Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (25 page)

“Well, I'll give you a bit longer, but if Cerberus has not appeared in a reasonable time, we shall have to reevaluate your own status.”

“I am certain I shall be able to restore your confidence in me, my lord,” replied Hecate as she bowed herself out of the throne room.

11

Hera and the Harpy

Argus, indeed, had been traded out of Hell as Hecate had said—but for more reasons than she had admitted. As usual, the Harpy Queen had several reasons for what she did, all of them evil.

By and large, the gods did not love one another; they were too busy loving themselves. They quarreled constantly. Quarrels festered into feuds. Zeus, King of the Gods, and brother, husband, or father to all of them, knew that he was feared and envied by the entire pantheon—with one exception, his son Hermes.

So Hermes, of course, was his favorite. Indeed, he was the favorite of all the gods. For, unlike the others, who were heavy with the sense of their own importance, Hermes took himself lightly—was joyous, playful, and hated the sight of suffering.

Nevertheless, Hermes had an enemy, a very powerful one—the Harpy Queen, Hecate. She was wildly jealous of the affection Hades showed for his silvery young nephew. For among Hermes' duties as messenger god was to usher the shades of the dead to Tartarus. He conducted this sad journey in so swift, tactful, and gentle a manner, delivering his shades in such good condition, that Hades admired him beyond all others. And Hecate couldn't bear it.

She was very much aware that Hermes was a general favorite and that it would be most difficult to destroy his position. But she also knew how suspicious and gloomy the other gods could be—how quick they were to take offense and how slow to forget a grudge. Since she was very patient and very cunning, she took care to show nothing but pleasure at the sight of Hermes as she secretly spun her plot.

As the first step in her long-range strategy, she went to Hera, Queen of the Gods, and told her what she had learned from one of her Harpy patrols—that her husband Zeus was courting a beautiful river nymph named Io and, to escape Hera's vigil, was turning himself into a bull for their meetings and Io into a cow.

When she heard this, Hera flew into a rage, not only at her husband but at the one who brought her bad news.

“Your Harpies are industrious,” she said coldly to Hecate. “Isn't it a violation of the Great Charter for these creatures to leave the Underworld and fly spy missions up here?”

“I have transgressed, oh queen,” said Hecate. “I admit it. But only to serve you.”

“Why such zeal? We hardly know each other.”

“I have long admired you from afar, my lady, and my admiration has grown into something like worship.”

Hecate had always operated on one principle, a highly successful one. She knew that any god would lap up words of praise and never suspect the praiser to be motivated by anything but a passion for accuracy.

“Worship, eh?” said Hera. “Well, I suppose your feelings are natural. I must have hordes of unknown admirers, but I have always been too modest to realize it. How, precisely, do you propose to serve me?”

“His supreme majesty, Zeus, I have observed, is abetted in his adventures by Hermes, who curries favor with his father by acting as his go-between.”

“He doesn't have to curry any favor,” remarked Hera. “Zeus dotes on him. Everyone seems to. I don't quite understand why. I've always thought him a sly, conniving creature, for all his charm.”

“How wonderful you are, Hera,” said Hecate. “As perceptive as you are beautiful. Hermes
is
sly; he
is
conniving. And he helps Zeus do what you most detest. But I have a way to thwart his activities.”

“If so, I shall be grateful,” said Hera.

Then Hecate went on to tell Hera about Argus of the hundred eyes. How she was giving him to Hera as a gift, and how he could report every move of Zeus and his many amours without being observed himself.

“He sounds like a most admirable addition to my staff,” said Hera. “What can I do for you in return?”

“I do this entirely out of my love for you, oh sovereign goddess, without any thought of repayment. However, I must confess that even as you fear Hermes' influence over Zeus, I fear his influence upon my master, Hades, and would appreciate any help you would care to offer.”

“I understand,” said Hera. “I shall see what I can do if and when the opportunity arises.”

“I'm a fair hand at providing such opportunities,” said Hecate. “Allow me to thank you in advance, dear queen.”

12

Zeus Complains

Zeus was fretting. Hermes was away on Hades' business. Without the aid of his clever son, the King of the Gods was being outwitted by Hera at every turn. It was Hermes who had concocted the idea of changing Io into a cow so that Zeus, in the guise of a bull, could escape the vigilance of his wife's spies and meet the river nymph undetected.

But Hera was evidently being served now by more-skillful agents. She had learned of the transformations and, mistress of magic that she was, had cooked up a counterspell, so that Io could not be changed back from cow to nymph.

Io, who feared she might have to stay a cow forever, was miserable. And Zeus was utterly thwarted. With Hermes absent, he knew that his wife would continue to outmaneuver him, so he decided to send for Hades and settle the question of Hermes' priorities.

Zeus didn't like to be indoors with his brother. He fancied that Hades, for all his regal, immaculate appearance, smelled faintly of death. So he did not have him ushered into the throne room but met him outside in the Garden of the Gods, which lay on a sunny slope of Olympus beyond the blue and white and gold palace. This palace was made of cloud drift frozen into marble, windowed with snow crystals, and pillared by sunbeams.

“Greetings, brother,” said Zeus. “You are gracious indeed to leave the cares of your dark domain and answer my summons so swiftly.”

“My cares are many, and multiplying,” said Hades. “But nothing is more urgent than a summons from my king.”

“As it happens, I too find my duties multiplying,” said Zeus. “And my domain, that is heaven and earth, although, perhaps, more cheerful than yours, also has many many problems. Now in all this, and much else besides, Hermes is my most skillful helper—indeed, he is the only one I wholly trust. Yet his time is almost equally divided between us. Each day he gathers up the newly dead and herds them off to Tartarus to enlarge your kingdom. This arrangement is becoming increasingly unsatisfactory to me. I really must have his services full-time, brother. I'll give you someone else, or indeed as many replacements as you like, and of as high a station as you like, to escort your dead.”

“Oh, Zeus,” said Hades. “You simply do not know what you're asking. Hermes is not only an usher of the dead, although that in itself requires a multitude of skills that only he possesses; he is also arch-mediator between the realms of life and death and is required to perform miracles of diplomacy. Take my current problem, which Hermes is trying to solve at this very moment.”

When human beings achieve great power, they tend to view their private needs as public requirements. In the case of a god, in particular the King of the Gods, his own desire immediately becomes a cosmic necessity, dwarfing all other considerations. But, as supreme ruler, Zeus owed courtesy not only to others but to the idea of himself. So, although boiling with impatience, he listened politely as Hades continued.

“The fact is, oh Zeus, your son Ares, God of War, has been busy in Phrygia, where many local chieftains vie for supremacy.”

Zeus began to listen with more interest as Hades described what had been happening on the Dardanian plains. Ares had coursed that land and lingered longer than was his custom, planting his feuds deep, envenoming them at their roots. Thus, he sowed that rich black earth and reaped a terrible harvest. The battles had raged across the land and become an exercise in butchery. No surrender was offered; none taken. However, the men who were dying in such numbers had begun to rebel. Their souls were actually refusing to leave their bodies and were clinging instead to torn limbs and shattered heads in a thick, bloody, twittering mist.

“Why this sudden spirit of revolt?” asked Zeus. “I don't care how bloody the battles have been; fierce fighting is a warrior's business. And every real fighting man accepts the possibility of early death. I don't understand this at all.”

“Well,” said Hades. “I don't either. But the facts are as I describe, whatever the causes. The point is that in all the universe only Hermes can persuade these stubborn ghosts to leave their ruined bodies and complete their honorable careers by enrolling themselves in my kingdom.”

“I do not underestimate the gravity of this development,” said Zeus. “But I must repeat, my affairs need attention, too, and I want Hermes with me.”

Hades was very clever. He knew that he would get nowhere by locking horns with Zeus. But he prided himself on his guile, which had never failed him, and on the fact that he knew his brother inside and out. Zeus loved youth and the spectacle of strong, beautiful bodies, and he loathed infirmity and disease and old age. He also couldn't bear the sight of any kind of physical mutilation. Knowing this, Hades knew what tack to take with him.

“Very well,” he agreed. “What must be must be. Recall Hermes. Let these unhoused dead walk the earth. It will be a sight worth watching. For this sort of thing will spread, of course. Once anyone refuses to separate his soul from his body and gets away with it, everyone will want to do the same. This earth of ours, once the abode of beautiful, stalwart young people, will soon be overrun—
Run?
Over-
limped
, I should say—by legions of amputees, decrepit old folk, and gasping invalids.”

Zeus shuddered. “Please,” he muttered.

“Not to mention the others,” said Hades. “Those who could properly have expected to profit from the normal, wholesome progression of life into death. How about the hordes of disappointed heirs, denied the fortune they had based their hopes on? How about the young living soldiers denied promotions? Then, consider the housing shortage. The food shortage. Famine … drought … overcrowded cities crawling with vermin of all kinds, including human. Men and women clawing one another to bloody rags for a scrap of bread, a sip of wine. And, of course, in such circumstances there will be no one to show gratitude to the gods who made them … no one to pray to us and heap our altars with flowers and jewels and tickle our nostrils with the savory smoke of their sacrifices. No, brother, no one to do all those pleasant things we call worship.”

“Enough!” said Zeus. “Enough. I get the picture. Don't go nattering on about these damned rebels. Let Hermes clear up the mess as soon as possible. Then send him back to me immediately.”

“Thank you,” said Hades. “I knew that after a frank discussion, your wisdom would prevail.” He hurried away, not daring to smile to himself until he was out of sight.

13

Revolt of the Dead

For many miles Cerberus pursued the scent he had picked up on the cliffs. But then the air became brisk, leaves began to rattle. The grass flattened. An autumn gale had pounced upon the coast, blowing the scent away. Cerberus slowed to a halt, confused.

He drank from a pond, bitter with fallen leaves, then lay down, trying to think. The only other clue he had to Delia's killer was the fact that a Harpy had decoyed him away from the girl. And Harpies, his mother had said, served Hades. Then, did the murderer serve Hades somehow? If so, how was he to find this underground realm?

Then Cerberus remembered something. Once, as a pup, swimming with his mother at sunset, he had seen an odd flare of silver against the drowning sun, trailed by shadows that looked like black paper cutouts against the red disk, or a tatter of crows. He had barked in wonder, and his mother had told him that what he saw was a draft of new ghosts following the quicksilver god, Hermes, to Tartarus.

“Of all who serve Hades,” he remembered his mother saying, “Hermes is the best. In fact, he is the best of all the gods, high or low.” How then to find him?

Cerberus barked at the sky. A gull dipped low. Gulls liked Cerberus. They followed him when he hunted, knowing that he would lead them to a kill where they could feed.

“Tell me, friend,” asked Cerberus. “You who fly so high and far—have you seen the god Hermes anywhere?”

“I saw him yesterday,” replied the gull. “He was heading toward Phrygia.”

“Where's that?”

“Follow your noses—north by northeast. You can't miss it.”

“Thank you,” said Cerberus. And he galloped off.

S
ome hours later, the three-headed dog crouched on a low hill overlooking a battlefield. It was littered with corpses. The silvery figure that was Hermes stood on an overturned chariot and spoke into the bloody, twittering mist.

“Unhappy shades of the early dead, wrenched too soon from your mortal frame, allow me to introduce myself. I am Hermes, the Messenger God, whose duty it is to usher you to the Land Beyond Death. From the beginning of things I have been familiar with shades. I have been guide, counselor, easer of transitions, smoother of the way. In all modesty, I have so conducted myself that I am trusted by the dead and by those who mourn them. And I come now to attend your present grievance. So, restless spirits, I understand your rebellion. You are loathe to leave the beautiful ruined bodies where you have so sweetly dwelt. Evicted too abruptly, you are not sufficiently weary of life to be ready for death. Nevertheless, you must come with me now.”

The twittering grew louder, became words. “No … no …”

“Shades, you cannot stay!” cried Hermes. “You must come away with me. You must leave these bodies lying here. Your flesh will nourish the birds of the air and the beasts of the field and the tunneling worm. Your bones, your hard bones, so straight and fine, will slowly fall to dust and become the rich essence of this earth. Your noble residue will be received into the womb of Mother Earth. It will be taken back and lent to new life. So you may not return to your own corpses; that way is barred. Nor can you, as some of you wish, enter another live body. Such bodies are not spacious; they are fit only for single occupancy; they will not accommodate another tenant. You may not enter or the dwelling will be destroyed. You're young, I know, too young for death, but nevertheless you must come with me.”