Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (45 page)

“Cadmus,” said the lizard. “A great warrior?”

“Worse, much worse,” said Atropos. “He's a meddler, a disciple of Prometheus. A mischief among mortals. One who views our mighty edicts as idle whim, who regards the Master Design as a web of cruel fantasy, and believes only in his own dreams—which he refuses to forget upon awaking, but pursues all day long, trying to make them come true. The dream he pursues now is to steal a divine privilege and extend it to mankind.”

“What privilege?” asked the lizard.

“It's called ‘writing.'”

“What's that?”

“It's what appears on the Great Scroll. Only the gods know of it and understand its meaning. It is a code, a set of magic signs through which language remembers itself and utters itself anew. It will focus vague images and make them sing. It will make dreams dance. It can put wings to thought so that it passes from mind to mind, gaining strength as it goes, enriching the minds it touches and drawing forth those dangerous things called ‘ideas,' which, if allowed to grow wild, will cause men and women to think they're as good as we are. In their pride, they will storm Olympus, hurl us off the mountain, and try to rule their own lives.”

“And it is Cadmus who has set all this foul business afoot?” asked Abas.

“He and he alone. Although, if allowed to continue unchecked, he will certainly attract disciples. So he must be killed before he infects others. And the perfect antidote to the poison of ideas is a dragon.”

“I am proud to have been chosen,” said the lizard.

“Listen, little pet,” said Lachesis. “You will have to practice on the standard warrior-brand of hero before tackling Cadmus. So I want you to heed this: Never eat a hero without peeling him. Make sure to spit out helmet, breastplate, greaves, sword, battle-ax—every last bit of indigestible gear. Otherwise, you'll get a monstrous bellyache. Do you promise?”

“I promise,” said the lizard.

9

The Smith God

Mount Aetna, an extinct volcano in Sicily, was where Hephaestus had set up his first smithy. But Aetna suddenly decided to stop being extinct, and began to belch fire and spit red-hot lava. So the smith god moved forge and anvil to another dead crater in the eastern range of the Hellenic peninsula. And that is where the great black goat carried Cadmus.

The young prince dismounted and began to descend into the crater. He moved very cautiously. The place was full of sooty shadows. He winced at the great clamor rising from below. Metal struck metal, clanging and screeching. Rock rumbled. He heard ferocious laughter and shouting, cries of anger and pain. The noise was unbearable and the heat was worse. Cadmus felt as if he were standing right at the mouth of an open furnace.

Indeed, the huge figures he saw near the furnace pits wore thick leather aprons and helmets of hollowed rock with a single eyehole—one eyehole each in the middle of the forehead. And he knew that he was viewing creatures he had thought belonged only to legend—the Cyclopes, tall as trees, savage-tempered, master craftsmen who served the gods by laboring in the Great Smithy.

“What do you want?” boomed a voice. “Visitors are unwelcome here.”

Swiftly, Cadmus tried to recover his wits, which had been scattered by the clamor and the heat. He knelt on the rock floor, for he recognized Hephaestus. The smith god was so huge that he seemed to fill the great crater. His enormous span of shoulders and broad chest were knotted with muscle. He wore a leather apron and swung the heaviest hammer ever made. Its shaft was the trunk of a tree, its head a single lump of iron larger than a boulder.

“Who are you?” the god roared.

Cadmus tried to answer but couldn't hear himself through the hammering and clanging. He jumped up on an anvil and spoke into the god's ear.

“O Hephaestus, mighty lord of mechanics and inventors, forgive my intrusion, but I have been sent to ask a favor.”

“Who are you and what do you want? Be brief.”

“I am Cadmus, a prince of Phoenicia, and am pledged to slay the Dragon of Boeotia.”

“Presumptuous runt! How can you slay a dragon that has fattened itself on a diet of heroes?”

“Perhaps he has grown too fat,” said Cadmus. “Perhaps he has been spoiled by heroes. Perhaps he has never met a clever coward. Perhaps the desperate strategies of sheer funk may prevail where heroics falter.”

“Don't jest with me, little one,” warned the god. “How can you possibly hope to slay a dragon?”

“With the weapons you will provide.”

“As yet I have heard no reason I should do anything for you.”

“My lord, I know that others come here loaded with treasure to repay you for what you alone can provide. But I, I can offer only my need, and can repay you only with gratitude.”

“You're a persistent little fellow, I'll grant you that—and not uncourageous in your own way. Well, I happen to have some battle gear made for one who was killed before he could get here. A helmet of beaten brass which no battle-ax can dent. And a shield of brass, which no spear or sword can pierce. It is polished more brightly than any mirror so that you can flash the sun in your enemy's eyes. These weapons are for defense, but to conquer you must attack. Here is a sword of thrice-tempered iron that can cut through armor as easily as a tailor's shears slice through a bolt of wool. Watch this.”

Hephaestus swung the sword and struck the anvil, splitting it cleanly in two.

Cadmus gawked at the gifts. The helmet was bigger than the great cooking pot used in the kitchen of his father's palace.

The shield was as big as a chariot wheel. And the sword … with its point stuck in the ground, Cadmus had to reach as high as he could to grasp its hilt.

“Don't you have something more my size?” he asked.

Hephaestus scowled. “This is the Great Smithy, you know. We forge weapons for gods and demigods and the larger heroes. Why don't you take your business to some village smith out there. I'm sure he'll be able to accommodate you.”

“I can do without a helmet,” murmured Cadmus. “Even one that fits would give me a headache. And the dagger you made for this same warrior will do me as a sword. And a single scale of that mail coat will make a fine shield; all it needs is a handle.”

Hephaestus looked away. His face knotted in fury.

“I know how you must hate to alter your superb handiwork,” said Cadmus. “But weapons are meant to be used; otherwise they are idle shapes of metal. And these are too big for me to use. Nevertheless, having seen them, I shall never be content with anything less splendid. Give me the dagger, I pray. And fix a grip for that brass disk. For I will not go from here weaponless. If you do not think me worthy to bear your arms, then be good enough to pitch me straightaway into your furnace flames so that my worthless carcass may help to fuel your mighty labors.”

“A generous offer, but my fires require heartier fare. See.”

Hephaestus was pointing at a Cyclops who held an enormous uprooted tree in each hand; he flung them into the flames.

“That's not the furnace,” said Hephaestus. “Just a small fire for making charcoal. There's how they feed my forge-fires.”

He was pointing to a pile of charcoal lumps that towered to the roof of the great cave. A line of Cyclopes stretched from that pile to a fire pit near an anvil as large as a courtyard. Buckets of charcoal were being passed from hand to hand. The Cyclops nearest the blaze tossed the black lumps in, whirled, and hurled the bucket over the heads of the others to the Cyclops at the charcoal pile. Each bucket was the size of a gardener's shed.

“No,” murmured Cadmus. “I can see I'm not even worthy to feed your flames. I shall trouble you no more. Farewell.”

“You have offered your all,” said Hephaestus. “That's enough for me. Here's your dagger. And here's your shield. I have fixed a handle to it. Take them. Use them well. But you must have a helmet too. I insist. I'm the armorer; I know best. Take this brass thimble. I had intended it for Clotho, youngest of the Fates, but I'll make another for that dire spinster.”

He clapped the thimble on Cadmus's head. It fit perfectly.

“If that tiny weight hurts your head, just think how it would ache under a touch of the dragon's claws,” said Hephaestus.

Cadmus seized the smith god's great, grimy hand and kissed it. “Thank you, my lord. Memory of your kindness will lighten the heaviest gear. I shall bear your weapons with pride as great as the mightiest warrior can know.”

“I must warn you,” said Hephaestus, “that the gifts of the gods are not always what they seem. We extract heavy payment for what we give. It's our nature. This sword, for example; if it slays one of your enemies, it will insist on tasting the blood of one you love. I tell you this so that you may refuse the gift while you still have a chance.”

Cadmus thought hard. The god's words terrified him, the more because they had been said with such kindness. “But there's no one I love except my sister,” he said to himself. “And I have been told that a long time must pass before I see her again. Surely by then I shall have thrown the sword away. She'll be in no danger from me.”

Aloud, he said: “Great Hephaestus, God of Fire, Master of Metal, I thank you for both weapons and warning. I shall keep your gifts and try to use them well.”

“You're welcome, little one. Good hunting.”

Cadmus climbed out of the crater and whistled for the goat. His new weapons were heavy, but they glittered so brightly, and the mountain air was so clean after the smoky forge that he grew half drunk on it and danced for joy. The goat pranced up to meet him. Cadmus flung his arms about her neck and rubbed her face with his. She bit his shoulder gently, then knelt while he climbed on her back. And down the slope of the great crater they went.

10

A New Dragon

Abas obeyed those haggish sisters called the Fates and journeyed to an oak grove in the land of Boeotia where the shoulder bone of the butchered god had been buried. There the taproots of the trees had drunk of his rich blood and grown huge. The insects had eaten of the buds of these trees and grown huge. Birds had eaten the insects and grown enormous. And, deep underground, worms had feasted and grown into dragons.

When Abas reached the grove, he burrowed deep, as he had been told, and found the shoulder bone of Uranus. He ate of its magically replenished flesh and grew into a dragon. He was larger than any other dragon, with brass scales instead of leather ones, and brass claws. His tail had spikes of iron instead of bone. His breath was now aflame, not only with his own spite, but with that of the ancient god whose scattered body still called for vengeance.

Abas came into that grove a little lizard; he came out as an enormous dragon. Full of bloodthirsty zeal, he immediately began to terrorize the countryside. He devoured cattle, cowherds, sheep, shepherds—and wiped out entire villages. Throughout the land, he became known as the Dragon of Boeotia, or Abas the Abominable.

One other thing happened to this dragon who had been a lizard, and before that, a prince. Having taken a monster form, and behaving as a monster, his human brain had clenched, shriveled and become reptilian. Stupefied by successful cruelty, he was losing the power to reason, and was quite happy without it.

11

Journey to Boeotia

From the Great Smithy to Boeotia was a long overland journey. Cadmus had no idea where Boeotia might be, and in those days travelers did not stop to ask directions. It was too dangerous. For the savagely inhospitable tribesmen along the route were very likely to offer strangers as sacrifice. In that region, sacrifice was made to a bat goddess, who would refuse to bless the orchards without her ration of human blood.

So Cadmus did not stop to ask his way but let the goat take him where she would. He knew that she was under some mandate from Prometheus and was guided by secret knowledge. And he was in no hurry to reach the hunting grounds of the dragon.

Prince and goat were traveling northward now along the shore of a narrow gulf. Across the bay, mountains loomed. But on their shore were flatlands. They came to a place where the gulf opened into what seemed to be a river.

The goat waded in and began to drink, then moved upstream and dipped her muzzle again. Cadmus tasted the water too, and realized that the salt gulf was turning to brackish river water. It was almost sunset, an early dusk because of the mountains to the west. The river, bathed in red light, looked like blood flowing from some great wound in the earth. Cadmus shuddered. He was seized by a premonition of evil. Suddenly, he knew what he had to do, although it would almost break his heart to do it.

“I must leave you here,” Cadmus told the goat. “I shall strike inland, following this river. I understand that dragons and such favor the banks of freshwater streams; they find good hunting where man and beast come down to drink. You wait here for me. Wait seven days. I shall return when I have killed the dragon. If I don't return, farewell to you.”

The goat nodded. She had no intention of obeying, but was glad that Cadmus had chosen this route. Now she could follow the river, keeping out of sight, but knowing all the time that he was just ahead. For she intended to be there when he met the dragon.

Cadmus followed the river upstream all day, and grew to dislike it. He was used to the swift, tumbling little rivers of the foothills near his home. This one cut through flatlands, was broad and shallow, and seemed to have no current. It oozed rather than flowed. A green scum flecked its surface. He would have preferred to angle away toward the forest. But some instinct told him to stay near the slow river.

He slept on its bank that night. A brown mist arose and thickened into a tall shape. A voice grated down at him: “I am Asopus, an ancient river god. The high thief, Zeus, stole my daughter, the beautiful naiad Aegina. When I protested, he pelted me with boulders, wounding me to death but never allowing me to die. So that I flow forever in a pestilential stream and am loathed by man because a dragon now harries my shores and litters them with corpses, making my waters fouler still. Nor shall I be cleansed until the dragon is killed.”