When Apollo heard about this, he went into one of his wild heedless rages, stormed to Olympus, battered in the doors of Hephaestus’ smithy, and there slew all the Cyclopes, who had forged the thunderbolt which had killed his son. When Zeus heard this, he banished Apollo to Tartarus forever. But Mother Leto came and pleaded with him, reminding him of their old love. She spoke so beautifully that Zeus relented, withdrew the edict of Apollo’s banishment, and even agreed to bring Asclepius back to life. But he suggested that Asclepius be more tactful about his cures and avoid offending the gods.
When Aphrodite heard this story, she was bitten by envy. She considered herself a favorite of Zeus, but he had never done so much for her. Her heart was bitter against Apollo, and she wanted to do him a mischief. She called her son Eros, the infant archer, whose sweetly poisoned arrows infect man and woman with a most dangerous fever. She told him what she wanted.
Eros had two kinds of arrows: one tipped with gold and tailed with white dove feathers—these were for love. The others, made of lead, with brown owl feathers, were the arrows of indifference. He took up his bow and stalked his game.
Apollo, he knew, was hunting; so he made Apollo’s path cross that of Daphne, a mountain nymph, daughter of the river god, Penaeus. Then, fluttering above them, invisible, he shot Apollo with the dart of love and Daphne with the arrow of indifference. When the golden god came running down the slope toward the nymph, he saw her start up and run away. He could not understand it. She fled; the god pursued. She was a very swift runner, but great footsteps pounded behind her, and she felt the heat of his breath on her shoulders.
She ran toward the river and cried, “Oh, Father, save me! Save me!” Her father heard. Apollo, reaching for her, found himself hugging a tree; the rough bark scratched his face. He said, “But why?—why do you hate me so?”
The wind blew through the leaves, and they whispered, “I don’t know…I don’t know…”
But then the tree took pity on the grieving god and gave him a gift—a wreath of her leaves, laurel leaves that would never wither—to crown heroes and poets and young men who win games.
And still today, when questioned by losers, laurel trees whisper, “I don’t know…I don’t know…”
Hermes
YOUNG GODS WERE OFTEN precocious, but no one so much as Hermes who, five minutes after his birth, sneaked out of his crib and went searching for adventure. He toddled swiftly down the slope of Mount Cyllene until he came to a meadow where he saw a herd of beautiful white cows grazing. He saw no cowherd and decided to steal them. A treeful of crows began to seethe and whistle, “They belong to Apollo…to Apollo…ʼpollo…” but he paid them no heed. He plaited grass into shoes for the cows and fitted them over their hooves and drove them away.
When Apollo returned, he was furious to see his cows gone, and even more furious when he searched for tracks and found none—only odd sweeping marks on the ground. The crows chattered, “A baby stole them…your brother, your brother…” But this made no sense to Apollo; besides he did not trust crows. He did not know where to begin looking; he searched far and wide, but could find no clue.
Then one morning he passed a cave he had passed a hundred times before. But this time he heard strange beautiful sounds coming out of it—sounds unlike anything he had ever heard before—and he looked inside. There, drowsing by the fire, was a tall lovely Titaness named Maia, whom he had seen before in the garden on Olympus. Sitting in her lap was a little baby boy doing something to a large tortoise shell from which the strange sounds seemed to be coming.
“Good day, cousin,” said Apollo. “Are you to be congratulated on a new son?”
“Hail, bright Phoebus,” said Maia. “May I have the honor of presenting your half-brother, young Hermes?”
“Half-brother, eh? Well, that’s an honor without being a distinction. What’s that he’s playing with?”
“He makes his own toys,” said Maia proudly. “He’s so clever, you can’t imagine. He made this out of an old shell that he strung with cowgut, and from it he draws the most ravishing sounds. Listen—”
“Cowgut? May I ask what cow he persuaded to contribute her vital cords for his pastime?”
“I do not understand your question, cousin.”
“Understand this, cousin. I have had a herd of cows stolen recently. The crows told me they had been taken by some baby, my brother, but I didn’t believe them. I seem to owe them an apology.”
“What?” cried Maia. “Are you accusing the innocent babe of being a cattle thief? For shame!”
“Mother, if you don’t mind,” said a clear little voice, “perhaps you’d better let me handle this.” The baby stood on his mother’s knee and bowed to Apollo. “I did take your cows, brother. But I didn’t know they were yours. How could I have? And they are quite safe, except for one. Wishing to begin my life with an act of piety, I sacrificed her to the twelve gods.”
“Twelve gods?” said Apollo haughtily. “I am acquainted with but eleven.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hermes. “But I have the honor to be the twelfth. Above all things, I wish your good will, fair brother. So, in return for this cow, allow me to make you a present—this instrument. I call it a lyre. I’ll be glad to teach you to play.”
Apollo was enchanted with the trade. He stayed in the cave all that afternoon practicing his scales. As he was strumming his new toy, he noticed Hermes cutting reeds, which the child swiftly tied together, notched in a certain way, then put to his lips, and began to make other sounds, even more beautiful than the lyre could produce.
“What’s that?” cried Apollo. “What do you call that? I want that too.”
“I don’t need any more cows,” said Hermes.
“I must have it. What else of mine do you wish?”
“Your golden staff.”
“But this is my herdsman’s staff. Do you not know that I am the god of herdsmen, and that this is the rod of authority?”
“A minor office,” said Hermes. “Unworthy of the lord of the sun. Perhaps you would allow me to take over the chore. Give me your golden staff, and I will give you these pipes.”
“Agreed! Agreed!”
“But since pipes and lyre together will make you god of music, I must have something to boot. Teach me augury.”
“You drive a hard bargain for a nursling,” said Apollo. “I think you belong on Olympus, brother. This cave will not long offer scope for your talents.”
“Oh, yes, take me there!” cried Hermes. “I am eager to meet Father Zeus.”
So Apollo took Hermes to Olympus and introduced him to his father. Zeus was intrigued by the wit and impudence of the child. He hid him away from Hera and spent hours conversing with him.
“You say you wish to enter the Pantheon,” said Zeus. “But really—all the realms and powers seem to have been parceled out.”
“Father, I am of modest nature,” said Hermes. “I require no vast dignities. Only a chance to be useful, to serve you, and to dwell in your benign and potent presence. Let me be your herald. Let me carry your tidings. You will find me quick and resourceful, and what I can’t remember I will make up. And, I guarantee, your subjects will get the message.”
“Very well,” said Zeus. “I will give you a trial.”
So Hermes became the messenger god and accomplished his duties with such swiftness, ingenuity, and cheerfulness that he became a favorite of his father, who soon rewarded him with other posts. Hermes became patron of liars and thieves and gamblers, god of commerce, framer of treaties, and guardian of travelers. Hades became his client too and called upon him to usher the newly dead from earth to Tartarus.
He kept a workshop on Olympus and there invented the alphabet, astronomy, and the scales; also, playing cards and card games. He carried Apollo’s golden staff decorated with white ribbons, wore a pot-shaped hat, and winged sandals which carried him through the air more swiftly than any bird could fly.
It was he who gave Zeus the idea of disguising himsel
f and mingling with mortals when bored with Olympus. He joined his father in this, and they had many adventures together…which will be told in their place.
Hephaestus
NO ONE CELEBRATED THE birth of Hephaestus. His mother, Hera, had awaited him with great eagerness, hoping for a child so beautiful, so gifted, that it would make Zeus forget his heroic swarm of children from lesser consorts. But when the baby was born, she was appalled to see that he was shriveled and ugly, with an irritating bleating wail. She did not wait for Zeus to see him, but snatched the infant up and hurled him off Olympus.
For a night and a day he fell, and hit the ground at the edge of the sea with such force that both of his legs were broken. He lay there on the beach mewing piteously, unable to crawl, wracked with pain, but unable to die because he was immortal. Finally the tide came up. A huge wave curled him under its arm and carried him off to sea. And there he sank like a stone, and was caught by the playful Thetis, a naiad, who thought he was a tadpole.
When Thetis understood it was a baby she had caught, she made a pet of him and kept him in her grotto. She was amazed at the way the crippled child worked shells and bright pebbles into jewelry. One day she appeared at a great festival of the gods, wearing a necklace he had made. Hera noticed the ornament and praised it and asked her how she had come by it. Thetis told her of the strange twisted child whom someone had dropped into the ocean, and who lived now in her cave making wonderful jewels. Hera divined that it was her own son and demanded him back.
Hephaestus returned to Olympus. There Hera presented him with a broken mountain nearby, where he could set up forges and bellows. She gave him the brawny Cyclopes to be his helpers, and promised him Aphrodite as a bride if he would labor in the mountain and make her fine things. Hephaestus agreed because he loved her and excused her cruelty to him.
“I know that I am ugly, Mother,” he said, “but the fates would have it so. And I will make you gems so beautiful for your tapering arms and white throat and black hair that you will forget my ugliness sometimes, and rejoice that you have taken me back from the sea.”
He became the smith-god, the great artificer, lord of mechanics. And the mountain always smoked and rumbled with his toil, and he has always been very ugly and very useful.
Aphrodite
APHRODITE WAS THE GODDESS of love and beauty; so there are more stories told about her than anyone else, god or mortal. Being what she is, she enters other stories; and such is the power of her magic girdle that he who even speaks her name falls under her spell, and seems to glimpse her white shoulders and catch the perfume of her golden hair. And he loses his wits and begins to babble and tells the same story in many ways.
But all the tales agree that she is the goddess of desire, and, unlike other Olympians, is never distracted from her duties. Her work is her pleasure; her profession, her hobby. She thinks of nothing but love, and nobody expects more of her.
She was born out of the primal murder. When Cronos butchered his father, Oranos, with the scythe his mother had given him, he flung the dismembered body off Olympus into the sea, where it floated, spouting blood and seed which drifted, whitening in the sun. From the foam rose a tall beautiful maiden, naked and dripping. Waves attended her. Poseidon’s white horses brought her to the island of Cythera. Wherever she stepped, the sand turned to grass and flowers bloomed. Then she went to Cyprus. Hillsides burst into flowers, and the air was full of birds.
Zeus brought her to Olympus. She was still dripping from the sea. She wore nothing but the bright tunic of her hair, which fell to mid-thigh and was yellow as daffodils. She looked about the great throne room where the gods were assembled to meet her, arched her throat, and laughed with joy.
Hera was watching Zeus narrowly. “You must marry her off,” she whispered. “At once—without delay!”
“Yes,” said Zeus. “Some sort of marriage would seem to be indicated.”
And he said, “Brothers, sons, cousins, Aphrodite is to be married. She will choose her own husband. So make your suit.”
The gods closed around her, shouting promises, pressing their claims. Earth-shaking Poseidon swung his mighty trident to clear a space about himself. “I claim you for the sea,” he said. “You are sea-born, foam-born, and belong to me. I offer you grottoes, riddles, gems, fair surfaces, dark surroundings. I offer you variety. Drowned sailors, typhoons, sunsets. I offer you secrets. I offer you riches that the earth does not know—power more subtle, more fluid than the dull fixed land. Come with me—be queen of the sea.”
He slammed his trident on the floor, and a huge green tidal wave swelled out of the sea—high, high as Olympus, curling its mighty green tongue as if to lick up the mountain—and poised there, quivering, not breaking, as the gods gaped. Then Poseidon raised his trident, and the mighty wave subsided like a ripple. He bowed to Aphrodite. She smiled at him, but said nothing.
Then the gods spoke in turn, offering her great gifts. Apollo offered her a throne and a crown made of hottest sun-gold, a golden chariot drawn by white swans, and the Muses for her handmaids. Hermes offered to make her queen of the crossways where all must come—where she would hear every story, see every traveler, know each deed—a rich pageant of adventure and gossip so that she would never grow bored.
She smiled at Apollo and Hermes and made no answer.
Then Hera, scowling, reached her long white arm and dragged Hephaestus, the lame smith-god, from where he had been hiding behind the others, ashamed to be seen. And she hissed into his ear, “Speak, fool. Say exactly what I told you to say.”
He limped forward with great embarrassment and stood before the radiant goddess, eyes cast down, not daring to look at her. He said, “I would make a good husband for a girl like you. I work late.”
Aphrodite smiled. She said nothing, but put her finger under the chin of the grimy little smith, raised his face, leaned down, and kissed him on the lips.
That night they were married. And at the wedding party she finally spoke—whispering to each of her suitors—telling each one when he might come with his gift.
NATURE MYTHS
Prometheus
PROMETHEUS WAS A YOUNG Titan, no great admirer of Zeus. Although he knew the great lord of the sky hated explicit questions, he did not hesitate to beard him when there was something he wanted to know.
One morning he came to Zeus, and said, “O Thunderer, I do not understand your design. You have caused the race of man to appear on earth, but you keep him in ignorance and darkness.”
“Perhaps you had better leave the race of man to me,” said Zeus. “What you call ignorance is innocence. What you call darkness is the shadow of my decree. Man is happy now. And he is so framed that he will remain happy unless someone persuades him that he is unhappy. Let us not speak of this again.”
But Prometheus said, “Look at him. Look below. He crouches in caves. He is at the mercy of beast and weather. He eats his meat raw. If you mean something by this, enlighten me with your wisdom. Tell me why you refuse to give man the gift of fire.”
Zeus answered, “Do you not know, Prometheus, that every gift brings a penalty? This is the way the Fates weave destiny—by which gods also must abide. Man does not have fire, true, nor the crafts which fire teaches. On the other hand, he does not know disease, warfare, old age, or that inward pest called worry. He is happy, I say, happy without fire. And so he shall remain.”
“Happy as beasts are happy,” said Prometheus. “Of what use to make a separate race called man and endow him with little fur, some wit, and a curious charm of unpredictability? If he must live like this, why separate him from the beasts at all?”
“He has another quality,” said Zeus, “the capacity for worship. An aptitude for admiring our power, being puzzled by our riddles and amazed by our caprice. That is why he was made.”
“Would not fire, and the graces he can put on with fire, make him more interesting?”
“More interesting, perhaps, but infinitely more dangerous. For there i
s this in man too: a vaunting pride that needs little sustenance to make it swell to giant size. Improve his lot, and he will forget that which makes him pleasing—his sense of worship, his humility. He will grow big and poisoned with pride and fancy himself a god, and before we know it, we shall see him storming Olympus. Enough, Prometheus! I have been patient with you, but do not try me too far. Go now and trouble me no more with your speculations.”
Prometheus was not satisfied. All that night he lay awake making plans. Then he left his couch at dawn, and standing tiptoe on Olympus, stretched his arm to the eastern horizon where the first faint flames of the sun were flickering. In his hand he held a reed filled with a dry fiber; he thrust it into the sunrise until a spark smoldered. Then he put the reed in his tunic and came down from the mountain.
At first men were frightened by the gift. It was so hot, so quick; it bit sharply when you touched it, and for pure spite, made the shadows dance. They thanked Prometheus and asked him to take it away. But he took the haunch of a newly killed deer and held it over the fire. And when the meat began to sear and sputter, filling the cave with its rich smells, the people felt themselves melting with hunger and flung themselves on the meat and devoured it greedily, burning their tongues.
“This that I have brought you is called ‘fire,’ ˮ Prometheus said. “It is an ill-natured spirit, a little brother of the sun, but if you handle it carefully, it can change your whole life. It is very greedy; you must feed it twigs, but only until it becomes a proper size. Then you must stop, or it will eat everything in sight—and you too. If it escapes, use this magic: water. It fears the water spirit, and if you touch it with water, it will fly away until you need it again.”
Heroes, Gods and Monsters of the Greek Myths Page 4