Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two (18 page)

The nymphs leaped up and seized Perseus's ankles, pulling him to earth. They clung to him, kissing him and whispering. He felt his wits spinning, his will melting under their apple fragrance and the touch of their hands and lips. But they were not trying to keep him now—only to be near him, because they could tell nothing to anyone they could not touch. Whispering and murmuring, they told him where Medusa dwelt and how to get there.

Then they pulled him over to a great oak and dug among its roots. Buried there were what looked like a golden bowl and a leather pouch. The bowl, they told him, was a helmet, a most ancient and magical one—the Helmet of Darkness, which lent invisibility to its wearer.

“The pouch is magical too,” said one nymph. “It's called the
kibesis,
and it is made from the hide of the Delphic serpent slain by your half brother Apollo at the dawn of time. Only this pouch can contain the head of Medusa, for the envenomed slaver of its snakes will burn through any other. Both helmet and pouch are necessary for your mission. Thank us nicely now.”

Perseus put on the Helmet of Darkness and immediately disappeared. They had to grope about to kiss him farewell.

Radiant with happiness, Perseus rose into the air, shouting, “Thank you, beautiful cousins! I shall return!” And he flew swiftly away.

11

The Gorgons

Hills flattened as Perseus flew the route given him by the Apple Nymphs. Fields and orchards gave way to a wide, dark plain cut by weed-choked rivers. This was the Land Beyond, called Hyperboreas, meaning behind the North Wind. It was neither earth nor sea but something less than both, a foul marshland from which animals departed, and where no travelers came. Here, Perseus had been told, was where the Gorgons dwelt—snake-haired Medusa and the two monstrous, brass-winged sisters who had followed her into exile. These winged Gorgons were meat-eaters and would snatch any living thing, tear it to pieces in midair, and stuff the gobbets of raw flesh into their mouths.

Perseus had hung the Helmet of Darkness from his belt and was flying bare-headed. For when he wore the helmet he became invisible to himself, and it made him uneasy not to see his own body. He knew, though, that he was getting close to his enemy now, and he decided to put on the helmet. But he had waited too long.

There was a clatter of brass, and he saw two huge shapes rising to meet him, wings and claws gleaming in the muddy light. He was about to clap the helmet on his head when he was struck by a bold idea. He held the helmet in his hand, hovering, letting the Gorgons see him. He watched them climbing, rise toward him, then separate to attack from both sides.

Exerting his will like a single muscle, he bade his throbbing heart to slow its beat, willed the hot, choking excitement mounting in his chest to turn to an icy calm. He made himself wait until he could see the Gorgons' faces, their bulging red eyes, squashed noses, and yellow fangs, waited until their carrion breath wrapped him in its fumes. Then he put the helmet on his head.

They were about to seize him in their claws. But he had vanished. They groped the thin air, searching, screaming, getting into each other's way, and entangling their wings. They could not find him. They never guessed he was floating directly above them.

Deliberately, Perseus raised his sword and slashed down with all his strength, shearing off the Gorgon's four wings, one by one, listening to the music of his enemies shrieking. They dropped like rocks out of the sky and smashed to the earth. Hearing the sickening sound when they hit, he knew that they were two bags of broken bones and that he could safely descend.

Alighting, Perseus waded through the stinking pools and slogged through the mud until he came to a kind of stone orchard that resembled a graveyard. He realized that he was in a grove of statues. Peering more closely at them in the fading light, he saw that they were the stone figures of men and beasts, the human faces wearing expressions of horror, the animals frozen in mid-flight or cowering in fear. He knew that he was among those who had looked upon Medusa.

Perseus raised his bright sickle sword and covered himself with his shield, judging his movement only by weight since he was invisible to himself. Very carefully, he wove his way through the statues until he heard a sound. Something was breathing heavily, snoring. He saw a glimmer of paleness, a movement. He tilted his shield so that whatever was there would be reflected in the polished metal.

He saw a head, saw its hair stand up and writhe, and knew that he had found Medusa. He felt his own hair prickle with horror, as if it too were turning into snakes. He stepped closer, raising his sword.

But the angle of the shield had changed, framing out the snakes, so that he saw only the face of the sleeper. And that face was beautiful. So beautiful and sad that he couldn't bear the thought of striking it from its body. The sword trembled in his hand; the shield almost slipped from his grasp.

He steadied himself—now the reflection had shifted again. He saw the snakes writhing, swelling with fury, biting one another so that the blood ran over Medusa's forehead. And the snake blood reeked of death. He felt himself beginning to swoon in the terrible stench and knew that he must act.

Perseus gripped his sword and felt it fuse to his hand, felt the blade become an extension of his arm, growing white-hot with his own intention. He whipped the blade downward in a savage backhanded blow, slashing down, slashing through snake and tendon, bone and sinew—watching the reflection of her head as it separated from her stalk of neck and rolled off his shield.

Perseus stooped swiftly, lifted the head by its limp snakes, stuffed it into his pouch, and stood gaping in wonder. Where the blood had fallen on the ground, two creatures had sprung forth—a warrior holding his own golden sword and a magnificant white stallion with golden mane and golden hooves and golden wings shaped like those of an eagle. They were Chrysaeor and Pegasus. Their seed had been planted by Poseidon, but Medusa had been unable to bear children while living as a monster, and they had grown inside her womb.

The warrior vanished into the mist. The white horse arched his neck, snorted triumphantly, and pawed the ground with his hoof.

Perseus sprang into the air and flew off as fast as he could. He didn't want to think about the warrior and the horse and where they had come from. He didn't want to think about the head in his pouch. But it was there.

12

Fruit of Victory

Perseus now had two more promises to keep. One offered pleasure, the other vengeance. When confronted by a choice, he preferred to do the harder thing first. But cutting off Medusa's head had horrified him. For the first time in his young life he felt the kind of grief that becomes fatigue. And he decided to visit the Apple Nymphs first and restore himself through pleasure.

They greeted him with joyous laughter, welcoming him as nymphs have always welcomed heroes. They drew him into a wild dance among the apple trees, passing him from one to the other. The dance grew wilder and wilder until it slowed into a fragrant sleep.

Perseus awoke to new pleasures. The blood sang in his veins. The nymphs were as fresh as apple blossoms; they twined about him, urging him to stay.

“I have still another mission before me,” he said. “My mother is pursued by an evil king and has no one to help her except me. After I straighten out her affairs, I'll be my own man again.”

“Will you come to us again and dance all the sunny day, then dance the night away? Will you … will you? Say you will.”

“I will!” cried Perseus. “Nothing will keep me away. I'll come back every midsummer and dance with you until the leaves flame. We'll dance the apples off the trees, press the fruit, and drink the juice. Farewell … farewell.…”

He picked up the pouch that bore the head of Medusa, leaped into the air, and flew away.

But he should have started his flight a bit sooner. For now the sky was growling with thunder. The mist that had veiled the eyes of Atlas had blown away in the morning wind. And the ill-natured Titan was eager to punish daughters and destroy guests.

Atlas stamped his foot. The earth shook. He shrugged his shoulders, and comets fell. They fell into the orchard, setting fire to the apple trees. Perseus felt his blood boiling as he watched the trees burn.

He flew straight toward the Titan. Hanging in the air before the giant scowling face, he opened his pouch and pulled out Medusa's head.

“I return good for evil,” he cried. “You who do a mountain's task shall have a mountain's form and a mountain's immunity to pain.”

He thrust Medusa's head toward the giant eyes. The Titan turned to stone. He became a mountain holding up the western edge of the sky. And he remains Mount Atlas to this day.

Perseus shouted to the nymphs: “You are free now! You may entertain what guests you like—and tread night into day under your dancing feet. And I'll come back as soon as I can.”

He wheeled in the air and headed east and south toward Seriphus.

13

The Princess of Joppa

Flying home, Perseus was blown off course. The wind carried him to the eastern rim of the Middle Sea, which was the Phoenician shore. He had climbed high; people crowding the shore below looked like an ant swarm. Swooping down, he saw that an enormous mob stood on the beach, staring out to sea. Among them stood a man and a woman wearing crowns.

Perseus looked to where all the people were staring and saw a strange sight. A naked girl was chained to a rock. She was festooned with jewelry, as if about to be married; but her face was a mask of terror. Perseus understood her fear. Plowing toward her was the great blunt head of a sea monster.

Perseus dropped to the beach and spoke to the man wearing the crown: “Who are you? Who is this maiden? Why is she being sacrificed?”

“My name is Cepheus,” replied the man. “I am king of Joppa. This lady is my wife, and that unlucky girl is my daughter, Andromeda. But I am not usually asked questions by anyone in that tone of voice.”

“And I am not usually treated to the spectacle of a father standing by and watching his daughter being devoured by a sea serpent.”

The king swelled with rage. His hand crept toward his dagger. But a thought struck him. This youth had dropped out of the sky, wearing winged sandals. He held a curious antique helmet, a superb shield, and a new-moon sword. Perhaps he was a messenger of the gods and had the right to ask questions. Cepheus fought down his fury and managed a smile.

“I beg your pardon, young sir,” he said. “You can understand that a father so distraught would forget the uses of courtesy.”

“The beast approaches!” cried Perseus. “Speak quickly!”

“It is sent by Poseidon,” said the king. “My wife boasted that she and her daughter were the two most beautiful women in the world, more so by far than any Nereid. And the sea god, who has appointed himself patron of all Nereids, took strong offense. He sent this monster to harry our coast, destroy our ships, and devour our cattle. I consulted an oracle, who told me I could wipe out the insult only by sacrificing my daughter. Needless to say, this causes me great grief. But I am head of state, and must sacrifice my private feelings to public welfare.”

“Any state that nourishes itself on innocent blood does not deserve to fare well,” declared Perseus. “Poseidon happens to be my uncle; he will forgive me, perhaps, for sporting with one of his pets.”

He saw the blunt head coming closer to the rock now and knew they had spoken too long. Not waiting to put on his Helmet of Darkness, he leaped into the air, ankle-wings whirring. He flashed through the air and fell like a lightning bolt onto the great scaly back of the sea monster. The beast arched and bucked, lashing at him with its spiked tail, swerving its head to spit flame. Perseus rode the monster, hacking at the enormous head with his sword. But its scales were polished leather, tougher than bronze; they turned the blade.

Perseus knew there was only one thing to do. He rose into the air, pulled Medusa's head from his pouch, and dived, holding the head before him, dived right at the beast, thrusting the head at it until it almost touched the monster's muzzle.

The beast was caught with jaws agape, spitting fire. And even the flame turned to rosy marble as the heavy statue of a sea serpent sank to the bottom of the sea.

Perseus flew back to the rock, struck off Andromeda's chains, and bore her through the air to where her parents stood.

“Your daughter lives,” said Perseus. “I claim her as my bride.”

“Your bride!” roared Cepheus. “She is the daughter of a thousand kings, the most richly dowered princess in the East. Do you think I'll give her to a homeless vagabond who's learned a few magic tricks?”

“I see your problem,” said Perseus. “If I had let the monster eat her, you could have kept the dowry for yourself. If you weren't about to become my father-in-law, Cepheus, I would tell you how pitiful a king you are, how despicable a father.… And if you utter one more syllable I don't like, I shall orphan your richly dowered daughter and make her an even richer heiress. Take care.”

He lifted Andromeda in his arms, jewels and all, and flew away, leaving king and queen gaping after him and the harbor half-blocked by the stone serpent.

14

A Hero Comes Home

Perseus flew night and day without stopping, and on the third evening he and Andromeda landed on Seriphus, only to find his mother's house dark and the streets of the town empty.

He hurried to the palace and stood amazed in the courtyard. The marble building was blazing with light and rang with laughter and the clatter of voices. Magnificently clad courtiers thronged the steps and the great hallway. He pushed his way to the throne room.

There he saw his mother. She was dressed in white, hung with jewels, but she was deathly pale and staring glassily. The man clutching her arm and smiling like a crocodile was Polydectes. Perseus realized he had returned just in time, for the king was forcing Danae to marry him, and the ceremony was about to begin.