Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (13 page)

Hercules was allowed no time to exult in his victory. For Kell attacked immediately. The head of his battle-axe was the blade of a massive ploughshare, honed to a razor edge. Its haft was the mast of a Cretan war-vessel, captured by the giants off the Libyan coast. This battle-axe, wielded by the gigantic butcher, was the biggest and heaviest in the entire world.

Its blade glittered now in the afternoon sun as Kell came rushing over the plain to attack Hercules. It was a wide grassy plain, a great meadow. But some miles off, Hercules had observed, was a stand of oak marking the edge of a forest. The young man realized that it would be fatal to fight Kell in the open; that enormous whirling blade would joint him like a plucked chicken in the hands of a kitchen slave. He turned from his enemy and began to run.

He darted across the plain, and Kell followed. Now, Hercules could run faster than any mortal, but, as noted, giants can cover an inhuman amount of ground in a single stride. Kell, however, was slowed somewhat by the weight of the axe he was carrying and, fast as he was going, could not quite catch up to Hercules.

The giant was amazed to see his enemy stop when he reached the oak grove. “Guess he's winded,” thought Kell. Roaring like an entire pride of lions, he charged into the grove, swinging his axe.

Hercules dodged behind a tree. Axe blade met tree trunk, and sheared the enormous bole at its base. Hercules had to leap thirty feet from a standing position to escape the crashing boughs. He was in mortal peril, he knew. That huge sharp axe thirsted for his blood, and there seemed no way to defend against it.

This time he chose a straight half-grown tree to shelter behind. Kell whirled his axe, slashing at the tree. The blade passed through the trunk as if it were a celery stalk. The tree actually rose in the air before it began to fall. Hercules caught it as it fell.

“I vowed to fight without weapons,” he thought. “And I've tried, I've tried. Can I help it if the enemy insists on arming me?”

There was no more time to examine his conscience. The giant had raised his axe high and begun a downward blow that would divide Hercules from pate to heel. He jumped on a stump, swinging his tree trunk, swinging it level to the ground in a vicious sideways swipe that caught Kell in the side and smashed his rib cage. These ribs were as tough and springy as the hoops of a great wine keg. When they were smashed by Hercules' club, their splinters became a dozen knives ripping into the giant's lungs.

Kell sank to his knees, gasping and coughing. A red froth bubbled from his mouth. He fell among the fallen branches and lay still.

S
tanding among his courtiers, Anteus felt himself swelling with fury. This puny little stranger had stripped him of his Royal Escort—killed his three best fighters and most loyal counsellors, all in one afternoon.

He would not wait for a formal match, he decided. He would go out there right now, catch the miserable cur in the very flush of his triumph—yes, slowly, deliberately, luxuriously, would clamp his gigantic hands about Hercules' torso the way a murderer of normal size would seize a victim by the neck and choke him. So he would take Hercules' body in his two hands and slowly, slowly, close them, squeezing so hard that the man's guts would ooze out of his mouth.

He started toward Hercules but caught himself in mid-stride. “Poor idea,” he thought. “The sun's sinking; it's almost dark.” And, light or dark, there was no one there except his own court to observe what he meant to do to Hercules. That wasn't enough. For already, no doubt, the news of the stranger's victories would have spread abroad. People would be talking about him. Rejoicing, jeering. No! He needed an audience to watch him execute this loathsome Hercules. An immense throng. He would bring all Libya to watch, and to learn again the awful power of their king.

Thereupon, he summoned Hercules, and boomed out for all to hear: “Congratulations, little Theban. You have performed well in your preliminary matches, and have earned the right to meet the champion, namely me. We shall fight tomorrow. In the meantime, eat, drink, rest yourself. Dinner tonight will be the last one you'll ever eat, no doubt. Is there any dish you'd particularly like?”

“I thank you for your courtesy, my host,” replied Hercules. “And I'll eat anything but your stew.”

Anteus had thought it best to conceal his feelings, but they boiled over again that night when he prowled the countryside, too angry to sleep. For now, once again, the faint mocking strains of the old song were borne upon the wind, but with its lines slightly changed:

“Gobi, Mordo, Kell …

Bowman, Banger, Butcher,

They served the tyrant well …

But now they're sent below,

to wait for him in hell …”

Anteus managed to hunt down some of the singers. He bore them to the courtyard of his castle and threw them into the stewpot. Their screams lulled him for a little while. Still, the night seemed very long. Nor would morning bring relief. It would take several hours, he knew, to assemble a great crowd to view the humiliation and destruction of Hercules.

9

A Gift of Fire

To understand what happened next in the strange conflict between the young hero, Hercules, and the monstrous earth-giant, Anteus, we must go back toward the first days when Prometheus was trying to befriend the newly created race called man. The Titan looked down from heaven one day and didn't like what he saw.

Men and women crouched in dark caves, cold, almost naked. They used tools chipped out of stone and ate their meat raw. They were dulled, brutish, speaking to each other in grunts. Prometheus went to Zeus, and said:

“Why, oh Thunderer, do you keep the race of man in ignorance and darkness?”

“What you call ignorance is innocence,” said Zeus. “What you call darkness is the shadow of my decree. Man is happy now and will remain happy until someone tells him he is unhappy. Do not meddle further with my designs.”

“I know that everything you do is wise,” said Prometheus. “Enlighten me with your wisdom. Tell me why you refuse humankind the gift of fire?”

“Because hidden in this race is a pride that can destroy us. Give him the great servant called fire and he will try to make himself as powerful as the gods. Why, he would storm Olympus. Go now, and trouble me no further.”

But Prometheus was not satisfied. The next morning he stood tiptoe on a mountaintop and stole some fire from the sunrise. He hid the spark in a hollow reed, then went down to earth. And went from cave to cave where men and women crouched, shivering, eating their meat raw.

Zeus, looking down later, could not believe what he was seeing. Everything was changed. Man had come out of his cave. Zeus saw huts, farmhouses, walled towns, a castle. He saw people cooking their food, carrying torches to light their way at night. Forges blazed; smiths were beating out ploughs, keels, swords, spears. Men were raising white wings of sails and daring to use the fury of the wind for their passages. They were wearing helmets, riding chariots into battle like the gods themselves.

Zeus was furious. He knew whom to blame. He ordered Prometheus seized and bound to a mountain peak in a place where it always snows and where the wind howls ceaselessly. There the friend of man was sentenced to spend eternity, chained to a crag, two vultures hovering about him, tearing at his belly and eating his liver. He was immortal and could not die, but he could suffer. And suffer he did through long centuries for giving mankind the gift of fire.

It was a curious thing, but the image of the tortured god had a way of dissolving into starlight—becoming a kind of dream-pollen carried by the night airs and blowing into the sleep of those who suffered: orphans, widows, widowers, those otherwise bereft or deserted, sick people, dying people, prisoners. A stormy blue light entered their sleep, bathing a mountain crag where was chained a Titan with a torn belly, whose entrails were being devoured by a pair of vultures. The wind shrieked in that dream, mingling with the screams of the raw-headed birds, but the Titan uttered no sound.

And the look of utter stubborn courage on his face above the torn body acted to calm the dreamers—made them meet their own torments with a deeper acceptance, and slip into a deeper sleep.

Weary Hercules was having a hard time trying to sleep under an African sky too strange to offer repose. Night here was no absence of light but the presence of living darkness. It pressed on him with weird power. The stars were too big; they were daubs of crude light pinned on a great blowing sky. The wind strengthened. A black wind. It blew out the stars. Blackness flowed into his head. He felt he might sleep.

The hot blackness went away. He was being bathed in another light—a blue stormy light. He saw a mountain peak; snow lurked upon it. Not snow, but the flowing white hair and white beard of an enormous old man. Too big for a man. A Titan, bound to the crag. Birds dived at him; their screams mingled with the wind. And now the Titan's voice mixed with wind and bird-cry:

“Hercules … Hercules.”

“I am here,” he heard himself answer. “But not for long.”

“You sound discouraged.”

“I don't understand it,” muttered Hercules. “I'm not usually low spirited before a fight. I'm usually happy, excited, full of confidence. But now, I'm full of foreboding.”

“That's a good way to defeat yourself.”

“I know. I know. I'm ashamed of myself.”

“That's unprofitable too,” said the Titan. And, although he seemed to be speaking softly, his voice rose effortlessly over wind-howl and bird-shriek. “I mean to help you, you know.”

“Do you?” said Hercules. “You look like you could use some help yourself.”

“Yes, and you are the one who shall save me from my ordeal if I succeed in saving your life tomorrow.”

“Sounds eminently fair,” said Hercules. “I am all attention, venerable sir.”

“Listen closely, lad. A bird will come to you at dawn. She will fly straight out of the sunrise so that she will seem to be all ablaze. And, indeed, this singular bird abides in the core of flame and is unconsumed … but resurrects herself from the ashes. Her name is Phoenix. I know her ways because I am familiar with fire. The Phoenix will fly to you. You will welcome her and pluck one of her feathers—the single blue feather that grows among the red feathers of her breast. That magic plume cools the heat of the hottest flame and may save your life tomorrow.”

“A blue feather from her breast … yes …”

“My time is up. Farewell. And blessings of the Phoenix be upon you.”

The blue-white cone of light faded. The African night pressed about Hercules again. He entered the hot blackness. He slept. And when the bird came flying out of the kindling sky at dawn, its feathers dyed with the colors of sunrise, he hardly knew whether he was awake or dreaming. But he pulled the blue feather from the blazing red chest of the gorgeous bird, as the Titan had instructed.

10

Hero Meets Monster

The giant, Anteus, liked everything about him to be big. When he performed, meaning when he fought in public, he ordered huge crowds to be assembled. And, because a system of compulsory attendance always guarantees a big audience, Anteus knew that the huge amphitheater would be filled upon this day, and that if he killed Hercules by early afternoon, as he intended, all Libya would know about it by nightfall.

They were to fight in a natural amphitheater where low hills cupped a flat stretch of meadow. Vast throngs could be seated on the slopes, and the largest of all had been assembled to watch Hercules fight Anteus. It wasn't the usual sullen mob, but one that seemed alive with joy and hope. For, although they had been rousted out of their homes by the Royal Guard and herded like cattle to the amphitheater, nevertheless they were happy to be there. For word had spread. This stranger who had dared to challenge Anteus had come on a raft and seemed indeed to be the very embodiment of the ancient prophecy, which told the Libyans that a hero one day would come from the sea to deliver them from the tyrant. If the rumors were true, this had to be the Promised One. For it was said that he, alone and weaponless, had slain Gobi, Mordo, and Kell, all in a single afternoon.

So they were abrim with hope before the fight began. But their hope changed to shocked dismay when they saw Hercules. Why, the whole thing must be a lie! This youth down there was big for a mortal, but surely not big enough to have killed the Bowman, the Banger, and the Butcher. He barely reached to Anteus's kneecap.

Hercules was keenly attuned to the mood swing of the crowd. He had seen them literally steaming with hope on their hot hillsides, and he understood their collective moan when they had identified him as the one who would fight Anteus. But the young man drove that thought from his head; he had more important things to think about.

Anteus had come into the arena, had stripped and was being oiled by slaves. To reach his great height, they had to lean ladders against him and toil up the rungs with sponges and buckets of oil until they reached the wide plateau of his shoulders and the enormous keg of his chest—then they would ply their sponges, swabbing him with oil.

Hercules down below studied the giant as he was being groomed. He was looking for a vulnerable spot. But as he examined the thewed pillars of those legs, the bulging torso, the enormous cabled arms, the keg of a chest—and his head, which seemed to have been rough-hewn out of rock—as Hercules studied Anteus, he simply did not know where to attack.

But attack he must. He had to strike first. He simply could not wait for the giant to go into action. He tried to remember all he had learned about how the body was built. His gaze was drawn to the giant's head. Somewhere there. But where? What could any fist do against that rocky crag of head? His eyes were so deeply socketed between beetling brow and jutting cheekbone that no one could possibly gouge them. The most fragile spot of the head, Hercules knew, was the platelet of bone behind the ear. In mortal man, a sharp blow upon that mastoid bone would shatter it, driving splinters into the brain, causing instant death. And even if all the giant's bones were armor-plate thick compared to a man's, still, in proportion, that bone behind the ear would be the most fragile. It was worth a try, anyway. It was his only chance. But how to reach it?