SON OF ZEUS

by Glyn Iliffe

  But she knew she could not give in. She had to go deeper into the tunnel, to the place where the answers lay. Drawing strength from her fear and her fury, she ran on, slashing left and right at her demonic assailants, until the attacks lessened and there were no more eyes lighting up the darkness.

  She stumbled on, weak from her wounds, eventually falling to her knees in exhaustion. As she lay there, her elbows and forehead resting against the hard floor, she sensed a new presence. She raised her head a little and saw two bare feet on the stone before her. They were small and soft and pale in the darkness. Slowly, she looked up, and with a gasp saw her oldest son standing over her.

  Pushing herself back up to her knees, she stared at him in disbelief. Her mouth fell open, but at first she could not summon the words she wanted. All she could do was look at him with tears flowing fast down her cheeks – one hand crossed over her chest to steady her breathing, the other still clutching at her knife.

  ‘Therimachus,’ she breathed. ‘Theri, my baby, is it really you?’

  ‘Mummy? Mummy, help me. I don’t like it here.’

  She let out a loud sob and reached towards him, her hands shaking, desperate to touch her son again and know that he was alive. Then a voice spoke from the darkness.

  ‘Why are you here, Megara?’

  It was the witch.

  ‘Give me my son. Please. That’s all I want. I never wanted anything other than my children back.’

  ‘No. You came to find answers – answers that can only be found in the deepest, darkest places of the soul.’

  ‘I want my son! Give him to me! I’ll pay you as much gold as you want.’

  The witch laughed.

  ‘What do I want with gold? I’ve already struck my bargain with you. And now you must claim the answer to your question. Why did he kill your children? Why ?’

  Megara felt a surge of anger swelling up inside her. She was determined not to let her son be stolen from her again. Reaching out, she took hold of his arm, only to find it was freezing cold. She looked at him and let out a cry of anguish. She was staring into the black eyes of the witch.

  ‘What have you done with him? Give him back to me!’

  ‘Leave me alone!’ the witch cried. ‘Leave me alone!’

  Megara felt a sudden and intense hatred for the woman who had taken her son. Realizing she still had the knife in her hand, she sank it into her heart. The witch gave a cry and fell, but the voice did not belong to a woman. Looking down, Megara saw the body of Therimachus on the floor of the tunnel, the handle of her knife sticking up from his chest and blood oozing from between his lips. She gasped and staggered back against the tunnel wall, throwing a hand over her mouth to stifle her scream. She felt his blood warm and wet on her fingers, and tasted it on her lips.

  The green eyes reappeared in the darkness. Seeing the demonic shapes forming in the shadows, she turned and ran. A light appeared ahead of her, sparkling and shimmering with different colours. She threw herself towards it. A moment later she was free of the tunnel, staggering up the slope of a dell surrounded by tall trees. Swirling lights floated down from the many-hued canopy above, and the soaring trunks were like pillars of silver and gold that gleamed and glistened. But she was no longer entranced by what she saw. Her mind was filled with the horror of what she had done, compelling her to keep running, up the slope and into the trees, on and on until her exhausted legs gave way beneath her and she fell into a bed of soft, damp leaves.

  And there she stayed, with her hands over her head and her eyes tightly shut. Afraid and alone, she could hear every sound in the woods around her, was acutely aware of every smell and every movement; and though her eyelids were shut, her mind’s eye saw many wonderful and terrible things. How long she was there she could not tell. It seemed like days had passed before she heard the approach of footsteps through the undergrowth. She listened anxiously to the snapping of twigs and crunching of dead leaves, until she felt sure whoever it was was standing over her. But on lifting her head, she saw that her ears had deceived her. It was not until moments later that she spied a figure moving between the trees in the distance.

  It was daytime now, and though the world around her had returned to its familiar state – with the early morning sunshine glimmering on the dew-covered undergrowth and all the strange colours and patterns having faded away – her senses remained abnormally sharp. Even at that distance, she could see the curious expression on the witch’s face, the dirt in the lines of her skin, and the strands of grey in her close-cropped black hair. She could smell the herbs on her clothes and taste the fresh sweat in her armpits. But she could not tell what was in the woman’s mind.

  She rolled onto her back and half sat up. Seeing a thick branch lying in the leaves beside her, she slipped her fingers around it and waited for the witch to come closer. Eventually the woman was standing over her, a gentle smile on her lips.

  ‘Look at the state of you, child,’ she said, her voice loud and distinct to Megara’s hearing. ‘More like a slave girl now than a princess, eh?’

  She laughed and offered her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Megara relaxed her hold on the branch and reached up. As she was helped to her feet, she noticed scratch marks on her forearm and the back of her hand. Then, as clear as if it were happening before her eyes, she recalled the demonic creatures attacking her from the blackness of the tunnel.

  ‘Have no fear,’ the witch consoled her, drawing her into an embrace. ‘Whatever you remember from last night has gone – if it ever existed.’

  ‘Existed? Look at my arms! Of course it existed. Only…’ Megara paused and looked at the scratches on her limbs and the rips in her dress. ‘Only I thought the wounds would be deeper. The things that attacked me, they—’

  ‘Shush, my dear. Whatever they were, whatever shape they took, they do not exist in that form in this world.’

  ‘But I saw them with my own eyes, as clearly as I see you.’

  The witch hooked her arm through Megara’s and led her slowly back through the woods.

  ‘Whatever you think you saw, you did not see them with your earthly eyes.’

  ‘You said it would be like looking through the eyes of the gods.’

  ‘Yes. In a manner of speaking. The broth you drank opened the potential locked inside your mind, to see the universe as it really is. More beautiful than you could have imagined, more minute in its detail and larger in scale than you had ever thought possible.’

  ‘Yes,’ Megara said. ‘I can’t begin to describe it, except to say there was colour and life in everything. It was as if I could see into things and through them, and far beyond them into other places.’

  ‘What other places?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not places where people live. I don’t really understand it, but maybe they were the places where the gods exist.’

  ‘You have looked upon the realms of the immortals, though only as a mortal child. There are some who have done more than just look.’

  Megara glanced sidelong at the witch, wondering whether she meant herself.

  ‘But it wasn’t all beauty,’ she said. ‘There was darkness, too, as terrifying as the other experiences were wonderful.’

  ‘Humans have the capacity for light and dark, good and evil. And with all that you have suffered, my dear, is it any surprise that you saw into the abyss too?’

  They reached the edge of the dell that concealed the entrance to the witch’s cave. Recalling the horrors of the night before, Megara hesitated.

  ‘Come, child. Take a little wine with me and eat a bowl of soup. You need it after last night.’

  ‘I can’t. There were things in the tunnel…’

  ‘I told you, those things are gone now.’

  ‘But I did something in there, something horrible.’

  The witch held her by the arms and looked her in the eye.

  ‘Then you must go back in. The answer to your question is in there, but you must go in to find it.’

&nbs
p; Megara felt herself trembling with fear. And yet, was this not what she had braved the witch’s cave for? To find answers to what had caused her misery. She nodded, and allowed the witch to hook her arm back through her elbow and lead her down to the mouth of the cave. She brushed aside the hanging vegetation and almost had to pull Megara inside. It was cool and gloomy, and the far wall of the short tunnel was bathed in the orange glow of the hearth deeper within. Was this the place where she had experienced the demonic attacks of the night before? Was this where she had plunged her dagger into her son’s chest?

  She noticed shapes on the floor of the tunnel. They were small and dark and strangely distorted, so that at first she could not identify them. Then she realized they were the witch’s cats, a dozen at least, all dead. Understanding the truth, she covered her mouth with her hand.

  ‘Are these the things that attacked you?’ the witch asked.

  Megara shook her head.

  ‘But they can’t be. There was a green-eyed lion, and demons in the shadows, and…and…’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘And my son was there. Therimachus. I saw him. I touched him!’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘And then… And then he changed, and I…’

  She fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands.

  ‘I found my cloak this morning,’ the witch said. ‘I often leave it on a peg on the wall, but this morning it was on the floor, just there. With a dagger in it. Look.’

  Megara raised her eyes to see the witch poking her fingers through a hole in her cloak.

  ‘You killed these cats, my child,’ the witch continued. ‘You plunged your dagger into my cloak. Whatever you may have thought they were last night, it was your hand that wielded the knife. Perhaps, at last, you have the answer you were looking for. But now you have another question, I think.’

  Megara nodded. She had braved the witch’s brew and solved the mystery that had troubled her so deeply. But it did not explain how the mushrooms had got into her kitchen.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Lair of the Hydra

  The first light of morning eased the darkness of the swamp, leaving it in a green gloom that was alive with the hum of insects. Heracles no longer noticed the stench of the fetid water, and even the thought of the leeches attaching themselves to his legs was only a distraction as he forged his way towards the Hydra’s lair. Though the monster’s cry had not split the air since he had left Iolaus, the direction was fixed in his mind. He was resolved now on finding the creature and facing it. If it was in his power then he would slay it; if not, then the balm of death and forgetfulness awaited him. Either way, the answer to the Pythoness’s riddle was near, and with it the chance to understand what had happened that evening so long ago – or so it seemed – in Thebes.

  The torch glimmered on the rippling waters and reflected off the black trunks of the trees. It was a clear signal to any enemy of his whereabouts, but he did not care. He would rather the Hydra come after him than have to play hare and hound with it for much longer in that cursed swamp. As it was, he had seen nothing more dangerous than the occasional snake gliding over the surface of the water or coiled over the branches of the surrounding trees.

  After a while, he came to an open space among the trees. Broad beams of yellow light shone down through gaps in the canopy above, each filled with swarms of midges that gleamed white in the sunshine. The stench here was noticeably stronger, forcing Heracles to hold his hand over his nose. On the other side of the clearing was a tall plane tree. Its roots were set like a great claw about the top of a mound overgrown with brambles. There was a smaller knoll nearer to hand, from which two trees had sprung up from the same root. After scanning the branches for snakes, he grabbed hold of one of the thicker roots and pulled himself onto the grass. To his disgust, several leeches were gorging themselves on his blood.

  He wedged his torch between two roots and sat down. Carefully, he prised the leeches off one by one with his thumbnail and tossed them into the swamp. As the last one hit the water with a plop, the grassy dome he was sitting on shook, almost toppling him from the root on which he was perched. He stood and took hold of a branch. The ground trembled a second time and was followed by a deafening blast that sent a shock wave through the air, knocking Heracles off his feet. He rolled down the short slope and fell up to his waist in the water. A second and then a third blast followed, and as he grasped the roots of the tree to steady himself, he saw the brambles on the large mound opposite rise up in the air like a blown curtain, revealing the mouth of a cave beneath.

  Heracles reached out and grabbed his torch, which had come loose and was rolling down the grass towards the water. Jamming it into the soft grass, he reached into the leather satchel by his side and pulled out a piece of folded material. Tearing off a long strip, he doused it in water and wrapped it several times around his neck to form a scarf. Then he waded across the water – his heart pounding in his chest and his stomach alive with nervous energy – and cupped his hand around his mouth.

  ‘Come out!’

  There was no response, only the echo of his voice followed by a sudden stillness, as if everything in the swamp had paused to listen. A few midges from a nearby shaft of sunlight settled on his arms and began to bite. He waved them away.

  ‘I said come out, Echidna’s spawn. Come and face me.’

  The momentary silence was shattered in a terrifying explosion of sound. The brambles trailing over the cave mouth flew violently upwards, some of them tearing free and arcing through the air to fall into the surrounding waters. At the same time, the ground shook and a fierce blast of air rushed out across the surface of the swamp, almost knocking Heracles off his feet. He staggered backwards, but kept his balance.

  ‘Show yourself. Come and fight me, damn you!’

  This time there was no reply, though the air in the clearing was tense with expectation. But the monster was no fool. Like the Nemean Lion, it had no intention of leaving its cave to fight. It had chosen the arena in which it would do battle: let the challenger come into the cave and meet it on its own terms.

  But Heracles had not forgotten the lion’s underground lair, and would not blunder into another such trap. Looking around, he saw a few younger trees standing among the others. Wading across to one of them, he wrapped his arms about its twisted bole and with a great heave pulled it from the water. Holding it high above his head, he ploughed back across the swamp to the mound and hurled the tree, roots first, into the mouth of the cave. After doing the same with two more, he went to the knoll where his torch was still burning. He tore off another strip from the material in his satchel, ripped it into pieces and wrapped them around the necks of four arrows.

  Fitting the first to his bow, he held the point over the torch. As the cloth caught fire, he fired it into the mouth of the cave, where it thumped into the bark of one of the trees. Not waiting to see whether the flame caught, he lit another and fired it at the same spot. By the time the third arrow had flown across the swamp and into the jumble of uprooted trees, the flames from the first had caught and were spreading up one of the branches. He did not have to wait long before the cave entrance was filled with fire, sending thick plumes of smoke up into the gloomy air and back down into the tunnel behind.

  A series of horn-like blasts erupted from the depths of the cave, more deafening and terrifying than before. The wall of air from the Hydra’s roar momentarily flattened the fire and blew a cloud of smoke out across the swamp. But the flames sprang back up with a fiercer fury, casting an orange glow over the waters and filling the air with the sound and smell of burning wood. Heracles felt the ground beneath his feet move and saw the trees around the glade shake. A second tremor followed, then a third, each one sending ripples across the surface of the swamp. The monster had taken the bait.

  He lit his fourth arrow and waited. Suddenly, the pile of trees flew out of the mouth of the cave and rained down in flakes of burning debris over the swamp. A
few flaming brands landed close to where Heracles stood at the edge of the knoll, hitting the dark water with hisses and puffs of smoke. But his attention was firmly focused on the entrance to the lair. Slowly, a serpent-like head rose out of the shadows. It was covered in black scales that gleamed in the pale half-light filtering through the trees. A horn jutted forward at an angle from its flat forehead, with more horns curving up like a collar behind its slit-like ears. Its red eyes swept across the swamp until they fixed on the solitary challenger standing on the far side of the water. At the sight of him, the monster’s jaw fell open with a hiss, revealing lines of sharp teeth, each one the size of a hunting knife.

  A second hideous head now appeared, then a third and a fourth, until seven were raised up on long necks from the mouth of the cave, swaying as they stared at Heracles. The Hydra crawled forward into the gloom, each footfall sending tremors through the ground beneath Heracles’s feet, until its body covered the sward before the cave entrance. It was the size of a galley, with each neck the length of a mast and each head as big as a man.

  Forcing aside his fear, Heracles raised his bow and squinted along the shaft of the arrow. The flaming point jumped briefly from head to head until his aim settled on the mass of its black body. The string twanged and the arrow arced over the swamp to sink into the scaled breast. The seven heads darted forward, releasing a deafening roar that threw Heracles back against the tree. But it was a roar of defiance rather than pain. One of the heads curled downwards and plucked the shaft out with its teeth, spitting it contemptuously into the swamp. Dark green blood spilled from the wound onto the ground, turning the grass black where it fell and sending up a trail of smoke.

  The monster rose onto its four legs and slid into the water. Fitting another arrow, Heracles shot at one of the many heads. The bronze tip passed into its open mouth and out through the back of its neck, causing it to rear up and roar with pain. But it had no other effect, unless it was to increase the monster’s anger.