Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (52 page)

10

Judgment Day

As they neared the city they passed other people going there, and everyone seemed to be staring at them. Dione drew Circe into a fringe of trees at the side of the road.

“It's no good,” she said. “You're attracting too much attention.”

“Me? They're staring at both of us.”

“It's you they're looking at, and no wonder. You're much too beautiful to go unnoticed.”

She reached up and pulled two leaves from a branch. She held them above her head, mumbling. The leaves turned to two long brown cloaks, with cowls attached.

“Here,” she said. “Put it on.”

“It's so ugly,” said Circe.

“That's the idea. Get it on and stoop and huddle as you walk so that you won't look so tall. And be sure to cover your hair with that cowl.”

“But why? I don't mind them looking at me. I rather enjoy it. I've never been in a city before.”

“Do as I say,” gritted Dione. “Put it on immediately, or you'll spoil everything.”

“How?”

“If you stand in that crowd towering above everyone, flashing your bare arms and legs and that mass of hair, why, they'll all be gawking at you. And the king will see them doing it, and grow furious. He doesn't like anyone to notice anyone else when he's there—especially on his day of divinity. And if he falls into a fit of temper, instead of doing us any favors he'll be more likely to do some very unpleasant things. So please put the cloak on without any more argument.”

Circe snatched the cloak and flung it over her, covering her hair with the cowl, but she was fuming inside. “I'll get rid of it as soon as possible,” she said to herself. “When the king summons her to the throne she'll be too busy to notice me at all, and I'll do as I like. I can't believe the change in her, and all because of that little toad of a husband.”

But as she humped along in her cloak, she saw that Dione's tactic was working. No one stared at them. They entered the city and made their way through thronged streets to the courtyard, which was mobbed. Dione, using her strength, elbowed her way to the front of the crowd and stood near the pedestal—and Circe followed.

The king sat on his throne. His robe was purple, encrusted with silver stars. His scepter was blue and of a zigzag shape to imitate the scepter of Zeus, which was a lightning bolt. Gilded boots he wore, with very high heels, and a tall, spiked, golden crown sat on his head. Circe couldn't see much face because he wore an enormous fleecy white beard à la Zeus, obviously false.

“But he'd look worse without it,” thought Circe. “How can anyone believe that he's a god?”

A young herald stood near the throne, holding a scroll. At a signal from the king, he read out a name. A man emerged from the crowd and climbed marble stairs to the pedestal, then knelt before the throne. He mumbled to the king, too low for Circe to hear. The king interrupted him with a wave of his hand. The man pulled himself to his feet and left. He was slinking away, Circe noticed, as if whatever he had asked had been denied.

Dione stood erect beside her, motionless, staring at the king. “Does she still really believe in this nonsense?” thought Circe. “Can't she see he's a fake?” Then, as the herald began to read out another name, she felt a kind of shiver pass through the closely packed crowd, like a wind passing through a wheat field.

She looked up and saw why.

At that time, when the world was new, there were no bats. The only mammal that flew was the lupalia, which in Greek means “winged wolf.” Indeed, the body slung between the wings was as big as a wolf's, its jaws even more powerful, its wingspread greater than an eagle's. It ate only meat—live meat—which meant deer, mountain goats, sheep, cows, and the occasional brave shepherd who tried to protect his herd. The only good thing about the lupalia was that it disliked towns and villages and loathed cities, and folk who did not roam the wild places were fairly safe from this savage beast.

Upon this day, therefore, when the crowd gathered before the palace of Salmoneus saw three enormous creatures flying overhead, its first terrified thought was, “three lupalia … what are they doing over a city?”

The creatures were coming lower, in slow swoops, and people were beginning to scream and panic. But were they lupalia? Their wings were glinting strangely; their claws glittered. And by the time the horrified Elians realized that what they were seeing were not flying wolves but flying hags with brass wings and claws, the Furies were in a steep dive toward the golden throne.

Salmoneus, watching them, was petrified; he could not move.

What the Elians saw then they were never to forget. The sight branded itself on their memory and deviled their sleep. Night after night, for years afterward, they awoke whimpering. And the tale of that day when the Furies came was used to frighten children into pious behavior for generations to come.

Alecto and Megaera unslung their whips as they dived. The king awoke from his stupor and tried to scramble away, but they caught him. Hovering low, they snapped their whips. The lashes whistled through the air toward the king, not flogging him but binding him. One lash curled about his neck, the other about his ankles. The hags pulled on their whips, stretching him horizontally just over the pediment, then, still hovering, moving in perfect, horrid rhythm, they flailed him up and down, smashing his body against the marble.

The Royal Guard had been stationed in back of the throne, but not one guardsman defended his king; they were paralyzed by fear. When they were able to move, it was backward, off the pediment, to vanish in the crowd.

Circe felt Dione trembling beside her. She could tell that Dione was not afraid. Her face was flushed bright red with rage. She uttered a wordless roar. Circe grasped her arm, trying to hold her back, but Dione shook off her hand and rushed forward. She leaped onto the pediment, caught one lash, and tried to break it. The hags screeched and dropped their whips.

The king lay on the marble, and Dione saw that she couldn't have helped him. The man who had played god had been pounded to a pulp-split open like a rotten melon. Now the Furies, all three of them, seized Dione and flew up with her. Circling slowly above the crowd, they struck at her with their claws, raking her to shreds with their brass talons. Leisurely, they tore her to pieces. Bloody gobbets of her who had been Circe's teacher dropped from the Furies' claws, but never hit the ground because they were caught by screaming gulls.

Circe slipped through the crowd. She flung off her cloak and raced away like a deer. There was something she had to do. Her tall legs flashed, her bright hair flew, and people thought it was the goddess Artemis, hunting a stag.

She didn't stop until she had reached the oak grove, and didn't rest then. Dione had built her husband a little stone house so that he might shelter safely at the rare times she left the grove. Circe ran to that house, reached into the door, and plucked the little man out. She lifted him, holding him before her face and studying him as if she had never seen him before.

The red light of failing day sifted through the oak leaves, setting them ablaze. An owl who awaited darkness hooted hungrily.

“Where's Dione?” quavered the little man.

“Dead.”

“Oh, my. Who'll look after me?”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“You'll have to take care of me now.”

“I'll take care of you, all right.”

“Why do you say it like that?” he whined. “Why are you looking at me that way? You're frightening me.”

“Am I, now?”

“Be nice. Please.”

“I'm going to be nice. I'm about to do Dione, whom you turned against me, a final favor. I'm sending you to keep her company.”

“Don't kill me. I don't want to die.”

“Don't you? But she gave up her immortality so that she might not outlive you. What an ungrateful little rat you are. Rat. Yes.”

She shifted her grip so that he dangled upside down. Slowly turning, she crooned:

Meager, selfish
,

ceaselessly mean
.

Scurviest rascal

ever seen
.

Form must follow content
,

and you shall be

what you were meant

to be
.

I'll see to that!

Drop your human guise
,

Reduce your puny size
,

Return to RAT!

She felt the leg she was holding change in her hand; it became thin, whiplike. She looked down and saw that she held a rat by the tail. It arched up and glared at her out of poisonous little red eyes. It curled up farther and tried to bite her hand. She snapped her wrist and it fell back.

She glanced at the sun. Only a red tab was left and that was going; shadows flowed after it. Circe hooted like an owl. With no rustle of leaves an owl appeared on a lower branch; its huge circular eyes caught what light was left. Circe swung the rat around and around by the tail, then slung it into the air. She had aimed it well. The owl caught it without leaving its bough. Clutched it in her claws just as the Furies had clutched Dione, and flew away.

“He's lucky,” thought Circe. “Owls kill quickly. A few seconds of pain and his shade will join Dione's. Why she should want that shabby little soul with her throughout eternity is something I'll never understand. Love is a mystery. I wonder if I'll ever love anyone that much. I guess I'm too coldhearted. Oh, well …”

11

Athena

Quarrels flared frequently in the Pantheon and grew into feuds. But since gods live forever, and forever takes so long, they learned that keeping the same enemy grows boring after a while, so the feuds healed themselves.

There was one high feud, however, that was never healed, but went on and on, growing worse every century. For Athena, Goddess of Wisdom, hated her uncle Poseidon so fiercely that she could never make peace with him, and he returned her hatred full force. Although the Maid in Armor could not match the sea god physically—she did not own his mastery of wind and tide—she could outthink him, and was always weaving plots.

Now, the owl was Athena's favorite bird and she had given it the gift of wisdom. She had chosen a great gray owl as her special adviser. He flew here and there, spying for her, picking up snippets of information, doing various confidential errands—and, between missions, perched on her shoulder.

Birds are great gossips, even owls who look so solemn and judgelike. And what happens to one soon becomes known to all. Thus, when Athena's owl heard from an Arcadian bird how a young oak nymph named Circe had changed a little man into a rat and was thoughtful enough to feed it to the owl, the goddess heard the tale soon after.

Now, Athena had been very busy the last year or so, launching a new attack on Poseidon. What she had done was plant various hazards about the islands of the Middle Sea so that ships would disappear, crews would vanish, and seamen everywhere, who had been Poseidon's most ardent worshipers, would lose faith in him and turn to other gods. And nothing wounds a god more than losing worshipers. For only when he is praised and feared and adored does a god feel fully alive.

Athena had planted many a hidden reef that could tear the bottom out of a ship. Jagged rocks and whirlpools she dropped into the Middle Sea, and various monsters—the man-eating Cyclopes she had led to one island, and settled the iron-headed Amycus, who butted people to death, on another isle. Winged naiads called Sirens she had stationed on certain rocks. In their voices dwelt the chuckle of tide over pebbles and the lisp of rain, birdcall and wind sigh. And when they perched on the rocks, singing, their song scattered the wits of helmsmen who steered their ships onto the rocks.

Athena observed with glee the rising toll of lost ships and lost sailors, and the way Poseidon's altars were drawing fewer worshipers with each shipwreck. She exulted in the sea god's mounting wrath. But for all her success she was not satisfied. And when she was told of the lovely young sorceress who could change a man into a rat and coolly feed him to an owl, she became very interested.

“Thank you,” she said to the big gray bird. “This is a juicy bit of information. I can use a girl with that kind of talent.”

She stood on the peak of Olympus, breathing in the mingled fragrance of a west wind and thinking hard, trying to recall all she could about Circe and Helios, and the stolen sun chariot and forbidden ride.

“Yes,” she said to herself. “She must still bear a grudge, which would make her want to go along with what I have in mind.”

Whereupon she flew off to find Circe.

Knowing that Circe was half dryad of the Oak Clan, she searched among stands of oak, and found her in a grove in Argos, sitting on a fallen log, combing her hair with a silver comb. Athena heard someone coming through the trees and made herself invisible.

Shambling out of the woods came a huge, hairy man carrying a club. “Hey, you,” he growled to Circe.

“Good morning,” she said calmly.

“I've come to get you,” he said.

“Really? Then what?”

“Take you back to our cave.”

“How many of you are there?” asked Circe.

“Twelve, fifteen. Depends how many are left alive at the end of the day.”

“And what would I do in your cave?”

“Place is a mess. Big healthy wench like you could do a lot of cooking and cleaning for us. And see to … other comforts.”

“Interesting,” she murmured. “Suppose I were to tell you I didn't want to do that?”

“Look. If you don't come along nicely, I'll just hit you over the head and carry you there.”

Circe arose from the log, stood to her full height, raised her arms, and slowly began to twirl, crooning:

Not there

nor anywhere

for you are now