Heroes, Gods and Monsters of the Greek Myths

by Bernard Evslin

  “I must not go to sleep,” he said to himself. “I must watch the boy. He may do something rash.”

  But Icarus was flying easily alongside so Daedalus hunched his shoulders, let his chin fall on his chest, and half-coasted on a column of air. He shut his eyes for a moment…just for a moment…

  In that moment Icarus saw a great white swan climb past him, wings spread, shooting like a great white arrow straight for the sun and uttering a long honking call. Icarus looked after him; he had already dwindled and was a splinter of light, moving toward the sun.

  “How splendid he is, flying so swiftly, so proudly, so high. How I should like to get a closer look at the sun. Once and for all I should like to see for myself what it really is. Is it a great burning eye looking through an enormous spyhole, as some Libyans say; or is it Apollo driving a golden coach drawn by golden horses, as the Athenians believe; or perhaps is it a great flaming squid swimming the waters of the sky, as the barbarians say; or, maybe, as my father holds, is it a monster ball of burning gas which Apollo moves by its own motion. I think I shall go a bit closer, anyway. The old man seems to be napping. I can be up and back before he opens his eyes. How splendid if I could get a really good look at the sun and be able to tell my father something he doesn’t know. How that would delight him. What a joke we will have together. Yes…I must follow that swan.”

  So Icarus, full of strength and joy, blood flaming in his veins, stretched his home-made wings and climbed after the swan. Up, up, up, he flew. The air seemed thinner, his body heavier; the sun was swollen now, filling the whole sky, blazing down at him. He couldn’t see any more than he had before; he was dazed with light.

  “Closer…” he thought. “Higher…closer…up and up…”

  He felt the back of his shoulders growing wet.

  “Yes,” he thought. “This is hot work.”

  But the wetness was not what he supposed; it was wax—melting wax. The wax bonds of his wings were melting in the heat of the sun. He felt the wings sliding away from him. As they fell away and drifted slowly down, he gazed at them, stupefied. It was as if a great golden hand had taken him in its grasp and hurled him toward the sea. The sky tilted. His breath was torn from his chest. The diamond-hard sea was rushing toward him.

  “No,” he cried. “No…no…”

  Daedalus, dozing and floating on his column of air, felt the cry ripping through his body like an arrow. He opened his eyes to see the white body of his son hurtling down. It fell into the sea and disappeared.

  Theseus

  YOUNG THESEUS HAD A secret. He lived with his mother in a little hut on a wild sea-battered part of the coast called Troezen. For all his poor house and worn-out clothes, he was very proud, for he had a secret: he knew that he was the son of a king. His mother had told him the story one night when their day’s catch of fish had been very bad and they were hungry.

  “A king, truly,” she said. “And one day you will know his name.”

  “But mother, then why are you not a queen and I a prince? Why don’t we live in a palace instead of a hovel?”

  “Politics, my son,” she said sadly. “All politics…You’re too young to understand, but your father has a cousin, a very powerful lord with fifty sons. They are waiting for your father to die so they can divide the kingdom. If they knew he had a son of his own to inherit it, they would kill the son immediately.”

  “When can I go to him? When can I go there and help my father?”

  “When you’re grown. When you know how to fight your enemies.”

  This was Theseus’ secret…and he needed a secret to keep him warm in those long, cold, hard years. One of his worst troubles was his size. His being small for his age bothered him terribly for how could he become a great fighter and help his father against terrible enemies if he couldn’t even hold his own against the village boys? He exercised constantly by running up and down the cliffs, swimming in the roughest seas, lifting logs and rocks, bending young trees; and indeed he grew much stronger, but he was still very dissatisfied with himself.

  A VOICE FROM THE SEA

  One day, when he had been beaten in a fight with a larger boy, he felt so gloomy that he went down to the beach and lay on the sand watching the waves, hoping that a big one would come along and cover him.

  “I will not live this way!” he cried to the wind. “I will not be small and weak and poor. I will be a king, a warrior…or I will not be at all.”

  And then it seemed that the sound of the waves turned to a deep-voiced lullaby, and Theseus fell asleep—not quite asleep, perhaps, because he was watching a great white gull smashing clams open by dropping them on the rocks below. Then the bird swooped down and stood near Theseus’ head looking at him, and spoke, “I can crack clams open because they are heavy. Can I do this with shrimps or scallops? No…they are too light. Do you know the answer to my riddle?”

  “Is it a riddle?”

  “A very important one. The answer is this: do not fear your enemy’s size, but use it against him. Then his strength will become yours. When you have tried this secret, come back, and I will tell you a better one.”

  Theseus sat up, rubbing his eyes. Was it a dream? Had the gull been there, speaking to him? Could it be? What did it all mean? Theseus thought and thought; then he leaped to his feet and raced down the beach, up the cliff to the village where he found the boy who had just beaten him and slapped him across the face. When the boy, who was almost as big as a man, lunged toward him swinging his big fist, Theseus caught the fist and pulled in the same direction. The boy, swung off balance by his own power, went spinning off his feet and landed headfirst.

  “Get up,” said Theseus. “I want to try that again.”

  The big fellow lumbered to his feet and rushed at Theseus, who stooped suddenly. The boy went hurtling over him and landed in the road again. This time he lay still.

  “Well,” said Theseus, “that was a smart gull.”

  One by one, Theseus challenged the largest boys of the village; and, by being swift and sure and using their own strength against them, he defeated them all.

  Then, he returned to the beach and lay on the sand, watching the waves, and listening as the crashing became a lullaby. Once again, his eyes closed, then opened. The great white seagull was pacing the sand near him.

  ‘Thank you,” said Theseus.

  “Don’t thank me,” said the gull. “Thank your father. I am but his messenger.”

  “My father, the king?”

  “King, indeed. But not the king your mother thinks.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Listen now…Your father rules no paltry stretch of earth. His domain is as vast as all the seas, and all that is beneath them, and all that the seas claim. He is the Earthshaker, Poseidon.”

  “Poseidon…my father?”

  “You are his son.”

  ‘Then why does my mother not know? How can this be?”

  “You must understand, boy, that the gods sometimes fall in love with beautiful maidens of the earth, but they cannot appear to the maidens in their own forms. The gods are too large, too bright, too terrifying, so they must disguise themselves. Now, when Poseidon fell in love with your mother, she had just been secretly married to Aegeus, king of Athens. Poseidon disguised himself as her new husband, and you, you are his son. One of many, very many; but he seems to have taken a special fancy to you and plans great and terrible things for you…if you have the courage.”

  “I have the courage,” said Theseus. “Let me know his will.”

  “Tomorrow,” said the seagull, “you will receive an unexpected gift. Then you must bid farewell to your mother and go to Athens to visit Aegeus. Do not go by sea. Take the dangerous overland route, and your adventures will begin.”

  The waves made great crashing music. The wind crooned. A blackness crossed the boy’s mind. When he opened his eyes the gull was gone, and the sun was dipping into the sea.

  “Undoubtedly a dream,” he said to himself.
“But the last dream worked. Perhaps this one will too.”

  The next morning there was a great excitement in the village. A huge stone had appeared in the middle of the road. In this stone was stuck a sword half-way up to its hilt; and a messenger had come from the oracle at Delphi saying that whoever pulled the sword from the stone was a king’s son and must go to his father.

  When Theseus heard this, he embraced his mother and said, “Farewell.”

  “Where are you going, my son?”

  “To Athens. This is the time we have been waiting for. I shall take the sword from the stone and be on my way.”

  “But, son, it is sunk so deeply. Do you think you can? Look…look…the strongest men cannot budge it. There is the smith trying…And there the Captain of the Guard…And look…look at that giant herdsman trying. See how he pulls and grunts. Oh, son, I fear the time is not yet.”

  “Pardon me,” said Theseus, moving through the crowd. “Let me through, please. I should like a turn.”

  When the villagers heard this, heard the short fragile-looking youth say these words, they exploded in laughter.

  “Delighted to amuse you,” said Theseus. “Now, watch this.”

  Theseus grasped the sword by the hilt and drew it from the stone as easily as though he were drawing it from a scabbard; he bowed to the crowd and stuck the sword in his belt. The villagers were too stunned to say anything. They moved apart as he approached, making room for him to pass. He smiled, embraced his mother again, and set out on the long road to Athens.

  THE ROAD

  The overland road from Troezen to Athens was the most dangerous in the world. It was infested not only by bandits but also giants, ogres, and sorcerers who lay in wait for travelers and killed them for their money, or their weapons, or just for sport. Those who had to make the trip usually went by boat, preferring the risk of shipwreck and pirates to the terrible mountain brigands. If the trip overland had to be made, travelers banded together, went heavily armed, and kept watch as though on a military march.

  Theseus knew all this, but he did not give it a second thought. He was too happy to be on his way…leaving his poky little village and his ordinary life. He was off to the great world and adventure. He welcomed the dangers that lay in wait. “The more, the better,” he thought. “Where there’s danger, there’s glory. Why, I shall be disappointed if I am not attacked.”

  He was not to be disappointed. He had not gone far when he met a huge man in a bearskin carrying an enormous brass club. This was Corynetes, the cudgeler, terror of travelers. He reached out a hairy hand, seized Theseus by the throat and lifted his club, which glittered in the hot sunlight.

  “Pardon me,” said Theseus. “What are you planning to do?”

  “Bash in your head.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what I do.”

  “A beautiful club you have there, sir,” said Theseus. “So bright and shiny. You know, it’s a positive honor to have my head bashed in with a weapon like this.”

  “Pure brass,” growled the bandit.

  “Mmm…but is it really brass? It might be gilded wood, you know. A brass club would be too heavy to lift.”

  “Not too heavy for me,” said the bandit, “and it’s pure brass. Look…”

  He held out his club, which Theseus accepted, smiling. Swinging it in a mighty arc he cracked the bandit’s head as if it were an egg.

  “Nice balance to this,” said Theseus. “I think I’ll keep it.” He shouldered the club and walked off.

  The road ran along the edge of the cliff above the burning blue sea. He turned a bend in the road and saw a man sitting on a rock. The man held a great battle-ax in his hand; he was so large that the ax seemed more like a hatchet.

  “Stop!” said the man.

  “Good day,” said Theseus.

  “Now listen, stranger, everyone who passes this way washes my feet. That’s the toll. Any questions?”

  “One. Suppose I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll simply cut off your head,” said the man, “unless you think that little twig you’re carrying will stop this ax.”

  “I was just asking,” said Theseus. “I’ll be glad to wash your feet, sir. Personal hygiene is very important, especially on the road.”

  “What?”

  “I said I’ll do it.”

  Theseus knelt at the man’s feet and undid his sandals, thinking hard. He knew who this man was; he had heard tales of him. This was Sciron who was notorious for keeping a pet turtle that was as large for a turtle as Sciron was for a man and was trained to eat human flesh. This giant turtle swam about at the foot of the cliff waiting for Sciron to kick his victims over. Theseus glanced swiftly down the cliffside. Sure enough, he saw the great blunt head of the turtle lifted out of the water, waiting.

  Theseus took Sciron’s huge foot in his hand, holding it by the ankle. As he did so, the giant launched a mighty kick. Theseus was ready. When the giant kicked, Theseus pulled, dodging swiftly out of the way as the enormous body hurtled over him, over and down, splashing the water cliff-high as it hit. Theseus saw the turtle swim toward the splash. He arose, dusted off his knees, and proceeded on his journey.

  The road dipped now, running past a grove of pines.

  “Stop!”

  He stopped. There was another huge brute of a man facing him. First Theseus thought that Sciron had climbed back up the cliff somehow; but then he realized that this must be Sciron’s brother, of whom he had also heard. This fellow was called Pityocamptes, which means “pine-bender.” He was big enough and strong enough to press pine trees to the ground. It was his habit to bend a tree just as a passerby approached and asked the newcomer to hold it for a moment. The traveler, afraid not to oblige, would grasp the top of the tree. Then Pityocamptes with a great jeering laugh would release his hold. The pine tree would spring mightily to its full height, flinging the victim high in the air, so high that the life was dashed out of him when he hit the ground. Then the bandit would search his pockets, chuckling all the while; he was a great joker. Now he said to Theseus, “Wait, friend. I want you to do me a favor.”

  He reached for a pine tree and bent it slowly to earth like an enormous bow. “Just hold this for a moment like a good fellow, will you?”

  “Certainly,” said Theseus.

  Theseus grasped the tree, set his feet, clenched his teeth, let his mind go dark and all his strength flow downward, through his legs, into the earth, anchoring him to the earth like a rock. Pityocamptes let go, expecting to see Theseus fly into the air. Nothing happened. The pine stayed bent. The lad was holding it, legs rigid, arms trembling. The giant could not believe his eyes. He thought he must have broken the pine while bending it. He leaned his head closer to see. Then Theseus let go. The tree snapped up, catching the giant under the chin, knocking him unconscious. Theseus bent the tree again, swiftly bound the giant’s wrists to it. He pulled down another pine and tied Pityocamptes’ legs to that…and then let both pines go. They sprang apart. Half of Pityocamptes hung from one tree, half from the other. Vultures screamed with joy and fed on both parts impartially. Theseus wiped the pine tar from his hands and continued on his way.

  By now it was nightfall, and he was very weary. He came to an inn where light was coming from the window, smoke from the chimney. But it was not a cozy sight; the front yard was littered with skulls and other bones.

  “They don’t do much to attract guests,” thought Theseus. “Well…I’m tired. It has been a gruesome day. I’d just as soon go to bed now without any more fighting. On the other hand, if an adventure comes my way, I must not avoid it. Let’s see what this bone-collector looks like.”

  He strode to the door and pounded on it, crying, “Landlord! Landlord, ho!”

  The door flew open. In it was framed a greasy-looking giant, resembling Sciron and the pine-bender, but older, filthier, with long, tangled gray hair and a blood-stained gray beard. He had great meaty hands like grappling hooks.

  “Do you have a
bed for the night?” said Theseus.

  “A bed? That I have. Come with me.”

  He led Theseus to a room where a bed stood—an enormous ugly piece of furniture, hung with leather straps, and chains, and shackles.

  “What are all those bolts and bindings for?” said Theseus.

  “To keep you in bed until you’ve had your proper rest.”

  “Why should I wish to leave the bed?”

  “Everyone else seems to. You see, this is a special bed, exactly six feet long from head to foot. And I am a very neat, orderly person. I like things to fit. Now, if the guest is too short for the bed, we attach those chains to his ankles and stretch him. Simple.”

  “And if he’s too long?” said Theseus.

  “Oh, well then we just lop off his legs to the proper length.”

  “I see.”

  “But don’t worry about that part of it. You look like a stretch job to me. Go ahead, lie down.”

  “And if I do, then you will attach chains to my ankles and stretch me—if I understand you correctly.”

  “You understand me fine. Lie down.”

  “But all this stretching sounds uncomfortable.”

  “You came here. Nobody invited you. Now you’ve got to take the bad with the good.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Theseus. “I suppose if I decided not to take advantage of your hospitality…I suppose you’d make me lie down, wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh, sure. No problem.”

  “How? Show me.”

  The inn-keeper, whose name was Procrustes, reached out a great hand, put it on Theseus’ chest, and pushed him toward the bed. Theseus took his wrist, and, as the big man pushed, he pulled…in the swift shoulder-turning downward snap he had taught himself, Procrustes flew over his shoulder and landed on the bed. Theseus bolted him fast, took up an ax, and chopped off his legs as they dangled over the footboards. Then, because he did not wish the fellow to suffer, chopped off his head too.