Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (18 page)

“Now my beautiful baby is safe,” she said to herself, “and shall grow into splendid manhood, and become a mighty king.”

And she took him into her arms to feed him.

N
ow, Althea had two brothers who were very wicked. Ever since their sister's marriage to King Oeneus, these men had been plotting to overthrow the king and seize the Calydonian throne for themselves. They pretended to love their younger sister very much. And she, who had a very trusting, passionate nature, believed them and tried to love them in return, although there was something about them she had never liked. But she blamed herself for this, and tried harder than ever to care for them as much as they said they cared for her.

They felt hopeful about their chances of seizing power because they knew they could manipulate the queen. They also thought that their royal brother-in-law would be easy to undermine because he was more interested in the hunt than in ruling. But they were furious when the prince was born, for their favorite oracle had warned them that this infant, if allowed to live, would grow up to be a mighty warrior.

The brothers, whose names were Plexippus and Lampon, always met in a certain secret grove when they were plotting. They were extremely suspicious, both of them, and always feared that servants were trying to eavesdrop.

“Well, our course is clear,” said Plexippus. “We must see to it that this pesky nephew of ours does
not
grow up to be a mighty warrior.”

“What do you mean?” said Lampon.

“What do you think I mean? We'll have to get rid of him.”

“How?”

“Well, we can't do much while he's in the nursery. The castle is too closely guarded. We'll have to wait till he gets more active, runs about, and so forth. Then we'll have plenty of opportunities to arrange a little accident.”

“Sounds good,” said Lampon.

T
he tiny prince, who was named Meleager, grew into a child, and his mother loved him more than ever. His father, too, was pleased with him. He was different from other children. As soon as he could talk, he demanded weapons, declared his love for dogs and horses, and insisted that his father take him hunting or he would run away and hunt by himself.

The king was delighted to humor his only son. He ordered his smith to make a tiny spear and a bow that shot arrows no larger than darts. These were not toys; they were weapons. Meleager practiced spear handling and archery for hours each day, and became very expert.

The evil uncles had been waiting more or less patiently all this while. But now Plexippus thought it was time to strike. He summoned his brother to the grove.

“Well, Lampon,” he said, “the time has come to move against that brat. No doubt you've been spending the years since his birth in planning some brilliant stroke.”

“No, I haven't,” said Lampon. “I leave the planning to you.

“All of it?”

“Every bit.”

“Why?”

“You're smarter.”

“Then what is your contribution to our effort?” asked Plexippus.

“I'm braver. And for what we want to do we'll need brains and guts. Me as much as you. So let's hear your plan. I know you have one.”

“Yes, I do. Fortunately for us, the foolish king spoils his son in every way possible. Actually allows him to go hunting with the court. He has his own pony, his own dogs, his own special little weapons. Disgusting spectacle. But it serves our purpose. Do you know that dog I just imported from Africa? That simba hound?”

“Call that murderous beast a dog?” cried Lampon. “Looks more like a cross between a wolf and a lion.”

“Well, they use them to hunt lions there.”

“You'd better get rid of him or we won't have any servants left. He's already killed one dog handler and bitten the arm off another.”

“Yes,” laughed Plexippus. “Good practice. Now we'll provide him with a royal feast.”

“What do you mean?”

“We'll starve him for a few days first, then turn him loose near the king's kennels. He'll prowl about looking for something to eat. The dogs inside will smell a strange dog and begin to howl. They'll make a mighty clamor. And Meleager, who meddles in all kennel matters, will run out to see what's happening. He fancies he can handle any animal, you know. I've heard him bragging about it. And his parents boasting, too. So he'll come out and see this strange, impressive-looking dog and decide it's something he wants for his pack. He'll go up to it, and our hungry simba hound will do the rest. Should be able to finish him off in two bites.”

“And I suppose,” said Lampon, “that you're expecting me to let that damned brute out of his pen and lead him all the way to the castle? Is that right?”

“Why yes,” said his brother. “Now's the time to show some of that bravery you were talking about. I've done the thinking, the next part is up to you. None of our dog handlers will go near him. Nor any of our slaves. They say they'd rather be flogged to death than eaten alive. So now it's up to you. You should be all right if you wear a full suit of armor. Even a simba hound can't bite through brass.”

“I'm going to try to develop some brains,” said Lampon. “It's getting too dangerous to be brave.”

7

The Simba Hound

Meleager awoke to the sound of his dogs making a racket such as he had never heard before. Not the baying of hounds following a hot trail, nor the ragged snarling of a pack going in for the kill, but a howling chorus of pure outrage.

He leaped out of bed and rushed from the castle, ran out onto the courtyard and across the flagged stones to the kennel. The dogs' voices changed as they heard him coming. The howls were laced with barking which said: “Let us out! Let us loose!”

The moon swam into a chink in the clouds and he saw what the pack was howling at. A shape loomed near the kennels. The moonlight struck green fire from its eyes. It stood like a dog, but larger than any he had ever seen. It seemed as big as a pony. Its mouth was wrinkled back in a terrible mirthless grin. The green light of its eyes pierced Meleager's chest like twin skewers. It was a cold night. The stones felt icy beneath his bare feet, but he was boiling inside. He had to have that noble beast for his own. The wonderful power pent in that lionlike shape was meant to serve him; he knew it was. The great heart that held such ferocity must be filled with passionate obedience to him, Meleager. This was to be
his
dog, the dog of dogs. The gods meant it so; that's why they had sent it.

He heard the animal snarl, a snarl that said death! Those huge jaws were about to tear out his throat. Across the darkness he could feel the whole body of the beast tensing to spring. He backed up, never taking his eyes off the dog, moving so swiftly and smoothly that he seemed to be sliding across the courtyard without moving his legs. Reaching behind him, he caught the edge of the kennel gate and pulled it open.

The dogs came pouring out, wild to attack, but he held them with a single word: “No!” They looked at him in bewilderment; they couldn't believe he was calling them back from attack, he, the beloved little figure who always led them in a pell-mell chase after their prey.

“No!” he said again. “Stand!”

They stood. But he could feel mounting force behind him, felt as if he were the frailest of dams holding back the mighty surge of a river in flood. And the simba hound, who had been prepared to leap, stood also, trying to understand. And what he understood was that he might kill that small morsel of a boy, but he'd never get to eat him—because those other dogs loved that boy. And they would fall upon him, the attacker, and tear him to pieces. For while he was larger and more powerful than any one of them, or any two, still these were big, fierce dogs and would be too many for him.

Nevertheless, he had never refused a fight in his life. He trembled with hunger and rage. Twenty pairs of eyes gleamed at him from behind the boy; as many sets of teeth flashed in the moonlight. Then, amazed, he saw the boy coming toward him. Heard him speak.

“You, big dog, accept me. We shall go hunting together. I shall show you such game as you have never known. See this splendid pack, finest hunters in all the world—well, you shall be their leader. You shall join your life to mine and we shall do nothing but hunt from morning till night. And what shall we pursue? Not merely meat on the hoof, but we shall know such sport as the gods enjoy. Killers we shall kill. Special creatures called monsters designed to be the bane of mortal man and mortal beast. These shall we bring to bay. For such have I been promised in my dreams—which also come from the gods. So stay, good dog. Let me come to you. Do not bite me.”

Of course, the five-year-old Meleager could not say such words, nor could the great dog have understood them if they had been said. But Meleager, like all young heroes, was born with a magical lore that lived in his voice before he had the words for it. And the simba hound, like all great-hearted dogs, heard meanings in the human voice beyond what any words said.

So the child crossed the courtyard, walking toward the dog. Step by step his pack followed him. The simba hound growled low in his throat; the pack answered. Deep growling enwrapped the boy who was walking so slowly beneath the moon. He felt he was within a great vibrating bell. Danger bubbled in his blood. Made him smile. Made him laugh. He wanted to run across the courtyard now, and, risking all, fling his arms about that big furry neck.

He did not. He knew enough not to make any sudden move. He glided across the flagstones, the pack keeping pace.

Finally, boy and dog stood facing each other. Their heads were on a level. They stood eye to eye. Green fire mingled with hazel fire. But dogs judge by smell. And this boy cast a strange, joyous aroma: clean wood and goosefeathers of arrows, smell of running dog and lathered horse, cold scent of running water, and a fragrance of sunshine and crushed grass. The smell of the chase.

And the hungry dog wanted that chase to start immediately. The hot rage in his heart became a fire of comradeship. His hackles sank. He dipped his head, put an icy nose to the boy's face, then his hot tongue. Then indeed did Meleager fling his arms about the great furry neck, press his face to the dog's muzzle, and say, “I name you
Alcon.
”

He whispered it into the simba hound's ear so that the others would not grow jealous. For
Alcon
meant mighty.

L
ampon sat on a tree stump, thinking bitter thoughts as he waited for his brother. His leg was stretched straight before him; it was bandaged from ankle to knee. He felt that the birds in the trees were jeering at him. He heard someone approaching but didn't look up. He knew it was his brother and was too angry to look at him.

Plexippus spoke in a timid voice. “What's the matter with your leg?”

“Oh, nothing to trouble yourself about,” said Lampon. “I'll just probably be lame for the rest of my life because of that damned dog.”

“How could he do that? Weren't you wearing armor?”

“Indeed I was,” said Lampon. “A full suit. It didn't seem to discourage him, though. He simply knocked me to the ground and tried to bite my leg off.”

“He couldn't bite through brass. Don't tell me that.”

“He closed those awful jaws about the brass greave covering my leg. He couldn't bite through, but he crushed the greave. Felt like he was pulping my shinbone. The smith needed a torch to cut me loose. Added a few burns to complete a charming evening.”

“Well, things didn't turn out as we planned,” murmured Plexippus.

“As
we
planned? Don't try to give me any credit for that plan. It was all yours, as you pointed out before we tried it. All yours, Brother, and it stank.”

“Well, I'll simply think of something else,” said Plexippus. “We're no worse off than we were before last night.”

“Yes, we are,” said Lampon. “At least I am. And as for our goal of taking over the kingdom, we're farther away than ever. It was bad enough that the king had assigned a special squadron of Royal Archers to protect the kid, but now we've helped out by providing him with a guardian worth three squadrons of Archers. That savage brute is utterly devoted to him and will rip anyone to pieces who even thinks an unkind thought about the brat.”

“Things didn't turn out well, I admit it. Even the best generals lose a battle or two.”

“But they occasionally win one.”

“I'll find a way,” said Plexippus. “I promise.”

“That's a promise I seem to have heard before.”

“Please, I'm studying the situation from every angle. Have a little patience.”

“I've had nothing but patience,” said Lampon. “We're not growing any younger, you know. I'd like to dip my hands into the royal treasury while I'm still young enough to enjoy it.”

“Don't be ridiculous. We're still quite young, both of us. And very healthy.”

“I was a lot healthier yesterday,” said Lampon. “I had two legs.”

“I'll make it up to you, brother. I'll give you that slave girl I took when we raided Lemnos last month. I've seen you looking at her.”

“No, thanks,” said Lampon. “She dresses her hair with rancid butter. Have you ever passed downwind of her?”

“Well, take your pick, then. I have a whole string.”

“I know you do. I remember that raid. It was typical. While I was busy fighting, you were taking slaves.”

“I'm offering you your pick, am I not?”

“Mmm. I might consider that blond Scythian.”

“I was reserving her for my own use,” said Plexippus. “But very well.”

8

A Death and a Promise

For fifteen years boy and dog were inseparable. They hunted all over Calydon and into Arcadia and Aetolia. What they chased they caught; what they caught they killed. Bear, wolf, wild bull. They did not care to hunt any animal that could not put up a fight for itself.