Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two (27 page)

But was he dead? Was that not a thread of pulse in his fat throat? He was one of those who had killed her foster father, and she needed him dead, but she did not want to touch him. She stood up and looked at the river. Its waters had turned red in the setting sun. It was fouled then forever. She would never swim in it again. She would never do anything again that she had done before.

She turned and raced across the meadow, away from the river, into the forest. She did not head for the hut that had been her home. She turned left and struck deeper into the wood.

Night came and she still moved through the trees. Wind rattled the leaves. She was chilled now in her damp tunic. She welcomed the chill and drew it into her in great gasping breaths. She sat at the foot of a tree trying to let the wind blow into her mouth, sucking its coldness, feeling it shrink the hot lump of blood and flies.

3

Vengeance of the Hive

She lay under the tree and tried to sleep. She became aware of how many sounds the wood held: rustlings, scuttlings, a howl, a hoot, a tiny shriek. She was not afraid. She meant to stay in the forest forever and never see anybody again. Even if she knew something was going to eat her, she would not go back to the clearing where the hut had stood and where she had seen her father fall in midstride with an arrow through his throat …

Moonlight sifted through the trees. There was a silver pepper of stars. The moonlight grew stronger, became silvery green, almost hot. Something blotted the light. Hanging above her was a blunt head. She sprang to her feet. It was a snake's head on a tall, thick stalk of neck rising from the coils of its own body. She saw the head coming down and was choked by the beating of her heart. She felt her legs being touched. She tried to run; her legs would not move. A swoon came upon her. She felt the body of the snake wrapping itself about her, strand upon living strand looping around her. Her arms were bound to her sides; she was encased in serpent.

She had seen one crush a deer once, and she knew that this was how they did it—looping about the victim, tightening the coils; making it soft enough to swallow. She did not scream. Nothing would make her scream. The snake's body was strange upon her—smooth, hard, and cool. She was growing warm in its leather hug. But she was not being crushed, not yet. Did a snake play with its victim like a cat? She could breathe without constriction but could not move. Now the wedge-shaped head was so close she could see its small eyes glittering in the moonlight. Softly it began to sing:

Another mother

bore you …

Has she something

for you?

Hush … hiss …

I leave a kiss

within your ear.

Listen, listen,

you shall hear,

what few have heard.

Listen, listen,

to beast and bird …

She felt the hard leather of its head on her cheek and a tickling in one ear, then the other. A piercing sweetness entered her through her ears; colored flame dancing down her body, all pressure gone as the loops melted away.

She whirled, calling, “Don't go!”

She chased the snake. It entered shadow. She sped after it, calling, “Come back! Come back! Oh, please.”

It was gone.

She danced in the sifting moonlight. She heard an angry buzzing. It turned into words.

“Beware … comes thief … comes bear …”

“Where? Where?”

“A white night, sisters. Rhoecus will seek us.”

“Guard the hive, guard it well.”

“Take wing. Take wing. Dive and sting.”

“A white night. Prepare to fight. Rhoecus will seek us.”

Palaemona looked for the voices. The moon rode in full blaze now, turning the trees to bone. One white tree had a black hole in its trunk. Three bees crisscrossed, diving into shadow and out.

“I know what they're saying,” she thought. “I can understand the language of bees. How wonderful! But who
is
this Rhoecus who robs their hive?”

She saw a dark shape lumbering across the glade. Saw it rise terribly onto two legs, stand tall and thick, then drop again to all fours and pad toward the tree with its rolling gait, and she knew it was a bear. Then she saw another shape running. It wore a dark tunic. She saw the blurred whiteness of legs, arms, a face. It sliced past the bear, which rose again and roared, teeth glinting. The runner did not pause but flung himself upon the hollow tree and began to climb with amazing speed. The black hole in the trunk broke into bits and became a swarm of bees, buzzing furiously, clotting about the climber's head and shoulders.

“They'll sting him to pieces,” she thought.

One arm flailed, brushing away the bees; the other came out of the hole; a hand stuffed something into a pouch. He reached high, clutched a branch, and swung, swung. And Palaemona, gazing in wonder, saw a face catch the moonlight, the face of a youth, rapt with excitement. The bear stood under the tree, clawing the trunk, roaring. The young man swung out on the branch, let go, and flew in a long, arching leap past the bear, hit the ground running, and disappeared among the trees.

Palaemona darted after him. He was a very fast runner. Far behind she heard the bear roaring. She ran and ran, following the faint sounds far ahead. She broke out of the trees into another clearing where stood a little hut with lighted windows. She saw the boy go into the hut. She crept up to the window and looked in.

An old woman sat on a stool, taking a honeycomb from the boy's hand. She crammed it into her mouth and chomped furiously, honey dripping over her chin. She wiped her hands on her long gray hair and cackled.

“Thank you, Rhoecus. Did they sting you, my boy?”

“They broke their stingers on me, Mother.”

“Are you hungry, Son?”

“We're both hungry, Mother.”

“Milk in the jug, loaf on the hob—and honey, honey aplenty, hee hee hee!”

Palaemona wanted to keep watching them but suddenly found herself starving. She had not eaten since the middle of the day before. She left the hut and went back into the wood.

She saw a squirrel and heard herself say, “Fetch me some nuts, Brother,” in a chittering little voice that she did not recognize as her own. “Little brother, I'm lost and hungry. Bring me some nuts.”

“All gone—none left. Slim pickings, slim pickings,” said the squirrel. “There is a berry bush in that thicket yonder. You can eat your fill.”

“Thank you,” said Palaemona, who went off thinking,

“You're lying, you furry little rat. You have nuts aplenty in your hoard.”

She found a bush loaded with berries and gorged herself, ate until she could eat no more. Now she was drowning in sleepiness. She stumbled toward the hut. Its windows were dark. She chose a tree at the edge of the clearing, lay down behind it, and fell into a deep sleep.

She arose early the next morning and waited until Rhoecus came out. He went among the trees and she followed him. She followed him all day long as he rambled the wood. He did not meet anyone. He fished and picked berries and poked into every hollow tree, looking for hives. She went where he went, stopped when he stopped, keeping herself hidden.

He went home for lunch, bearing a fish wrapped in wet leaves, berries, and a pouchful of honeycombs. Again Palaemona stationed herself at the window hole and saw the old woman stuffing herself. She left when she saw the lad stretch out on a pallet of rushes and go to sleep.

She wandered the woods alone. She found a stream and pulled reeds and plaited them into a little basket. She marked the location of various berry bushes. Acorns were easy to find but too hard to crack open with her teeth. She pounded them with a rock and ate their bitter kernels. For she did not wish to eat meat, or fish, or anything that had once been alive. Although she had banished it from her waking hours, a meaty face still hung upon her sleep, dripping blood.

Everywhere she went she spoke to animals. To birds, to squirrels, to rabbits, to larger animals also. She hailed a deer as it fled past. Curiosity broke its flowing stride. It turned in midair, bounded back to her, and said, “Did I hear right?”

“Do you mean did I call to you? I did. I want so much to make your acquaintance.”

“Where did you learn our language, little Sister?”

“A serpent licked my ear.”

“Oh, yes.”

She loved the bugling speech of deer. It was a young stag, glossy coated, horn proud.

“May I ride you?”

“Jump on.”

She laughed with joy and leaped onto his back. She slid up to his neck and grasped his antlers, holding tight, shouting. He went into a long flowing stride. She moved onto his head and perched between his horns as he swam a river. She could have ridden him forever but was afraid of wearying him with the violence of her joy.

She slid off on the farther bank of the river and said, “Thank you, Brother. That was a wonderful ride.”

“You are welcome, little one. You are so light I didn't even feel you sitting up there.”

“Will I see you again?” she asked shyly.

“You will, you will,” he bugled, and leaped away.

Joy gave her courage then. She did what she had been afraid to do: She filled her basket with berries and followed the bear's tracks until she saw him sidling along. She heard her voice turn to a rumbling growl. “Greetings, O lord of the forest. I bring you a gift of berries.”

The bear swerved his head and looked at her, rose to his full height, then squatted on his haunches, staring at her. “Who are you?
What
are you? Are you a person?”

“I'm a girl.”

“Where did you learn bear talk, O daughter of man?”

“A serpent licked my ear.”

“I see. I see. Bring me the berries then.”

She approached, moving slowly, and handed him the basket. He took it in one huge paw, and she thought he was going to swallow it whole. But he tipped the little basket, and the berries rolled into his maw.

“Thank you, girl.”

“Can we be friends, my lord? May I come and speak with you sometimes?”

“You may. You may. I like all kinds of berries. Also grubs, fish, honeycomb …”

“I can't promise you grubs or fish. I don't like to kill things.”

“Why not?”

“They crawl back into your sleep.”

“Not my sleep. I sleep all winter long and nothing wakes me. But bring what you will. You are very polite. Farewell.”

The sun was low now. Palaemona raced back to the hut to be ready when Rhoecus came out. She didn't know why she had to follow him. It was a weary business. Sometimes it made her lonelier than ever just seeing him, never speaking to him. But she could not make herself known. She dared not trust anyone who was not an animal. Nevertheless, it eased her heart to look at him.

One day, he tramped a longer distance than usual and led her to a part of the wood she had not seen before. She heard a regular thudding and a voice weeping. Rhoecus lengthened his stride; she ran swiftly to keep him in view. She saw a man swinging an ax, chopping at an oak tree. And out of the tree came a musical voice, weeping and pleading:

“Don't. Don't chop it down. Please stop. It is my home. If you chop it down I will die.”

“Come out and let me take a look at you then,” said the axman.

“Will you stop chopping if I do?”

“I can tell you this: If you don't, I won't.”

A green-clad figure, tall and pliant, came gliding out of the tree. The man leaned on his ax, grinning at her. Palaemona felt a spasm of hatred shake her. The way he was looking at the green-clad one reminded her of the robber she had killed.

Rhoecus had stepped into the shadow of another tree and was watching them.

“Well, you're a pretty one, aren't you?” said the man with the ax.

“I'm a dryad, good sir. My life is attached to the tree in which I dwell. If it falls, I die.”

“Nonsense,” said the man, laughing a phlegmy laugh. “I know how to keep you happy. But I've got to cut down this tree. Because I'm a woodsman, you see, and that's what I do; I cut down trees.”

He swung his ax again. Chips flew. The dryad moaned.

“Drop that ax,” called Rhoecus, stepping into view.

The woodsman—a hulking brute—stared at the lad, who was slender as a sapling and did not look at all dangerous.

“Are you speaking to me?” he said in amazement.

“To you, you greasy tree butcher.”

“Why, you little meddler, I'll chop you into a thousand pieces and feed you to the crows.”

Ax whirling, he rushed across the clearing to Rhoecus—who vanished. Palaemona saw that he had simply leaped up, caught a low branch and swung out of reach. The axman crouched, moving in a slow circle, seeking his enemy. “Where are you, you little wood louse? I thought you wanted to fight.”

The lad flung himself off the limb, landing square on the man's shoulders, knocking the ax from his hand, bearing him to the ground. And before he could arise, the youth leaped away, snatched up the ax, and smote off the woodsman's head.

The dryad laughed a high, keening, shriek of a laugh and kicked the head back toward its spouting neck. “He makes an ugly corpse,” she said. “But he'll be picked clean by tomorrow.”

She glided toward Rhoecus, caught him by the hand, and smiled at him. “Thank you,” she said.

Palaemona saw how beautiful she was. She saw the dryad, who was taller than the boy, take his face between her long hands and slowly begin to kiss him—little nibbling kisses, and then a long kiss upon the lips. Her body seemed to twine like a vine about the boy. And Palaemona shuddered, confused by what she was feeling, unable to look away.

“Ah, my sweetling, my brave one,” she heard the dryad say. “I must leave you now, unfortunately. The day grows old, and I must join the train of Artemis tonight and go hunting with her. It is my night to run with the Goddess of the Silver Bow—I dare not be absent. But I long to be with you, my handsome little stranger, my brave one, my killer of brutes, who has saved my dwelling and my life. Meet me tomorrow, and you shall have a hero's reward.”