“Can I be sure of this? Well, the eldest tales say so. And as a poet I have to believe them. Let’s hope this monster shares my belief. If not, I’m in deep trouble, and Hecate will have to find another husband when she comes home from Libya. There are many bigger, stronger, handsomer men than I—and almost anyone is braver. But I seem to be the only one who can make her laugh. So I’ll have to try to keep alive for her sake, not to mention my own. Bulls ho!”
And he scampered down the mountain and headed for Knossos, where a herd of magnificent bulls was kept for the sport called bull dancing. This was a weekly entertainment demanded by the king. It was welcomed by the populace also—for the king’s other sport was torturing his subjects.
“I’ll hide myself among the herd,” said Thallo to himself. “If my theory’s correct, the Sphinx will refuse to hunt me there for fear of harming one of the creatures sacred to Hathor. Of course, there’s another danger attached to this plan. Hecate has warned me in the harshest possible terms to keep my distance from the lithe and lovely girls who somersault through the bulls’ horns in the fourth turn of the dance. If she catches me anywhere near the ring, she promises, she’ll turn me over her knee and blister my bottom in full view of the dancers. But what’s a spanking by my dear wife, even a shameful public one, compared to being eaten raw by the Sphinx?”
Thus ran his thoughts as he trotted along the shore of the shining sea toward Knossos. But this set him thinking of something else: How Hecate, in moments of violent affection, would swoop upon him, clutch him in her claws, and lift him into the air, kissing and caressing him in midflight. Then he thought: “But the Sphinx, they say, falls like a thunderbolt from a clear sky as she swoops upon her prey. Suppose she falls upon me suddenly and snatches me up as an eagle does a lamb. I’ll feel myself lifted into the air, feel her mouth upon me, and think for a moment, perhaps, that it is Hecate—but then realize that the mouth is not kissing my neck but throttling it. One last glimpse of the sun as I struggle in her claws, then the mountain spinning beneath me—then the breath will be crushed out of me. Everything will go black, fade into nothingness.…”
And, in his poet’s way, the thought in his head became realer than reality, and he frightened himself into a deep swoon. And was lying there unconscious when the Sphinx spotted him, and dived.
She stood over him, considering. “Shall I eat him here? I’ve just had a flock of sheep and am not very hungry. And if I should eat him now, how do I know that this weird wit of his that Hades described will really enter my own thinking? Poets have always given me indigestion. This one’s supposed to be bitter rather than sweet, but who knows? Poetry is poetry, and I loathe it. And I must say, this bard looks particularly scrawny and unappetizing. Besides, if I should eat him and his so-called imagination doesn’t take, then when I go back to Tartarus, Hades will simply think I’m lying, that I didn’t catch him at all, and will be furious with me. I know: I’ll take him back to Tartarus, to the castle in Erebus, into the throne room itself, and there devour him as Hades watches. That way there will be no misunderstanding.”
She seized the unconscious Thallo and bore him off like a gull taking a fish.
When Thallo came out of his swoon he found himself clutched in an enormous clawed paw, and saw jagged peaks sliding beneath him. Looking up, he saw huge wings blotting the sun. Slung between them was the underbelly of a gigantic lioness. But she wore a woman’s face, quite young; her mouth gleamed with a lion’s fangs.
Too much. Utter terror. He tried to swoon again. He could not; his heart was beating too hard. The wind was cooled by snow as it whistled past the peaks—was then warmed by the noonday sun and spurted into updrafts. The Sphinx rode those updrafts like a sea bird bobbing on the surf.
With quickening interest, Thallo realized that he recognized these mountains. They belonged to the Saronic range near Mycenae, and he had wandered them as a youth, climbing them to see the wonder of snow and to dance with oreades. One slope, however, no youth dared climb; even the goatherds shunned it. For in one of its clefts had nestled a lake called Avernus. This, according to ancient legend, Hades had chosen as his entrance to the Underworld. Had emptied the lake of its blue waters, and broken through its bed, making a chasm that led down, down, through a chain of interlocking caves, to the shore of the Styx.
And now, Thallo realized, the Sphinx had begun to coast in a slant dive toward that very chasm. “Avernus?” he thought. “Is she really going there? Is it possible she’s taking me to Tartarus, where only the dead may enter? She knows I’m still alive, of course. And, of course, intends to render me defunct before reaching the Styx. She won’t have to bother; I’m about to die of fear.”
Nevertheless, he knew he wouldn’t. For some reason he felt throbbingly alive. “How wonderful,” he thought, “if I could actually get into the place with all my me-ness intact.”
12
Demeter Strikes
The Garden of the Gods lay on the sunny southern slope of Olympus, and was the pleasantest spot in the entire world. Botanus, the hundred-handed giant who was head gardener, had ransacked the earth for the most gorgeous, most fragrant blooms and had transplanted them here. For this place, too, Demeter in happier days had decreed an eternal June, so that no plant withered, no bush died, and the birds sang always.
Upon this day, however, Hera, entering the garden, was horrified at what she saw. She turned and charged up the slope and into the cloud castle, searching for her husband.
“Zeus!” she screamed. “Make her stop!”
“Make who stop what?”
“Our sister! Demeter! She’s in the garden, uprooting all our plants, and swears she won’t let them grow again until her daughter is returned.”
“That damned old shrew!” growled Zeus. “She’s caused me a lot of trouble lately. Been withholding her crops down there … and the complaints of the hungry are beginning to deafen the statues in all my temples.”
“Well, why don’t you make Hades send back her stupid daughter?”
“A matter of policy, my dear, high policy,” mumbled Zeus, who had accepted a bribe from Hades, and was beginning to regret it. “Go down to the garden and tell her to leave immediately or feel the full weight of my wrath.”
“Won’t work, my lord. She’s even angrier than you are, and is demanding justice.”
“I dislike injustice,” said Zeus. “And dislike its victims even more. Make tremendous pests of themselves; ever notice.… Very well, tell her to come here and I’ll discuss things with her. And tell her she’d better bloody well replant everything she’s pulled up or I’ll throw her off the mountain.”
The conversation was held, and Demeter was all smiles as she left the cloud castle. She hurried to Hermes and cried, “Go to Zeus! He has an errand for you, a most urgent one! You are to go to Tartarus and in the master’s name demand the release of my daughter. Will you ride with me to the Gates of Hell? I have the swiftest horse in the world, given me by Poseidon.”
“Thank you, Aunt,” said Hermes. “But I believe that my winged sandals are even faster.”
We have seen how Hades hung an artificial sun to please his bride. But he was even prouder of the night he had contrived. The roots of mountains are the rafters of Hell, and to these black beams he had fastened diamonds to imitate stars. Among them, he hung a moon of purest silver. He stood with Persephone in the courtyard of his jet and ruby palace, inviting her to admire his jeweled sky.
“Those are diamonds,” he said, pointing up.
She didn’t answer.
“They could be emeralds or sapphires if you’d like a bit more color.”
She shrugged.
“You like diamonds, eh? Well, choose the ones you want and my Cyclopes will unpin them from the sky and make a necklace for you. Unless you’d prefer a bracelet. You needn’t choose; you can have both.”
This time she didn’t even shrug but turned from him and looked into the distance. She was expecting Charon this evening and was try
ing to hide her excitement. She knew that her secret would be fatal to the young boatman if Hades guessed.
Just then Hades heard a ringing herald shout, and knew that Hermes had come. He was not pleased. Hermes traveled to the Underworld each day, leading the unbodied spirits there. But he left them on the far shore of the Styx and never entered Tartarus itself if he could help it. When he did it was to bring some message from Zeus, usually an unwelcome one. Displeased though he was, Hades received his nephew graciously.
“Welcome, Hermes. To what do we owe the pleasure of so rare a visit?”
“Official business, I’m afraid,” said Hermes. “I come at the order of Father Zeus.”
“Ah,” said Hades. “He wishes to congratulate me on my betrothal, no doubt. And you wish to add your good wishes to his.”
“Not quite,” said Hermes. “It is his command that you release Persephone into my custody so that I may conduct her to the Upper World and return her to her mother.”
“Nonsense,” said Hades. “There must be some mistake. The last time I saw Zeus, he agreed that I might keep her for my own.”
“Things have changed,” said Hermes. “Demeter has persuaded him otherwise. The only way you can hold her here is if she has signified her consent by eating something. Has she?”
Hades knew that she hadn’t, but said: “I don’t know.”
“Where is she, by the way?”
“Somewhere about. She was just here.”
Indeed, Persephone was quite close, but out of sight. When she heard Hermes shouting she had slid behind a myrtle tree, and stood there listening to every word. She didn’t know why she had hidden herself; she had done it by reflex. Having so bossy a mother had taught her to be secretive. Now she felt a pang of joy as she saw Charon’s red head blazing in the artificial moonlight. She sprang out, seized his hand, and drew him behind the myrtle.
“Charon, Charon,” she whispered. “We’re leaving!”
He stared at her in amazement.
“Yes, yes, it’s true! That’s why Hermes is here—to take me home. You’ll be coming too, of course.”
She moved away, startled, as rage twisted his face. His huge hands were closing and unclosing, as if seeking someone to throttle.
“What’s wrong?” she cried.
“I can’t leave.”
“Why not?”
“I just vowed to serve Hades for a thousand years.”
“Why? Why?”
“Only way I could get permission to stay. I thought you were staying. I didn’t think he’d ever let you go. In fact, I don’t see how he can bear to.”
“That’s very sweet to say.” She took his hand again. “What does it matter what you promised? Just break it.”
He shook his head. “It’s a sacred vow—unbreakable. But if you go to the Upper World I’ll manage to get away every few months and come see you.”
“Not good enough. I want to see you every day.”
“All right,” he muttered. “I’ll break the damned vow.”
She studied his face for a moment, then lifted her slender hand and stroked it, smiling her first grown-up smile. “No, my darling,” she said. “You’re all one piece, a splendid one, but inflexible. If you break your vow you’ll break your heart. And if yours breaks, so will mine.”
“What shall we do then?”
“I’ll do what you did, stay because you can’t go.”
“You here in this gloomy place, forever?”
“Together we’ll light up our own space. Besides, I am what I am, wherever I am. And will bring a bit of April to this accursed place.”
“But if you stay, he’ll make you his bride.”
“Ah, but you and I will know different, won’t we? And it’s what we know that counts. Anyway, this gives me an excuse to break my stupid fast. Let’s go into the orchard and pick some fruit.”
As they left, they heard Hades saying: “I need five days, old chap. Just five. I’m about to stage a monstrous battle between Hecate and the Sphinx. It will be a magnificent spectacle. I’m inviting all the gods to attend. I’m sure I’ll be able to get Zeus to see things my way while he’s down here. Just five days.”
“I don’t have the authority, Uncle,” said Hermes. “My orders were clear.”
Hades was still trying to persuade him when he saw Persephone strolling out of the orchard, and he was overjoyed to see her holding a split pomegranate. Her mouth was stained with its red juice. So pleased was he that he neglected to scowl at Charon, whose boatmanship he valued but whose too frequent presence was beginning to irk him.
Hermes took in the situation at a glance. “Congratulations, Uncle!” he cried, and flew off, ankle wings whirring.
13
Chaining a Poet
Certain boulders on a rubbled plain of Tartarus wear iron rings. These are the punishment rocks used by the Harpies who keep discipline among Hell’s staff. Here are chained those fiends and demons who have broken some rule or other and need flogging. And it was to one of these rocks that the Sphinx shackled Thallo when she brought him to Tartarus.
She left him there and went off to present herself to Hades. Thallo did not act like a captive. He had expected to be finished off long before this, and was delighted to find himself uneaten. He lounged against his rock and stared across the dismal plain. Figures fledged themselves out of the mist, hardly thicker than fog. These were the shades; they were what was left of those who had died. Thallo studied them keenly, for whatever they had become, he knew, he would become too—probably very soon.
He was disappointed in them. He had expected shades, souls, to be purer, more concentrated, now that they had shed their flesh. But these vaporous things seemed very cold, indifferent to everything except themselves. They didn’t even glance his way, but drifted past, twittering.
Hades did not wish to meet the Sphinx indoors, even in so vast a hall as his throne room. He received her then upon the Plain of Pain, halfway between the Gutwinder and the Marrow Log.
“I caught Thallo,” said the Sphinx. “And brought him here so that you might watch me eat him, and see how strictly I follow your suggestions.”
“Where is he?”
“In that field yonder, chained to a rock.”
“Let’s keep him alive for a bit,” said Hades. “Hecate will be coming to claim him, which will give you the chance you’ve been waiting for—to fight her in single combat for the queenship of the Harpies.”
“Is that the chance I’ve been waiting for?”
“Why, certainly! I should hope so. How can you really prove yourself fit for the post except by challenging the one who held it?”
“I see,” said the Sphinx. “I guess I didn’t quite understand. Doesn’t matter. I’m ready to fight her, or anyone else. No one—bird, beast, fish, hero or monster—has lasted more than a few minutes against me.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Hades. “She’s undefeated too. Should be a good match. I’ve invited the entire Pantheon to view it. Incidentally, I said ‘single combat,’ and that’s how it’ll probably end, but you’ll both have allies.”
“Indeed? What for?”
“To serve me the way I require, my Harpy queen must show generalship, you know. I don’t just want to see how well you fight, but how well you lead troops. So you’ll have troops. And to make it fair, she’ll have some too.”
“Who’ll be on my side?”
“I have a unique bestiary down here. And giants and dragons, and a staff of assorted fiends and demons. You can have first choice.”
“Very well,” said the Sphinx. “I choose the Harpies, the hundred-handed giants, the dragons, and the First Torture Team.”
“That leaves only Cerberus, the Manglers, the serpents, and the Cyclopes. And the Cyclopes are doubtful. They prefer to fight only in their own interests. They may simply lean on their mallets and watch.”
“All the better,” said the Sphinx. “Who wants to be fair in a fight?”
“You lack exp
erience,” said Hades, “but seem to have the right hellish instincts. Good enough, then. Go meet your troops. Hecate should be here by tomorrow.”
Chained to his rock, peering through the mist, Thallo was too interested to be unhappy. He was alive, alive among the dead, something he had felt before when wandering the slopes of Helicon with his fellow bards, whose verse was so much feebler than his own.
Elated by strangeness, filling with a sense of unfamiliar power, he found himself watching a weird carnival—the Hell tales told him by Hecate fledging themselves out in the dreamy mist. He saw the swooping Harpies she had led; the bat-winged Furies who were even worse; the drifting, twittering shades driven by pitchfork demons and roasted by turnspit demons; the gigantic, gliding serpents she had admired because they had no cruelty, only blind strength. And here he was set down in this taboo place among such fabled creatures—himself, wildly curious, furiously observant, alive among the dead.
Now a flock of ghosts shuddered past, driven by a pair of demons. As they wielded their pitchforks, driving the shades along, the demons chatted about the great battle that was to be staged between Hecate and the Sphinx. Thallo tried desperately to hear what they were saying. He ran toward them until his chain jerked him back. Their slurred infernal accent was hard to understand. He strained his ears so hard that his eyes bulged. He finally understood most of what they said. He slumped back against the rock, thinking hard. Hecate was coming for him; that much was clear, but she would not be allowed to leave before fighting the Sphinx—and an array of fearsome allies.
He saw a huge figure shouldering through the mist, and felt a warm thrill of recognition. Even at this distance he knew that whoever was coming toward him was a living mortal.
“Greetings!” he shouted.
The figure approached, loomed before him, and Thallo knew who it was from the tales he had heard.
“What are you doing here?” said the youth. “You’re no shade.”
“Indeed I’m not. At least not quite yet. Neither are you. You’re the wild young ferryman from the Alpheus, here on a mission from Demeter.”
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two Page 44
