Hades never traveled unattended. Two demon outriders clung to the back of his chariot. They sprang off now and began unloading gifts for Echidne. The presents were all opulent—gold hoops as big as chariot wheels, set with diamonds big as onions. Echidne liked to slide her long, serpentine body through such hoops when she performed her hunting dance before a shark chase.
“You are generous, my lord,” said Echidne. “If these gorgeous hoops are meant as another birthing gift, then I accept them with thanks. But if they are offered as a purchase price for this pup, I must refuse. I doubt that he’ll go underground to serve you, Hades, or ever serve anyone anywhere. All my children have independent spirits, as you know. But none of them are as willful and stubborn as this one, young as he is.”
Before Hades had a chance to reply, Cerberus began to prove his mother’s words. The pup had been seized by an immediate loathing for the tall, black-caped figure standing before him. But he knew that his mother would be displeased if he attacked Hades while she was speaking to him, so he dashed at the horses instead.
Instinctively cunning, Cerberus avoided being crushed under their great hooves. He sprang to the shafts of the chariot and bit through the harness, then whirled faster and faster, his three pairs of jaws becoming a circle of teeth. The sight was so ghastly that the stallions kicked themselves free of the shafts and bolted down the beach, trailing their reins behind them. Cerberus scampered after them, barking furiously.
Hades, ruler of the hereafter and master of torment, was not easy to surprise. But now he stood stupefied, watching his gigantic black stallions being chased across the beach by a four-day-old puppy. The horses had disappeared in a cloud of sand, and the pup came racing back, muzzles wrinkled, not barking now, but uttering a triple snarl. He charged over the sand and launched himself through the air, straight at Hades’ throat.
It was only Echidne’s swiftness that saved the god from an unspeakable affront. Quick as the flick of an eyelid, she flipped her tail, catching the pup in mid-air and knocking him to the sand. Swiftly, she curled her serpent’s tail about him, binding him fast.
“My lord, I beg your forgiveness,” she said. “But he’s very young. Too young still to distinguish friend from foe.”
“I bear no grudge,” said Hades coldly. “Let us hope that his judgment ripens with age.”
“In the days to come,” said Echidne, “I shall explain to him how much your favor has meant to our family. In the meantime, my lord, I observe that your demons have caught the horses. I think it best if I leave you now, and cool this young one off with a long swim.”
“Take these golden baubles with you,” said Hades. “They are yours. I shall leave it to you, Echidne, to convince the brave little fellow of the advantages that will accrue to anyone entering my employment at the highest level—and I mean highest. He would rank with Charon and Hecate as my chief aides.”
Echidne reached down, lifted Cerberus from her coils, and held him tightly in her arms as she wriggled through the golden hoops, and slithered into the water.
“Farewell,” she cried. “Thank you again.”
“Farewell to you,” said Hades. “But I shall reserve my thanks until a later date.”
“You’re a wicked, wicked, reckless pup,” Echidne murmured to Cerberus, as she glided through the water. “But I love you more than all my other children combined. And you shall never go underground to work for that arrogant fiend as long as I live. Still, we must beware. His disappointment can curdle into hatred—and his powers are vast.”
Cerberus did not answer. He was fast asleep in his mother’s arms.
3
The Shark Hunter
Now, Echidne’s brood fed upon the flesh of bird, beast, and fish. Man was considered a delicacy, though not too filling. Nor do monsters exclude each other from their diet. But this sea-dwelling family into which Cerberus had been born had a preference for sharks. They were big enough to make a main course and especially tasty when eaten fresh. But since sharks preferred eating to being eaten, and were accustomed to enforcing this preference, catching them was always a risky business.
Sharks offered exactly the kind of sport that Cerberus liked best, and he immediately proved to be a great help on the hunt. He began carving a legend for himself with his ability to follow an underwater trail. His three keen noses could pick up a shark’s scent and follow it from reef to reef. And when he had closed in on the savage fish, he could be assured of the kind of action he craved.
Cerberus grew with monstrous speed and reached full size without losing any of his frisky, affectionate nature. But much as he wanted to, he couldn’t find a playmate. He simply looked too fearsome to other creatures, and there were none of his own kind. Indeed, he was as big as a walrus now and much more powerful. And those three pairs of jaws studded with ivory teeth were more terrible than a crocodile’s. He could seize a shark in each set of jaws, drag them down to the bottom of the sea, braid their tails together, and pull the three sharks home to the cave.
After a while Echidne and her brood grew weary of shark meat, and Cerberus was sent out after octopi. These were gigantic creatures, equipped with eight long arms set with powerful suction cups. Fishermen feared them more than they did sharks. For octopi could cling to the underside of a boat, snake up over the edge, grasp a fisherman, and pull him overboard. Some octopi, it was said, grew large enough to capsize sailing vessels. But these were only rumors. Certainly nobody who had encountered one that size had lived to tell the tale.
Cerberus hunted octopi with the same joyous ferocity he displayed in hunting sharks. Even more, perhaps, because these creatures were bigger and more strange. The greater the peril, the more Cerberus enjoyed himself. He would charge an octopus, stretching out his three necks and curling the rest of himself into a ball so that he became a wheel of teeth. Seizing an arm in each pair of jaws, he would braid them as he had the shark’s tails, actually knotting the giant squid to itself. Then he would swim home, towing it behind him.
It came to pass that there was no creature in the sea that Cerberus feared—though he was feared by all the others.
4
The Fisherman’s Daughter
In a small coastal village lived a little girl named Delia. She was the youngest child in a family of fisher-folk, and, from the very first, held strong ideas about everything. She could not endure, for example, being left at home with her mother while her father and brothers went out to fish.
Again and again Delia tried to hide herself on board her father’s boat, crouching inside a barrel or rolling herself up in a net. But there wasn’t much room to hide: she was always found and set ashore. Each failure made her more determined to succeed. She longed to do as her brothers did—to go out with her father upon the flashing sea among the great fish and come sailing home, all sunburnt and swaggering, laughing, and telling wonderful lies.
Since she could not stow away without getting caught, she decided to follow the fishing boat in a tiny, canoe-like craft called a coracle, which her father had made for her. She awoke at dawn, slipped out of the family hut, and hid herself among driftwood until she saw her father and brothers sail away. Then she slid the coracle into the surf, pushed it out past the breaking waves, and climbed in.
Delia was gliding into a great dazzle of sunrise. The wind whipped her hair. She laughed with joy. She was absolutely at home in the tiny boat, for she could paddle as well as her youngest brother and swim like a water-rat.
She was not worried when her father’s fishing vessel vanished from sight. She knew where he would cast his nets. In this season, at this phase of the moon, the mullet were running, and her father knew where they ran.
In searching for a small fishing boat on the vast expanse of water, those wise in the way of the sea know that it is best to study the sky. For gulls throng where fishermen cast their nets. So Delia stared at the sky, looking for gulls, and did not see the triangular fin cutting the water toward her.
Cerberus was
also prowling the sea that morning, quite unaware that this was the day that was to change his life forever. He was not after sharks but hunting octopi. His mother was about to lay another clutch of eggs, and at such times she had a monstrous appetite. Suddenly, Cerberus picked up a strong scent and forgot about foraging for octopus. He knew that something huge and terrible had crossed his path, a small killer whale perhaps, or a great white shark. Either of these meant a fine fight if he could track it down.
Now, fishermen built their own boats in those days, and Delia’s father had used as much care in making the tiny coracle as he had in building his broad-beamed fishing vessel. Instead of using wood for the ribs, he had traded a month’s catch for antelope horn, the same kind of tough, springy horn that was used in making bows. Over these strong ribs he had stretched sealskin instead of the woven reed fiber ordinarily used for the hull. He had made the swiftest, most durable coracle on the coast, and he was very proud of it.
“It’ll last a hundred years,” he said. “My grandchildren’s grandchildren will use it. My ghost will float on the wind like a torn sail, laughing all the way.”
Nevertheless, that coracle, made with such loving care, was not to last another day.
Delia shipped her paddle and let the little boat drift as she searched the sky for gulls. Something bumped the boat—hard. It rocked violently, almost spilling her out. The water split. An enormous fish burst out. It seemed to stand on its tail, towering above the tiny boat, its jaws gaping. Delia saw its teeth flash, felt herself choke in the stinking gale of its breath. It was a shark, a blotched white one, the biggest she had ever seen. She fell flat into the boat, pressing herself to the floorboards. The shark dipped, clamping its jaws on the edge of the boat like a child crunching a candy bar, wrapper and all. The coracle collapsed. Sealskin and ribs of horn closed about the little girl, shielding her from the butcher-knife teeth.
Things look bigger underwater. Cerberus, who had been following the shark’s scent, found himself rising to meet a fish that looked as big as a war vessel. He had learned that the best way to meet a giant shark was to come up from beneath it and bite off its tail … something only he could do. It would take three bites, one with each head. For the tailbone of a shark is a continuation of its spine, and that spine is perhaps the toughest, most flexible in all animal creation. The first bite would slice through nerve fiber, paralyzing the great fish. The second bite would cut halfway through, and the third would shear off the tail completely. The shark, mortally wounded, spouting blood, would sink, and be easy to finish off underwater.
When Cerberus saw this shark, however, he decided to abandon his usual habit and surface in front of it. For this creature looked big enough to put up a real battle, and that is exactly what Cerberus craved on this beautiful summer morning. But when the dog reached the surface and poked his heads out of the water, his six ears quivered in wonder. The shark was screaming, screaming with a child’s voice.
Then Cerberus saw that there was a little boat wedged between the shark’s jaws, and he immediately understood that there was a child inside, still alive, still screaming. The dog moved so swiftly that his three heads blurred into one. He flung himself through the spray and hit the shark from the side. His left head lunged, striking into the fish at the hinge of its jaw, slicing through tendon and muscle. The great mouth fell open, allowing the two other dog heads to flash inside and pull out the crushed boat.
The wreckage floated. A voice still screamed from inside. But Cerberus was underwater again, busy with the shark, whose jaws still gaped, revealing the terrible rows of teeth, now made harmless. He tore out the shark’s throat, and the fish sank, trailing blood.
The dog surfaced, grasped the bow of the coracle in one of his mouths, and drew it swiftly into calmer waters.
Delia had gone into a kind of swoon when the shark crushed her boat. She heard someone screaming, and realized it was herself. She didn’t know that she was inside the boat. She thought she was in the shark’s belly and that she was being crushed by the walls of a great intestinal valve, such as she had seen when her father gutted big fish.
She came out of her swoon to find six eyes peering at her. She thought she saw three dogs, then realized it was one huge dog with three heads.
“Don’t be afraid,” said the middle head.
“Am I dead?”
“No.”
“No.… It’s not dark enough, is it?”
Indeed, she was bathed in brilliant sunlight and seemed to be floating. She pulled herself up and looked about. She was lying quite comfortably on her wrecked coracle, which was floating like a raft. The dog swam alongside.
“Where’s the shark?” she asked.
“That’s who’s dead.”
“Did you save me?”
“By accident. I was hunting sharks and found one chewing a boat. When I killed it, you floated out.”
“He didn’t swallow me?”
“He didn’t have time. What’s your name?” asked Cerberus.
“Delia. What’s yours?”
“Cerberus.”
“You speak quite well for a dog.”
“Just with my middle head. It’s the smartest.”
“Don’t your other heads get jealous when they hear you say that?” asked Delia.
“Not really. They’re all me, you know. Besides, they can do other things better.”
“Most of us speak with only one head,” said Delia. “But thank you for saving me from that awful fish.”
“Well, I’d hate to be eating a shark and find a little girl inside.”
“Do you eat sharks?”
“Too often.”
“Do you like wild pig?” asked Delia.
“Never had any. But my uncle says they’re good eating.”
“You should come home with me then. Our woods are full of wild pigs. They come for the pine nuts and acorns.”
“Don’t you live on the shore?” asked Cerberus.
“Right on the shore. Sea in front, woods behind. Do you want to come?”
“You’re not afraid of me?”
“Why should I be?”
“You don’t think I’m ugly and horrible with these three heads?”
“As you say, they’re all you,” Delia assured him. “And whatever’s you is what I like.”
“Nobody’s ever liked me much, except my mother,” Cerberus replied.
“Don’t you have brothers and sisters, or anything?”
“They’re not very affectionate—they’re the Nemean Lion, the Hydra, and the Sphinx—just to mention those least likely to please.”
“I know what a lion is, of course, but I never heard of a Hydra or a Finks,” said Delia.
“Sphinx.”
“SS-ff-inks!”
“Yes. She has a tiger’s body and a woman’s face and wings and claws. And a very dangerous disposition.”
“Sounds awful. What’s a Hydra?”
“A huge lizard who lives in a lake. He has a hundred heads, and each head has a hundred teeth. His bite is so poisonous that anyone who’s even scratched by a Hydra tooth turns black, shrivels up, and crumbles into ash. Nor is it any use to cut off any of those heads, for two more will take its place.”
“How dreadful! And these are your sisters and brothers?”
“Yes.”
“Do you suppose that when you come home with me I’ll have to meet your relatives?” asked Delia.
“I’ll make sure you don’t.”
“You know …”
“What?”
“You do the two things I like best—saving me from being eaten and telling scary stories.”
“I can’t tell stories,” insisted Cerberus.
“Sure you can. You just did. About the something lion and the Hydra and the SS-ff-inks.”
“They’re not stories. They’re true.”
“That’s what a story is, impossible but true. Like you. Are you my dog now?”
“Nobody else’s.”
And the girl and dog paddled their way to shore.
5
Glaucus
Having no experience of humans, Cerberus did not realize that he had attached himself to the household of a remarkable man. Delia’s father, Glaucus, was the best fisherman on the coast. He had a matchless instinct for the feeding habits, spawning patterns, and migrations of fish. He always managed to fill his nets, even on days when others caught nothing.
Nevertheless, he remained modest about his abilities. “It’s not because I’m smart,” he said. “Actually, it’s because I’m stupid. I think like a fish; that’s how I know what they’ll do.”
But his wife and children appreciated him and loved him for his gentleness, his bravery, and his radiant wisdom. He had observed that ailing fish ate of a certain underwater plant and swam away with their vitality restored. He brought a sprig of that plant home to his wife, who was as good a gardener as he was a fisherman, and asked her to replant it in a salt pool. The plant flourished and Glaucus was able to bring wounded fish to the pool and heal them.
He became known then as the “Fish doctor,” and his fame spread rapidly along the coast. He asked his wife to transplant the saltwater herb to a freshwater pool and crossbreed it with a certain kind of river-cress that also had healing properties. The freshwater pool became charged with vital energy. Sick animals drank of it and were healed.
The wise fisherman was delighted when Cerberus appeared on his doorstep, so much so that he didn’t scold Delia for risking her life on the shark-infested waters and losing his precious coracle. He had always feared that the reckless little girl, who roamed the wild wood as well as the sea, would be injured or eaten one day by a shark or a boar. But now, under the protection of this enormous three-headed dog, he was confident that she would be safe. For all Glaucus’s wisdom, he could not understand the evil seething in the bowels of hell—nor how Hades was plotting to extend his empire of Death.
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One Page 17