Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two (10 page)

Ares came with gifts: a necklace of jet and pearl for Aglaia and, riding his wrist like a hawk, an enormous black eagle with unwinking yellow eyes. “This eagle,” he said to Hypnos, “will draw your chariot more swiftly across the sky than you have ever traveled before. That way you'll be able to crisscross the night, dropping more dreams than ever.”

“I thank you, Brother,” said Hypnos.

“But you know,” said Ares, “when I bring gifts I ask favors.”

“Name it,” said Hypnos.

“I wish to send a dream to Scythia.”

“To whom in Scythia?”

“To the strongest young filly among the Amazon tribe.”

And he told Hypnos what he wanted the dream to do.

“I need a hair of your head and a drop of your blood,” said Hypnos.

Ares pulled a hair from his head and squeezed a drop of ichor from the wound on his shoulder that had not quite healed.

“Now I can make your image appear to her,” said Hypnos. “And I promise you she will dream so vividly that she will be up at daybreak to ride on your mission.”

The lives of the Amazons were so entangled with the lives of their horses that they gave themselves horse names. Hippolyte, the name of their queen, means “horsebreaker.” Melanippe means “black mare,” Leucippe, “white mare,” and so on. The young girls, those who had to chop their own wood, and cook their own food, and wash their own clothes, because they did not yet have a man to do these chores, were called “fillies.” Big, sleek, powerful girls they were, bursting with health, full of restless energy because they had not yet ridden out on a husband-raid.

The tallest and strongest and swiftest of these was named Thyone. She had pale brown hair, almost silver in a certain light, and gray eyes. Lying now in her bearskin tent she seemed to glimmer as she slept. Hypnos slid in, and stood looking down at her. He stepped into her sleep, wove a colored dream, and glided out.

It was Ares she saw. He was clad in brass armor, and stood on a cloud, raising a fiery spear. His voice, when he spoke, was war cry, spear-shock, and the clang of shield against shield.

“Thyone,” he said. “Do not wait for the next husband-raid. Go out alone. Mount at dawn, ride to Mount Helicon. There, among a rabble of poets, you will find one named Thallo. He is to be yours. Bring him back and work him hard.”

The voice ceased. The image faded. Thyone woke up. Knowing she had to arise at dawn, she tried to go back to sleep. But she could not. She was afire with eagerness and curiosity and unanswered questions. She came out of her tent and ran to that of her cousin, Nycippe, a blonde spearwoman of the First Troop. She stopped outside the tent and made wolf noises, two soft howls and a snarl—the signal of her clan, meaning, “Come quickly!”

Nycippe's hair gleamed in the pale starlight as she slipped out of the tent. “Thyone! What do you want?”

“I must talk to you.”

“Can't it wait till morning?”

“No, no … listen!” She clutched Nycippe's shoulder, and poured out the tale of her dream. “… So I must obey him, Cousin. I ride at dawn.”

“You don't want a poet,” said Nycippe. “My sister had one and he was very lazy. Get yourself a herdsman or a fisher-lad or something—someone used to hard work.”

“I can't. Ares clearly said I was to bring home a poet.”

“Well, you'd better start training him on the way back, so he'll be ready to work when you reach your tent.”

“Good idea, I guess.”

“But be careful. Men are more fragile than we are, and poets even more so. They bleed easily. So don't use a whip. And don't use a stick. You might break his bones.”

“How, then?”

Grinning, Nycippe held up her big palm. “This way, dear, hard and frequent.”

“Really? Over my knee?”

“Three times a day, more if he needs it.”

“Is that how you do yours?”

“At first, but I use a hickory switch now. He doesn't need much beating anymore. He's learned what I expect and what he'll get if I don't get it.”

“How about that poet? Your sister still have him?”

“Traded him for a donkey. Caught herself a woodsman and is much happier.”

The girl left Nycippe's tent, confused and excited—too worked up to get back to sleep. So she whistled up her mare and was on her way before dawn.

8

Thyone Goes Hunting

Thyone was riding her mare up a slope of Helicon. Far above, a stallion trumpeted. She searched the heights but saw no horse. Again she heard the trumpeting, seeming to come from directly above. She looked up, startled. There in the sky, balanced on golden wings, was a magnificent white horse. From tales she had heard she knew it was Pegasus, the winged steed belonging to the Muses, whom generations of bards had tried to ride.

He bugled again. Thyone felt her mare trembling. She tethered her and climbed a winding path. She had expected to see a mob of haggard, hairy creatures strumming lyres and humming to themselves. But the place seemed deserted. Finally, she saw someone perched on a rock, gazing up at Pegasus.

She approached and stood above him. He was slender as a weasel, with dark, curly hair and a pointed beard. Curious eyes, tilted like a goat's, filling with yellow light as he looked up at her.

“Do you know someone named Thallo?” she asked.

“We all know one another here.”

“Where can I find him?”

“You can't. He's holed up somewhere trying to finish some tedious epic. Take him all summer, probably.”

“I'll go dig him out of his hole.”

“What do you want him for? Did you commission some verses? Actually, he's nowhere near as good as people say.
I'll
write you a poem. I'm much better than people say. Any subject, two drachmae a line. Discount, over fifty lines. Be twice as much for anyone else, but I always make a special price for goddesses.”

“You take me for a goddess?”

“Certainly. You're Artemis.”

“Are you sure?”

“Recognized you immediately—so tall, so silvery, bearing bow and arrows. You're the moon, come at noon. See! I'm rhyming already. How about it? Two drachmae a line. Forget about that old has-been. Take me.”

“I'm not Artemis, little man. Not a goddess at all. And if I take you you'll have no time for writing.”

“Not write? What will I do?”

“You'll be taught your duties soon enough. Come along.”

“Where to?”

“Scythia.”

“Oh, no, too cold. Freezes the ink.”

“What's your name?”

“Malo.”

“Come along, Malo.”

He smiled at her, but did not move. She swooped, swung him off the rock, tucked him under arm, and trotted to where her mare was tethered. Amazons rode into battle bareback, but used a saddle when traveling so that they could hang their gear. She was about to fold him over the withers of her mount, then remembered that her water bag would have to be refilled for the journey home. This meant that she had to leave her captive and find a spring. She stretched him on the ground, face down, pinning him under her big bare foot, as she unlooped a rope from the saddle. Kneeling, she trussed him like a calf, then lifted him again and carried him into the shade of a tree.

She found a spring, filled her water bag, and hurried back. From far off she saw a tangle of ropes under the tree. Long legs flashing, she raced like a deer to where she had left him. He was gone! She heard his voice, and whirled about. He was plucking grass and feeding the mare, talking to it softly.

In two steps she was upon him—swung him off the ground, lifting him until his face was level with hers. “How did you get loose?”

“I was a deck boy once. Learned about knots. I can slip any bond.”

She set him down but kept his shoulder clamped. “Why didn't you run away while you had the chance?”

“Run away—after being captured by the moon? Flee the light? What kind of poet would do that?”

Her grip tightened on his shoulder as she bent to him. His eyes were dancing. “Are you mocking me?” she growled.

“Would I dare?”

“I'm not a goddess, I told you.”

“How do you know? It's the worshiper who decides. Let's not go to Scythia, though. Vile climate. We'll stay here. I know a nice vacant cave on the south slope.”

“You
are
mocking.”

“No, my silvery huntress, no.”

“You're too clever for me.”

“And you're too big for me. But we can work things out.”

She sat on a rock and lifted him into her lap. “Show me,” she murmured.

9

Artemis in Scythia

News travels fast on Olympus, twice as fast if it's spiced with malice. And there were many who delighted in telling the haughty Artemis that a tall, fleet, lovely Amazon had come to Helicon and was being worshiped as a goddess. Every bard there had dropped all projects to sing her praises. At first they kept comparing her to the moon goddess, but now declared that she was more beautiful.

Enraged, Artemis flew to Helicon. She hovered invisibly, observing everyone, getting angrier all the time. She was about to descend and slay them with her silver arrows, but remembered Zeus's decree forbidding any god to kill more than six mortals a month.

“Never mind,” she said to herself. “I can contrive a more painful vengeance.”

She flew then to Scythia, coming to earth on a vast plain where stood the bearskin tents of the Amazons. It was a busy scene. The tall young women milled about—breaking horses, practicing archery, disciplining their men. A rich clamor filled the air: the neighing of horses, swish of arrows, meaty thwack of hand against husband, women yelling, dogs barking, men sobbing.

Artemis spotted the one she was looking for, the largest woman, almost middle-aged, very stately, wearing a crown. It was Hippolyte, the Amazon queen. The goddess made herself visible, appearing before Hippolyte in all her brightness.

“Come into the glade,” she said.

“I am your servant,” said the queen.

“I bring you news of Thyone.”

“Thyone! Our silver filly! She went a-raiding and vanished. We thought her dead.”

“Not dead. Wed.”

“What?” cried Hippolyte. “A wife?”

Artemis then told her what she had seen on Helicon. “… And she's living very contentedly in their cave, hoping to bear his child.”

“Then she really loves him?”

“Certainly seems like it.”

“But he's so very small, you say.”

“Very tricky, too. Knows how to transform handicaps into attractions. He uses his smallness.”

“I don't understand.”

“He works up close. And has convinced her that his exact size is the ideal of manly beauty.”

“Goddess, are you really telling me that this runt has so befuddled our proud young filly that she's doing unwomanly house chores?”

“Just the heavy work. Chops wood, lifts things that are beyond his strength—which are most things. She does the hunting, of course. He does the cooking. He's good at it.”

“Well, it's all too disgusting,” said Hippolyte, “and cannot be permitted to go on. This Malo must be a wizard of some kind, and has bound her with vile enchantments.”

“Indeed … he can weave a spell with words.”

“Our sister must be rescued, and those evil ones taught a lesson. We'll ride to Helicon and finish them off. Keep a few of the biggest, perhaps, and kill the rest.”

“I must warn you,” said Artemis. “She'll fight like a tigress to protect him. You'll have to kill her too.”

“If necessary, we will,” said Hippolyte. “Death before dishonor.”

Hypnos was the kindliest of the gods, and could not forget the dream he had brought to Thyone. He knew that Ares had meant mischief, but didn't know what kind. So he decided to keep his eye on things.

As it happened he had much business over Helicon. Poets use up dreams at an alarming rate, and don't always wait until they're asleep. So Hypnos overflew Helicon every night, and was pleased to see that Thallo was unhurt, and that the young Amazon was living happily with someone else.

But then he learned that Artemis had begun to hate the Heliconians even more than Ares did, and was mobilizing the Amazons for a murderous raid. He fretted about this. But he was of a very peaceable nature, and never opposed anyone in anything.

Finally, though, he decided to do something in his own way. “It will take a truly heroic effort,” he said to himself, “to keep those wild women from wholesale bardicide. They'll simply mangle the poor poets unless they're stopped. But who can help? No god will take the trouble, and the Muses need a year to make up their minds about anything. It will have to be a mortal. But who? … Hercules, of course! He is the one most willing and most able to help the weak against the strong. I'll do a dream for him this very night.”

10

Hecate's Idea

Botanus, the hundred-handed giant who was the gods' gardener, traveled the world over seeking the most exquisite blooms so that he might bring them back to Olympus. He was now showing his latest cuttings to Hera.

“Yes, very nice,” she said.

He told then about a very curious plant he had discovered in a distant jungle. “Gorgeous, My Queen. Something like an orchid, but evil. Twice a day, at dawn and dusk, its blooms open—then snap shut on whatever insect or small bird is sipping its pollen.”

“Does it eat them?”

“It does, it does.”

“Are there any large enough to eat men?”

“Not that I know of. The ones I saw were orchid size.”

“Well,” said Hera. “You'll oblige me if you can find some really big ones. I'd like to give a bouquet to someone.”

Just then Hera heard a shout from above, and turned to see Hecate coasting in on brass wings. The giant sidled away. For all his size he was afraid of Hecate. The Harpy queen ran toward Hera, shouting.