Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two

by Bernard Evslin

  But, for all his bravery, Nisus now found himself frozen by terror before the menace of cobra-headed Buto and cat-headed Bast. For these were gods; he could not escape them by dying. They could follow him into the cool glades of death and torment his ghost through eternity.

  “Well?” hissed Buto. “Will you do as we wish?”

  “Or should we begin doing things?” purred Bast, unsheathing her talons.

  “I submit to your wishes,” said Nisus. “But I must beg you to be patient. Even with the skills taught me by great Thoth, I cannot find mandrakes that aren’t there. But I promise you to hunt as diligently as I can.”

  “We are not very patient by nature,” said Buto. “But we shall grant you a certain amount of time to accomplish your task.”

  “No tricks!” snarled Bast. “We’ll know immediately if you try to deceive us, and you will feel the full weight of our displeasure.”

  Hissing and yowling, they lifted themselves into the air, and the sweep of their great wings pressed a deeper darkness upon the ship as they flew away.

  Nisus didn’t know what to do. His whole nature forbade him to obey the beast-gods. He simply could not bring himself to produce more slaves to sate their greed. But, if he didn’t … It was a hot night but he shuddered at the thought of what they could do to him.

  He tried to cast himself into a sleep, something he could usually do. But the terror was biting too deeply; he could not sleep. So he prayed: “Oh great Thoth, wise and kindly ibis-god, instruct me now. For terrible visions have come out of the night. Buto and Bast bid me abet their crimes, and I cannot obey, and dare not refuse.”

  Again, Nisus heard the sweep of great wings. He cowered to the deck, thinking that Buto and Bast had heard his prayer and were returning to punish him. Whiteness split the night, perched atop the mast. To his delight Nisus saw that it was no flying cobra or cat but an ibis, royal bird of the Nile, favorite incarnation of the great Thoth. The voice of the ibis was like the rich chuckle of the river when it ran swiftly in a narrow place. It shed peace.

  “Close your eyes, Nisus,” said the voice. “Sink into the realm of deeper knowledge, for I come with a countervision.”

  Nisus felt himself not sinking but rising into sleep. He seemed to float above the deck. A panel slid open in the profound darkness. He looked upon a radiant sward in a place he had never been. Upon that meadow grazed a herd of enormous cows, big as hippos, and graceful as horses. Their hide was pale gold, their eyes were pools of molten gold, their hooves and horns were gilded. Toward the herd over the shining grass slithered two shapes—a cobra, long as the ship’s anchor line, and a cat the size of a tiger. Nisus knew that they were Buto and Bast, but wingless now.

  Two cows raised their head, swished their tail, and galloped toward the invaders. The cobra rose upon its coils, its hooded head weaving, its tongue darting. The cat crouched to spring. The cows were blurs of gold as they leaped into the air. One landed upon the cobra, one upon the cat, their sharp hooves chopping. The cobra wriggled free; it was bleeding. And the cat was limping. Hissing and snarling they returned to the attack. Now the cows met them with lowered horns. They used those horns as a fencer uses his sword. One cow impaled the cobra and lifted it, writhing, into the air. The other cow drove her gilded horns straight into the cat and pinned it to the grass.

  Nisus watched as the snake and the cat died. The cows withdrew their bloody horns, wiped them clean upon the grass, trotted back to the others, and began again to graze. Snake and cat vanished, then the meadow vanished. The gold slowly faded.

  Nisus was standing on the deck. A cool night wind bathed his fevered face. He stretched his arms to the ibis. “What does it mean?” he cried.

  “It means,” said the ibis, “that golden cattle are your only bulwark against Buto and Bast.”

  “And what does that mean?” said Nisus.

  “Buto and Bast recognize no law save their own desires,” said the ibis. “They fear but one power, that of Hathor, the great mother, the golden cow that rides the sky at night and whose milk is rain. Therefore you must go to Crete and raid the unique herds of King Minos, taking three golden cows and one golden bull. That is the meaning of your dream. And you must take cows and bull to the Isthmus of Corinth, for there alone grows grass rich enough to pasture the golden cattle. You shall abide in Corinth. Your bull will be a bull; the cows will calve; your herd will grow. And Buto and Bast, who dread only Hathor, will view the golden cattle as a sign of her favor, and will refrain from harming you even though you defy them in the matter of the mandrake. Do you understand?”

  “Not completely, my lord.”

  “Well, you shall learn by doing. Change the course of this vessel and sail for Crete.”

  “I thank you, great Thoth,” cried Nisus.

  The white bird uttered a rich chuckle, and his white shape split the darkness again as he flew away.

  5

  The Bronze Giant

  When morning came, Nisus asked the captain to put about and sail for Crete. This captain, who was also the owner of ship and cargo, refused. Nisus gently repeated his wish to visit Crete.

  The captain, remembering that this difficult passenger was a prince, after all, tried to bridle his temper and explained that he had no intention of changing course for the pirate-infested waters to the west. What he meant to do, he said, was skirt the coast and sail north to Phoenicia where he would trade his holdful of Egyptian cotton for Phoenician dye and cedar planks and cedar oil from Lebanon.

  Even more gently, Nisus stated that it behooved the captain to change his course. For he, Nisus, promised to protect ship and cargo from all pirates, and would lead the entire company to splendid adventure and fabulous wealth.

  “Even if I were inclined to believe your crazed promises,” said the captain, “how do you think I could manage to sail directly against a head wind?”

  “You take care of the navigation,” said Nisus, “and I’ll take care of the wind. I’ll whistle one up that will take us right to Crete.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” cried the captain. “Be silent immediately or I’ll have you chained like a madman and set you ashore at the first landfall.”

  Whereupon, it is told, the amazed crew saw the prince’s head catch fire. Then they realized that what they saw was a single lock of his black hair changing color, glowing red-gold. They saw him raise his hand, his fingers making horns, and point at the captain—who uttered a shriek, raced across the deck, and leaped into the water.

  Nisus put his fingers to his lips and whistled. The crew heard the masts creak as the wind shifted. “Put about!” cried Nisus. They seized the lines and pulled down the huge clumsy sail, then raised it again as the bare-masted vessel swung around, pointing its prow at the setting sun.

  The captain was still afloat, but soon became a speck as the ship scudded toward Crete under a freshening east wind. They still heard his screams, and knew that sharks were gathering.

  King Minos summoned Daedalus to the palace and said, “I have another task for you, my artful one.”

  “It is my pleasure to serve you,” said Daedalus, bowing low.

  “I want to arrange the security of this island while my war fleet is absent—which will happen more and more frequently as I begin to attack my neighbors in a serious way. But the seas are wide. Anyone who can sail a ship is a potential enemy, and can raid us while I am invading someone else.”

  “What you need then,” said Daedalus, “while your navy is patriotically pursuing your plans for empire, is something other than a war vessel to repel enemy shipping. Do I understand you correctly?”

  “You do.”

  “Give me a few hours to think, Your Majesty, and I shall return with a plan, Athena willing, of course—and Hephaestus.”

  “Oh, I think my half brother and sister will favor our designs,” said Minos, “and inspire you with another of your brilliant notions.”

  He spoke this way because he sought every opportunity to claim that he
was a son of Zeus, something he wasn’t too sure of but wished fervently to believe, and even more, to make others believe.

  But whether the gods did, indeed, favor Minos, or whether imperial designs are advanced by some other agency, Daedalus was again kindled by inspiration almost divine. He created a unique sentinel for the island of Crete.

  It was a statue cast in bronze, the great hollow of its thorax stuffed with springs and wheels and cogs so artfully constructed that they endowed the bronze figure with its own weird energy. Daedalus named him Talus, meaning “ankle,” for the energy flowed through a veinlike channel that ran from head to foot. The vein was stoppered at the ankle by a single bronze pin. There was never a sentinel like Talus. Tall as a tree, tireless, invulnerable to weapons, he was completely obedient to the orders issued by Daedalus. He circled the island three times a day. Whenever a ship approached, he threw boulders at it, sinking it, or driving it off.

  One of the under-officers approached Nisus and requested permission to speak.

  “Permission granted,” said Nisus, smiling at him—which confused the officer because the former captain had smiled only when about to do something cruel. This is why none of the crew had been sorry to see him go overboard.

  “What I wanted to say, Your Highness, is that these waters have proved perilous of late.”

  “Pirates, do you mean? Why, we haven’t seen a sail in days.”

  “No, Prince, the war galleys of Minos have swept these waters clear of pirates. And that war fleet itself is no menace to trading vessels; the Cretans are eager for trade. But Minos is away now; his ships blockade the island of Thera. And when the king sails off with his fleet, he leaves a giant patrolling the shores of Crete. He hurls boulders at any ship that approaches. He usually hits what he aims at, and what he hits, sinks.”

  “A single giant to patrol the entire coast?” said Nisus. “That would hardly seem sufficient.”

  “He’s supposed to be some sort of extraordinarily magical monster, performing far beyond what flesh and blood can do.”

  “Well, my good man, you awaken my curiosity. I’m eager to see this unusual creature. Don’t worry, though. I shan’t endanger ship or crew. We’ll anchor a safe distance offshore, and I’ll smuggle myself onto the island in a small boat, do what I have to do, and return to you.”

  “Oh my Prince,” cried the man. “We have known you only a few days but we have learned to love you. Now you’re proposing to throw away your life trying to do what no man can. I pray you, desist. And I know that I speak for the entire crew.”

  “Thank you,” said Nisus. “I value what you have told me more than you can know. Still, I must ask you to have faith in me and not despair of my life. I may be a bit magical myself, you know.”

  Having been warned of the bronze sentinel that patrolled the Cretan coast and hurled boulders at approaching vessels, Nisus kept his ship offshore and, when night came, dived overboard and swam in.

  He slept on the beach, and in the morning pushed inland, looking for the cattle. He found them grazing on a meadow, and stared in admiration at the great sleek animals, hot gold against the green grass.

  He heard something and whirled about. Coming toward him was what looked like a giant in full armor. Then he saw that it was not armor. The giant itself was made of bronze, but moving as if alive. Nisus came to a lightning decision. He knew that he would be helpless in the grasp of that metal monster. Knew that he had only one chance—and only if he was able to reach the beach.

  He needed to be on the beach because he needed sand. One of the wizardries he had learned from Thoth was the djinn trick of calling up a sandstorm. The ibis god had taught him a magic whirling dance that would make the sand rise in tall spouts and whirl with him. Then the spouts would go where he pointed.

  He was racing through a fringe of trees toward the beach. He had chosen this route because Talus was too wide to pass between the trees and had to crash through the bush. Nevertheless, the bronze giant was enormously powerful and could cover twenty yards at a stride—and had almost caught up to Nisus before he burst out of the trees onto the beach.

  Nisus immediately began to whirl. Tall spouts of sand arose and whirled also. Nisus whirled faster and faster, trying to thicken the flying sand to make himself invisible. Then, suddenly, remembering how the metal monster was constructed, he had another idea. To move the way it did, it had to be jointed at shoulder, elbow, wrist, hip, knee, and ankle. But being made of bronze and having no hide, the joints were open.

  Whirling among the spouts of sand, Nisus pointed to Talus, who was groping toward him. The sand spouts moved that way and swirled about the towering figure. Nisus stopped whirling. The air cleared. The giant stood stiffly on the beach. Stiffly, creakily, it was trying to raise one massive leg. With a mighty effort it began to move toward Nisus, but rigidly, so slowly that Nisus saw that his idea had worked. Sand had settled into the metal joints, clogging them, making it almost impossible for the monster to move despite its inhuman strength.

  So Nisus was able to race back to the meadow, cut out three cows and a bull, and drive them to the beach and into the sea before Talus had moved ten yards.

  Nisus swam the cattle out to the ship, and heard the men cheering as he approached.

  6

  Prince and Wolf-girl

  Scylla crouched on the brow of a hill, howling to the moon. She was very lonesome. It was spring, and the rest of the pack had paired off, leaving her to herself. She raced downhill and through the woods, over a meadow and up a steeper slope to the top of the headland which looked over the sea.

  She walked toward the cliff’s edge.

  “No-o-o,” called a cavernous voice.

  She whirled about. It was the cowled boulder, the Stone Crone; her eyepits were full of moon-glare; the wind was blowing through her mouth-hole and was a voice.

  “No-o-o.”

  Scylla faced her. “No what?”

  “Don’t do it. Don’t jump.”

  “I don’t want to live anymore,” cried Scylla. “I’m too lonely.”

  “You have come into your strength. It is springtime. You need a mate.”

  “I can’t find one. I’m too different.”

  “It’s time you learned that,” said the Crone. “You’re not a wolf. You’re a girl. You must find a man.”

  “A man? Never! Good-bye. I’m going off the cliff.”

  “That won’t solve anything.”

  “Why won’t it?” said Scylla.

  “Those who kill themselves, particularly those who are young, return as resentful ghosts who wander the earth trying to reclaim their estranged bodies. Such ghosts are the very essence of loneliness, and are condemned to wander through eternity never finding what they seek. You must try another way.”

  “What way?”

  “Do you remember what I told you once when you asked me what was to be?”

  “I remember some windy verse. I was very happy that night. I was among my brothers. It was beginning to storm. Everything was wild and beautiful.”

  “I’ll tell you again what I told you then:

  You shall stalk

  the Son of the Hawk …

  First a wedding,

  then the beheading …

  “I still don’t know what that means,” said Scylla.

  “It means that someone is coming to Corinth—

  Strong in battle,

  rich in cattle …

  He is your destiny.

  “Not if he’s a man,” said Scylla. “I can’t bear men. They’re too ugly—with their bald bodies and useless noses and dull eyes and tiny teeth.”

  “He’s not quite a man,” said the Crone. “He’s part wizard, as you are part wolf. He’ll know how to please you.”

  The Crone fell silent. Scylla moved to the edge of the cliff and looked down upon the dark heaving mass of the waters. It was a long way down. Surely, such a fall would shatter even a stubborn ghost. She shuddered, backed off, turned and raced int
o the woods.

  The next day, Scylla was prowling the edge of the forest. She hadn’t eaten, but was too disheartened to stalk any game. She stiffened as the wind brought her a rich meaty smell. She followed the spoor across a meadow. In the distance she saw a blur of gold, and circled so as to conceal herself among a fringe of trees. Moving silently, blending with the shadows, she came close enough to see.

  The odor was coming from three golden cows and a golden bull. Scylla hadn’t realized how hungry she was. She slavered as she watched the cows. She wasn’t sure she could pull one down without the help of other wolves. For these animals were enormous, and the bull was larger still; his gilded horns were sharp as spears, and he was carved of living muscle.

  The bull bellowed suddenly and lowered his horns. The cows gathered in a tight group and became a hedge of horns. Scylla saw why. A bear was lumbering toward them across the meadow—a springtime bear, fresh out of hibernation, famished and foul-tempered.

  A man sprang out from behind the cows and placed himself in front of the bull, facing the bear. Scylla gaped in amazement. She hadn’t smelled him. He didn’t quite smell like a man; he smelled of spice-wood and hot sand. He wore only a short, embroidered apron and a spiral hat. He was very slender, boyish, almost birdlike, not one to fight a beast that the mightiest hunter dared not face alone.

  The bear reared up, towering over the man, prepared to take him into its fatal hug. Scylla stared at the man. Was he actually smiling, or was his face twisted by a rictus of fear? He raised his right hand and pointed at the bear. His fingertips glowed. Five streams of blue light flowed toward the bear. It whimpered and dropped to all fours—rolled over like a huge affectionate dog, waving its paws in the air. The man laughed aloud and tickled the bear’s belly. The huge animal whined with pleasure.