“Very strange,” said Cadmus. “Shall I go question the girls? Perhaps you frightened them.”
“Yes, let him question the girls,” said his father. “What else is he good for? You two, gather your men and go search for your sister. Cyllix, sail westward with the fleet. Phoenix, take the army and march east. The abductors may have circled the headland and struck inland. And let this nincompoop stay here and question the girls and whistle at birds and chirp at field mice and chase his crazy dream of capturing speech in a tangle of magic marks—like a forester snaring birds with a net. Go, my brave sons, go. Pursue the abductor; save your sister.”
“Father,” said Cadmus.
“Get out of my sight!” muttered Agenor. “Oh, why couldn’t someone have stolen you instead?”
4
The Lizard’s Ambition
The king of Eleusis finally died, as the lizard who had been his son watched from the rafters. Then Abas decided to leave the palace.
“I’m not going to crouch under a rose bush in the royal garden and watch my brother accept the crown that should have been mine,” he declared to himself. “I’ll go out into the fields again and try to work up courage enough to let a hawk eat me, or go swimming and be caught by a carp.”
Abas left the palace grounds and made his way to a nearby wood. It was a hot, brilliant day. A lion was feeding upon a fallen deer, growling over the raw bones. Abas balanced himself on a twig of an olive tree and watched.
“It’s not that I mind being unhuman,” he thought. “There’s much about animals that’s appealing. It’s being a lizard that I loathe. I’d gladly put in time as a lion, for example—all blood and gold, roaring and springing, crunching bones, terrifying man and beast. Not a bad life at all.”
Something blotted the sun. Abas looked up. His senses spun like a top. He thought he must be asleep, dreaming. Hovering above, shadowing the entire glade, was himself, but magnified, exalted—a giant lizard, armored in leather, with a ridged back, spiked tail, enormous jaws, and—to make it totally fearsome—a pair of huge, ribbed, leathery wings.
It swooped low, the leaves flattened. Abas was almost blown off his twig by the down draft. The monster opened its jaws, spitting flame, striking the ground near the lion, who sprang thirty feet in one leap and cowered at the other end of the glade. The giant lizard swept up the carcass of the deer, then flew up above the treeline, devouring the carcass in midair. It was gone in three swallows. The monster hovered, blood dripping from its jaws.
The lion trotted back into the middle of the glade and stared up at the beast who had dared steal his meal. He roared. To Abas, watching, it seemed that the huge flying lizard responded as swiftly as a hawk spotting a field mouse. Its great body tilted toward earth and lanced down. It fell like a lightning bolt. The great hooks that were its claws struck the lion, grappling him tight. The leather wings beat the air, and the monster soared away, bearing the lion into the sky, like a hawk seizing a field mouse, or an eagle stealing a lamb.
Abas gazed after it into the blinding blue sky, not believing what he had seen. The glade was empty. But where the deer had been was a circle of scorched grass, so Abas knew that what he had seen was real.
He was in a swoon of adoration and wild hope. He felt almost as if he were human again, but a boy. Then he realized that he was remembering, and that the memory was of himself at the age of five, seeing his father riding into the courtyard in full battle gear. A big man, standing upright in a gilded bronze chariot, clad in gleaming bronze—breastplate, greaves, and eagle-plumed helmet, a sword at his side, a spear in his hand. The child watching him had thrilled in every fiber, promising himself that he would grow up to be a glittering bronze warrior king just like his father.
And now the little lizard was swept by the same feeling, but with greater fury. The magnificent creature that had snatched up the lion as if it were a mouse was a lizard also—shaped just like himself. Then, from the depth of his debased transformation, he would find a way to rise to the same splendor. Magnifying himself, growing wings, letting the flame in his heart kindle his breath. And so enlarged, so armed, he would avenge himself on the world that had humiliated him.
“That was a dragon,” Abas said to himself. “Then there are such things; they’re not just nursery tales. Very well, then, I aspire to be a dragon. Perhaps I’m a young one now, who can tell? After all, a butterfly begins as a caterpillar and grows wings later. Maybe a dragon starts small too. By the goddess who punished me, I welcome this transformation, and I shall not rest until I achieve dragonhood. Then, world, beware!”
Aflame with his vision, drunk with the power that was not yet his, the little lizard decided to go back to the palace and kill the newly crowned young king who was his brother. “I’ll find a way,” he thought. “Small as I am I’ll finish him off, the lout, and show whoever needs showing that I’m dragon material.”
5
The Titan
Now, there were two among the Immortals who loved mankind: an elder Titan named Prometheus and the young god Hermes. Hermes, however, was unable to help the human race; he was the messenger god, the favorite son of Zeus, and he had always obeyed his father in all things. While he was shocked and grieved when the High Council decided on the eventual destruction of the human race, he felt unable to do anything about it.
But Prometheus owed no obedience to Zeus. He had rebelled against one of the great god’s edicts once, by giving man the gift of fire, and he was being terribly punished for it. Zeus had ordered him chained to a mountain crag and had sent two vultures to hover about him perpetually, driving their beaks into his belly and pulling out his great guts. Being of divine stock, Prometheus could not die, but he could suffer—and his suffering was meant to be eternal.
Despite his torment, however, he kept his courage high, and his intellect remained unclouded. He kept his love for mankind and his loathing for those who entertained themselves with the spectacle of human misery.
Such was the power of the Promethean personality that, condemned and helpless as he was, there were still those who venerated him and sought to serve him, despite terrible risk to themselves. Particularly attracted to Prometheus were some of the lesser gods, who were more intimate with human beings and didn’t want to see them destroyed. One of the most fervent of these was Ikelos, a son of Hypnos, God of Sleep. He would change himself into a different animal every night. The most restless of Sleep’s brood, he became a furry dream, the kind that prowls the margins of sleep. When visiting Prometheus he became a giant bat so that he could chase the vultures away for a while. But the big, bald birds would simply hover, wait until the godling was gone, then swoop down again, and tear at the entrails of the chained Prometheus.
This time, when Ikelos came, the Titan beckoned him closer so that he might speak to him. “I have an errand for you, Ikelos.”
“Anything you wish, my lord, I shall seek to perform.”
“Go to Phoenicia,” said Prometheus. “Visit the sleep of Cadmus, third son to the king. Ask him to come to me.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“He won’t know where to find me,” said Prometheus. “Instruct him through vision, then lead him here.”
“I shall go to Phoenicia this very night,” said Ikelos.
6
On the Peak
Cadmus, asleep in the palace, saw a white bull swimming in a dark blue sea. Europa rode the bull, her hair swinging. Her face was hidden; he couldn’t tell if she were happy or frightened. Now he was swimming after them. But this bull swam faster and became a tiny speck on the horizon.
Now Cadmus was swimming up a hill of water, not a wave or a swell, for it did not move, but a great cliff of water. Up, up, he swam; he was following a white fox; it was scampering up the hill before him. The wall of water became a dry hill, earth and rock; the foam on top became snow. Two ugly birds hung above, huge and foul. And when had it stopped being a dream?
The fox’s tail was a plume of white fire; the anima
l turned and looked back at him. Its eyes were blue as the core of flame. Then it vanished, darting suddenly off the path among a welter of rocks, where Cadmus could not follow. He kept to the path, kept climbing. Far above a voice was thundering: “Cadmus … Cadmus …”
When he reached the top of the hill, he couldn’t believe what he saw. A naked giant was slung between crags, chained to the rocks. His hair and beard were like drifts of snow. The birds had torn his belly open; it was a pit of raw meat, faintly steaming in the cold air.
The vultures hovered above. They were under attack. A goat, perched on a tablerock, was leaping straight up at the birds, trying to butt them in midair. The vultures swerved away, and the goat fell back on the rock, balancing itself perfectly on its hooves, ready for another leap. It was a black goat, a she-goat, the most beautiful animal Cadmus had ever seen. She was large as a stag, had ivory horns and ivory hooves, and eyes that were slits of yellow fire. But Cadmus did not stop to admire her. He had moved closer to the giant’s snowy head.
“Hail, great Titan!” he said.
“Seeker, hail!”
“What did you call me, my lord?”
“Seeker.”
“My name is Cadmus. Perhaps you think I’m someone else?”
“I think you’re you; I speak to your condition, not your name. A seeker is one who seeks. You seek a sister. You seek a system. And you come to ask me how to find them.”
“O wise one, you read my innermost hopes. The urgent task is to find my sister. Can you tell me of her?”
“She lives,” replied the Titan. “She is unharmed.”
“Where is she?”
“Out of your reach. In another mode.”
“I don’t understand,” said Cadmus.
“She is lost to you. She has been placed beyond your grasp, or that of any other mortal.”
“Then she is dead.”
“She lives. There are those who would say that she has been magnified, glorified.”
“Is she happy?”
“She is replete.”
“Shall I see her again?”
“Only if you accomplish your task.”
“And if I do, shall I?”
“When your task is done.”
“What must I do first?”
“Begin,” said Prometheus.
“Where?” asked Cadmus. “My eldest brother, Cyllix, who captains the war fleet of Phoenicia, has sailed westward with all his ships. My second brother, Phoenix, has marched his army eastward. But I, I have no fleet, no army. I am unfit to command, or even to serve in the ranks. I am alone, unarmed; which way do I go?”
“Your words reek of self-pity, my boy, which is no way to start a quest, or anything else. What has sapped your confidence? Do people esteem your brothers over yourself? And do you share this opinion?”
“I do, I do. I envy my brothers—their raw animal magnetism, their meaty force.”
“Do you really envy that single-minded ferocity, their gluttonous satisfaction in breaking an enemy’s body in their own hands?”
“I have been taught that this is a royal aptitude,” Cadmus said. “Lacking it, I cannot lead other men or win their respect. I simply have no impact on men or events. I think people only half hear me, half see me.”
“Perhaps I detect something in you that your brothers lack,” said Prometheus. “Something that can generate a force beyond crude muscular strength. However, that hidden talent must remain hidden if you continue to consult your doubts.”
“I have dreamed of glory,” said Cadmus. “Of mighty blows taken without flinching and mightier blows returned. Of foes falling, men shouting, women smiling. I have dreamed of slaying my sister’s abductor. But such dreams are the wrack of a weakling’s sleep. Real warriors sleep like hogs and dream with their swords.”
“You are bitter for one so young. But such bitterness can become a strength if it is cleansed of self-pity. I have chosen you, Cadmus, but you must endorse my choice.”
Cadmus didn’t hear these last words. He had never before been where it was cold enough to make breath visible, and the puffs of white vapor coming out of the Titan’s mouth as he spoke fascinated him. He was so deep in his reverie that he didn’t catch the meaning of what was said.
“Why, I can see the words coming out of his mouth,” he was saying to himself. “Just what I always wanted—to see sound and make others see it. Now I wonder if that steam is making different shapes for different sounds? No … this needs further study.”
“Did you hear me?” boomed Prometheus, so loudly that he startled Cadmus out of his thoughts.
But the boy was used to hearing this from his father. “I just missed the last few words, my lord. The birds were screaming.”
“You had better listen closely,” said Prometheus. “I was saying that you must focus on what you can do, not what you can’t.”
“Well, I know what I must do. I must search for my sister. Somehow, I know that my brothers, for all their splendid virtues, won’t find her.”
“Neither will you, not yet. Why don’t you ask me about your other quest?”
“What other?”
“Your quest for the magic code, for the word-signs.”
“All that will have to wait.”
“Two quests, yes, but you are one person, and your quests will merge. One will serve the other. Cadmus, Prince of the East, hearken to me. For all your diminutive stature and shrunken self-esteem, you are being ripened for mighty deeds.”
“Again I ask: Where do I start?”
“You have already started. Go forth from this place. Ask questions. Cleave your way among the swarms of the indifferent, and the actively evil, and the few of accidental good will. A quest is not only a search; it is also a route that forms itself as it goes, striking a vein through circumstance. Go, Cadmus. Ask questions, test the answers, look, see, and understand so that wisdom and experience may irradiate the legacy you will leave mankind.”
“What legacy?”
“I, Prometheus, gave the human race its first great gift—fire. You, Cadmus, shall give humanity the second great gift—a magic code to catch language on the wind and utter it anew for those who have learned the code. You have already begun with Aleph and Bet, the Ox and the House, and you shall go on to find a picture for every sound. That will be your gift.”
“But you are being punished for your gift,” said Cadmus. “Shall I be punished for mine?”
“In a different way, if you succeed. But they will try their best to see that you fail.”
“Who are they?”
“They will make themselves known. They will send a dragon.”
“After me?”
“None other.”
“And what shall I do?”
“Fight him, of course.”
“Fight a dragon? Me?!”
“You will not be alone. The black goat will go with you. She’s no ordinary beast. She was born to Amalthea, the she-goat who was foster mother to the infant Zeus. Zeus became jealous when this kid was born, and he tried to kill her. Therefore, does she hate Zeus, and now that she is grown, attempts to help me, whom Zeus considers his enemy.”
“She’s splendid, I can see that,” said Cadmus. “But how can she help me against a dragon? I’m terrified at the very thought.”
“Forget about fear. Look at those vultures up there, waiting until I’m alone so that they may feed again upon my liver; look at those cruel birds, my lad, and tell me you can’t endure what must be endured.”
“The spectacle of your suffering makes me ashamed of my cowardice. Yet, I’m still afraid.”
“My dear boy, anyone who doesn’t fear a dragon is a fool. But fight him you must, fear or not. When you leave here, you will make your way to the Great Smithy. There you must try to persuade Hephaestus to give you the weapons you’ll need.”
“How do I find the Great Smithy?”
“The goat knows the way.”
“Master, I obey. I don’t really know what
I’m doing, but I know that I must do it.”
“Go then, and my blessing go with you.”
Cadmus touched the giant’s beard timidly, then turned and walked away down the path. The goat cast a last blazing look at the birds above and trotted after Cadmus.
As soon as the goat left her rock, the vultures dived, their screams mingling with the Titan’s groans. But Cadmus didn’t notice. He was thinking too hard.
“I wonder whether breathing becomes more visible the colder it gets? Do different sounds freeze into different shapes? I’ll have to go where it’s really cold—behind the North Wind. When I have time perhaps—after the dragon and Europa and so forth. Is there any ‘after’ when meeting a dragon? Maybe I’d better do what I want first; save the monster and sister till later? Would that be ignoble? Am I heartless? Is my father right about me? Or is Prometheus?”
Something nudged him hard. He whirled about. The goat was looking at him with her yellow eyes. He stroked the harsh wool of her neck. She knelt and he mounted her. He held her horns as she trotted off. The wind smelled of snow and pine.
“I’m setting off on an awful journey, by any calculations,” he said to himself. “Why then am I so happy?”
7
The Spider
The little lizard had returned to the palace in Eleusis and was now perched upon the beam over the royal bed, the very same spot from which he had watched his father die. “The new king sleeps here now,” Abas said to himself. “I shall wait until nightfall, and when he is deep asleep shall simply drop upon his exposed throat and sink my teeth into it. I know where the great vein is that runs from heart to brain. Yes. I shall drain his body of its lifeblood. I need the taste of it to cool my rage. But many hours must pass before nightfall, and the thought of killing him has sharpened my appetite. I think I’ll do a bit of hunting.”
Creeping along the beam, he came upon a spiderweb whose strands were much thicker than usual, but he was so excited by the memory of the dragon and the idea of becoming one himself—and of killing his brother that night—that he ignored what he knew: that a big, thick web means an outsize spider, one big enough to eat a lizard, perhaps.
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One Page 33