Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two (20 page)

Theseus had no way of knowing that he had been sired by a god, but he did know that he was different from other boys. Others fought because they wanted something someone else had, or wanted to keep what someone else wanted. But Theseus fought because he enjoyed it and always challenged those larger than himself, who were not very hard to find. He fought without rancor but with a wild élan and disregard for pain. And, despite his size, he usually won.

As a son of Poseidon, he had another inborn talent—horsemanship. All of the sea god's horde of children were magnificent riders. For, as it happened, in the first days of his reign, Poseidon had been especially fond of Demeter, the tall, abundant goddess, Queen of Harvests, whose fall of hair was like wheat ripening in the sun, whose voice was the throstling of birds at dawn, and in whose footsteps flowers sprang. The sea god doted on her and pursued her whenever he was not occupied with something else.

One day, as Demeter was scattering seeds on a small, fertile island some miles off the mainland, Poseidon leaped out of the sea and raced toward her. She fled across a meadow. But he caught her, twined a rope of enormous freshwater pearls about her neck, and demanded that she love him.

Demeter didn't know what to do; he was so huge, so lavish, so laughingly insistent.

“Prove your love,” she said. “Give me another gift.”

“Another?”

“Not something oysters made, but something you have labored over yourself, thinking of me all the while.”

“What do you want?”

“You have made many creatures for the sea. Now make me a land animal. But a beautiful one. More beautiful than any other animal on land, or sea, or air.”

Demeter thought she was safe, believing Poseidon could make only monsters. Much to her amazement and delight, he presented her with a horse. Poseidon so admired his own handiwork that he immediately made a herd of horses that galloped about the meadow, tossing their manes, prancing and neighing their pleasure. Poseidon was so fascinated by the horses that he forgot all about Demeter for the moment, leaped on one, and rode off. Later, he made another herd of green surf horses for his own stables. But Demeter kept her own gift, and from that herd all the horses in the world have descended.

One story says that it took Poseidon an entire month to make one horse. His first attempts weren't to his liking and he simply cast them away. These creatures made their way into the world. They were the camel, the hippopotamus, the giraffe, the donkey, and the zebra.

Afterward, through some twist of inheritance, all the sea god's children could ride before they could walk; all became ardent horsemen and horsewomen, especially Theseus.

But now, in this year of change that was crowning his boyhood, Theseus had begun to ride other creatures, more difficult than horses. He climbed on bulls and learned to ride them, though he suffered many a painful fall. Finally, he could sit on any bull, even the wild ones. He sneaked up on deer as they grazed, leaped on the backs of stags, and rode them—they ran swiftly and leaped to dizzy heights. But deer were far easier to ride than bulls.

Theseus tried something even more difficult. In the early morning, he would race across the meadow, dive into the sea, and slide aboard slippery dolphins. They could always get rid of him by going underwater. But they were playful, gallant creatures and soon accepted this as a game. Leaping straight up out of the water, the dolphins tried to shake him off. Soon, he was able to cling to them, no matter what they did, and became confident that he could ride any creature in the world.

One morning after a gale, Theseus was prowling the beach, for storm brings many treasures for a boy to find. He spotted something flashing on top of a rock. He came closer and saw that it was a silver comb held by a hand at the end of a bronzed arm. A sea nymph sat on the rock, combing her long, green hair.

He approached slowly, then climbed the rock. The nymph arose and towered above him on long, bronzed legs. He laughed with pleasure. “Good morning,” he said.

She sat again, dangling her legs over the edge. “Good morning, Theseus.”

“You know my name.…”

“I do.”

“May I know yours?”

“Thera.”

“Are you a Nereid?”

“I am.”

“Are they all as beautiful as you?”

She smiled at him. “You're sweet.”

“May I kiss you?”

He put his arm on her warm shoulder. He felt that it was stuck there, that he could never pull it away. She shrugged him off.

“You're pretty sassy for a sprout. I might smack you.”

“Well, do something to me, for goodness sake. We're wasting our youth. Nymph, sweet nymph, why don't you teach me to swim?” said Theseus.

“You don't know how? Wasn't it you I saw riding a dolphin the other day? Don't lie.”

“Well … maybe I can swim a little. But you could improve my stroke.”

“You're a true son of your father, aren't you?”

“My father?”

“Poseidon. No Nereid is safe when he's around.”

“I don't know what you're raving about,” said Theseus. “My father is King Aegeus, a nice, safe old man.”

“All right, if you say so. Would you like me to sing to you?”

“May I sit on your lap?”

“Sit where you are! Well, you can lie back and put your head on my lap.”

Theseus leaned back and nestled his head on her lap—the most delicious cushion a head could have. Tears of joy filled his eyes as a wild caramel musk of sun and sea rose about him. She began to sing, and her voice was like the wind at dusk crooning over the waves as it comes bearing cool airs to the parched land:

Sisters two for you to woo if you do what you're fated to. Beware, beware the bull-man's horn, or your blood will feed the Cretan corn. Like a spider, but immensely wider, the Minoan Bull has blood to shed. And you must ply the antic thread, lest the monster leave you dead. You shall meet on evil Crete, where sisters two wait for you. Shall you dare that fatal pair, of butcher-king and mad queen born? Beware, beware the monster's horn, or your blood will feed the Cretan corn.

Theseus felt her voice pulling him down into fathoms of sleep. The song was the skeleton of his dream, and the dream was full of terror. Demon girls were after him, and a bull-man was goring him. Everywhere there was blood. There was pain. There was fear. But his head was in the nymph's lap and her musk was about him, her voice weaving the dream. He knew then that she had been sent to tell him of something dreadful that was to happen to him later. Her song was a warning. But she had brought him a new kind of joy, one that made him see everything differently. The boy, who was to become a hero, suddenly knew then what most heroes learn later—and some too late—that joy blots suffering and that the road to nymphs is beset by monsters.

The tide had come in and was swirling about the foot of the rock. The nymph arose, clasping his wrists in one hand and his ankles in the other, then lifted him above her head with amazing strength. She tilted his face to hers, kissed him on the lips, and tossed him into the sea.

Falling, he straightened into a dive and split the water cleanly. When he surfaced, the rock was bare. Far out he saw bronzed shoulders gleaming on the sea. He swam a few strokes after her, then turned back to shore. She was, like a dolphin, not to be caught until she wanted to be.

3

The Tyrant

To understand what is happening, and why, we must go back two generations, to the birth of Minos. He had a first-class pedigree. His father was Zeus, King of the Gods, who abducted a young Phoenician princess named Europa. Zeus often fancied mortal maidens, but had learned to be careful. If he appeared to them first in his true form, so bright and terrible, they were liable to get burned to ashes. This finally taught Zeus how inflammable girls could be. Now, he was determined that nothing should happen to the beautiful Europa before he could embrace her. So he appeared to her not in his own form, but as a huge white bull.

He came onto the Phoenician beach where Europa was playing ball with her handmaidens. She caroled with joy when she saw the splendid animal, and was amazed to see him kneel on the sand as if inviting her to climb on his back. “Be careful!” cried the maidens, but Europa was a high-spirited, reckless girl. Without hesitation, she leaped onto the bull. The giant beast arose and galloped away into the sea. The maidens screamed in horror to see him swim toward the setting sun with Europa clinging to his back.

After a while the girl stopped sobbing and began to enjoy her adventure. No girl in the world, she thought, would be able to match the tale she would have to tell when she returned to her father's court.

But Europa never returned. Zeus changed back to his own form and took her to a cave gouged into the side of Crete's Mount Ida. His daughters, the Hours, had hung rich tapestries and carpeted the cave with flowers, making it a fragrant bridal chamber.

Zeus stayed with Europa for a week, planted a son in her, and left, promising to return.

Now, Zeus was Zeus, and Europa was a fine, big, healthy girl, but their first son, for some reason, began life as a miserable bluish scrap of flesh, too feeble even to cry. Europa fought hard to keep him alive. She was happy that Zeus did not visit her. She did not want him to see their son, whom she had named Minos. Europa did not know whether the baby would live—she did not even know whether she wanted him to, but she kept fighting for his life.

Minos pulled at his mother's breast, drank the strong milk, and survived. He lived, but he did not flourish. When he was a year old, Europa could still hold him in the palm of her hand, and did not dare to wean him. She was still nursing him when he was two years old. He could walk and talk but was still tiny, and would take nothing but her milk. Zeus came to the cave in Crete upon occasion. He never inquired about the child and she never mentioned him. She hid Minos away when she knew Zeus was coming.

Europa found herself pregnant again, and knew she would have to stop nursing her firstborn. She tried to wean him. But he climbed her leg and stood on her knee, saying in his silvery little voice:

“Mother, I require suckle.”

He tugged at her tunic, encircling her breast with both arms, and began nursing happily.

Europa bore her second child, again a boy, but how different he was. This was a superb, big one, looking every bit the son of a god. His eyes streamed light, and there seemed to be laughter in his first cry. Europa immediately fell in love with him, which made it easy for her to reach a decision about Minos. She denied him her milk. When Minos began to howl, she carried him to the cow byre, where dwelt a big young heifer, her udders bursting with milk. Europa sat him on the straw under the cow and went back to the cave to nurse her beautiful new son.

Minos howled with fury, but nobody came. For the first time, his mother did not rush to comfort him. He was bewildered, and his untried heart grew ripe with hatred. But most of all he was hungry.

“Mother, Mother!” he shrieked.

No one came. The cow swerved her head and nuzzled the little boy. Her big tongue was warm upon his naked body. He shivered at the new sensation. It was warm and fragrant in the byre. There was a reek of hay and fresh milk. He pressed against the cow's muzzle, wanting her to lick him again. She yawned. Her breath was heavy and beautiful, as if she had been eating flowers. He was small enough to walk beneath her. He went to her udder and patted the warm bag of milk. The cow mooed; the whole byre hummed with her sound. She was ready to be milked.

Minos drank from her udder. It was not like his mother's milk; it was sweet and creamy and strange. He almost gagged, but he was hungry. He swallowed the first mouthful and pulled at the teat. The cow lowed. Her tail swished.… And there in the warm darkness, in the smell of hay and the rich strangeness of change, Minos sank into sleep.

Now Crete was a privileged island. Remote, reef-girded, and lovely, it was a favorite trysting place for Zeus. Its animals had not been deprived of speech. So it was that a wolf that had been prowling about the cow byre pounced upon Minos as he came out wiping his milky lips, and snarled: “Well met! You shall be my breakfast.”

“You treat yourself shabbily, my friend,” said Minos, thinking quickly. “See how small I am—just a little scrap of nothing, as my mother calls me.”

“Better than nothing,” growled the wolf.

“Scarcely,” said Minos. “But I can guide you to a fine meal. Inside that cave is a remarkably tasty child—plump, tender, and delicious—brother of mine, as a matter of fact.”

“You're trying to trick me,” said the wolf. “Surely such a child does not lie untended.”

“My mother is also in there,” said Minos, “but soon she will go to the stream to fetch water.”

“How do I know you're telling the truth?”

“No need to trust me. You can keep me here under your paw until you see my mother come out of the cave.”

The wolf slunk back into the shadow of a rock, dragging Minos with him. He kept the child pinned to the ground as he watched the mouth of the cave. A tall girl came out, lightly bearing a heavy yoke across her shoulders. Minos, peering out from under the wolf's paw, saw that his mother looked happier than he had ever seen her.

“Wait until she goes down that path, out of sight,” he whispered to the wolf. “Then, into the cave!”

When Europa came back to her rock chamber, she found the wooden cradle empty. It was still swaying slightly on its rockers. She rushed out, screaming, and looked everywhere. All day she searched, under every rock, every bush. She couldn't find any tracks; the ground was too stony. It grew dark. Then she remembered her other child and rushed to the byre.

On the way she heard a little snuffling sound, and saw Minos lying on the ground, sobbing.

“Oh, Mother, Mother,” he cried when she knelt to him. “I saw a terrible thing. A wolf running by, holding my dear brother in his jaws. ‘Stop!' I yelled. ‘Take me instead; my mother loves him better.' But the wolf growled, ‘It's him I want; he's fatter,' and ran off. Mother, Mother, where were you? Where were you?”