The gods seldom weep, except when they have been deeply moved by their own misfortunes. But Hermes, who was the happiest of the gods, was also the most tenderhearted, and he wept now. Cerberus, who when he had heard these words remembered Delia, wept also.
“Very well,” said Hermes. “You have pled your case so eloquently that I shall break all rules. You may take your steeds as you follow me to Tartarus. And I shall take all the consequences of this forbidden act upon myself.”
“Thank you, thank you,” sighed the mist.
“Whistle up your horses and follow me two by two when I give the word,” directed Hermes. He flew off the overturned chariot and alighted on the crest of a hill above the battlefield, where Cerberus crouched.
“Greetings, big dog,” he said. “You appear to be interested in these proceedings.”
“I am interested in anything to do with Tartarus and its ruler, Hades, employer of Harpies, who seem to have meddled fatally in my affairs.”
“Have you come to see me?” asked Hermes.
“My mother spoke of you as one familiar with the Underworld, also as the god most to be trusted.”
“Who is your mother?”
“Echidne. My father is Typhon. But I don’t stress that aspect of my parentage.”
“Then you are Cerberus?”
“I am.”
“Your name is not unknown to me,” said Hermes. “I have heard it mentioned in the halls of Hell.”
“Please help me. I value my life at nothing now that my beloved Delia is dead. But if every breath I take is not to be an agony, I must find whoever killed the little girl. Do you know anything about a creature who is huge, red, and hairy, with things crawling in its fur?”
“My good beast,” said Hermes. “You are describing one I have business with also. His name is Argus. He worked briefly in Tartarus, but he vanished suddenly and reappeared as a spy for Hera. He makes an admirable spy; the things crawling on him are eyes; he has a hundred. And he has become a great annoyance to my father, Zeus. As soon as I finish this mission, I shall try to attend to this panoptic pest.”
“Can you use some help?” asked Cerberus.
“Certainly. I understand he possesses fearful strength and absolute spite. I’d like very much to have you with me when I meet him.”
“Good,” growled Cerberus.
“But I’ll need your help before then. It’s not easy to herd so many shades from this world down through the gates of Tartarus. They tend to drift, you know, especially when the wind blows. And I have no experience at all with the shades of horses. Will you help me herd them?”
“Down to Tartarus?”
“Just to the mouth of the cave called Avernus. I can manage from there. When I come up again, we’ll go look for Argus together.”
The bloody mist paled as the shades of men and horses streamed out of the broken bodies and queued up behind Hermes. Cerberus roamed in the rear to chase stragglers back into line. Between god and dog they finally herded a vast seething mob of spirits southwest toward the cliffs of Troezen, where lay the chasm of Avernus, gateway to the Land Beyond Death.
14
Blood on the Meadow
For three days, Cerberus waited for Hermes to come out of the cave. Finally, he appeared, and god and dog began their hunt for Argus. It was a bright winter day, cold, as clear as crystal. The scent of Argus was strong, and Cerberus took up the search at a loping trot. Hermes followed, his ankle wings whirring. But then, as happens on such days, a wind stabbed out of the north and blew all traces of the scent away.
The dog turned and ran back to Hermes. “He can’t be far,” he said. “The scent was strong. You go this way and I’ll go that. We’ll circle this grove, and one of us should find him.”
“Good hunting,” said Hermes, and he flew off. Cerberus started in the other direction.
It was Hermes who entered a clearing and came upon the glossy black-and-white cow, Io, and her guardian. Argus lolled upon the grass, watching her as she browsed. His thick pelt kept him warm; he lay there as if on a summer day, half dozing—literally half, for fifty eyes were closed and fifty eyes were open, and nothing escaped his vigil.
Hermes landed lightly on the grass. “Good day,” he said. The cow raised her head and looked at him with great, glossy eyes, mooing sadly.
“Go away,” grunted Argus. “No one’s allowed near this cow.”
“Whatever you say,” said Hermes, unslinging his lyre. He touched a string as he sauntered toward Argus, who by now had opened all his eyes. Hermes sat on the sward next to him and began to play.
It was an afternoon song, a summer song, slow and windless, heavy with pollen, golden with peace. The drowse of cicadas was in his song, the lilt of waters, and all the multitudinous tiny sounds that mingle in the hush of such an hour.
One by one the eyelids of Argus sagged under the weight of that music. One by one, his eyes closed. And soon, for the first time in the watchful giant’s life, all his eyes were closed at the same time, and he was completely asleep.
Hera, who had been watching all this, grew furious when she saw Hermes putting her sentinel to sleep. She whistled up a gadfly and sent it to earth—an enormous gadfly, bigger than a crow, with a needle-pointed sting as big as a spur. Its buzzing was louder than a wasp’s nest being put to the torch. It dived at Io, stabbing her flanks, driving its sting deep, keeping it buried in her flesh as it slowly flew, dragging the vicious spur like a plow, making bloody furrows. The pain was so intense that it shredded a membrane of the cow’s transformation, and her naiad voice mingled with the screams of the tormented animal.
Hermes was on his feet, dancing about, swinging his lyre, trying to swat the gadfly. He hit it lightly, and sent it spinning toward Argus. It landed on the giant’s neck, and stung him repeatedly. But Argus could move quickly for all his size. His huge hand shot up and snatched the gadfly out of the air. He stuffed it in his mouth and calmly ate it, spitting out bits of shell and clots of hair.
The gadfly’s attack had fully awakened the giant. All his eyes were open now, all glaring at Hermes. The slender god realized his peril. His ankle wings fluttered; he rose into the air. But the huge paw of Argus moved more swiftly and caught Hermes’ ankle. Locked in the giant’s grip, Hermes still tried to fly, but Argus now seized him with two hands. Then calmly, like a child snapping a twig, he broke Hermes’ ankle. Then he took the other ankle and broke that too. He flung Hermes to the ground and put his great red foot on the god’s chest, pinning him to the grass.
“You gods can’t die, I’m told. So what I’m going to do is chop you up into little pieces and scatter them for the gulls. It’ll take a while for someone to put you back together.”
Argus reached down for Hermes’ sword and tried its edge on his thumb. “I really need an ax,” he said. “But this will have to do.”
These were the last words Argus ever spoke. Cerberus had entered the clearing. Understanding the situation at a glance, he launched himself into the air and hurtled into Argus, hitting him between the shoulders with all his great weight, knocking him over. Then, with a slashing, sideways lunge of his wolfish middle head, he tore out the giant’s furred throat.
Bloody jowled, Cerberus gazed about. The cow who was Io had sunk to her knees and was mooing weakly. Her flanks were raw meat. Hermes had pulled himself up to a sitting position. He was smiling, but his face was wet with tears. When he tried to speak, his voice was laced with sobs.
“Pardon me, brave dog,” he said. “But I don’t seem to handle pain very well. You see, no one’s ever hurt me before. I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”
“Well, he’ll never hurt anyone again,” growled Cerberus.
“He broke both my ankles, the brute. I suppose I’m lucky he didn’t snap them quite off.”
“Will they mend?”
“My cousin Asclepius, son of Apollo, can knit any bone like an old woman mending a woolen garment. But I can’t fly, or walk, of course. If you
take me on your back to Olympus, I’ll be as good as new in three days.”
“Then, will you show me the way to Tartarus so that I may visit Delia?”
“Indeed I will,” promised Hermes. “But I must warn you: no shade has ever been retrieved from that domain and only those who are ushered there may enter.”
“As you say, there’s always a first time,” said Cerberus. He crouched, and Hermes hobbled onto his back.
“What about that poor cow?” asked Cerberus. “She’s suffering.”
“Not for long,” replied Hermes. “She’s not quite what she seems. There’s a river nymph locked inside that cow. Evil spells have been at work. But now that Argus is dead, my father, Zeus, will come down, unlock the transformation, and release her from that brute form. Let’s go, my friend.”
Cerberus loped off with Hermes on his back. The cow gazed forlornly after them.
15
The Gates of Hell
Charon’s boat had many decks, and the ferryman was not beyond bribery. Survivors of the rich—too happy to be thrifty—put money under the corpse’s tongue. Two gold coins bought a good spot on the upper deck, where passengers could view the iron-veined, coal- and ruby-studded dome of the Underworld as the ferry crossed the black waters of the River Styx. These upper decks were also half-cowled to shield the solvent dead from the vultures that hung like gulls above the water.
Much to Charon’s disgust, the rules of Hades prevented him from selling all the best accommodations on board. Good places had to be reserved for heroes and for others who had somehow pleased the gods. Paupers swam.
But Charon knew how to get something from those who had nothing. He forced the paupers to strip before going into the water. Then he collected their tunics—always well washed and newly mended, because even those too poor to lay the smallest coin in their dead one’s mouth would work the night through to provide decent grave clothes.
Cerberus crouched on the bank and watched the ferryboat pull away. Then he plunged into the black waters. They were icy, colder than any he had ever swum, colder even than the northern seas. But he was boiling with impatience and didn’t feel the cold. He heard a rush of wings. A vulture dove at him. He bared three sets of teeth; the bird swerved in the air and flew away.
Twisted shapes glided past him, and foul gelatinous things. But Cerberus ignored them; he was intent only on the farther shore. He climbed out of the river, shook himself vigorously, and trotted off toward the tall iron Gates of Hell. To his surprise, they swung open.
Cerberus passed through. He couldn’t help wanting to run, but slowed his pace when he realized he didn’t know where he was going. He squinted ahead, peering into the yellow dusk. For light was yellow in this place, not the daffodil yellow of sunlight but a brownish, yellowish, sulfurous murk, like a low ground fog. It was hard to breathe. A great plain lay ahead of him in a breathless hush.
All this time, Hades and Hecate had been following Cerberus at a distance. They couldn’t be seen through the brown murk or smelled through the sulfurous vapors. The three-headed dog had no idea anyone was trailing him, anyone watching.
“Isn’t he a magnificent brute?” whispered Hades. “Won’t he make a matchless watchdog?”
“Most vicious-looking thing I’ve ever seen,” whispered Hecate. “Do you think he can be broken to our service?”
“His training starts right now,” said Hades. “Call your Harpies.”
Hecate raised her voice in an owl-screech. Cerberus heard the sharp call cutting through the mist. Again he heard the rush of wings. His hackles rose as he recognized Harpies diving toward him. Several brass-winged young hags swooped over him like great hawks, brass claws gleaming, swinging whips whose lashes were the tails of stingrays edged with spines sharper than any thorns. Cerberus knew that one blow of these tails could strip flesh off bone.
The Harpies swooped lower. Cerberus did not wait for them to reach him. He leaped into the air to attack them. Hades and Hecate had studied his big frame and had some idea of his strength, but they did not know the power of his rage when he saw the Harpies. For he associated them with Delia’s death. It had been a Harpy who had lured him away so that the murderer could strike the unguarded child. And, while he had known the enormous pleasure of tearing out Argus’s throat, there were still Harpies to avenge himself upon.
His blood turned to particles of fire coursing through his veins. Rage was flame, and it filled him. He felt that he was breathing fire like a dragon. He leaped so high he seemed to be floating. The Harpies felt the heat of his great body; it was like a burning torch flung at them. But these savage young hags flinched at nothing. They flung themselves at him in the air, swinging their stingray whips. The lashes cut him. He bled. But the wetness of the blood was cool and pleasant on his burning body.
Three pairs of jaws closed upon three Harpies, dragging them to earth. Cerberus whirled, swinging the Harpies around and around him, using them as three clubs to beat off the others who were diving toward him. The heads of the Harpies he held shattered themselves against their sisters. Hard skulls broke bones, arms, legs, rib cages, as they smashed against each other. The dog kept whirling until six broken Harpies lay moaning on the ground.
Cerberus didn’t stop to study them. He knew they were dead or dying. Nor was his battle done. He was in the grip of his greatest talent. He was in a fighting fever, in an ecstacy of combat. He knew there was something else coming at him, something big. He knew it before it happened and was ready when it did.
Two giant serpents loomed in the mist. Hades had whistled them up when he saw the Harpies fall. Hades and Hecate watched in disbelief. The dog seemed to be frisking like a puppy, almost dancing on his paws as the serpents came toward him. Indeed the sight of their huge, scaly bodies had reminded him of his mother, and how as a pup he had frisked with her as she cast her coils about him.
These were giant serpents, each thirty feet long, with jaws hinged in the middle of their bodies. Each, in fact, was a living gullet lined with teeth.
They slithered toward him. They were in no hurry. Nothing ever escaped them. Again, the dog did not wait. He charged toward one of them, which opened its jaws. Cerberus leaped. He hurtled over the serpent’s head, landing at its tail. Seized the tail in his bull-dog jaws, braced his feet, and began to whirl the snake like a gigantic whip. Then he cracked that whip, breaking the serpent’s spine. The creature went limp. Cerberus leaped again and landed on the other serpent’s back. Three heads struck. They bit through polished, leathery scales, through flesh and sinew. The creature was too long and too thick to die all at once. But its head was dead and its jaws slack before the tail stopped lashing.
Cerberus leaped off, unfatigued. His rage was quenched. He did not linger among his fallen enemies; his most important task still lay before him. He trotted off.
The smell of sulfur faded; the fog still lingered, but it had turned gray and felt cooler. Cerberus didn’t know it, but he was approaching the vast, changeless place called Limbo. He walked among tall, pale, scentless flowers. He had come upon the Field of Asphodel where floated the misty forms of those who had been sent to Limbo. They were ghosts but not restless. Their fires banked, they had neither memory nor hope; their pale vitality was just enough to make them visible.
He didn’t know where he was, but he knew Delia was there. He didn’t see her through the fog. He couldn’t smell her; he smelled only the mist. But somehow he knew she was there.
Delia was in that field, drifting in a kind of coma that was not pain, certainly not joy, but a nullity, tinged with longing. Cerberus walked slowly toward her. His six eyes fixed on her, trying to determine what she was now. Her own eyes were still green, he saw, but dulled, like pebbles taken out of the water. Her face was blurred. Her hair floated though there was no wind.
Cerberus licked her face. His tongue passed through it. He tasted only a faint salty dampness, like that of tears. A triple sob broke from him. He crouched, whimpering.
“She’s dead,” said a voice.
Cerberus whirled, snarling. He saw a tall, black-robed figure holding an ebony staff topped with an enormous ruby. He knew it was Hades.
“I’ve been waiting for a long time to welcome you to my realm,” said Hades. “But I must say you’re hardly an ideal guest. You have drastically reduced my staff: six prime Harpies and two splendid serpents, almost impossible to replace.”
“Let her go,” growled Cerberus.
“Not even a please?”
“Please let her go.”
“The dead are not returned to life,” said Hades. “That simply does not happen.”
“She wasn’t ready to die. You stole her from life. You sent Argus to kill her. Now I have killed six of your Harpies and two of your splendid, irreplaceable serpents. If you do not let this child return with me, I shall harrow Hell. I shall run rampant, killing, destroying every one of your creatures. Oh, I know that your legions of demons, your tamed monsters, your echelons of Harpies will finally prevail. But is it really worth it to you to keep a little girl who will cost you so much?”
“As you say, my creatures will prevail,” said Hades.
“If you won’t release her, I shall do you as much harm as I can,” said Cerberus.
“Perhaps we can strike a bargain,” said Hades. “If you serve me for a certain time, serve me well, guarding my portals, allowing no shade to escape, or living creature to enter—then, when your stint is done, I’ll let the child go.”
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One Page 20