Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two

by Bernard Evslin

  Theseus turned from the sea and began his journey inland. But he didn’t get far. Almost immediately, he was intercepted by a squad of armored men who wordlessly knocked him over the head with their spear shafts, bound his unconscious body to a mule, and took him to Knossos.

  8

  The Castaway

  Theseus was shackled to an iron ring set in rock, and left in the stinking darkness of the smallest cell in the dungeon system forming the cellars of the Ax-House. The cell was so loathsome that he rejoiced when the guards came for him, thinking that he would now be led out to execution, and hoping only that he would not be tortured first. Instead, he was led up a marble stairway to an enormous sunny chamber, where a little man sat on a throne of ivory and gold. The captain of the guard prostrated himself, wriggled forward, and kissed the king’s sandal. A soldier rammed the haft of his ax between Theseus’s shoulders, pressing him to the tiled floor. He lay prone, hoping he was not expected to kiss the royal foot himself. With his face against the floor, he heard the rattle of arms and the shuffle of boots as the guards departed.

  “Arise,” said a voice.

  He arose and faced the throne. It was a warm day, but the king wore a robe of Egyptian weave called byssus, dyed purple and embroidered with the double-ax in heavy gold thread. Trying to forget his stinking rags, Theseus stood tall as he could and waited for the king to speak.

  “You are a spy, of course.”

  Theseus shuddered when he heard the little man’s thunderous voice.

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  There was a silence. Theseus stood with his head bowed, but he knew the king was studying him. He raised his head and looked into the king’s eyes, then looked away again. Minos’s eyes were flat black disks. They rotated slowly on their axes. Theseus could not bear their gaze.

  “Prisoners are not ordinarily questioned by the king, you know.”

  “I am grateful for the honor, Your Majesty.”

  “Do you know what happens to spies in Crete?”

  “I repeat, my lord, I am no spy, but a shipwrecked seaman.”

  “A castaway?”

  “Yes, sire. A castaway.”

  “However you describe yourself, I think you came to spy. The penalties for that are severe.”

  “For the third time, I am no spy.”

  “Why did you come to Crete?”

  “Not by intention, sire. I was shipwrecked.”

  “No vessel has foundered recently in these waters. I am kept informed of such matters.”

  “It was a Mycenaean trading vessel. It broke up on a reef about ten miles offshore. I caught a spar and drifted in.”

  “You’re not a very skillful liar.”

  “I lack practice. I’m accustomed to telling the truth.”

  “Be careful, now. Every additional lie will cost you several hours of agony. Have you never served as an officer aboard a foreign galley docked at Knossos?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps you served as a member of the crew, concealing your station, as a spy would.”

  “I swear by all the gods that I have never before set foot on Crete. I am a voyager, true. I have traveled much, but never to Crete.”

  “Well, you have made your last landfall, voyager.”

  “So it seems … and I wish it had been in any other place than this miserable slaughterhouse of an island.”

  “Are you trying to act demented to escape the penalties of the law? It won’t help you, you know. Maniacs who commit crimes here are simply considered crazy criminals. They receive no privilege denied to sanity.”

  “Hear me, Minos,” said Theseus. “You have the power to order my death. Then do so. I had rather perish under the double-ax than be bored to death by your dreary, malevolent tirade. Young though I am, I have met real killers—evil men, to be sure, but brave—who did their own killing. And I am not to be intimidated by a poisonous little toad who happens to wear a crown.”

  Theseus broke off. The king had toppled from his throne. He writhed on the floor uttering broken shouts. Foam flecked his mouth. Guards rushed in. The king arched and spat and beat the back of his head on the floor. The captain of the guard knelt to take the king in his arms. His men had surrounded Theseus with drawn swords, hiding Minos from view. But Theseus heard his strangled shout break into words: “Don’t kill him … don’t kill him.”

  They returned Theseus to his cell and shackled him. He lay on the straw listening to the rats. “I’m sorry he spared me,” he said to himself. “I’d rather be dead than rot in this filthy hole.”

  He prayed to Poseidon then, very fervently, but received no answer. A rat came while he slept and bit off half his ear. He hoped to bleed to death then, and tried to encourage the bleeding by digging at his wound, but the pain was too intense. “No use torturing myself,” he thought. “I’ll leave it to the experts.” He fell asleep again, and by morning the bleeding had stopped. The wound festered. He tossed and burned.

  When the girl appeared, he thought she was fledged by his fever and waited for her to disappear. But she did not. Was she another joke of the capricious gods? He shook his head trying to rid himself of the vision, but he couldn’t shake her away. Her eyes were burning holes in the murk. She had ivory-brown legs, cascading black hair, a curly mouth. He dragged himself to his hands and knees and faced her with his head raised. She did not disappear. She stood there silently, her dainty white feet spurning the dirty straw. She was dressed in court fashion—in a long, full skirt, and naked above the waist save for the drape of her shining hair. The girl was small and slender, not yet nubile.

  “Who are you?” he whispered.

  “I am Ariadne.”

  “I greet you, lovely maiden, whoever you are.”

  “I just told you who I was,” said Ariadne. “What did you do to my father?”

  “Have I the honor of knowing your father?”

  “He’s the king. You threw him into a fit. He’ll never forgive you.”

  “I had nothing to do with his fit.”

  “He says you’re some kind of wicked sorcerer, employed by his enemies. He’s going to do dreadful things to you, unless you vanish or something. Can you do that?”

  “Not without help.”

  “In your opinion, am I marriageable?”

  “Well … perhaps not quite yet,” said Theseus.

  “Almost?”

  “You’ll be very lovely when you do grow up.”

  “How can you tell about what you can’t see?”

  “Because what I can see is beautiful, and the rest of you will surely match.”

  “Good-bye now.”

  “Don’t go,” said Theseus.

  “I’ll be back.”

  Darkness swarmed. Red pain flared.

  She was back. Taller, long-legged, coltish—an ivory wand of a maiden, the coolest, cleanest thing he had ever seen. She smelled like the snow-freighted wind blowing off the mountains of Greece. She stood erect, smiling.

  “Well, am I grown up?”

  “By the gods, I don’t believe it! How long have I been here?”

  “Little girls grow up fast.”

  He lay back on the straw. A wave of sickness broke over him.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing much. I’m probably dying.”

  “So soon? We have prisoners who’ve been here for twenty years—some of them without hands or feet because the rats ate them off.”

  “Why don’t you run along, Princess? It can’t be pleasant for you here.”

  “It stinks, if that’s what you mean. But a lot of interesting things do.”

  She knelt swiftly and touched his ear. He jerked his head away.

  “What happened to it?” asked Ariadne.

  “One of those rats you were talking about.”

  “It looks dreadful. Say a spell and make it grow again.”

  “I’m no sorcerer, I told you. Please now, be on your way.”

  She knelt on the straw. Her i
vory knee almost touched his face. He felt himself reviving in the piny fragrance of her young body. She seemed to cleanse the foul vapors. He pulled himself up to a sitting position.

  “I know who you are,” she said. “You’re Theseus, Prince of Athens.”

  “Nonsense! Princes aren’t found in prisons.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Most prisoners here are of very good family. So tell me the truth.”

  “Why is it important to you who I am?”

  “Because I’m destined to marry Theseus, Prince of Athens.”

  “Has he asked you?”

  “Wouldn’t you remember if you had? I’m destined to marry you, and you’re destined to marry me.”

  “How did you learn of this destiny?”

  “From a reliable witch. A very magical one. She gathered bones from the killing ground in the maze and hung them on the western slope of a hill where the wind blows. The bones danced and sang. They sang:

  Tigers are wild,

  dogs are tame.

  Listen, dear child,

  to your husband’s name.

  Theseus, Theseus

  A prince for a princess,

  Theseus is his name.

  Roses are red,

  wounds are too.

  Him you shall wed,

  I tell you true.

  “Anyone would be happy to marry you,” whispered Theseus. “You’re exquisitely pretty. And smell marvelous. And sing like a lark.”

  “You sound like a man who wants to kiss me.”

  “You’re so lovely and clean. And I’m in so foul a state. How can I touch you?”

  “I’ll take a bath when I leave. I’ll have to anyway.”

  “Look, they’re ready to kill me just for being cast away on this island. What would they do to me for fondling the king’s daughter?”

  “Oh, they’d whisk you to the chopping block and lop your head off.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Unless sorcerers can grow their heads back—as lizards do their tails.”

  “You have some useful ideas about magic,” said Theseus.

  “That witch taught me a few things.”

  “Show me.”

  “Not here. I need some stuff. Frog … cat … fire of thorns. An alder stick and a bag of corn …”

  “Sing that again,” he was surprised to hear himself whispering.

  “I wasn’t singing.”

  Pain flowed from his mangled earlobe and coursed like lava through his head. He groaned and fell back on the straw.

  He heard her singing:

  Thorn and thistle,

  gristle grue.

  When I whistle,

  it means you!

  He tried to speak but could not. She whistled. He saw the straw heave beside his face. He couldn’t move away. Out slithered a rat, an enormous gray one with faint black markings. It held something pale in its mouth and danced toward the girl like a poodle. She held out her hand and the rat leaped up. Balancing itself on her palm, it offered the ear. She took it and kissed the rat on the head. It disappeared.

  Ariadne turned the ear, studying it. She spat on the raw edge and smoothed it out with her little finger, then knelt to Theseus and pressed it in place. It was like a piece of ice; it froze the fire in his head. Pain drained deliciously out. He felt the ear; it was whole. He looked at her. She smiled. And, very gently, he kissed her curly mouth.

  “You’re getting politer,” she whispered. “Anything else I can fix?”

  He drew away. “Just talk to me.”

  “Talk?”

  “Yes, it’s a way of touching too.”

  “Maybe you are old under that beard.”

  “Nobody’s that old, Princess. If you were to walk past an Egyptian tomb, the mummies would jump out and run after you.”

  “Oh, gruesome! … Someone told me about those tombs once. They’re very tall and full of cats. An Egyptian told me.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “He put into port one day in a big boat made of paper or cloth or something. Big, clumsy things, hardly like a boat at all.… Egyptians are weird. They look like long, rusty knives. Reddish brown, you know, with stilt legs and bird faces. But he was nice. He told me all about cats and tombs and the moon eating the sun. Egyptians are very religious—worse than us.”

  Her hand lay on the straw beside him. He studied it as he drank in the clear, beautifully articulated stream of words. It was a childish hand still, the fingers very long. He put his hand over it. It moved in his grasp like a little bird. Tears scalded his eyes.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Tell me more things. Tell me about your mother.”

  “What about her?”

  “There’s a curious tale—that she eloped with a bull and had a child, half man, half bull …”

  “I can’t talk about that,” said Ariadne.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a family secret. And in our family that’s a state secret. You know what happens to anyone who tells? They get their tongues torn out with hot pincers.”

  “You can tell me. I won’t tell your father.”

  “Why should I tell you anything? You won’t even admit who you are. But I know. You’re Theseus, Theseus, Theseus.…”

  She brought her face to his. Her eyes were black disks like her father’s, but larger and more brilliant. Slowly, they began to spin. “Aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

  “Yes,…” he murmured.

  Ariadne laughed. Her eyes spun faster. Blackness spun inside his head, flowed out, and engulfed him.

  9

  The Sacrifice

  The king was closeted with his daughter.

  “Well,” he said. “I have indulged your whim and allowed you to visit his cell.”

  “It wasn’t a whim,” said Ariadne. “I was trying to help you.”

  “Did you learn any more than I did?”

  “He confuses me.”

  “Is he a wizard?”

  “Too young. Much too young. I think he’s what he says he is—a castaway. Why should you doubt it? Many shipwrecked sailors are washed up on our shores. They’ve never bothered you. You just pop them into the slave-pen.”

  “Not this one,” said Minos.

  “Why?”

  “Something spoke to me in the night, warning me against a castaway and against drought. This fellow appears, and it stops raining. It hasn’t rained for weeks, not a drop. The streams are dry. Crops are withering in the fields.”

  “What are you going to do, kill him?”

  “Not yet. I want to know his secret. He shall be tortured until he talks.”

  “Father, he won’t survive a minute of torture. He’s too weak.”

  “Are you sure he’s not pretending?”

  “If you want to torture him long enough to learn anything, you’d better shift him out of that cell. The rats almost ate his ear off. At this rate, he won’t last three days.”

  “You’re suggesting that I turn him loose?”

  “Not at all. Simply put him in the Labyrinth until he gets his health back and is able to bear a touch or two of the hot iron without dying.”

  “I’ll think about it. Return now to the temple. Dance with your priestesses and pray for rain.”

  Since Phaedra had learned that her sister was visiting the castaway, she followed Ariadne everywhere. There is no instinct surer than jealousy—especially when your rival is your sister—and Phaedra had immediately sensed that this stranger was Theseus. She felt helpless. Ariadne had already begun to blossom, especially since the stranger had come, but she, Phaedra, was still a little girl. She examined herself very carefully in a mirror and saw nothing to interest anyone. But if she wasn’t ready for Theseus herself, no one else would have him either, especially not Ariadne.

  And now things were worse. The prisoner had been transferred to the Labyrinth, which was a dreadful development. For Ariadne, armed with that damned spool Daedalus had given her, could sl
ither in and out of the maze like a hedge-snake.

  On this night, Phaedra had followed her sister to the temple of the Horned Moon and perched herself on the outer stone wall. The vestals came out and began to dance. Phaedra hummed wordlessly along with the flutes. The moon was hot and white, and shadows danced among the vestals. One shadow thickened and flowed toward Phaedra. A hand clutched her with enormous strength.

  She felt herself being lifted high over a shoulder and borne away with great speed. A heavy arm pressed against the back of her thighs, holding her close. Her head swung against a downy back, rolling with muscle. She was in a swoon of speed, a daze of helplessness, and wanting the ride to go on and on.

  Suddenly it was over. She was swung down and set on her feet. Phaedra stood before her abductor. She examined him from the bottom of his hooves to the tip of his horns. He was huge. A dense pelt of golden hair covered his shoulders, chest, belly, and thighs. He looked all golden in the moonlight. His horns glittered, and his eyes were pools of light.

  “Hello, Minotaur,” she said.

  He grunted.

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you carry me off, then?”

  “I heard you singing. Your voice …” he reached out and touched her lips with the tip of a hard finger.

  “What about my voice?”

  “My mother used to sing to me. Then, one day, she was in pieces on the ground. Your voice is like hers.”

  “Well, she was my mother too.”

  “Yours?”

  “I’m your sister—half anyway. The one called Phaedra.”

  He didn’t answer. She was frightened by the silence. His eyes were burning. Finally he spoke.

  “You’ll stay with me now.”

  “Will I?”

  “I want you to.”

  “Suppose I don’t want to?” she said.

  “Once you try it, you will.”

  “Try what, exactly?”

  “Living with me. Doing what I do.”

  “But you’re a monster. I’m not.”