Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (56 page)

When the fighting had started, Calliroa had returned to the depths and hidden in the cave. Now, her father came to her and said, “He will be back, you know.”

“But you defeated him, father. You chased him away.”

“He will be back. Ares cannot allow himself to be defeated. He is the spirit of battle itself. He will call up his cousins, the Hundred-handed Giants. They will come over the mountains, every one of them carrying a boulder in each of his hundred hands. They will stand safely on the hills and hurl those boulders down upon me in a great shower of rocks. They will choke me. I shall not be able to flow; I shall be nothing but a heap of rocks along my entire length, and there shall I abide, dried up and useless underneath.”

“Then,” said Calliroa, “you must give me to him. Perhaps he will weary of me soon and let me come back to you.”

“Never,” said Castelos. “I will never give you to that raging brute. You must flee, my darling. Vanish. Hide. You are a water nymph; you have all the rivers and lakes and fountains of the world to hide in. So do so. Go now.”

“But what about you, father? I can't leave you to be destroyed.”

“Perhaps I won't be,” replied the river god. “Perhaps when he learns that you have vanished he will forget about me. There are, after all, many nymphs to chase, many feuds to plant, many wars to wage. I'm only a little enemy in the scheme of things. But you must not tarry here. Go to sleep now. Refresh yourself for your journey. And by the first light of dawn, depart.”

Calliroa flung herself, weeping, into his arms. Castelos stroked her face with his great, misty hand and cast her into a deep sleep.

5

Queen of the Pygmies

That night Calliroa dreamed of another river, a wide, slow one, cutting across a great stretch of plain. There were palm trees and animals with humps along its shores. She was somewhere beyond the scene, watching it. The river traffic was unlike any she had ever seen. Boats spread brown sails to catch the wind, which blew directly upstream. Other boats, barges, and rafts floated lazily downstream, their sails furled. And she understood that with the wind blowing steadily one way and the river current running the other way, one could spend an entire life on the river, sailing upstream, drifting downstream.

Now she was in the water, drifting with the current. It was much warmer than her own river, and less swift. The sun was a brass ball; the air burned. She was floating through shoals of sleep.

The river seemed to broaden now, weaving among a chain of small islands. On these patches of land were huts about the size of the doll houses she had made of twigs back home. Tiny people were launching boats no larger than the baskets used by the women of Thessaly when they came down to the river to wash their clothes.

Calliroa stood up in the river. The water came only to her hips. Tall and feeling taller, gleaming with wetness, she strode toward the little houses. A basket boat bobbed beside her. It floated into her shadow. Three faces stared up at her in amazement. She stooped swiftly, caught up the basket, and waded toward one of the little islands.

On reaching shore, Calliroa sat gently on the roof of the largest hut. The boatmen leaped out of the basket and perched on her wet shoulders. Others swung on her wet hair. She tumbled them into her lap and held them there. They tried to wriggle free, but she tickled them into submission.

One by one she turned the little people over in her hands, examining them carefully. They were pygmies but not potbellied or misshapen. She felt herself filling with strange, powerful joy as they squirmed in her grasp. Somehow, she had been granted a villageful of living dolls to play with, not infants, but frisky adults, her own age and older.

They would be hers, these little people; she was the queen they had been waiting for since the beginning of time. She would live among them, defend them, rule them, reward and punish them, and be loved by them always.

C
alliroa awoke in her father's cave under the river. But she was still in the grip of her dream; it hung its vapors about her as she prepared to leave. And, she realized, it was giving her a place to go.

She swam eastward down her father's river until it entered a gulf, then southward into the Middle Sea, and continued swimming southeast. Moving instinctively as a fish, she glided through those waters until she came to one hot shore where entered the wide, slow river of her dream. She swam upstream and discovered with joy that the vision sent to her was indeed a reality.

There, along the shore, ran a chain of islands. On one of the islands stood little houses. She saw tiny people launching basket boats. She rose from the water and waded toward them, and heard their thin voices crying out in welcome.

6

A Vengeful Goddess

The tattle-bird was framed by nature for spying. It had eyes as sharp as a hawk's; no sound escaped it; and the underparts of its wings and body were the exact blue of the sky, allowing it to hover overhead without being seen. Hera, Queen of the Gods, who was always burning with curiosity about the activities of her fellow gods, employed a flock of these tattle-birds and rewarded them richly for their information. She had her gardener save the fattest worms for the birds, and forbade anyone to hunt them.

One perched now on Hera's shoulder. “Have you news for me, little bird?” the goddess asked.

“I do, I do,” replied the bird. “You know the cranes and the pygmies of the Nile delta wage ceaseless war against one another.”

“Do they now?” said Hera. “Well, that's an informative piece of natural history, no doubt, but I fail to see where it holds much interest for me. Have you no meatier news than that, little bird?”

“Patience, goddess, patience. I mention the cranes because it was one of them who told me what I am about to tell you. It seems that the pygmies are now ruled by a naiad who arose from the river one day and made herself their queen. She's tall and beautiful, and they worship her.”

“Worship?” said Hera coldly. “Worship is reserved for the gods.”

“Exactly why I knew this would interest you,” said the tattle-bird. “For the pygmies are saying that their queen is more beautiful and regal than any goddess, even you, O Hera.”

“They do, do they? Well, when I get through with that Egyptian slut, nobody will be saying she's beautiful.”

“She's not Egyptian. She's from Thessaly,” said the bird.

“Thessaly? Then why is she in Egypt, playing around with those pygmies?”

“She fled there.”

“Whom was she fleeing?”

“Well, this will interest you too. Her pursuer was your son, Ares.”

“She spurned Ares?”

“She did. Her father defied your son. And the naiad fled all the way to Egypt, where she's been hiding ever since.”

“Well, this works out nicely, doesn't it,” said Hera. “I was going to send my Hundred-handed Giants to hold her prisoner there until I could figure out a suitable punishment. Now, I'll simply send Ares after her. Any close contact with him is punishment enough, especially after he's been rejected.”

“Then you are satisfied with this tidbit I've picked up?”

“You've done well, little bird. Off with you to my gardener now, and he'll give you a spadeful of his fattest worms.”

The tattle-bird flew away, and Hera sent for her son. But her messenger came back without him, reporting that Ares was on the other side of the world, igniting a war, a big one, big enough to keep him away for several months.

“Well,” said Hera to herself. “What do I do now? Wait for Ares to return? In the meantime she'll be queening it over that scurvy mob of pygmies who call her goddess. This I cannot endure. I can't wait for Ares. I'll finish her off immediately. I'll send my giants now.”

“Who has aroused your wrath
today
?” asked a creaking voice.

Hera whirled about. It was Atropos, the eldest Fate, who moved as softly as a spider when she wanted to. Hera was hot-tempered and imperious. But no one ever refused to answer destiny's Hag.

“Tell me, lady,” said Atropos. “Whom are you planning to finish off now?”

“An impudent naiad named Calliroa,” replied Hera, “who rules over a tribe of Egyptian pygmies and dares to be worshiped as a goddess.”

“I can see where that would enrage you. But allow me to ask you this. Whom do you hate more, Calliroa or Hercules?”

“Can there be any doubt?” answered Hera. “I intensely dislike this conceited water nymph, but I positively loathe Hercules, more than anyone else in the world!”

“Then you must restrain your wrath for the moment. Do not kill the naiad.”

“Why not?”

“Because she is fated to produce a monster whom no one can kill, not even the hero, Hercules.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am surety itself, my dear. As I decipher the tangled threads of destiny, this is what they seem to say: ‘The monster that Calliroa will bear shall meet death at the hands of no one else.'”

“Very well,” said Hera, “I shall refrain from killing her and shall welcome that monster when he makes his appearance. What is he to be called, by the way?”

“Geryon,” said the Hag. “And you won't be disappointed in him.”

Atropos then departed as silently as she had come.

“Nonetheless,” said Hera to herself, “I can't let Calliroa go on sunning herself on that Egyptian islet, being adored by those damned pygmies. I won't kill her yet, but I'll put her somewhere where she'll be less admired, and a lot less comfortable.”

Whereupon Hera sent for two of her Hundred-handed Giants and told them what to do.

7

Abduction

The pygmies were frantic. Their queen had disappeared. The night before she had bedded herself down as usual before the mud walls of the village. And, since her arrival, they had not bothered to post sentries at their gates. The naiad, they knew, was big enough and strong enough to drive away any marauding cranes. She had retired as usual the night before, and the village too had slept, only to awaken and find her gone.

There were no signs of struggle, there had been no cries for help, and they could find no trace of anything unusual except some big shallow dents in the mud, too long and wide to be footprints.

The pygmies were baffled. They hunted high and low. In their desperation they grew careless and sailed too far upstream in their basket boats. They were attacked by cranes and lost several of their best boatmen.

For days, the pygmies continued their search in vain. But their beloved queen was nowhere to be found. What they did not realize, of course, was that the trenches in the earth were indeed footprints left by the giants who had come in the night to seize the naiad. The pygmies were unable to imagine that any feet could be big enough to leave such prints.

“She'll come back one day,” they reassured one another. “She appeared out of nowhere once, rising from the river mist, and she'll appear again as swiftly and magically as she did before.”

So the pygmies waited, and waited, and swore to themselves they would wait forever.

T
he Hundred-handed Giants, obeying Hera, stole the naiad out of Egypt and bore her away to a punishment pen in Thrace, a land sacred to Ares.

This place did not look like a prison; at first sight it resembled a garden. But it was a garden that grew only two things—a jailer-vine that wrapped itself about anyone who tried to escape, and held the fugitive as securely as chains; and a punitive thornbush that could hobble about on its roots, striking with its thorny branches and flogging the vine-wrapped prisoner.

Calliroa saw one would-be escapee caught by the vine and flogged to bloody ribbons by the thornbush, and she was filled with terror. Nevertheless, she was determined to leave the garden, for Ares had returned from his latest war and was visiting her regularly now—and she loathed him.

Remembering her life with the devoted pygmies, she hated the huge, brutal Ares even more. She would try to escape, she resolved, and would risk being flogged to death. Calliroa devised a plan.

The next time Ares visited her, she dodged his embrace and raced away. He hurtled after her. She ran straight for the vine and almost into it, then swerved suddenly. Ares, closing upon her, charged into the jailer-vine, which immediately wrapped itself about the war god, binding him tight, weaving loop upon loop, so that the harder he struggled the more he entangled himself.

The thornbush, dutiful but without intelligence, hobbled over and began to flog Ares with its bramble whip. The naiad heard him bellowing with pain as she slipped out of the prison-garden and vanished among the trees.

Thenceforth, Calliroa lived in the woods like a dryad. Although longing for her father, she did not wish to go to him until she had borne the child she knew she was carrying. Some instinct directed her to seek solitude. She found a grove of trees and there gave birth.

W
hen Calliroa saw what had been born to her she uttered a despairing shriek and fell into a swoon from which she did not awake for three days. Had the baby been an ordinary infant, it would have starved to death or been eaten by wild beasts. But it grew with monstrous speed, and by the end of the first day was able to crawl into the forest on its hands and knees. Since it had six hands and six knees, it scuttled along quite swiftly.

It, or they, were what might be called Siamese triplets, three complete bodies joined at the waist. The faces were bestial, with identical bulbous snouts, little pig eyes, and teeth so big their lips could not close.

Once in the forest this three-bodied monster, whom the Fates had named Geryon, began to hunt small game and caught enough to keep growing until he could hunt larger game.

As for Calliroa, she realized that the curse spoken by the offended Hags so long ago had finally ripened within her own body. Wracked by grief and self-loathing, she wandered from the grove where she had borne her terrible babe.