Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (49 page)

The Furies coiled their whips. They flew toward the ebony throne, circled Hades once in a flurry of black robes, and flew off into the mist.

“Interesting,” said Zeus. “Are they what you call the Furies?”

“They are.”

“You know,” said Zeus, “I'm glad I came down here. You've given me some interesting ideas.”

“Me? Furnish ideas to the worlds's central intellect?” murmured Hades. “You overpraise me, My Lord.”

“Your modesty is becoming,” said Zeus. “But unconvincing. I know you know how clever you are.”

“And what idea have I given you?”

“I admire the way you keep your unruly shades in order. It is difficult, I know, to frighten a ghost. But your staff seems to spread a great deal of wholesome terror, particularly the Furies.”

“Yes,” said Hades. “They are specially bred, specially trained, and I reserve them for special occasions.”

“I have special cases, too,” said Zeus. “And they're increasing. The human herd grows more restive as it matures. Some of my mortals are quite untamable.”

“They break your laws?”

“Oh, yes, every day—and particularly at night.”

“But do they not fear the suffering that will be inflicted upon them after death? Surely they must be aware of the torments I have to offer.”

“You know, Brother,” said Zeus, “I'm afraid that mortals don't really believe in death. Very few of them actually think they're going to die. They see others die, of course, but every man seems to think that he will somehow prove to be the one solitary exception—most women, too. So the idea of after-death torments doesn't really keep them in line. What I need to do is punish them more vigorously
before
death.”

“Of course, of course!” cried Hades. “That is just what you must do.”

“Which leads me to a favor I'm about to ask you,” said Zeus. “May I borrow your Furies sometime?”

“But certainly … anytime,” muttered Hades, trying to smile but not quite succeeding. He hated to give away anything, and lending something to Zeus, he knew, meant
giving
it if the King of the Gods decided that he liked what had been lent.

Zeus read Hades' uneasiness and laughed to himself. It was not easy to embarrass his haughty brother; it was something to be relished whenever he did.

“I thank you in advance,” he boomed genially. “And thank you again for all your hospitality. Now, farewell.”

3

The Angry Titan

Everything about Helios was violent. When he was told that he could no longer drive the golden chariot, his violent love for the sun turned to violent hatred. He loathed the light and sought the dark.

He found a burned-out crater, scooped out tons of dead ash and rearranged mighty boulders, roofing the crater, making a fortress of the hollow mountain. No windows, no arrow slits, no way for light to get in, just a swiveling slab of rock to serve as a portal. And there he dwelt, coming out only at night, for he did not wish to see the sun being driven by someone else. He came out, in fact, only on moonless nights, because Artemis, twin sister of Apollo, was the moon goddess, and he hated her, too.

When he was abroad on such nights he prowled the slopes, quenching light whenever it appeared, even a glimmer. A traveler, once, lost his way and found himself riding his donkey up an unfamiliar path. He raised his pine-knot torch to see where he was. It was immediately knocked away, and he felt himself rising into the air. An awful, unseen force lifted animal and rider and hurled them off the mountain. The donkey was killed, but the rider lived to tell his tale. And when the story stopped spreading, everyone in the countryside knew that an ogre prowled that crater, and no one would come near it, especially at night.

Since Helios knew that no traveler would come within miles of his mountain, he was amazed, one moonless night, to see another torch flaring. He rushed toward the spot, but the light was restless; it seemed to be floating, swaying, rising—seemed now to lodge in the branches of a tree. Its color was strange also, not a ruddy red and yellow like pine-knot flame, nor did it cast the strong odor of burning pitch. This light was silvery gold, rather like the color of the moon when it was climbing, and the scent it cast was of violets after a rain. He stood under the tree and looked up, and was amazed at what he saw.

A child straddled the swaying branch, riding it as if it were a horse. Her flying hair did not reflect light; it was a source of light. Each strand was a tendril of pale flame. And it was this pearly fire that allowed him to see her and the branch that she was riding.

With a roar of fury he seized the branch, broke it off and held it aloft, preparing to smash it down on the ground. The little girl clung to it like a monkey, screeching with glee. He stared at her in disbelief; he couldn't understand why she wasn't terrified. And his disbelief changed to stupefied wonder as she slid down the branch and perched on his shoulder, clutching his beard to steady herself.

“Who are you?” he muttered.

“Your daughter.”

“I have no daughter.”

“Yes. Me.”

“Who's your mother?”

“Arlawanda.”

“An oread?”

“Dryad.”

“I don't remember her.”

“She remembers you. Every morning we'd look up at the sky and she'd say, ‘There's your father driving the sun chariot.' That's why I'm here. I want you to take me for a ride across the sky.”

He roared again. She giggled. “Why are you yelling?” she asked.

“You're as stupid as your mother, whom I'm beginning to remember now.”

“I'm not stupid. Neither is she.”

“It's that foul Apollo who drives the sun chariot now, little fool. Not me at all.”

“Oh, my, I'm sorry …”

“You'll be sorrier if you don't get off my shoulder.”

She didn't answer, just tightened her grip on his beard.

“Vanish!” he growled. “Before I do dreadful things to you.”

“You won't. I'm your daughter.”

“You taint my darkness with your damned bright hair.”

“Mother says it's just like yours—except not quite so red.”

“My hair and beard are black, can't you see?”

“You just dyed them, that's all. The stuff's coming off on my hand. Why did you do that to yourself? So you wouldn't glow in the dark?”

“That's right. I hate the light. I need utter darkness. Now run away. Get off my mountain while you're still in one piece.”

“You won't hurt me. I'm your daughter. You have to love me.”

“Love … Pah!”

“I don't care whether you drive the sun or not. I've decided to live with you for a while.”

He laughed a laugh that was like a snarl.

“Why are you so grumpy?” she asked. “Are you hungry?”

“I'm always hungry.”

“Do you do your own cooking?”

“I don't do any cooking. You need a fire to cook with. Fires cast light. I eat my meat raw.”

“You can't like it that way.”

“I like fires less.”

“Well,” she said, “I can be quite useful to you. I can cook without fire.”

“I take it back,” he said. “You're not stupid. You're crazy. Now jump down and disappear. I'm getting very angry.”

She did leap off his shoulder, landing lightly as a leaf. “Watch!” she called. She whirled about three times, hair whipping her face like tendrils of flame. She pointed at a rock. “Watch, watch …”

Helios saw the rock begin to change shape. Smoke came off it, and a hot meaty smell. He walked slowly toward it.

“It's all right,” she said. “It's roast lamb. Eat some.”

He tore off a chunk and crammed it into his mouth. It was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted, roasted rare, redolent of garlic, rosemary, and thyme.

“Like it?” she called.

“Not bad,” he mumbled. “How'd you do that?”

“I'm quite magical for my age. I can do other things, too. I can be useful to you.”

“The most useful thing you can do is go away,” he said.

He left her then and entered his cave, plunging again into utter darkness. He thought he heard her voice even through the thick rock and couldn't tell whether she was weeping or singing. Then he heard a crack of thunder and a great wash of rain. He knew that she was still on the slope, waiting for him to come out. He pictured her under a drench of rain. He groaned aloud and stamped his foot so hard he thought he felt the floor of the cave shaking. Like a flower she was crouching under the rain, being nourished by it, growing like a flower in his mind.

He rushed out of the cave. He didn't see her. Wind drove the rain in sheets. He was immediately as wet as though he had jumped into a river. He knew that the black dye was washing out of his hair and beard. He saw the hair of his arms smouldering in the rain. He saw a smaller patch of light.

It streaked up to him and a weight hit him on the chest. Wet arms were about his neck. He smelled violets. “Father, father,” she cried. “You came out again! It's raining very hard.”

“You don't say,” he grunted.

He carried her into the crater. They lit up the darkness. He watched, amazed, as the solid blackness trembled and flowed away from their forms like an ebbing tide. Shocked by light, a canopy of lizards swayed and chittered.

“Lizards!” she caroled. “How lovely!”

“You like them?”

“Oh, yes. Don't you?”

He grunted. She laughed and grunted, imitating him. “Does that sound mean yes or no? Never mind, it doesn't matter. What a big cave. What a wonderful place to live. Are you hungry again? Shall I cook something else? Rain makes me very hungry. Doesn't it you?”

“Everything makes me hungry.”

A
fter three days the crater was brimming with light. Helios was scrubbed clean. Every hair of his head and beard and body pelt was a glowing filament. The light he cast was the hot red and gold of the sun at noon. And Circe shed a silvery gold, the new quivering light of dawn. Savors of food hung upon the air—baking bread and roasting meat, garlic, rosemary, and thyme.

The exiled Titan, who had been existing in a cold, sullen, clench of rage, knew that he had been visited by a budding sorceress. He was bewildered, but submitted to enchantment. She had thawed him, healed him, had relit the great lamp of his spirit. He felt suddenly that in his new health he was breathing up all the air in the cave; he wanted to knock a hole in the rock wall to let more air in for her. He had to move. He whirled and stamped. She spun with him, screeching with laughter. Her hair whipped about her face.

“What am I doing?” he said.

“Dancing. I am, too.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Are we happy or something?”

“I'm very happy here with you, Father. And you're almost happy.”

“Why only almost?”

“You won't be completely happy until you're driving the sun chariot again.”

Helios stopped dancing in midstride. He stood there, thinking. “I'm thinking,” he thought. “I like to think sometimes, but it's hard to start.” He couldn't think without using his hands. Thoughtfully, he picked up two boulders and smashed them together. He scattered handfuls of rock dust.

“Stop it!” she cried. “You're making me sneeze.”

“You know what I think?” he asked.

“No, what?”

“You said that about me driving the chariot again just because you want a ride.”

“Of course I do, if it's you driving. I mean it's not just for the ride, it would have to be you at the reins. I wouldn't want to ride with Apollo, for instance.”

“Apollo—pah!” He spat.

“Do you hate him, Father?”

“Of course.”

“Suppose, just suppose, you did want to take me for a ride. How would you get the chariot? Steal it?”

“It was stolen from me. It was mine. I'd repossess it.”

“How? Can I help? Please let me.”

“You'll wait here until I come back for you. That stable is closely guarded. Hundred-handed giants ring it about. It's no place for a little girl.”

He did not realize how she had maneuvered him into making her intention his.

“How would you get in past those horrid giants?” she asked. “Won't it be very dangerous?”

“I won't try to get in,” he said. “The chariot will come out. I'll stand off and whistle. The stallions will awake and gallop out, dragging the chariot behind them. They love me, those sun horses. It was I who greeted them when they were foaled by the Great Mare. I trained them myself. They obey Apollo now because Zeus has made him their master, but it's me they love. And they'll come when I call.”

“And you'll pick me up here? Promise?”

“Not here,” said Helios. “The chariot must not swing too low or trees will burn like torches, and the earth scorch. When I leave, you must leave also and climb to the top of our highest mountain, which is Pelion. Go to the very top, stand there at dawn, and I'll scoop you up.”

“Oh, Father, I love you so much.”

He just grunted, but he was very pleased.

4

The Stolen Sun

The sun chariot was trundling across the sky. The huge wheels were turning, casting light, warming and brightening the earth, chasing the shadows of night. Hot with pride, Helios was driving. And the great golden stallions, feeling their old master's hand on the reins, were trumpeting their pleasure as they went.

Circe stood raptly in the chariot, stretching on tiptoe so that she might see over the scalloped side at what was passing below. She saw specks of houses, little humps that were mountains, and splinters that were trees—and, farther off, a purple smudge of sea.

“Mother is somewhere among those oaks down there,” she thought. “And all the other dryads I know. But even if they're looking up at the sky they won't see me because we're too high. Wouldn't they be surprised to know that I'm up here, though … I wonder if they'll believe me when I tell them.”