She called her son to her and said, “I see that you must have your way. What is it you wish?”
“The girl,” he said.
“You shall have her. Sharpen your darts now and get back to work, or we shall all run melancholy mad.”
So Eros filled his quiver with arrows, stood upon a low cloud, and shot as fast as he could. And man and woman awakened to each other again. Fish leaped in the sea. Stallions trumpeted in the fields. Sounds of the earth holding revel came to the goddess on the mountain, and she smiled.
But the parents of Psyche still grieved. For now with all the world celebrating the return of love, and the most unlikely people getting married, still no one asked for their daughter. They went to the oracle, who said:
“Psyche is not meant for mortal man. She is to be the bride of him who lives on the mountain and vanquishes both man and god. Take her to the mountain and say farewell.”
As the king and queen understood this, they thought that their daughter was intended for some monster, who would devour her as so many other princesses had been devoured to appease the mysterious forces of evil. They dressed her in bridal garments and hung her with jewels and led her to the mountain. The whole court followed, mourning, as though it were a funeral instead of a wedding.
Psyche herself did not weep. She had a strange dreaming look on her face. She seemed scarcely to know what was going on. She said no word of fear, wept no tear, but kissed her mother and father goodbye, and waited on the mountain, standing tall, her white bridal gown blowing about her, her arms full of flowers. The wedding party returned to the castle. The last sound of their voices faded. She stood there listening to a great silence. The wind blew hard, hard. Her hair came loose. The gown whipped about her like a flag. She felt a great pressure upon her and she did not understand. Then a huge breathy murmur, the wind itself howling in her ear, seemed to say, “Fear not. I am Zephyrus, the west wind, the groom’s messenger. I have come to take you home.”
She listened to the soft howling and believed the words she seemed to hear and was not afraid, even though she felt herself being lifted off the mountain, felt herself sailing through the air like a leaf. She saw her own castle pass beneath her and thought, “If they’re looking up and see me now, they’ll think that I’m a gull.” And she was glad that they would not know her.
Past low hills, over a large bay, beyond forests and fields and another ring of hills, the wind took her. And now she felt herself coasting down steeps of air, through the failing light, through purple clumps of dusk, toward another castle, gleaming like silver on a hilltop. Gently, gently, she was set down within the courtyard. It was empty. There were no sentries, no dogs, nothing but shadows, and the moon-pale stones of the castle. She saw no one. But the great doors opened. A carpet unreeled itself and rolled out to her feet. She walked over the carpet, through the doors. They closed behind her.
A torch burned in the air and floated in front of her. She followed it. It led her through a great hallway into a room. The torch whirled. Three more torches whirled in to join it, then stuck themselves in the wall and burned there, lighting the room. It was a smaller room, beautifully furnished. She stepped onto the terrace which looked out over the valley toward the moonlit sea.
A table floated into the room and set itself down solidly on its three legs. A chair placed itself at the table. Invisible hands began to set the table with dishes of gold and goblets of crystal shells. Food appeared on the plates, and the goblets filled with purple wine.
“Why can I not see you?” she cried to the invisible servants.
A courteous voice said, “It is so ordered.”
“And my husband? Where is he?”
“Journeying far. Coming near. I must say no more.”
She was very hungry after her windy ride. She ate the food and drank the wine. The torch then led her out of the room to another room that was an indoor pool, full of fragrant warm water. She bathed herself. Fleecy towels were offered her, a jeweled comb, and a flask of perfumed oil. She anointed herself, went back to her room, and awaited her husband.
Presently she heard a voice in the room. A powerful voice speaking very softly, so softly that the words were like her own thoughts.
“You are Psyche. I am your husband. You are the most beautiful girl in all the world, beautiful enough to make the goddess of love herself grow jealous.”
She could not see anyone. She felt the tone of the voice press hummingly upon her, as if she were in the center of a huge bell.
“Where are you?”
“Here.”
She reached out her arms. She felt mighty shoulders, hard as marble, but warm with life. She felt herself being enfolded by great muscular arms. And a voice spoke: “Welcome home.”
A swoon of happiness darkened her mind. The torches went out, one by one.
When she awoke next morning, she was alone. But she was so happy she didn’t care. She went dancing from room to room, exploring the castle, singing as she went. She sang so happily that the great pile of stone was filled with the sound of joy. She explored the castle, the courtyard, and the woods nearby. One living creature she found, a silvery greyhound, dainty as a squirrel and fierce as a panther. She knew it was hers. He went exploring the woods with her and showed her how he could outrace the deer. She laughed with joy to see him run.
At the end of the day she returned to the castle. Her meal was served by the same invisible servants. She again bathed and anointed herself. At midnight again her husband spoke to her, and she embraced him and wondered how it was that of all the girls in the world she had been chosen for this terrible joy.
Day after day went by like this, and night after night. And each night he asked her, “Are you happy, little one? Can I bring you anything, give you anything?”
“Nothing, husband, nothing. Only yourself.”
“That you have.”
“But I want to see you. I want to see the beauty I hold in my arms.”
“That will be, but not yet. It is not yet time.”
“Whatever you say, dear heart. But then, can you not stay with me by day as well, invisible or not. Why must you visit me only at night?”
“That too will change, perhaps. But not yet. It is too soon.”
“But the day grows so long without you. I wait for nightfall so, it seems it will never come.”
“You are lonely. You want company. Would you like your sisters to visit you?”
“My sisters—I have almost forgotten them. How strange.”
“Do you care to renew your acquaintance?”
“Well, perhaps. But I don’t really care. It is you I want. I want to see you. I want you here by day as well as by night.”
“You may expect your sisters here tomorrow.”
The next day the west wind bore Psyche’s elder sisters to the castle and landed them in the courtyard, windblown and bewildered. Fearful at having been snatched away from their own gardens, they were relieved to find themselves deposited so gently in the courtyard. How much more amazed they were, then, to see their own sister, whom they thought long dead, running out of the castle. She was more beautiful than ever, blooming with happiness, more richly garbed than any queen. She stormed joyously out of the castle, swept them into her arms, embraced and kissed them, and made them greatly welcome.
Then she led them into the castle. The invisible servants bathed and anointed them and served them a sumptuous meal. And with every new wonder they saw, with every treasure their sister showed them, they grew more and more jealous. They too had married kings, but little local ones, and this castle made theirs look like dog kennels. They did not eat off golden plates and drink out of jewels. Their servants were the plain old visible kind. And they ate and drank with huge appetites and grew more and more displeased with every bite.
“But where is your husband?” said the eldest one. “Why is he not here to welcome us? Perhaps he didn’t want us to come.”
“Oh, he did, he did,” cried Psy
che. “It was his idea. He sent his servant, the west wind, for you.”
“Oho,” sniffed the second sister. “It is he we have to thank for being taken by force and hurled through the air. Pretty rough transport.”
“But so swift,” said Psyche. “Do you not like riding the wind? I love it.”
“Yes, you seem to have changed considerably,” said the eldest. “But that’s still not telling us where your husband is. It is odd that he should not wish to meet us—very odd.”
“Not odd at all,” said Psyche. “He—he is rarely here by day. He—has things to do.”
“What sort of things?”
“Oh, you know—wars, peace treaties, hunting—you know the things that men do.”
“He is often away then?”
“Oh, no! No—that is—only by day. At night he returns.”
“Ah, then we will meet him tonight. At dinner, perhaps—”
“No—well—he will not be here. I mean—he will, but you will not see him.”
“Just what I thought!” cried the eldest. “Too proud to meet us. My dear, I think we had better go home.”
“Yes, indeed,” said the second sister. “If your husband is too high and mighty to give us a glimpse of his august self, then we’re plainly not wanted here.”
“Oh, no,” said Psyche. “Please listen. You don’t understand.”
“We certainly do not.”
And poor Psyche, unable to bear her sisters’ barbed hints, told them how things were. The two sisters sat at the table, listening. They were so fascinated they even forgot to eat, which was unusual for them.
“Oh, my heavens!” cried the eldest. “It’s worse than I thought.”
“Much much worse,” said the second. “The oracle was right. You have married a monster.”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Psyche. “Not a monster! But the most beautiful creature in the world!”
“Beautiful creatures like to be seen,” said the eldest. “It is the nature of beauty to be seen. Only ugliness hides itself away. You have married a monster.”
“A monster,” said the second. “Yes, a monster—a dragon—some scaly creature with many heads, perhaps, that devours young maidens once they are fattened. No wonder he feeds you so well.”
“Yes,” said the eldest. “The better you feed, the better he will later.”
“Poor child—how can we save her?”
“We cannot save her. He’s too powerful, this monster. She must save herself.”
“I won’t listen to another word!” cried Psyche, leaping up. “You are wicked evil-minded shrews, both of you! I’m ashamed of you. Ashamed of myself for listening to you. I never want to see you again. Never!”
She struck a gong. The table was snatched away. A window flew open, and the west wind swept in, curled his arm about the two sisters, swept them out and back to their own homes. Psyche was left alone, frightened, bitterly unhappy, longing for her husband. But there were still many hours till nightfall. All that long hideous afternoon she brooded about what her sisters had said. The words stuck in her mind like poison thorns. They festered in her head, throwing her into a fever of doubt.
She knew her husband was good. She knew he was beautiful. But still—why would he not let her see him? What did he do during the day? Other words of her sisters came back to her:
“How do you know what he does when he’s not here? Perhaps he has dozens of castles scattered about the countryside, a princess in each one. Perhaps he visits them all.”
And then jealousy, more terrible than fear, began to gnaw at her. She was not really afraid that he was a monster. Nor was she at all afraid of being devoured. If he did not love her she wanted to die anyway, but the idea that he might have other brides, other castles, clawed at her and sent her almost mad. She felt that if she could only see him her doubts would be resolved.
As dusk began to fill the room, she took a lamp, trimmed the wick, and poured in the oil. Then she lighted it and put it in a niche of the wall where its light could not be seen. She sat down and awaited her husband.
Late that night, when he had fallen asleep, she crept away and took the torch. She tiptoed back to where he slept and held the lamp over him. There in the dim wavering light she saw a god sleeping. Eros himself, the archer of love, youngest and most beautiful of the gods. He wore a quiver of silver darts even as he slept. Her heart sang at the sight of his beauty. She leaned over to kiss his face, still holding the lamp, and a drop of hot oil fell on his bare shoulder.
He started up and seized the lamp and doused its light. She reached for him, felt him push her away. She heard his voice saying, “Wretched girl—you are not ready to accept love. Yes, I am love itself and I cannot live where I am not believed. Farewell, Psyche.”
The voice was gone. She rushed into the courtyard, calling after him, calling, “Husband! Husband!” She heard a dry cracking sound, and when she looked back, the castle was gone too. The courtyard was gone. Everything was gone. She stood among weeds and brambles. All the good things that had belonged to her vanished with her love.
From that night on she roamed the woods, searching. And some say she still searches the woods and the dark places. Some say that Aphrodite turned her into an owl, who sees best in the dark and cries, “Who…? Who…?”
Others say she was turned into a bat that haunts old ruins and sees only by night.
Others say her husband forgave her, finally; that he came back for her and took her up to Olympus, where she helps him with his work of making young love. It is her special task, they say, to undo the talk of the bride’s family and the groom’s. When mother or sister visit bride or groom and say, “This, this, this…that, that, that…better look for yourself; seeing’s believing, seeing’s believing,” then she calls the west wind, who whips them away, and she, herself, invisible, whispers to them that none but love knows the secret of love, that believing is seeing.
Arion
WISE MEN OF SCIENCE have now decided that certain animals may be able to speak, and have begun to question dolphins to find out if this is true.
The old stories are full of clever beasts. Talking is the least they did. The dolphin, in particular, frisks through the blue waters of mythology. There is something about this playful fish which has always tickled the fancy of those who tell stories. So the scientists are in good company.
There is the story of Arion. He was the son of Poseidon and a naiad, and favored by Apollo, who taught him to play the lyre most beautifully. Arion lived in Corinth. He was a brave adventurous young man, and wanted very much to travel. But an oracle had said, “No ship will bring you back from any voyage you make.”
So he was forced to stay at home. For his twentieth birthday Apollo gave him a golden lyre, and he was wild to try it out at music festivals held in Sicily and Italy.
“Oracles are gloomy by nature,” he said to himself. “It is rare you hear of a happy prophecy. Besides, I must see the world no matter what happens.”
Thereupon he took his lyre and set sail for Italy. He competed in the festival at Tarentum and won all the prizes. He played and sang so beautifully that the audience was mad with delight and heaped gifts upon him: a jeweled sword, a suit of silver armor, an ivory bow and a quiver of bronze-tipped arrows. He was so happy and triumphant that he forgot all about the prophecy, and took the first ship back to Corinth, although the captain was a huge, ugly, dangerous-looking fellow, with an even uglier crew.
On the first afternoon out, Arion was sitting in the bow, gazing at the purple sea and absently fingering his lyre, when the captain strode up and said, “Pity…you’re young to die.”
“Am I to die young?” said Arion.
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m going to kill you.”
“That does seem a pity,” said Arion. “When is this sad event to take place?”
“Soon—in fact, immediately.”
“But why? What have I done?”
“Something foolish. Permitted yourself to become the owner of a treasure which I must have. That jeweled sword, that silver armor—you should never show things like that to thieves.”
“Why don’t you take what you want without killing me?”
“No. We thought it over and decided it would be better to kill you. It usually is in these cases. Then the person who’s been robbed can’t complain, you see. Makes it safer for us.”
“Well, I see you’ve thought the matter over carefully,” said Arion. “So I have nothing more to say. One favor, though: Let me sing a last song before I die.”
At the music festival Arion had invented a song of praise, called the dithyramb. He sang one now—praising first Apollo, who had taught him music, and then his father, Poseidon, master of the sea. Then he sang a song of praise to the sea itself and all who dwell there—the naiads and Nereids and gliding fishes. He sang to the magical changefulness of these waters, which put on different colors as the sun climbs and sinks, silver and amethyst in the early light, hot blue at noon, smoky purple at dusk. He sang to the sea, smiling, treacherously kind, offering the gift of cool death for any hot grief.
So singing, he leaped from the bow of the vessel, lyre in hand, and plunged into the sea.
He had sung so beautifully that the creatures of the deep had risen to hear him. His most eager listeners were a school of dolphins, who love music. The largest dolphin dived under him and rose to the surface lifting Arion on his back.
‘Thank you, friend,” said Arion.
“A poor favor to return for such heavenly music,” said the dolphin.
The dolphin swam away with Arion on his back, the other dolphins frisking about, dancing on the water, as Arion played. They swam very swiftly, and Arion arrived at Taenarus and made his way to Corinth a day before the ship was due. He went immediately to the palace, to his friend, Periander, King of Corinth, and told him his story. Then he took the king down to the water front to introduce him to the dolphin. The king ordered his smith to make a gold saddle for the dolphin, and invited it to stay in the castle moat whenever it was in the neighborhood.
Heroes, Gods and Monsters of the Greek Myths Page 8