Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (44 page)

“After me?”

“None other.”

“And what shall I do?”

“Fight him, of course.”

“Fight a dragon? Me?!”

“You will not be alone. The black goat will go with you. She's no ordinary beast. She was born to Amalthea, the she-goat who was foster mother to the infant Zeus. Zeus became jealous when this kid was born, and he tried to kill her. Therefore, does she hate Zeus, and now that she is grown, attempts to help me, whom Zeus considers his enemy.”

“She's splendid, I can see that,” said Cadmus. “But how can she help me against a dragon? I'm terrified at the very thought.”

“Forget about fear. Look at those vultures up there, waiting until I'm alone so that they may feed again upon my liver; look at those cruel birds, my lad, and tell me you can't endure what must be endured.”

“The spectacle of your suffering makes me ashamed of my cowardice. Yet, I'm still afraid.”

“My dear boy, anyone who doesn't fear a dragon is a fool. But fight him you must, fear or not. When you leave here, you will make your way to the Great Smithy. There you must try to persuade Hephaestus to give you the weapons you'll need.”

“How do I find the Great Smithy?”

“The goat knows the way.”

“Master, I obey. I don't really know what I'm doing, but I know that I must do it.”

“Go then, and my blessing go with you.”

Cadmus touched the giant's beard timidly, then turned and walked away down the path. The goat cast a last blazing look at the birds above and trotted after Cadmus.

As soon as the goat left her rock, the vultures dived, their screams mingling with the Titan's groans. But Cadmus didn't notice. He was thinking too hard.

“I wonder whether breathing becomes more visible the colder it gets? Do different sounds freeze into different shapes? I'll have to go where it's really cold—behind the North Wind. When I have time perhaps—after the dragon and Europa and so forth.
Is
there any ‘after' when meeting a dragon? Maybe I'd better do what I want first; save the monster and sister till later? Would that be ignoble? Am I heartless? Is my father right about me? Or is Prometheus?”

Something nudged him hard. He whirled about. The goat was looking at him with her yellow eyes. He stroked the harsh wool of her neck. She knelt and he mounted her. He held her horns as she trotted off. The wind smelled of snow and pine.

“I'm setting off on an awful journey, by any calculations,” he said to himself. “Why then am I so happy?”

7

The Spider

The little lizard had returned to the palace in Eleusis and was now perched upon the beam over the royal bed, the very same spot from which he had watched his father die. “The new king sleeps here now,” Abas said to himself. “I shall wait until nightfall, and when he is deep asleep shall simply drop upon his exposed throat and sink my teeth into it. I know where the great vein is that runs from heart to brain. Yes. I shall drain his body of its lifeblood. I need the taste of it to cool my rage. But many hours must pass before nightfall, and the thought of killing him has sharpened my appetite. I think I'll do a bit of hunting.”

Creeping along the beam, he came upon a spiderweb whose strands were much thicker than usual, but he was so excited by the memory of the dragon and the idea of becoming one himself—and of killing his brother that night—that he ignored what he knew: that a big, thick web means an outsize spider, one big enough to eat a lizard, perhaps.

Catching sight of a moth caught in the strands, Abas climbed onto the web and was pleased to find that it was strong enough to hold him.

But nothing moves faster than a spider in its web. This spider appeared so suddenly it was as if a piece of the web itself had clotted and come alive. Abas found himself confronting not the moth, but a spider bigger than any he had ever seen. To the little lizard it looked as big as a chariot wheel. In fact, it was about as big as a dinner plate.

Between two flicks of his tongue, the spider had already cast a loop of silk about him and pulled it tight, then cast another. Abas couldn't move. The spider pulled him closer and looked down at him with her multi-paned eyes. She spoke in a rustling voice.

“Were you about to steal my moth?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Abas. “I thought this web was vacant. That you had gone off somewhere and that it didn't matter if I trespassed.”

“Gone off, and left the larder full? You know more about spiders than that. I know you do, little thief. You've been robbing webs for a long time.”

“Are you going to eat me?”

“You would certainly represent a change in diet,” said the spider. “Actually you look quite edible under all that leather.”

“How is it you speak so well?” asked Abas, stalling for time. He had puffed himself out when she cast the loops about him and was now slowly letting his breath out, trying to shrink away from her grasp. He was trying to keep the conversation going until he could manage to slip out of her loops. “Your command of the language is not only fluent, it's eloquent.”

“You're pretty articulate yourself for a miserable little gecko,” said the spider. “I speak for the same reason you do. I was not always a spider, as you were not always a lizard. Oh, my goodness, you're not trying to get away, are you? When we're conversing so nicely? That's not polite.”

Swiftly, she cast three more loops about him, and drew them very tight. “If you're going to eat me, eat me now,” cried Abas. “Get it over with!”

“Gently, little friend,” replied the spider. “Don't you want to hear my tale? Well, you will, whether you want to or not. You're a captive audience, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” murmured the lizard.

“I was once a maiden in the land of Lydia,” said the spider. “Perhaps the most skillful spinner and weaver amongst mortals since the world began. I made garments that were lighter than silk but warmer than fur. And when I wove counterpanes, each square became a picture of some happy hour, making a quilt of joyous dreams. Well, I was on the threshold of a good life, anyone might think. I was honored in the countryside, well paid for my work, and several young men were eager to marry me. But, I made a fatal error. Carried away by pride, I boasted one day that I could spin and weave better than the goddess Athena.”

“Are you Arachne, by any chance?” asked the lizard.

“By an evil chance, yes. I am Arachne.”

“I've heard of you. Every child in the Middle Sea basin has heard nursery tales of you. How Athena grew angry at your boast and challenged you to a contest, which she won. And, as the price of losing, you were changed into a spider. You are the first of all spiders, mother of spiders.”

“Is that what children are told?” asked Arachne.

“That's what I was told. Isn't it true?”

“Up to a point. Then it becomes a lie. Athena was indeed angered when she heard my boast. But she fell into a more murderous fury
after
the contest, which
I
won.”

“You won?”

“I certainly did. And she had a big head start, you know. She set up her loom on top of a mountain. She didn't need a spindle; she didn't have to draw thread from flax. All she had to do up there was gather handfuls of cloud-wool and dye them in the colors of sunset and the colors of dawn. Then she wove the stuff on her loom and flung great colored tapestries across the sky. Oh, they were beautiful, all right. And the people stopped to look up and admire them. Then they hurried on their way to my door where the whole countryside had queued up, eagerly waiting for the cloaks and tunics and quilts that I was turning out so fast that I had clothed an entire village before Athena had flung out her first tapestry. The people were so happy they danced for joy in the meadow where my cottage stood, for it was threatening to be a hard winter. Oh, I won all right. And Athena knew it. She came striding down the mountain and stood there, taller than my cottage. She spoke in a voice that rattled the eaves:

“‘Stand forth, Arachne! Receive your award.'

“I came out and knelt before her. She glared down at me. Her gray eyes were like marsh water when the first scum of ice forms. She spoke again:

“‘Since you spin so well, and are so happy doing it, hereafter you shall be relieved of all other duties and can spend your life doing what you do best. Nor shall you need to concern yourself with heavy equipment—with spindle and distaff and loom. Out of your own body shall you draw all that you need.'

“I was dwindling as she spoke—shrinking, sprouting legs, antennae, becoming what you see before you now. When she had finished speaking I hung by a thread from my own lintel and was spinning a web.

“‘Yes,' she said. ‘Spin, my friend, spin.'

Spread your web

so light and fine

for that upon

which you will dine.

“With those words, she took up my spindle and struck my loom, knocking it to splinters. Then she broke the spindle over her knee, and strode off. From then on, I was a spider.”

“Have you lived here all this time, in the rafters of this palace?” asked the lizard.

“Not at all,” said the spider. “I just arrived.”

“And to what do we owe the honor of this visit, ma'am?”

“I was sent here—for you.”

“For me? Who sent you?”

“Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Did you not hear of them in your nursery tales?”

“No ma'am. I don't think so.”

“You should have. Some consider them more important than the gods themselves. They are the three crones who call themselves the Fates, and claim that they control destiny.”

“Do they?”

“Who can tell? Everyone's afraid of them, so they probably do. They live in a hovel on a crag beyond Mount Olympus. There they sit, gnawing at pork bones and crusts of wheaten loaves, and swigging barley beer by the pail—and working as they eat. For they never stop doing either, except to sleep. And they don't sleep much. The youngest sister, Clotho, sits with comb and spindle, carding the flax and drawing the thread. The second sister, Lachesis, holds her notched rod, measuring out the thread. And the eldest sister, the most fatal crone, Atropos, the Scissors Hag, wields her shears, deciding where to cut the thread of each life—deciding, in other words, who lives and who dies. Then at midnight they leave their seats and go into a wild coven dance, tangling the threads, and calling the tangle a design. They have two pets, a cat and a spider. I am the spider. I was the first of my kind, and they liked my style and took me to live with them. The cat is my enemy, of course, but he can't catch me, no matter how he tries.”

“Very interesting,” said Abas. “But what, pray, do they want with me?”

“I have no idea,” said the spider. “But they have decided, apparently, that you will play some role in the Master Design. So they have sent me for you, and where they send me, I go. What they bid me, I do. Come along then. I'll wrap you up just a bit more so you won't fall, and carry you there. We'll travel faster that way.”

8

The Three Fates

Lachesis, the second Fate, held the little lizard on her lap and stroked his polished head with her fore finger.

“Atropos,” she said, “the cat belongs to you. And Clotho, you have the spider. Neither loves me best, you have to admit. So I'm claiming this lizard for my own.”

“He won't be staying with us,” said Atropos. “He's here to receive instruction. Then out into the world he goes to play his role in our Master Design. You know that.”

“But he's here now!” cried Lachesis. “And he's mine! And later, when he's out in the world, doing what he must do, perhaps he'll remember me now and then, and even visit me sometimes.”

“Very well,” said Atropos. “If you mean to adopt him you must be the one to instruct him.”

“Oh, lizard mine,” said Lachesis. “When you leave us you will go down the mountain, then eastward into the forest. You will search until you find a grove where the oaks grow to giant size. The birds there are larger too, and the insects. For there, buried deep, abides a fragment of the body of Uranus, the First One, the Rain God, butchered by his son Cronos at the dawn of time. The taproots of the trees in this place have drunk of his rich blood and grown large. And insects that eat the buds off the branches grow huge. The birds eat the insects, and wrens become as big as owls. But most wonderful of all, a greedy swarm of worms ate of the flesh, drank the blood of the butchered god, and grew enormous. They were filled with the boiling spite of that vengeful blood and put on armor, leather armor; they grew teeth, claws, and vicious spiked tails. And taught themselves the deadly trick of spitting fire.

“Now, my little green beauty,” continued Lachesis, “you shall dig yourself a tunnel and burrow your way to the shoulder bone of Uranus. You shall eat your fill, and become a dragon also—a king among dragons, much larger than the ordinary kind, as you are now larger than a worm.”

“I shall do all that you bid me, madam, and I thank you and your sisters for this your instruction. To become a dragon has been my fondest hope.”

“It won't be all basking in the sun and gobbling cattle,” said Atropos. “There are difficult tasks before you, risky ones, bloody ones.”

“But that's what dragons are for!” cried Abas. “The opportunity to rend, crunch, destroy. Exactly why I have wanted to be one. Know this, venerable dame, there is a rage festering inside me that can be laved only by rivers of human blood.”

“After you sharpen your skills on a few minor heroes,” said Atropos, “and wipe out a village or two, you will go to Boeotia and await the coming of one Cadmus, a prince of Phoenicia. And that is your prime mission, to destroy him, leaving not a trace, not a morsel of flesh nor splinter of bone.”