Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two

by Bernard Evslin

  “How the hell do you know so much about me?”

  “People tell me things. And I’m delighted to meet you, Charon. You and I are the only warm bodies in this dank place. Why don’t you loose me from this rock like a good fellow?”

  Charon took the chain between his hands and snapped it as if it were twine.

  “Thank you,” said Thallo. “You’re wonderfully strong. Whom will you be helping in the great fight—Hecate or the Sphinx?”

  “Neither. I’m strictly neutral. Won’t even be on this side of the Styx. I’ll moor my boat on the far shore and watch things from there. Farewell.”

  He turned and strode off.

  “Wait!” called Thallo. “May I come visit you on the ferry?”

  Charon didn’t answer, but walked away into the mist.

  14

  Before the Battle

  The great chasm of Avernus is not the only way into Death’s realm. There is also a secret passage—a rocky shaft leading from the bottom of a burned-out volcano and entering Tartarus from the south. Hecate took this back way and came into Hell before she was expected.

  A friendly fiend told her where to find her husband. She clove the murky air like an arrow, and spotted him sitting on a rock from which dangled a broken chain. He was scribbling on a bit of parchment. She swooped, scooped him up, hugging him until his ribs almost cracked, kissing his face. Alighting on the rock, she held him on her lap, enfolded in her wings. Rocked him back and forth, crooning:

  “Oh pettikins … I was afraid she’d eaten you.”

  “Not yet. Soon, she thinks.”

  “I’ll give her something to chew on that’ll break her damned jaws,” snarled Hecate. Then she sighed. “It won’t be easy, though. She’s very big. And has a host of wicked fighters on her side.”

  “Like to hear some of my ideas?”

  “I love your ideas, poopsie, but what do you know about fighting?”

  “I know things about the Sphinx. When I learned that she was hungering for my acquaintance I tried to learn everything I could. Picked up a few facts and even more rumors. Then, of course, she gave me more time than I wanted to observe her closely.”

  “Tell me what you know. But whisper, baby. Spies simply swarm down here. Hades actually has a flock of flying ears—look like fleshy bats. And detachable eyes that skitter about on their lashes like water bugs.”

  He pulled down her head and pushed aside her hair to whisper into her ear. She listened intently and smiled at him when he finished. But it was a grim smile.

  “What do you think?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know, sweetling. You’re quite a little strategist. But …”

  “But what?”

  “It’s a desperate gamble. Disaster if it doesn’t work.”

  “Well, I mean it only as a last resort.”

  “It’ll be last all right—for her or me. But worth trying if everything else fails.”

  He tried to slide out of her arms.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find Charon. He’s the key to it.”

  “Stay a minute.”

  He knew what she meant but could not say—that these were probably their last minutes together. Choking back a sob, he rushed off. She spread her wings and rose into the air.

  Using a giant’s rusty helmet as a bucket, Charon was dipping water from the Styx and sloshing it over the lower deck. Thallo sat cross-legged on the upper deck, watching.

  “Can’t really clean this cruddy old barge,” said Charon. “And it’ll be carrying a lot of important passengers—the whole bloody Pantheon and a mob of minor gods—to see the fight, you know.”

  “Which takes us back to what we were talking about,” said Thallo.

  “No use going back,” said Charon. “I’ve told you a dozen times I’m staying out of that fight. There’s no reason for me to help your spooky wife against that other weirdo with wings.”

  “There is a reason. Hecate left Hell because she cared for someone. You entered Hell because you cared for someone. You and she have the only two loving hearts in this place of death. You should support each other.”

  “Sounds pretty,” said Charon. “But it’s not a good enough reason for me to get into that mess. I’m in enough trouble down here.”

  “Yes. And your trouble is another reason you should help Hecate. I warn you—if the Sphinx wins this fight and becomes Queen of the Harpies, she will be used by Lord Hades to keep strict watch on you and Persephone. You’ll never be able to meet.”

  Charon poured a helmetful of water over his head to help him think more clearly. “Stop,” he growled. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

  A sound came to them; it was like a huge collective sigh. They saw Hermes herding the day’s draft of shades. They weren’t used to being dead yet; they moaned and chittered, shrank back from the black waters. Thallo watched, fascinated. He had no idea why Hermes was waving some of the shades forward with his snake-entwined staff, and held others back. The ones who came forward climbed aboard the ferry. The others were driven to the river by Hermes. They shuddered into the water and were carried by a sideways current toward the shore where loomed the Gates of Hell. Vultures dived because some of the swimmers still wore rags of flesh.

  Thallo jumped ashore as Charon unmoored the ferry. He had to find out why some shades rode while others swam. He looked up at Hermes who, balancing on ankle wings, stood on air—so youthful and radiant that Thallo fell to his knees before him.

  “O Bright God,” he cried. “Tell me, please, why do you divide the shades upon this shore? What is your principle of selection?”

  “A universal principle,” said Hermes. “One affecting gods and mortals. They ride who can pay the fare; others swim. That is why those who can afford it cover corpses’ eyes with gold pieces; those who can’t curse their poverty but please the gods by praying more fervently than those who are able to send their relatives off in style.”

  “Thank you,” said Thallo. “I understand perfectly.”

  “Now a word for you, Thallo. You are alive, and on the far shore of the Styx. You are free to leave, if you wish, and I shall conduct you back to the Upper World.”

  “I thank you again, but I must stay. My wife, Hecate, as you may know is about to engage in deadly combat with the Sphinx.”

  “That’s a reason for you to leave, not to stay. If your wife loses, the Sphinx will simply drag you before Hades’ throne and eat you raw. If Hecate wins, she will be invited to resume the queenship of the Harpies.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Thallo. “I’ve considered all that, and have made my choice. I haven’t always been a good husband, but she seems somehow to have sunk her talons into the very center of my being. And I would have no interest in keeping alive if she weren’t with me. So, if she is destroyed by the Sphinx, or if she chooses to stay here and queen it over those flying hags again, then I’ll simply shed my empty life as a snake moults its skin. I’ll become a shade and abide with her forever.”

  “Nobly spoken,” said Hermes. “Impractical as hell, but that seems to go with talent. Well, I’ll be here for the great fight. We’re supposed to be neutral, you know, but I’ll be silently cheering for Hecate. Good luck to you both.”

  And he flew away.

  Charon had brought the ferry back, and leaped onto the shore. “I didn’t expect to find you here,” he said to Thallo. “I left you on this shore so you could escape, and stop nagging me. Why didn’t you go?”

  “For the same reason you don’t. Love.”

  “Oh, hell,” growled Charon. “All right. How do you think I can help?”

  “Hearken now,” said Thallo. “This Styx of yours is bottomless. Its waters grow colder and colder as they deepen, and, finally, toward earth’s center, become ice. But a special kind, young sir! Black ice! A thousand times colder than the ordinary kind, and used to sheathe earth from its central fire—which, of course, is a broken-off piece of the sun.”

  “How d
o you know?” grunted Charon.

  “Read it somewhere. I try to read everything written. Pick up a lot of useless knowledge that way—which sometimes comes in handy. Like now. Believe me, your river is bottomless, and grows colder as it deepens.”

  “Even if true, so what?”

  “This is the crux of my plan, so I’ll have to whisper now.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been warned; there are spies everywhere. Flying ears, crawling eyes. Bend down, please, so you can hear me.”

  Charon leaned down; Thallo whispered. He went on for a long time as Charon listened, scowling. Thallo ended by saying:

  “The serpents will uncoil when they’re directly over the river. You’ll be able to grasp their tails, and pull her down into the icy depths, deeper and deeper until she freezes stiff.”

  “I’ll be farther down. I’ll freeze stiffer.”

  “No, Charon. You will have kissed Persephone first. You’ll be warmed by the green fire of that springtide kiss. You won’t freeze.”

  15

  The Battle, and After

  The three-headed dog, Cerberus, guarded well the Gates of Hell, but it was a gloomy chore, and he quivered with eagerness now at the idea of quitting his post and fighting again. He had enrolled himself on Hecate’s side. Before the coming of Charon, she had been the only one of Hades’ staff to come sometimes and keep him company on his lonely vigil. Now he had become friendly with Charon also, and the ferryman had declared for Hecate, so the dog had no trouble making up his three minds about whose side he would fight on.

  It was time to go. There was no one to bark at. Charon was ferrying boatload after boatload of guests across the river, and they were allowed to pass freely through the black iron gates. So the three heads of Cerberus sparred briefly with each other, warming up for the fight, then the great beast turned and trotted into Tartarus.

  Preparing for his horde of guests, Hades had ordered that a vast viewing stand be erected on the Elysian Field. Here, the gods and goddesses and minor deities were to be placed according to rank. The highest seats were reserved for Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades himself. Tactfully, he had arranged for Zeus to be seated between his brothers, and that his seat be somewhat higher.

  When the guests had thronged onto the field, Thanatos, black caped and very suave, ushered them to their seats. It was a festive horde, smiling, laughing, shouting to one another. All except Hera. She didn’t allow herself to frown as she moved toward her place with stately step; neither did she smile. She was furious. For she saw that a separate podium had been set aside for Zeus’s beautiful daughters—his but not hers—the Muses, the Graces, and the Hours. Seated together, these radiant daughters were like a bank of flowers, and the air was murmurous with their joy.

  When everyone was seated, Hades arose. Silence fell. Everyone expected him to announce the beginning of the fight. But he nodded courteously to Zeus, who arose, thanked Hades with a gracious nod, and gestured to his herald, Hermes. The herald god stood, lifted his snake-entwined staff, and called out in a silvery voice:

  “Let it begin!”

  The Sphinx appeared first, stalking onto the field. She was so big that one expected her to lumber like an elephant; instead she prowled like a lion. And the crowd gasped as she lifted her huge wings, tossed her mane, smiled to show her fangs, and bared her claws, batting at her own shadow. The gasping grew to cries of wonder as she spread her wings, and the huge mustard body rose into the air and hovered midway between the audience and the raftered sky.

  Posed there in midair, she could be seen wholly for what she was—a winged lion larger than an elephant with claws like ivory daggers and a face too cruel to belong to any animal but the human kind—a woman’s face whose black hair became a lion’s mane, and whose mouth gleamed with a lion’s fangs. She looked so utterly savage that Hermes, who alone among the gods had bet on Hecate, counted his wager as lost. “No one,” he thought, “can possibly survive a fight with this monster of monsters.”

  Then, Hecate flashed into view, coming not upon the field, but floating down from the rafters, and standing on air above the artificial sun. Half-hidden as she was, she glittered among the shadows. In a nuptial verse, Thallo had described her this way:

  “Her mother was a nymph of the Falcon clan, her father an eastern panther god. She looks like a cheetah partially transformed into a woman—long legged, long armed, with blazing yellow eyes. Her hands and feet are tipped with ripping claws, but, when she draws them in, her touch is as soft as velvet. Her wings are ribbed and made of membranous leather, tinged gold, wherein has arisen the report that she wears brass wings. Her followers, the Harpies, do have brass wings and brass claws and are true hags with hideous, ravaged faces. But she, their queen, is beautiful as a cheetah in midleap.”

  But to those gazing up at her now, she looked pathetically small compared to the Sphinx, and no one thought she had any chance at all.

  Over the high seats where sat Zeus and his two brothers was stretched a canopy, and this showed foresight on the part of Hades. Soon after the fight started, it began to rain blood.

  Now, the Sphinx was confident of victory, but wanted to give herself every advantage. She had strong allies and meant to use them. The strategy was to force Hecate out of the air, for she flew much faster than the Sphinx.

  The Harpies were the first to attack. They had opted for the Sphinx. They expected her to become their queen in Hecate’s place, and were trying to curry favor. They flew toward Hecate, separating so that they might attack from three sides. They unfurled their stingray whips as they flew. Hecate uttered a fluting call.

  The audience saw things dropping out of the shadows. They were giant snakes, friendly to Hecate. They had wound their tails about the mountain roots that were the rafters of Hell and dangled there like leather stalactites, their blunt heads weaving about Hecate.

  As the Harpies flew in, shrieking, lashing, the serpents snapped their long bodies and drove their heads into the hags, smashing wings, breaking shoulder blades, knocking the Harpies out of the sky.

  Drops of blood began to fall. Zeus was shielded by the canopy. The others didn’t care; they were too excited by the fight to let a little blood bother them.

  A pair of hundred-handed giants rushed onto the field, bearing a huge boulder in each of their two hundred hands. They hurled their rocks at Hecate. The serpents recoiled themselves and hid among the rafters. Hecate dodged the hurtling boulders, but was forced to fly lower and lower.

  A squadron of dragons trotted onto the field. Wingless blue dragons, standing on their hind legs. Bred specially for the uses of Hell, they hopped swiftly, using their spiked tails for balance, and spat accurate jets of blue flame. As Hecate descended, they hopped beneath her, spitting flame, trying to incinerate her as she flew.

  Then it was that Cerberus charged. He had been crouched at the end of the field, awaiting his moment. He sped for the giants, whirling about them, snarling his triple snarl. Teeth flashed, gashing a leg of each giant. But he did not stay. He flashed among the dragons. Each pair of jaws grasped a giant lizard and shook it like a rabbit. Their heads snapped; spines cracked. The broken dragons fell to the ground, spat ash, and died.

  There were five dragons left, spitting flame at Cerberus. With a mighty leap he left them, landed on the grass, and stood between the dragons and the giants who were limping toward him, bellowing, and hurling boulders. Now Cerberus showed his matchless speed—dodging, weaving, leaping, charging now at the giants and slashing them until blood poured from their wounds, now leaping among the dragons and savaging them, and leaping away again.

  The wounded giants kept throwing rocks, but their aim was poor now. The dragons kept spitting fire. But their flame hit the giants, and the poorly thrown rocks smashed into the dragons. The giants became lumps of charred flesh, and the dragons lay squashed—like geckos stoned by cruel boys.

  Cerberus was in a battle fury; he didn’t want to stop. He wrinkled three bloody maws and lea
ped toward the Sphinx, barking furiously. But she was too high to reach. He turned and trotted off, looking for some demons to chew on.

  The crowd’s attention was wrenched away from Cerberus, for Hecate and the Sphinx were closing at last. Hecate had attacked. The Sphinx was roaring; her voice rumbled like thunder as the blood drizzled down. But the blood was hers now. Hecate was darting in and out like a wasp, lashing with her stingray whip, flicking off a patch of lion hide with each blow. And the Sphinx bled. Hades watched in wonder. He had seen Hecate in action before, and had admired her, but never before had she moved as fast as she did now, and attacked with such delicate savagery. She seemed to be breaking into a swarm of hornets, each one stinging a bloody place on the beast.

  But a hundred wounds didn’t even begin to tap the Sphinx’s enormous strength. She suffered, but she waited. Was so quiet as she hovered that she seemed almost stupefied by Hecate’s attack. Again Hecate swooped, coming very close, right toward her enemy’s face, trying to flick out her eyes. Too close. One great barbed paw shot out, raking Hecate from shoulder to hip.

  Thallo, hiding among a fringe of myrtles at the field’s edge, attached to the battle with every fiber of his being, saw his wife’s tunic rip, saw claws raking bloody furrows into her flesh. Wounded, bleeding, losing strength, she was still swift. Thallo saw her rise, fly toward the rafters, the Sphinx rising in pursuit.

  Up, up, flew Hecate, up to where the serpents lay coiled among the rafters. There were four serpents. She hissed at them. They obeyed instantly, two by two, twining themselves about each other. Hecate lurked in Hell’s rafters, grasping a pair of braided serpents in each hand. The Sphinx hovered beneath, waiting for her to reappear.

  Thallo, watching from below, watching her vanish among the shadows, knew that she had reached her last resource—which was his own plan, desperate though it was. Now he had to move. He cawed like a crow, which was his signal to Persephone, who was also hiding among the trees, keeping out of Hades’ sight.