Lethe’s spring it was, where the newly dead would stop to drink, and immediately forget everything that happened while they were alive. Before the Sphinx arrived, Thanatos filled a bucket at this fountain and poured it into the Styx.

  “A hideous smell,” he said to himself, “may after all be only the memory of corruption. Perhaps a bucketful of forgetfulness will wash the spoor of foul meals from the Sphinx’s body.”

  It may be that his idea worked. For it is reported that Hades received the Sphinx without flinching, and listened courteously as she told him that she wished to take Hecate’s place as Queen of the Harpies.

  “There is much to consider,” said Hades. “Hecate, you must realize, was not only a matchless fighter but also extremely intelligent. In fact, she was my chief aide, and often counseled me on matters of policy. Now, I must say, you look like you can handle yourself in a fight, but do you have it up here?” He tapped his head. “No offense, but Hecate was positively brilliant, and anyone who seeks to take her place—well, you understand.”

  The Sphinx said: “I understood that before I came down, Your Majesty. And have tried to prepare myself for the job. Have been trying to add to my own stock of intelligence in a very direct way—by eating the cleverest people I could find.”

  “Indeed? A novel approach. Tell me more.”

  “Well, I had mixed results at first. Poets didn’t agree with me—too sweet. Political theorists gave me gas. But I kept trying, and found that mathematicians were the dish. They stick to the ribs. I ate a whole school of them and suffered no indigestion whatsoever. The only thing was I found myself getting passionate about puzzles—became positively addicted to riddles. But to sum it up, I do believe I’m brainy enough now to fill the post.”

  “You found poets too sweet, eh?”

  “Quite nauseating.”

  “Well, I have a bitter one for you—who also happens to be of a different order of intelligence from all the others you have engorged. Hearken now, you’ll need more than logic; you’ll need imagination to lead the Harpies and impose my discipline upon the legions of Hell. You’ll need to balance your diet with this poet.”

  “Who is he? Where do I find him?”

  “His name is Thallo. You’ll find him somewhere on Crete.”

  Hades didn’t tell her that Thallo was wedded to Hecate. What he wanted, of course, was for Thallo to be killed so that Hecate, unattached, would return to Tartarus.

  “They’ll fight, no doubt,” he said to himself, “this Sphinx creature and Hecate. And a splendid sight their battle
should be. If Hecate wins, all the better. If this one wins, then I’ll allow her to take Hecate’s place. For no loser can queen it over the Harpies.”

  11

  Another Abduction

  The Sphinx flew toward Crete, where Hecate dwelt now with her little husband. Their home was a cave halfway up the slope of Mount Ida, not far from that great cavern called earth’s womb—so named because here was where Rhea had given birth to Zeus, shaking the mountain and starting an avalanche in her mighty labor.

  As it happened, while the Sphinx was flying to Crete, Hecate was winging away from it, heading for Libya on some mysterious errand of her own. Now, it is not quite clear how word got out that the Sphinx had left Tartarus and was on her way to the Upper World to catch Thallo and eat him raw. It may have been Hades himself who passed the word so that Hecate might hear of it and prepare to fight. In any case, the news traveled faster than the Sphinx could fly, and reached Thallo by way of some gossipy dryads. He was in the forest dancing with them at the time—something he could do only when Hecate was elsewhere. It was hard for him to stop dancing; the dryads were beautiful and very playful. But with the monster en route, he knew he had to make plans very fast.

  He thought and thought, but could think of no possible way he could escape the Sphinx if she caught sight of him. “So I must hide from her, but how? Not in my cave; she’ll force someone to tell her where it is, then dig me out. And outside the cave I’m a goner too. An eagle, it is said, can spot a rabbit from a mile up, and this creature is supposed to be an even better hunter. So, no place to hide. I’ll have to find another way. What way? Where’s that wonderful imagination of mine when I really need it? Is it good only for word slinging and such trifles? Let’s see now … what do I know about her? She wants to eat me, I know that—a dreadful piece of knowledge. Is there some way I can make her not want to? Is there anything that she’d refuse to eat? Aha, there may be. Beef! She is cousin to the beast gods of Egypt, and the most potent of them is Hathor of the Horned Moon, the great cow goddess, whose milk is rain. And Hathor’s flesh is sacred, and cows and bulls partake of this holiness, and are not to be harmed.