Mythos (2019 Re-Issue)

by Stephen Fry

  First he commanded Hephaestus to do as Prometheus had done, to shape a human being from clay moistened by his spittle. But this was to be the figure of a young female. Taking his wife Aphrodite, his mother Hera, his aunt Demeter, and his sister Athena as models, Hephaestus lovingly sculpted a girl of quite marvelous beauty into whom Aphrodite then breathed life and all the arts of love.

  The other gods joined together to equip this girl uniquely for the world. Athena trained her in the household crafts, embroidery, and weaving, and dressed her in a glorious silver robe. The Charites were put in charge of accessorizing this with necklaces, brooches, and bracelets of the finest pearl, agate, jasper, and chalcedony. The Horai plaited flowers around her hair until she was so beautiful that all who saw her caught their breath. Hera endowed her with poise and self-possession. Hermes schooled her in speech and the arts of deception, curiosity, and cunning. And he gave her a name. Since each of the gods had conferred upon her a notable talent or accomplishment, she was to be called “All-Gifted,” which in Greek is PANDORA.78

  Hephaestus bestowed one more gift upon this paragon, which Zeus presented himself. It was a container filled with . . . secrets.

  Now, you probably think I am going to say the container was a box, or perhaps a chest of some description, but in fact it was the kind of glazed and sealed earthenware jar that is known in Grecian lands as a pithos.79

  “Here you are, my dear,” said Zeus. “Now, this is purely decorative. You are never ever to open it. You understand?”

  Pandora shook her lovely head. “Never,” she breathed with great sincerity. “Never!”

  “There’s a good girl. It is your wedding gift. Bury it deep below your marriage bed, but you must not open it. Ever. What it contains . . . well, never mind. Nothing of interest to you at all.”

  Hermes took Pandora by the hand and transported her to the little stone house where Prometheus and his brother Epimetheus lived, right in the center of a prosperous human town.

  THE BROTHERS

  Prometheus knew that Zeus would seek some kind of retribution for his disobedience and warned his brother Epimetheus that, while he was away teaching the newly sprung-up villages and towns how to use fire, he should on no account accept any gift from Olympus, no matter in what guise it presented itself.

  Epimetheus, who always acted first and considered the consequences later, promised to obey his more perspicacious brother.

  Nothing could prepare him for Zeus’s gift, however.

  Epimetheus answered a knock at the door one morning to see the cheerful smiling face of the messenger of the gods.

  “May we come in?” Hermes stepped nimbly aside to reveal, cradling a stoneware jar in her arms, the most beautiful creature Epimetheus had ever seen. Aphrodite was beautiful, of course she was, but too remote and ethereal to be considered as anything other than a subject of veneration and distant awe. Likewise Demeter, Artemis, Athena, Hestia, and Hera. Their loveliness was majestic and unattainable. The prettiness of nymphs, oreads, and Oceanids, while enchanting enough, seemed shallow and childish next to the blushing sweetness of the vision that looked up at him so shyly, so winningly, so adorably.

  “May we?” repeated Hermes.

  Epimetheus gulped, swallowed, and stepped backward, opening the door wide.

  “Meet your wife to be,” said Hermes. “Her name is Pandora.”

  WHEN IT’S A JAR

  Epimetheus and Pandora were soon married. Epimetheus had an inkling that Prometheus—who was far away teaching the art of casting in bronze to the people of Varanasi—would not approve of Pandora. A quick wedding before his brother returned seemed a good idea.

  Epimetheus and Pandora were very much in love. That could not be denied. Pandora’s beauty and attainments were such as to delight him every day, and in return his facile ability to live always for the moment and never to fret about the future gave her a sense of life as a light and lovely adventure.

  But one little itch tickled her, one little fly buzzed around her, one little worm burrowed inside.

  That jar.

  She kept it on a shelf in their bedroom. When Epimetheus had asked about it she laughed. “Just a silly thing that Hephaestus made to remind me of Olympus. It’s of no value.”

  “Pretty though,” said Epimetheus, giving it no further thought.

  One afternoon, when her husband was away practicing the discus with his friends, Pandora approached the jar and ran her finger round the rim of its sealed lid. Why had Zeus even mentioned that there was nothing interesting inside it? He would never have said such a thing if truly there weren’t. She pieced the logic of it together in her mind.

  If you give a friend an empty jar you would never concern yourself with mentioning that the jar was empty. Your friend might look inside one day and see that for themselves. So why should Zeus take the trouble to repeat that this jar contained nothing of any interest? There could be only one explanation. There was something of great interest inside. Something of value or power. Something either enchanting or enchanted.

  But, no—she had sworn never to open it. “A promise is a promise,” she told herself, and straightaway felt very virtuous. She believed it her duty to resist the spell of the jar which now, really, seemed almost to be singing out to her in the most alluring way. It was excessively vexing to have an object so bewitching in her bedroom where it could taunt and tempt her every morning and every night.

  The Golden Age of gods and mankind came to an end when Pandora opened the pithos, releasing Illness, Violence, Deceit, Misery, and Want into the world.

  Temptation loses much of its power when removed from sight. Pandora went to the small back garden and—next to a sundial that a neighbor had given them as a wedding gift—she dug a hole and buried the jar deep in the ground. She patted the earth flat and wheeled the heavy sundial on its plinth over the hiding place. There!

  For the next week she was as gay and skittish and happy as a person had ever been. Epimetheus fell even more in love with her and invited their friends over to feast and hear a song he had written in her honor. It was a happy and successful party. The last festival that the Golden Age was ever to know.

  That night, perhaps a little flushed with the praise that had flowed so freely in her direction, Pandora found it hard to sleep. Through the window of her bedroom the moonlight shone down on the garden. The sundial’s gnomon gleamed like a silver blade, and once again she thought she heard the music of the jar.

  Epimetheus was sleeping happily beside her. The moonbeams danced in the garden. Unable to stand it any longer Pandora leapt from her matrimonial bed and was out in the garden, unrolling the base of the sundial and scrabbling at the earth, before she had time to tell herself that this was the wrong thing to do.

  She pulled the jar from its hiding place and twisted at the lid. Its waxen seal gave way and she pulled it free. There was a fast fluttering, a furious flapping of wings, and a wild wheeling and whirling in her ears.

  Oh! Glorious flying creatures!

  But no . . . they were not glorious at all. Pandora cried out in pain and fright as she felt something leathery brush her neck, followed by a sharp and terrible prick of pain as some sting or bite pierced her skin. More and more flying shapes buzzed from the mouth of the jar—a great cloud of them chattering, screaming, and howling in her ears. Through the swirling fog of these dreadful creatures she saw the face of her husband as he came outside to see what was happening. It was white with horror and fright. With a great cry Pandora summoned up the courage and strength to close the lid and seal the jar.

  On the garden wall, in the shape of a wolf, Zeus looked on, smiling the most terrible and wicked smile as, like a cloud of locusts, the shrieking, wailing creatures clawed the air and circled the garden below them in a great vortex before flying up and away over the town, over the countryside, and around the world, settling like a pestilence wherever man had habitation.

  And what were they, these shapes? They were mutant descendant
s of the dark and evil children of both Nyx and Erebus. They were born of Apate, Deceit; Geras, Old Age; Oizys, Misery; Momos, Blame; Keres, Violent Death. They were the offshoots of Ate, Ruin; and Eris, Discord. These were their names: PONOS, Hardship; LIMOS, Starvation; ALGOS, Pain; DYSNOMIA, Anarchy; PSEUDEA, Lies; NEIKEA, Quarrels; AMPHILOGIAI, Disputes; MAKHAI, Wars; HYSMINAI, Battles; ANDROKTASIAI and PHONOI, Manslaughters and Murders.

  Illness, Violence, Deceit, Misery, and Want had arrived. They would never leave the earth.

  What Pandora did not know was that, when she shut the lid of the jar so hastily, she forever imprisoned inside one last daughter of Nyx. One last little creature was left behind to beat its wings hopelessly in the jar forever. Its name was ELPIS, Hope.80

  THE CHEST, THE WATERS, AND THE BONES OF GAIA

  And so the Golden Age came to a swift and terrible end. Death, disease, poverty, crime, famine, and war were now an inevitable and eternal part of humanity’s lot.

  But the Silver Age, as this epoch was to be known, wasn’t all despair. It differed from our own in that gods, demigods, and monsters mingled with mankind, interbred with us and fully involved themselves in our lives. With fire on man’s side, and now women to allow propagation as well as a full sense of family and completeness, some of the evils of Pandora’s jar were offset. Zeus looked down and saw this. Inside him the voice of Metis seemed to whisper that nothing he could do would stop humanity from one day standing on its own two feet, in more than just the obvious sense. This troubled him deeply.

  For the meantime, people were duly in awe of the gods and used their new-found affinity with fire to send burnt offerings up to Olympus as a mark of their obedience and devotion.

  Pandora, the first woman, bore several children by Epimetheus, including a daughter PYRRHA. Prometheus too fathered a child, a son called DEUCALION, possibly by Prometheus’s own mother, Clymene, or, if other sources are to believed, by HESIONE, an Oceanid.

  And so the race of men and women multiplied.

  Prometheus, whose gift of foresight never deserted him,81 was keenly aware that Zeus’s anger had yet to be assuaged. He brought Deucalion up to be prepared for the worst kinds of divine retribution. When the boy was old enough he taught him the art of building in wood. Together they constructed an enormous chest.

  The brother Titans were overjoyed when their children Pyrrha and Deucalion fell in love and married. Prometheus and Epimetheus could now think of themselves as patriarchs of a new, independent human dynasty. Yet always there lurked the threat from the Thunderer, brooding on his Olympian throne.

  Time passed and humanity continued to breed and spread, in Zeus’s eyes more like a plague than the beloved playthings he had once adored. The excuse he needed to visit a second punishment on mankind was furnished by one of their first rulers, LYCAON, King of Arcadia—son of the Pelasgos who gave the Pelasgians their name. This Pelasgos had been one of the original clay figures formed by Prometheus and animated by Athena. Pelasgos was what we would consider ethnically Hellenic, with brownish skin, hair, and eyes. Later Greeks regarded these people, their language and practices, as barbaric; and, as we shall see, this first race was not fated to populate the Mediterranean for long.

  Lycaon, either to test Zeus’s omniscience and discrimination or for other brutal reasons, killed and roasted the flesh of his own son NYCTIMUS which he served to the god, who had come as a guest to a feast at his palace. Zeus was so revolted by this unspeakably gross act that he brought the boy back to life and turned Lycaon into a wolf.82 Nyctimus had little time to reign in his father’s stead, however, as his forty-nine brothers ravaged the land with such violence and behaved so disgustingly that Zeus decided it was time for the whole human experiment to be brought to a close. To that end he gathered the clouds into a storm so intense that the land was flooded and all the people of Greece and the Mediterranean world were drowned.

  All, save Deucalion and Pyrrha who—thanks to the perspicacity of Prometheus—survived the nine days of high water aboard their wooden chest, which floated safely on the flood. Like good survivalists they had kept their chest well provisioned with food, drink, and a few useful tools and artifacts, so that when the deluge finally receded and their vessel was able to settle on Mount Parnassus, they could survive in the postdiluvian mud and slime.83

  When the world had dried enough for Pyrrha and Deucalion (who is said to have been eighty-two years old at this time) to travel safely down the mountainside, they made their way to Delphi, which lies in the valley below Parnassus. There they consulted the oracle of Themis, the prophetic Titaness whose special quality was an understanding of the right thing to do.

  “O Themis, Mother of Justice, Peace, and Order, instruct us, we beseech you,” they cried. “We are alone in the world now and too advanced in years to fill this empty world with offspring.”

  “Children of Prometheus and Epimetheus,” the oracle intoned. “Hear my voice and do as I command. Cover your head and throw the bones of your mother over your shoulder.”

  Not a word more could the perplexed couple induce the oracle to utter.

  “My mother was Pandora,” said Pyrrha, sitting on the ground. “And I must presume she is drowned. Where could I find her bones?”

  “My mother is Clymene,” said Deucalion. “Or, if you believe variant sources, she is the Oceanid Hesione. In either case they are both immortals and therefore alive and surely unwilling to give up their bones.”

  “We must think,” said Pyrrha. “The bones of our mother. Can that have another meaning? Our mother’s bones. Maternal bones . . . Think, Deucalion, think!”

  Deucalion covered his head with a folded cloth, sat down next to his wife, whose head was already covered, and pondered the problem with creased brow. Oracles. They always paltered and prevaricated. Moodily he picked up a rock and sent it rolling down the hillside. Pyrrha grabbed his arm.

  “Our mother!”

  Deucalion stared at her. She had started slapping the ground with the palms of her hands. “Gaia! Gaia is mother of us all,” she cried. “Our Mother Earth! These are the bones of our mother, look . . .” She started to gather up rocks from the ground. “Come on!”

  Deucalion got to his feet and scrabbled around, collecting rocks and stones. They made their way across the fields below Delphi, casting them over their shoulders as instructed, but not daring to look back until they had covered many stadia.

  When they turned the sight that greeted them filled their hearts with joy.

  From out of the ground where Pyrrha’s stones had landed sprang girls and women, hundreds of them, smiling and healthy and fully formed. From the earth where Deucalion’s stones had fallen boys and men grew up.

  So it was that the old Pelasgians drowned in the Great Deluge, and the Mediterranean world was repopulated by a new race descended through Deucalion and Pyrrha from Prometheus, Epimetheus, Pandora, and—most importantly of course—from Gaia.84

  And that is who we are, a compound of foresight and impulse, of all gifts and of the earth.

  DEATH

  Our human race, now satisfactorily comprised equally of males and females, bred and spread about the world building cities and establishing nation states. Ships and chariots, cottages and castles, culture and commerce, merchants and markets, farming and finance, weapons and wheat. In short, civilization began. It was an age of kings, queens, princes, and princesses, of hunters, warriors, shepherds, potters, and poets. An age of empires, slaves, warfare, trade, and treaties. An age of votive offerings, sacrifices, and worship. Towns and villages chose their favorite gods and goddesses to be guardian deities, patrons, and protectors. The immortals themselves were not shy to come down in their own forms, or in the forms of humans and animals, to have their way with such humans as appealed to them or to punish those that aggravated them and reward those that most fawned on them. The gods never tired of flattery.

  Perhaps most importantly the plague of sorrows that had flown from Pandora’s jar ensured that from thi
s point onward humanity would have to face the inevitability of death in all its forms. Sudden death, slow lingering death, death by violence, death by disease, death by accident, death by murder, and death by divine decree.

  The instant that human spirits departed their bodies, they were led to where the River Styx (Hate) met the River Acheron (Woe). There the grim and silent Charon held out his hand to receive his payment for ferrying the souls across the Styx.

  The god Hades found, to his great delight—or the closest to delight that gloomy god could ever manage—that the shades of more and more dead humans began to arrive at his subterranean kingdom. Hermes was assigned a new role—that of Arch Psychopomp, or “chief conductor of souls”—a duty he discharged with his customary sprightliness and puckish humor. Though, as the human population grew, only the most important dead were granted the honor of a personal escort by Hermes, the rest were taken by Thanatos, the grim, forbidding figure of Death.

  The instant that human spirits departed their bodies, Hermes or Thanatos would lead them to the underground cavern where the River Styx (Hate) met the River Acheron (Woe). There the grim and silent Charon held out his hand to receive his payment for ferrying the souls across the Styx. If the dead had no payment to offer they would have to wait on the bank a hundred years before the disobliging Charon consented to take them. To avoid this limbo it became a custom amongst the living to place some money, usually an obolus, on the tongue of the dying to pay the ferryman and assure safe and swift passage.85 When he had taken his fee, Charon would pull the dead soul aboard and pole his rust-colored punt or skiff over the black, Stygian waters to the disembarkation stage, hell’s muster point.86 Once dead, no mortal could go back to the upper world. Immortals, if they tasted so much as a morsel of food or drink in Hades, were fated to return to the infernal kingdom.