Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two

by Bernard Evslin

  “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.”

  “Where shall I meet you?” said Rhoecus. Palaemona could hear the hunger in his voice.

  “I’ll send you a messenger who will tell you when and where. You will know by noon. But do not fail me.”

  “Send your messenger. I’ll be there.”

  The dryad kissed him again, glided back to her tree, and vanished.

  The next morning, instead of going to the hut, Palaemona went to the oak tree, for she was eaten up by curiosity about the dryad. She wanted to suspect her of treachery, wanted to think she had been lying to Rhoecus and would send no messenger. But, if she did send a messenger, then Palaemona very much wanted to know whom she would send.

  Where the woodsman had fallen was a heap of scoured bones. He had been picked clean as the dryad had promised. Humming a wordless tune, the tree nymph wandered over to the bones and kicked them into a neat pile, then kicked leaves over them. Her humming became a buzzing, as Palaemona heard her call, “Come … come … come …”

  A fat bee flew to her, poising at face level, wings whirring—so black it looked purple. “I am here,” it buzzed. “What is your bidding?”

  “I need a messenger to fly to my love, so I have called you, O honey maker. For who flies as swiftly as you? Fly then to Rhoecus—to the lad, Rhoecus, the sweet one, the brave one, and tell him to meet me at Cleft Rock three hours past noon.”

  “Rhoecus. Cleft Rock. Three hours past noon.”

  “Find him! Tell him! Fly … fly!”

  The bee circled her head twice, then streaked off. As it shot past Palaemona’s head, the girl heard it buzzing to itself, “Hive robber, beware.”

  “She shouldn’t have sent a bee,” thought Palaemona. “They hate Rhoecus.”

  And she flashed away, not to the hut, but to where she knew Rhoecus would be at this hour—swimming at the bend of the river where it ran deep. He was there, splashing, caroling to himself, diving, scrubbing himself with sand. Hidden behind a tree, she kept listening for the hum of the bee but heard nothing. Rhoecus had clad himself again and was sitting on the bank throwing pebbles into the water, watching the circles widen. He did not wear his keen hunter’s look; his lips were parted and his eyes dreaming. He arose and looked about, picked up a twig and snapped it, threw the pieces away. He patted together a wall of mud, then stamped it into the ground.

  Suddenly, he began running. She followed him. He ran through the wood to his hut and burst in. “Mother! Mother!” he cried. “Has a messenger come?”

  “Messenger?” she mumbled. “Have you brought me any honey? I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I crave something sweet.”

  “Did anyone come for me, Mother? Did anyone come to tell me anything?”

  “Who comes here, my son? No one. Why should they? We don’t want anyone. Go fetch me a honeycomb.”

  He whirled and dashed out.

  Palaemona was buffeted by different feelings. She was glad he was not meeting the dryad, but was sad because he was sad. And as she watched him waiting for the message that did not come, she pitied him more and more. “Shall I tell him myself?” she thought. “Appear before him and tell him where to meet her? He’ll be so happy to hear from her he won’t even notice me. Yes, I’ll tell him.”

  But she could not bring herself to do it. A magic circle had been drawn about the lovers, and she was forever outside. She must be forever invisible to him. She could not break that circle. She glanced at the sun. “Almost three hours past noon,” she said to herself. “I can’t tell him, but I’ll go to Cleft Rock and tell her that the bad bee never delivered her message. Then she can find him herself. They shall be happy together, and I’ll go to another part of the forest.”

  She left Rhoecus then and ran as fast as she could to Cleft Rock. When she got there, she found the dryad standing very still, her face pale and hard as she listened to the bee who was circling her head.

  “I found Rhoecus,” said the bee. “I found him as you bade me and told him to meet you here at three hours past noon. But he brushed me away, crying, ‘Let her wait then, the fool, for I will never come. I love none but my mother, and never shall.’”

  “You lie,” whispered the dryad. “He loves me. He killed my enemy and saved my life. He kissed me sweet as apples. Evil little wretch, why do you lie?”

  “Lady of the Oak, I do not lie. I tell only the truth, I swear it. If you do not believe he spurns your love, then wait here and see if he comes.”

  The bee flew away. “I’ll tell her now,” thought Palaemona, and was about to go to the rock when the dryad suddenly shrieked. She stamped and moaned and moaned, and tore her hair. Her face had turned green, almost the color of her dress.

  “It did not lie,” she cried. “If he loved me he would be here. Lovers hasten to their first tryst. No—he brushed off my messenger and laughed at my love. Well, the next bee that comes to him he shall not ignore.”

  As Palaemona watched in horror, the dryad raised her arms toward the sky, whirled faster and faster until she was a blur of green. The green darkened. Her long form rose, pulling in on itself, rolling itself into a different shape. And there hung a bee, an enormous one, greenish bl
ack, big as a hawk. Glistening from its tail was a great naked sting, the size of a spur, needle sharp.

  “Death … death … death,” hummed the enormous bee, and flew away so fast it seemed to vanish.

  Palaemona started to race toward the hut, then stopped. “No, he won’t be there. He’ll be searching for her, poor lad. He’ll be at the oak tree waiting for her. She’s going to the hut for him. I’ll get to the oak first and warn him.”

  She raced toward the oak tree. Though she had run far that day, now she ran faster than she had ever run before. But it was a long way, and the sun was sinking as she reached the oak. Sure enough, there was the lad waiting.

  “Rhoecus!” she called. “Rhoecus!”

  She saw his face grow radiant, and thought, “He thinks it’s her calling. That’s why he’s smiling.”

  Then she saw his smile disappear, saw him spring to his feet. Heard a loud vicious humming. The huge bee flew straight at him. He tried to cover his face with his hands, but the bee plunged its terrible shining sting into the boy’s chest. When his arms fell to cover his chest, the bee tilted, stabbing his neck again and again, as the humming grew louder and louder and mingled with the boy’s screams.

  Before she knew what she was doing, Palaemona found herself there, beating at the bee with a stick. She saw the ghastly, many-faced glitter of the bee’s magnified eyes—and felt something stab her forearm. Icy coldness spread through her. Darkness swarmed.

  She fell beside the boy. With her last strength she pulled her arm to her mouth and tried to suck out the poison. She sucked and spat, sucked and spat, feeling herself go under. She saw a bloated hairy blackness clinging to a branch above the boy’s head. Dreamily Palaemona heard it sob with the dryad’s voice. And in the last glimmer of her sense, saw it curl up and plunge the sting into its own body again and again and again.

  The green body of the dryad fell on the other side of Rhoecus. Palaemona saw it fall as she sank into total darkness.

  4

  The Haunted Healer

  Only where the moon trembled in the river was the black skiff briefly visible. It was going too fast to be drifting in that slow current, yet it bore no sail, no oars dipped. Was someone in it? It passed too quickly to tell. And when it rounded the bend past the drowned moon, it was engulfed in darkness.