Half fainting, Pandora sank to her knees. With her last bit of strength she clutched the box and shut down the lid, catching the last little monster just as it was wriggling free. It shrieked and spat and clawed her hand, but she thrust it back into the box and locked it in. Then she dropped the box and fainted away.
What were those loathsome creatures that flew out of the golden box? They were all the ills that trouble mankind; the spites and jealousies, disease of every kind, old age, famine, drought, poverty, war, and all the evils that bring grief and misery. After they flew out of the box, they scattered. They flew into every home, and swung from the rafters, waiting. And even today, when their time comes, they swoop down and sting, bringing pain and sorrow and death to men and women everywhere.
But bad as they were, things could have been worse. For the creature that Pandora managed to shut in the box was the worst of all. It was Foreboding, the knowledge of misfortune to come. If it had flown free, people would know ahead of time every terrible thing that was to happen to them throughout their lives. Hope would have died. And that would have been the death of man as well. For people can bear endless trouble, but they cannot live without hope.
Narcissus and Echo
Echo was the best beloved of all the nymphs of river and woods. She was not only very beautiful and very kind, but she had a hauntingly beautiful voice. All the children of the villages used to come into the woods to beg her to sing to them and tell them stories.
One day as Echo sat among a circle of wide-eyed boys and girls, telling them stories of heroes and gods and monsters, a handsome young woodsman, all dressed in green, came into the grove. He was carrying a bulging sack over his shoulder.
Now Echo didn’t know this, but the young woodsman was Zeus, king of the gods, in disguise. Occasionally Zeus liked to change into human form and wander the earth. He waited, enchanted by Echo’s voice, until she finished her tale, and then said, “Well told, beautiful maiden! I have a present for you and for each boy and girl.”
He opened the sack. It was full of golden apples — solid gold and heavy and shining. He gave one to Echo and one each to the children, who began to play ball with them, tossing them from one to another. In the midst of their play the woodsman disappeared.
Echo knew now that the woodsman was Zeus, for she recognized the golden apples which grew on a magic tree belonging to Zeus’ wife, Hera. Echo also knew that Hera, who was not as kind as Zeus, would be very angry when she learned that her husband was giving away her precious golden apples. Echo couldn’t wait to tell the news to her friend Venus, goddess of love and beauty.
The next day she told Venus how Zeus had come to the grove disguised as a woodsman and given away Hera’s golden apples. “See, he gave me one too,” she said, tossing it up in the air so that it flashed in the sunlight.
“You’d better hide that, my child,” said Venus.
“Why? It’s so beautiful. I don’t want to hide it. I want to look at it.”
“Take my advice,” said Venus. “Hide it. Hera is very jealous. She knows what Zeus has done and she is furious.”
Poor Echo was soon to learn how dangerous it was to make Hera angry. For the queen of the gods sent her spies everywhere. And very soon she learned that Zeus had given one of her precious golden apples to a wood nymph named Echo.
“Echo, eh?” snarled Hera. “That little tree toad who thinks she’s a nightingale? Well, I’ll make her sorry she ever laid eyes on a golden apple. I’ll punish her in a way that will be remembered forever.”
Hera strode down from Olympus, muttering to herself, scowling, black hair flying. This happened on a day that Venus was visiting Echo. They were sitting comfortably in the woods on a fallen log, chatting.
“All the world asks me for favors,” Venus said. “But not you, Echo. Tell me, isn’t there someone you want to love you? Just name him, and I will send my son, Cupid, to shoot him with an arrow, and make him fall madly in love with you.”
But Echo laughed, and said, “Alas, sweet Venus, I have seen no boy who pleases me. None seems beautiful enough to match my secret dream. When the time comes I shall ask your help — if it ever comes.”
“Well, you are lovely enough to have the best,” said Venus. “And remember, I am always at your service.”
Now Echo did not know this, but at that very moment the most beautiful boy in the whole world was lost in that very wood. His name was Narcissus. He was so handsome that he had never been able to speak to any woman except his mother, for any girl who saw him immediately fainted. Because of this he had a very high opinion of himself. As he went through the woods, he thought: “Oh, how I wish I could find someone as beautiful as I am. I will not love anyone less perfect in face or form than myself. Why should I? This makes me lonely, it’s true. But it’s better than lowering myself.”
As he walked along talking to himself, Narcissus was getting more and more lost in the woods. In another part of that wood, Echo had just said farewell to Venus, and was going back to the hollow tree in which she lived. As she came to a clearing in the forest, she saw something that made her stop in astonishment and hide behind a tree. What she saw was a tall, purple-clad figure moving through the trees. She recognized Hera, and hurried forward to curtsy low before the queen of the gods. “Greetings, great queen,” Echo said. “Welcome to the wood.”
“Wretched creature!” Hera cried. “I know how you tricked my husband! Well, I have a gift for you too. Because you used your voice to bewitch my husband, you shall never be able to say anything again — except the last words that have been said to you. Now, try babbling.”
“Try babbling,” said Echo.
“No more shall you chat with your betters. No more shall you gossip, tell stories or sing songs. You shall endure this punishment forever.”
“Forever,” said Echo, sobbing.
Then Hera went away to search for Zeus. Echo, weeping, rushed toward her home in the hollow tree. As she was running she saw a dazzling brightness that she thought was the face of a god, and she stopped to look. But it was no god. It was a boy about her own age, with yellow hair and eyes the color of sapphires. When she saw him, all the pain of her punishment dissolved and she was full of great laughing joy. Here was the boy she had been looking for all her life. He was a boy as beautiful as her secret dream — a boy she could love.
Echo danced toward him. He stopped and said, “Pardon me, but can you show me the path out of the wood?”
“Out of the wood?” said Echo.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m lost. I’ve been wandering here for hours and I can’t seem to find my way out of the wood.”
“Out of the wood.”
“Yes, I’ve told you twice. I’m lost. Can you help me find the way?”
“The way?”
“Are you deaf, perhaps? Why must I repeat everything?”
“Repeat everything?”
“No, I will not. It’s a bore. I won’t do it.”
“Do it.”
“Look, I can’t stand here arguing with you. If you don’t want to show me the way, I’ll just try to find someone who can.”
“Who can.”
Narcissus glared at her and turned away. But Echo went to him, and put her arms around him, and tried to kiss his face.
“Oh, no!” said Narcissus, pushing her away. “Stop it! You can’t kiss me.”
“Kiss me.”
“No!”
“No!”
Again Echo tried to kiss Narcissus, but he pushed her aside. She fell on her knees on the path, and lifting her lovely tearstained face, tried to speak to him. But she could not. She reached up and grasped his hand.
“Let go!” he said. “You cannot hold me here. I will not love you.”
“Love you.”
Narcissus tore himself from her grip and strode away. “Farewell.”
“Farewell.”
Echo looked after Narcissus until he disappeared. And when he was gone she felt such sadness, such terrible
tearing grief, that it seemed as if she was being torn apart. And since she could not speak out, she offered up this prayer silently:
“Oh, Venus, fair goddess, you promised me a favor. Hear me now, though I am voiceless. My love has disappeared and I want to disappear too, for I cannot bear this pain.”
Venus, in the garden on Mount Olympus, heard Echo’s prayer, for prayers do not have to be spoken to be heard. She looked down upon the grieving nymph, and pitied her, and made her disappear. Echo’s body melted into thin cool air, so that the pain was gone. All was gone except her voice, for Venus could not bear to lose that lovely sound. The goddess said:
“I grant you your wish — and one thing more. You have not asked vengeance upon the love that has made you suffer. You are too sweet and kind. But I shall take vengeance. I decree that whoever caused you this pain will know the same terrible longing. He will fall in love with someone who cannot return his love. And he will seek forever for what he can never have.”
Now Narcissus knew nothing of this. He was not aware of Echo’s grief, or the vow of Venus. He still wandered the forest path, thinking, “These girls who love me on sight — it’s too bad I cannot find one as beautiful as I am. Until I do, I shall not love.”
Finally he sank down on the bank of a river to rest. Not a river really, but a finger of the river — a clear little stream moving slowly through the rocks. The sun shone on the water so that it became a mirror, holding the trees and the sky upside down. And Narcissus, looking into the stream, saw a face.
He blinked at the water again. It was still there — the most beautiful face he had ever seen. As beautiful, he knew, as his own, even though the shimmer of light behind it made it slightly blurred. He gazed and gazed at the face. He could not have enough of it. He knew that he could look upon this face forever. He put out his hand to touch it. The water trembled, and the face disappeared.
“A water nymph,” he thought. “A lovely daughter of the river god. The loveliest of his daughters, no doubt. She is shy. Like me, she can’t bear to be touched. Ah, here she is again.”
The face looked up at him out of the stream. Again, very timidly, he reached out his hand. Again the water trembled and the face disappeared.
“I will stay here until she loves me,” he thought. “She may hide now, but soon she will love me and come out.” And he said aloud, “Come out, lovely one.”
And the voice of Echo, who had followed him to the stream, said, “Lovely one.”
“Hear that, hear that!” cried Narcissus, overjoyed. “She cares for me too. You do, don’t you? You love me.”
“Love me.”
“I do. I do,” cried Narcissus. “Finally, I have found someone I love. Come out, come out. Oh, will you never come out?”
“Never come out?” said Echo.
“Don’t say that, please don’t say that. Because I will stay here till you do. This, I vow.”
“I vow.”
“Your voice is as beautiful as your face. And I will stay here adoring you forever.”
“Forever.”
And Narcissus stayed there, leaning over the stream, watching the face in the water. Sometimes he pleaded with it to come out, coaxing, begging, always looking. But day after day he stayed there; night after night, never moving, never eating, never looking away from that face.
Narcissus stayed there so long that his legs grew into the bank of the river and became roots. His hair grew long, tangled, and leafy, and his pale face became delicate yellow and white. He became the flower Narcissus that lives on the river bank, and leans over watching its reflection in the water.
You can find him there to this day. And in the woods, when all is still, in certain valleys and high places, you can sometimes come upon Echo. And if you call her in a certain way, she will answer your call.
Wild Horses of the Sun
The two young boys had been wrestling, boxing, and shooting arrows at a tree stump all day long. The black-haired boy was a son of Zeus. The yellow-haired one, named Phaeton, was a son of Apollo. But, as it happened, neither of them had ever met his father.
When the boys grew tired of the games, they sat down on the edge of a cliff, dangling their legs over the blue sea, and began boasting and lying to each other. This was a very long time ago and most things have changed — but not boys.
“My father is Zeus,” said the black-haired boy. “He’s the chief god, lord of the mountain, king of the sky.”
“My father is lord of the sun,” said Phaeton.
“My father is called the thunderer,” replied the other. “When he is angry, the sky grows black and the sun hides. His spear is a lightning bolt. That’s what he kills people with. He can hurl it a thousand miles and never miss.”
“Without my father there would be no day,” said Phaeton. “It would always be night. Each morning he drives the golden chariot of the sun across the sky, bringing the daytime. Then he dives into the ocean, boards a golden ferryboat, and sails back to his eastern palace. Then it is nighttime.”
“When I visit my father,” said the black-haired boy, “he gives me presents. Do you know what he gave me last time? A thunderbolt — a little one, but just like his. And he taught me how to throw it. I killed three vultures, scared a fishing boat, and started a forest fire. Next time I go to see him, I’ll throw it at more things. Do you visit your father?”
Phaeton never had, but he wasn’t going to admit it. “Certainly,” he said. “All the time. And he teaches me things too.”
“What kinds of things? Has he taught you to drive the sun chariot?”
“Oh, yes. He taught me how to handle the horses of the sun, how to make them go, and how to make them stop. They’re huge wild horses and they breathe fire.”
“I bet you made all that up,” said the black-haired boy. “I don’t believe there is a sun chariot. There’s the sun, look at it. It’s not a chariot.”
“What you see is just one of the wheels,” said Phaeton. “There’s another wheel on the other side, and the body of the chariot is slung between them. That is where my father stands and drives his horses.”
“All right, so it’s a chariot,” said the black-haired boy. “But I still don’t believe your father would let you drive it. In fact, I don’t think Apollo would know you if he saw you. Maybe he isn’t even your father. People like to say they’re descended from the gods — but how many of us are there, really?”
“I’ll prove it to you,” cried Phaeton, scrambling to his feet. “I’ll go to the palace of the sun right now and hold my father to his promise.”
“What promise?”
“He said that the next time I visited him he would let me drive the sun chariot all by myself, because I was getting so good at it. I’ll show you. I’ll drive the sun right across the sky.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” said the other. “But how will I know if you’re driving the sun? I won’t be able to see you from down here.”
“You’ll know me,” said Phaeton. “I’ll come down close and drive in circles over the village. Just watch the sky tomorrow.”
Phaeton went off then. He traveled day and night, not stopping for food or rest, guiding himself by the stars, heading always east. He walked on and on and on until, finally, he had lost his way completely.
While Phaeton was making his journey, Apollo was sitting in his great throne room. It was the quiet hour before dawn, when night had dropped its last coolness upon the earth. At this hour, Apollo always sat on his throne. He wore a purple cloak embroidered with golden stars, and a crown made of silver and pearls. Suddenly a bird flew in the window and perched on his shoulder. This bird had sky-blue feathers, a golden beak, golden claws, and golden eyes. It was one of Apollo’s sun hawks, whose job it was to fly here and there gathering information. Sometimes they were called spy birds.
Now the bird spoke to Apollo. “I have seen your son,” she said.
“Which son?”
“Phaeton. He was coming to see you. But he
lost his way and lies exhausted at the edge of a wood. The wolves will surely kill him.”
“Then we’d better get to him before the wolves do,” said Apollo. “Round up some of your flock and bear Phaeton here in a manner that befits the son of a god.”
The sun hawk then seized the softly glowing rug at the foot of the throne and flew away with it. She called to three other hawks to each hold a corner of the rug. They flew over a river and a mountain and a wood and finally came to the field where Phaeton lay. They flew down among the howling wolves, among the burning eyes set in a circle about the sleeping boy. They rolled Phaeton onto the rug, and then each took a corner of the rug in her beak again, and flew away.
Phaeton felt himself being lifted into the air. The cold wind woke him up, and he sat up straight. The people below saw a boy, with folded arms, sitting on a carpet that was rushing through the cold bright moonlight far above their heads. And that is why we hear tales of flying carpets even to this day.
Phaeton remembered lying down on the grass to sleep, and now, he knew, he was dreaming. And when he saw the great cloud castle on top of the mountain, all made of snow and rosy in the early light, he was surer than ever that he was dreaming. He saw sentries in flashing golden armor, carrying golden spears. In the courtyard he saw enormous woolly dogs with fleece like cloud-drift guarding the gate.
Over the wall flew the carpet, over the courtyard, through the huge doors. And it wasn’t until the sun hawks gently let down the carpet in front of the throne that Phaeton began to think that this dream might be very real. He raised his eyes shyly and saw a tall figure sitting on the throne—taller than anyone Phaeton had ever seen, with golden hair and stormy blue eyes and a strong laughing face. Phaeton fell on his knees.
“Father!” he cried. “I am Phaeton, your son!”
“Rise, Phaeton. Let me look at you.”
The boy stood up. His legs were trembling.
“Well, boy, what brings you here?” said Apollo. “Don’t you know that you should wait for an invitation before visiting a god — even your father?”
The Dolphin Rider Page 2
