Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (20 page)

“Thank you,” said Althea, and turned away. But he had caught the look in her eyes before her face was hidden by her hair. He strolled off, smiling to himself.

Althea nursed her grief in solitude. She knew how malicious her brother was, didn't really trust anything he said. Nevertheless, his words had found their mark. Her beloved son was tearing out her heart, if not literally with a knife, then by neglecting her for the sake of that wild wench from the hills. And Althea in her jealousy forgot that Meleager, who had been so sad after the death of his dog, now glowed with happiness. All she could think of was that her lovely boy had no thought for his mother anymore, only for that long-legged huntress.

As it happened, though, the beautiful couple had aroused the jealousy of someone more powerful than Althea. For the folk of Calydon who had glimpsed Atalanta and Meleager running across a field in the morning mist, or seen them silhouetted against the sunset, began to whisper that their prince had found a goddess to be his mate. No one knew her name but it was certain she was a goddess, for she was as tall and strong and fleet as Artemis herself, and perhaps more beautiful.

These whispers drifted up to Artemis, Goddess of the Chase, Lady of the Silver Bow, and she burned with rage. She had always considered herself the fairest of the goddesses, more beautiful, in her own opinion, than Aphrodite, Goddess of Love and Beauty. Oh, yes, she far preferred her own lithe, suavely muscled figure to that of the lazy wide-hipped Aphrodite. And to have a mere human girl compared to her made her blaze with fury.

“I'll show them there's only one Artemis,” she cried. “I'll send them such game as they'll never forget!”

And she whistled up the monstrous boar she had made of Stygian mud. Out of the steaming jungle of central Africa it came, trotted around the rim of North Africa, going west, then plunged into the waters of the Middle Sea and headed north toward Spain. As it swam it amused itself by killing a shark or two and mangling a few giant squid. It climbed ashore on the horn of Spain, galloped overland then, eastward to the great peninsula we now call Greece. And Artemis guided her monster pig through Euboea and Boeotia, through Mycenae, Achaea, and Arcadia, not letting it stop until it reached the lush hilly land called Calydon.

And the instructions she gave it then were, “Kill, kill, kill!”

11

The Monster

The monster boar immediately began to spread terror throughout the land. It uprooted trees, dug up crops, killed horses and cattle and those who tended them. It attacked men and women working in the fields, punching holes in them with its tusks, trampling them under its hooves until they were bloody rags. Nor was there any way to escape it when it was on a rampage, for it would hurtle into a house, knocking it to splinters, then kill everyone inside.

Shepherds and cowherds were afraid to graze their flocks, farmers refused to harvest their crops. So the people began to go hungry. The king didn't know what to do. He asked Meleager's advice. The young man was wild with excitement.

“Father, Father,” he cried, “I'll kill the boar!”

“You alone?”

“Just I myself and one other.”

“Are you mad?”

“We can do it, Father. We can kill any beast ever born.”

“No, my son,” said the king. “This is no ordinary boar. It's huge, incredibly strong, totally murderous. It's a monster. I'm afraid we have offended some god who has sent this beast to ravage the land. I don't understand it. I always sacrificed regularly to every one of the gods. Nevertheless, we have been cursed, and this dreadful beast roams the country, destroying, killing.”

“I must hunt him, Father. This is the quarry we have dreamed of—something at last worthy of our skills.”

“I forbid it,” cried the king. “You are my only son. If you are killed, the throne will fall to your mother's idiot brothers, who will stuff into their pockets all that is left of my ravaged land. No, no, no, you shall not risk your life this way.”

“The beast must be killed, Father. Or there will be no kingdom for you to rule or me to inherit.”

“Yes, yes, we must contend with the monster, no doubt about that. But you shan't do it alone, or with that huntress of yours. We need a regular war party to go against the monster. What we shall do is invite all the best fighters in the lands of the Middle Sea to hunt the beast. They're all a little crazy like you, these heroes, and are always looking for a challenge. Well, they shall have one. It will be a famous affair.”

“Call whom you like, Sire, but I shall lead the hunt,” said Meleager.

Whereupon messages were sent to the greatest warriors of the Hellenic lands, inviting them to Calydon to hunt the giant boar. Those who weren't too busy killing each other accepted the invitation. Kings, princes, pirates, warlords, robber chieftains—they came flocking into Calydon.

The king was old now, however, and uneasy about playing host to so many rambunctious warriors. “I won't be able to go with them,” he said to his wife. “Meleager will have to do the honors while I stay home to guard the castle.”

“Why must you guard it?” said the queen. “Don't you trust your guests?”

“I trust them to act like themselves. They didn't become so rich in land and cattle by buying them, my dear. These men have always taken what they wanted. And may see in this enfeebled kingdom only a chance for booty.”

“You must do what you think best,” said the queen.

“I don't know what I think best. Sometimes I think this, sometimes that. I fear our guests as much as I do the boar—and yet my heart tells me my son may die on this hunt and that I should ride with him.”

“You need not fear for our son,” said Althea. “The Fates themselves permit me to guard his life.”

“What fates? Where? How? What do you mean?”

Whereupon she told her husband how, upon the hour of Meleager's birth, she had been visited by Atropos, Lady of the Shears. Told him how the hag had thrown a stick into the fire. How she, Althea, had leaped from the bed to snatch it out of the flames. And how Atropos had promised that while the brand remained unburned the prince would not die.

“Do you expect me to believe this rigamarole?” cried the king. “Hags, sticks, promises. We can't risk our son's life on such nonsense.”

“Be careful what you call nonsense,” said Althea. “You're in enough trouble now without offending the eldest Fate.”

“Prove that it's not nonsense.”

“Behold!” cried Althea.

She unlocked the great brass chest, lifted its lid, and showed him the charred stick.

The king was still inclined to disbelieve, but looking at the blackened branch and studying his wife's face, he knew that she was speaking the truth.

“I see,” he muttered.

“So set your mind at rest, dear husband. Let him lead the hunt while you stay here and guard the castle. Besides, I'm sending my brothers to keep an eye on him.”

“Who'll keep an eye on them?”

“Stop it, please,” said the queen. “I know your opinion of my brothers, but they'll be more careful than you about certain matters. They'll carry out my wishes and prevent him from bringing that wild hussy of his to join the hunt.”

“You're very wrong to interfere,” said the king. “Meleager loves that girl and will never love another.”

“Love, love, what does he know about love, that stripling with his mother's milk scarcely dry on his lips? I tell you that he shall never bring her home as his wife, not while I draw breath.”

“Well, I can't worry about that at the moment,” said the king. “I have heavier things on my mind. Monstrous beasts, fearsome guests—the wild girl will have to wait.”

“She'll wait long before she marries my son,” said Althea.

E
arly the next morning, everyone gathered for the hunt. The guests were astounded when Meleager rode up with Atalanta at his side. They goggled in wonder at the lovely, lithe young huntress who sat a great grey horse. She was clad in a deerskin tunic, wore bow and quiver, and held a javelin. All of them were surprised, some of them were angered at the thought that Meleager was taking the hunt lightly, and some younger ones were inflamed by her beauty and growing jealous of Meleager.

The couple sat their horses solidly. Meleager was stone faced, Atalanta smiling. The prince's uncles rode toward him.

“You're disgracing us,” croaked Plexippus. “And dishonoring our noble guests. They do not wish to ride out with this bear's whelp from the hills.”

Meleager touched his horse with his heels, walked it between his uncles' horses, and grasped an arm of each—squeezing them until they felt their elbows cracking in his iron grip.

“One more insulting word out of you,” he whispered, “and I'll call off this hunt and send everyone away. And Atalanta and I will hunt the boar alone, as we have always wished. But first, I will smash your heads together so that our guests may see where the fault lies.”

The uncles were silent. Meleager lifted his horn and sounded a call that rang through the hills. Laughing, shouting, arms glittering, the company rode forth to hunt the boar.

They did not ride far. The boar came to meet them. It selected its position very cannily, choosing a canyon where the walls narrowed so that it could be attacked only from the front and by no more than two men at a time.

But these were expert hunters. Meleager did not have to guide them by hand signals. They knew what to do. They did not rush in to attack, but strung themselves out before the mouth of the canyon. They pranced and shouted, clashed spear against shield, trying to excite the boar so that it would charge out of the canyon.

It did not.

They advanced, shouted more loudly, beat their shields harder. No movement from the boar. The uncles had not advanced. They had reined up their horses well away from the canyon and were watching from afar.

The men were losing their caution now. They advanced to within a spear's throw of the canyon mouth. Then, although the beast was half-hidden in a tangle of brush, they sent a flight of arrows into its hiding place. They were determined to draw the beast out. It was simply too dangerous to go into that narrow cleft after it. They came closer and sent another flight of arrows into the brush.

This time they succeeded, and their success was a disaster. They had underestimated the monster's size and speed. It came. It came hurtling out of the canyon with the crushing force of a boulder rolling down a mountain side. It charged into a party of hunters, scattering them in all directions, then whirled lightly as a panther, trampling two of the men to bloody shreds under its razor hooves.

The hunters fled; the boar followed. It caught two of them, spearing one with its tusk and shearing his leg off at the hip. Two warrior brothers, Telamon, who became the father of Ajax, and Peleus, who was to become the father of Achilles, showed their enormous courage by walking slowly in on the boar, spears out-thrust. Their example inspired others to form a ragged circle about the boar.

But the beast charged Telamon, breaking through a hedge of spears. Peleus flung his javelin. It skidded off the boar's shoulder and pierced one of the hunters, who fell dead. Another man swung his battle-axe at the boar; it tilted its head, parrying the axe—then with a savage counterthrust ripped out the man's belly, gutting him like a fish.

The beast then charged Peleus, who would have died on the spot, leaving no son named Achilles—and Hector might have lived and Troy stood unburned—but Atalanta drew her bow and loosed a shaft into the unprotected spot behind the boar's ear. The arrow sank in up to its feathers. Any other animal would have been killed instantly, but the boar still lived, and seemed as strong as ever, murderously strong.

Howling with pain, it chased Atalanta. She did not flee. She notched another arrow and stood facing the beast as it rushed toward her. There was just enough time for her to send an arrow into its eye. But it kept hurtling toward her.

Meleager, shouting a war cry, flung himself right into the boar's path, hurling a javelin as he ran. It sank into the boar, under its shoulder, turning it from its course.

Now it rushed toward Meleager, who kept running toward it and leaped clear over the charging beast like a Cretan bull dancer. He landed behind it. Before the boar could turn, he swung his sword in a glittering arc, slashing under the great hump of muscle, cutting the spinal cord. The massive low-slung body tottered, tilted, fell. Even that incarnation of monstrous energy could not live after the cable of its life was cut.

The boar lay dead.

A great cheer went up from the bloody, battered crowd of hunters. Meleager nodded at them, pulled out his knife, knelt at the side of the giant carcass and calmly began to skin it. When he was finished he came to Atalanta with the pelt in his arms. He bowed and said:

“Your arrow struck first. The hide belongs to you.”

Now this boar hide made a priceless gift. It was so tough that it made a wonderful flexible battle garment, lighter and stronger than armor, able to turn wolf bite, spear thrust, flying arrow.

Plexippus, who had hung back from the actual fighting and hadn't come anywhere near the boar, sensed that the other hunters might resent Meleager giving this splendid trophy to the girl, and decided to take advantage of this resentment. He rode toward Meleager, beard bristling. Lampon joined him.

“What kind of hospitality is this, O Nephew?” he cried. “It would be unprincely, of course, for you to claim the hide for yourself though you killed the boar, but the least you can do is offer it to one of your distinguished guests.”

Then he turned upon Atalanta, spittle flying from his lips as he berated her. “And you, you're a vile witch. You have cast an enchantment upon this poor lad. His wits are addled; he doesn't know what he's doing. Give that hide back, instantly—or you'll regret it.”