Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (21 page)

Meleager was listening quietly. He wiped the blood from his sword with a handful of dry grass, studied the gleaming blade, then swung it twice. The heads of his uncles fell in the dust, so quickly parted from their necks that they still seemed to be cursing as they fell. The guests were stunned. Meleager turned to them, and said:

“I beg you, sirs, to pardon this unpleasant family brawl. However, if any of you, perchance, feels too much offended, I shall be glad to measure swords with him. If not, you are all invited to the castle to a feast celebrating the death of the boar and honoring the fair huntress, Atalanta, whom I intend to make my wife.”

The hunters raised a great shout. Some of them may have been angry, others jealous, but they all admired courage whenever it showed itself. Besides, none of them were too eager to fight Meleager; they had seen him in action. So they all rode toward the castle, all but Atalanta and Meleager, who excused themselves and rode off to be alone for a few hours before the festivities began.

When the hunters reached the castle they were met by the king and queen who eagerly demanded to hear their tale. Peleus, who was their spokesman more or less, told of the fight with the boar, how some of the party had been killed, others wounded. How Atalanta had shot an arrow into the boar, drawing first blood, and would have been killed herself had not Meleager rushed into the beast's path and slain it with his sword.

But when it was told how Meleager had presented the boar's hide to Atalanta, how his uncles had protested, and been beheaded for their trouble, then the queen went white with fury and left the room. She went to her chamber and sank to her knees on the stone floor that was covered by the skins of the animals Meleager had slain—wolfskin, bearskin. She had always trod them with pleasure because he had given them to her.

She tried to picture Meleager's face, tried to remember how much she loved him, for she was shocked by her own feelings, could not believe the intention that was forming within her. “No. no,” she cried, “I love him. I love him.”

Then she heard her brother's voice, saying: “Curious tale of these mountain nymphs. Seems that before one of them will accept a suitor he has to cut out his mother's heart and bring it to her as a gift.”

Althea walked on her knees to the brass chest, leaned her arms upon it and buried her face in her arms, sobbing. “Bad prince, cruelest of sons, you have sent my two brothers to Tartarus, and in their stead propose to bring home this wild nymph of the hills. It shall not be, my son, my enemy. The Lady of the Shears has given your mother the power to prevent you.”

Mad with grief, Althea flung open the brass chest. She pulled the charred stick from its place and threw it on the fire, and watched it burn.

While this was happening, Meleager and Atalanta were in their favorite place under the twisted olive tree on the cliff, looking out into a great blue gulf of space.

“I want to be your wife,” murmured Atalanta. “You're the only one I have ever loved or ever shall love. But, my dearest, I don't want to live in a castle. I don't want to be a queen and wear dresses and sit on a throne. Why can't we stay the way we are, roaming the hills, hunting, fighting? Oh, can't we?”

“We will, we will!” cried Meleager. “King and queen we must be. But for every day we spend indoors sitting on thrones, making laws and so forth, for every day spent so poorly, I promise you that we shall spend ten days riding, hunting, fighting … you and I together, side by side. This is my solemn vow, Atalanta—Atalanta, my lovely one—and this I swear, too—”

She heard his voice stop. She saw him clutch his chest. Saw his eyes bulge, his face go purple. She caught him in her arms. His head snapped back. His scorched lips parted. He uttered a scalding cry of agony as his hair caught fire. She tried to bat out the flames, but only burned her hands. And it was no use. He was dead. His charred body smoldered on the grass.

In the castle, Queen Althea scattered the ashes of the burnt stick with her foot, stamping out the last spark. Then she straightened her robes, combed her hair with a silver comb, and went down to tend to her guests.

B
ut the moon goddess, for all her power, had failed. Her boar was dead while her rival still lived. And although Atalanta wished she had died with Meleager, life ran too richly in the tall girl for her to kill herself. She left Calydon and went back to Arcadia where she had been born. And wherever she went, legend attended her.

Poseidon, it is told, glimpsed her running along the shore one day, fell violently in love with her, and gave her name to his most important ocean. And Artemis, whose jealousy has not cooled after all these thousands of years, still instructs her moon to swing the Atlantic tides very roughly, making it the most feared of all the seas.

CERBERUS

For KATIE EVSLIN, who has only one head

but something special inside it—not to mention

an extra ration of beauty

Characters

Monsters

Gods

Mortals

Others

Contents

CHAPTER I

The Serpent-Woman's Pup

CHAPTER II

Hades' Visit

CHAPTER III

The Shark Hunter

CHAPTER IV

The Fisherman's Daughter

CHAPTER V

Glaucus

CHAPTER VI

Wild Boars

CHAPTER VII

Hecate's Idea

CHAPTER VIII

Decoy and Death

CHAPTER IX

The Body on the Rocks

CHAPTER X

Conference in Hell

CHAPTER XI

Hera and the Harpy

CHAPTER XII

Zeus Complains

CHAPTER XIII

Revolt of the Dead

CHAPTER XIV

Blood on the Meadow

CHAPTER XV

The Gates of Hell

CHAPTER XVI

The Three-Headed Sentinel

1

The Serpent-Woman's Pup

Hades' hiring policy had always favored monsters. Those bat-winged, tiger-clawed young hags called Harpies were his most valued employees; their queen, Hecate, was his chief aide. Charon, the huge, brutal boatman who ferried the souls of the dead across the River Styx was an authentic monster, as any of his passengers would testify. And the crossbreeding of such monsters produced the lesser demons who staffed the roasting pits and torture pens of Tartarus.

But Hades' partiality for monsters extended beyond his hirelings. He also valued those who roamed the upper world. Although they came in a great many different shapes and sizes and personalities, all the monsters had one thing in common: they were killers. And mankind was their favorite prey. Each day they dispatched shoals of corpses to enlarge Hades' kingdom.

Now, of all the monsters on earth and under it, Hades most esteemed a frightful couple named Typhon and Echidne. Typhon was a giant, the youngest, largest, and most ferocious son of Gaia and Uranus. It is said that even the gods feared him. Tall as a mountain, from the great plateau of his shoulders sprouted the scaly stalk of a dragon's neck. From it grew a dragon's head, spitting flame. His temper matched his appearance. He hated everyone, except his own family, whom he only disliked. No one knew when his ever-smoldering rage would erupt into sheer disaster. Once, in a tantrum, he had stamped a village to paste under his great feet. In yet another gust of fury he had leveled an entire hill with his foot, just as a boy kicks over an anthill—burying the cities of the valley under tons of earth and timber. Typhon was so greatly hated and feared that a particularly destructive storm was named after him. Our word
typhoon
mes from his name.

His wife, Echidne, daughter of the original serpent-woman, Ceto, was also half-woman, half-snake, but larger and more savage than her mother. A fit mate for Typhon, she produced litter after litter, each more horrible than her last. Naturally, this monstrous pair and their monstrous offspring were admired by Hades. Among them they sent him a thousand corpses a year—and not old, worn-out ones but fine, strong shades, cut down in the flower of their youth.

Hades, however, had never been able to convince any of this tribe to join his hellish crew. They were sea monsters, mostly, or things with wings, and had no wish to go underground. But Hades was very stubborn, very patient, and rarely failed to get exactly what he wanted. Each time one of Echidne's eggs hatched into a new little horror, he would send rich gifts—something he could afford to do, for the treasures of the earth belonged to him.

As our story begins, which is not long after the world began, Hades was still organizing his kingdom. It must be understood that this realm was not pure hell; it was also a place of rewards for those who had pleased the gods. The Underworld also held a vast zone known as Limbo, where wandered the shades of those who had neither pleased nor displeased the gods. There were no torments here, nor pleasures either—just a faceless horde of gray, vaporous ghosts pressed so thickly together they seemed like a mist rolling over the plain. Occasionally, a faint wailing sound arose, not weeping but a muted lament as if they realized that they had been condemned, not by Hades but by habit, to spend their deaths as they had spent their lives.

One day Echidne laid a curiously lumpy egg. It hatched into a three-headed dog. Its middle head was wolfish, with stand-up ears and great, glowing dark eyes. The right head was skull-like and popeyed, a bull terrier's head. And the left head was that of a hound with flap ears, mournful eyes, and quivering nose. All three heads had huge jaws with teeth like daggers. Though only a pup, it was already the size of a calf, and everyone looking upon it knew that, if allowed to live, it would grow as large as a bull.

The monster family was gathered in an enormous undersea cave. No water entered it, but it was part of the sea and filled with wet, sapphire light. All who had been born there and drawn their first breath of its salt-strong air returned from time to time, no matter how far they roamed.

The three-headed puppy stood blinking as he gazed about him. Newly hatched creatures always look about eagerly to see what kind of a world they have entered. And this pup had six eyes to peer out with. The three heads turned, the six eyes rolled, searching every corner of the dark cavern, trying to read the shadows.

His middle eyes fixed on a pair of huge feet. Tall columns of muscle sprouted upward … up … up … and the rest of the body was lost in darkness. The side heads swiveled to fix their eyes where the middle head was staring. The dog saw huge, bolsterlike toes planted too near his mother. Three necks felt hackles rising. Three muzzles wrinkled. The single, untried heart, already fearless, began to race with wild rage.