Mythos (2019 Re-Issue)

by Stephen Fry

  Arion recriminated himself bitterly and even Periander’s instructions that a high tower be constructed to commemorate the dolphin and glorify its memory failed to raise his spirits. For the next month all his songs were sad ones and the palace mourned along with him.

  Then came news that the brig crewed by the nine sailors and its villainous captain had been blown by a storm into Corinth. Periander sent messengers to command the crew to come before him, bidding Arion to stay away while he questioned them.

  “You were supposed to be conveying my bard Arion back from Tarentum,” he said. “Where is he?”

  “Alas, dread majesty,” said the captain. “So very sad. The poor boy was swept overboard in the storm. We recovered the body and gave him a most respectful burial at sea. Great pity. Charming lad, popular with all the crew.”

  “Aye. Indeed. Pleasant fellow. Terrible loss . . .” muttered the sailors.

  “Be that as it may,” said Periander, “news reaches me that he won his singing competition and came to you with a treasure chest, half of which is my property.”

  “As to that . . .” the captain spread his hands. “The chest was lost during the violent pitching of the storm. It opened as it slid down the deck and into the sea and we managed to recover some small bits and pieces. A silver lyre of some kind, an aulos—one or two trinkets. I wish it had been more, sire, really I do.”

  “I see . . .” Periander frowned. “Assemble tomorrow morning by the new monument at the royal docks. You can’t miss it. There’s a carved dolphin on top. Bring what treasure remains and perhaps I will allow you to keep Arion’s share, now that the poor boy is dead. You are free to go.”

  “Have no fear,” said Periander to Arion as he related to him all that had been said. “Justice will be done.”

  Next morning, the sea captain and his nine men arrived early at the monument. They were laughing and relaxed, amused that they had to return only a small amount of Arion’s treasure and might even expect to be given a share of that by the gullible tyrant.

  Periander arrived with his palace guards at precisely the appointed hour. “Good morning, captain. Ah, the treasure. That’s all you managed to save? Yes, I see what you mean, not much at all, is it? Now, remind me what befell Arion?”

  The captain repeated his story fluently and easily, every word exactly the same as it had been the day before.

  “So he really is dead? You really did recover the body, prepare it for burial, and then return it to the waves?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And these trinkets are all that remain of the prize treasure?”

  “It grieves me to say so, majesty, but yes.”

  “How then,” Periander asked, “do you account for the discovery of all this hidden in the hollow of your ship’s timbers?

  At a sign, some guards came forward bearing a litter on which was disposed the bulk of the treasure.

  “Ah. Yes. Well . . .” the captain gave a winning smile. “Foolish of us to attempt to deceive you, dread lord. The poor boy died, as I said, and there was his treasure. We are but poor working sailors, sire. Your cunning and wisdom has found us out.”

  “That is handsome of you,” said Periander. “But I am still puzzled. I had a kithara made for Arion in silver, gold, and ivory. He never went anywhere without it. Why is it not here amongst the other things?”

  “Well now,” said the captain. “I told you how fond we were of young Arion. Like a younger brother to us, isn’t that right, lads?”

  “Aye, aye . . .” muttered the sailors.

  “We knew what his kithara meant to him. We included it with him in his shroud before committing his body to the waves. How could we have done otherwise?”

  Periander smiled. The captain smiled. But suddenly his smile disappeared. From the mouth of the golden dolphin at the top of the column emerged the sound of a kithara. The captain and his men stared in amazement. Arion’s voice joined the notes of the kithara and these were the words that came from out of the carved dolphin’s mouth:

  “Kill him, men,” the captain said.

  “Kill him now and seize his gold.”

  “We’ll kill him now,” the sailors cried,

  “And throw him to the sharks.”

  “But stop,” the minstrel said. “Only let me sing

  One final farewell song.”

  One of the sailors let out a scream of fear. The others fell quaking to their knees. Only the captain, white-faced, stayed upright.

  A door opened in the plinth and Arion himself stepped from the monument, strumming his kithara and singing:

  But the dolphin came and saved him.

  He rode it on the rolling waves.

  They crossed the sea to Corinth,

  The dolphin and the bard.

  The sailors began to weep and blubber, begging forgiveness. They blamed each other and most especially they blamed the captain.

  “Too late,” said Periander, turning on his heel. “Kill them all. Now, come with me, Arion and sing me a song of love and wine.”

  At the end of the musician’s long and successful life, Apollo, to whom dolphins and music were sacred, set Arion and his rescuer amongst the stars between Sagittarius and Aquarius as the constellation Delphinus, the Dolphin.

  From their position in the heavens, Arion and his rescuer could aid navigators below and remind all of us of the strange and marvelous kinship that exists between mankind and dolphins.

  196. Only Orpheus, whose story belongs to the later Age of Heroes, exceeded Arion in skill and fame.

  197. The word “guitar” derives from the word kithara.

  198. “Tyrant” is just the Greek word for “autocratic ruler,” sometimes a self-appointed king. Periander was a real historical figure, cited as one of the so-called “Seven Sages of Greece” who were mentioned by Socrates as exhibiting all the qualities of gnomic wisdom to which mankind should aspire.

  199. The tarantella is still popular throughout Europe.

  PHILEMON AND BAUCIS, OR HOSPITALITY REWARDED

  In the hills of eastern Phrygia, in Asia Minor, an oak and a linden grow side by side, their branches touching. It is a simple, rural setting, far from any glittering palaces or soaring citadels. Peasant farmers scratch out their livings here, wholly dependent on the clemency of Demeter for the ripening of their crops and the fattening of their pigs. The soil is not rich and it is always a struggle for the people to fill their barns with enough provender to last them through the winter months, when Demeter languishes and mourns the absence from the upper world of her bright daughter Persephone. That oak tree and the lime tree, unimpressive as they seem when compared to the grand poplar groves and elegant cypress avenues that line the highways connecting Athens and Thebes, are nonetheless the holiest trees in the Mediterranean world. The wise and the virtuous make pilgrimage to them and hang votive gifts in their branches.

  Many years ago a settlement had grown up in the valley below. It was somewhere between a town and village in size. It called itself, with that hopeful desperation that always marks the naming of failed settlements, Eumeneia, which means “the place of the good months”—in the forlorn expectation perhaps that Demeter would bless the barren soil of the place and provide bountiful harvests. She rarely did.

  At the center of the agora, the main square, there stood a large temple of Demeter, opposite to one of almost equal size dedicated to Hephaestus (for the people needed their forges and workshops blessed). Around the town could be seen many votive shrines to Hestia and Dionysus. The sparse vineyards that straggled up the hillsides were as carefully tended as any of the olive trees or fields of corn. Life was hard, but the men and women here found much solace in the sour wine of their region.

  At the top of a winding lane leading out of the town, in a small stone cottage, lived an old couple called PHILEMON and BAUCIS. They had been married since they were very young and now in their old age they loved each other as deeply as ever, with a quiet unwavering intensity that amused
their neighbors. They were poorer than most, their fields were the meanest and most barren in all of Eumeneia, but they had never been heard to complain. Every day Baucis milked their one goat, hoed, stitched, washed, and mended, while Philemon sowed, planted, dug, and scratched at the earth behind their cottage. In the late afternoons they gathered wild mushrooms, collected firewood, or simply walked the hills, hand in hand, talking of this and that or content to be silent companions. If there was enough food to make a supper they would eat, otherwise they would go to bed hungry and fall asleep in each other’s arms. Their three children had long since moved out and were bringing up their own families far away. They never visited and no one else was likely to knock on their door. Until one fateful afternoon.

  Philemon had just returned from the fields and was sitting down in preparation for his monthly haircut. There was very little these days to crown his bald old head, but this was a monthly ritual that gave them both pleasure. The loud rat-atat-tat on their door almost caused Baucis to drop the razor she had been sharpening. They looked at one another in great surprise, each unable to remember the last time anyone had come calling.

  Two strangers stood on the threshold, a bearded man and his younger, smooth-faced companion. His son perhaps.

  “Hello,” said Philemon. “How may we help you?”

  The younger man smiled and removed his hat, a strange round cap with a shallow brim. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “We are a pair of hungry travelers, new to this part of the world. I wonder if we might trespass upon your good nature . . .”

  “Come in, come in!” said Baucis, bustling up behind her husband. “It’s chilly to be out at this time of year. We are higher up than the rest of the town, you know, and feel the cold a little more. Philemon, why don’t you scare up the fire so that our guests might warm themselves?”

  “Of course, my love, of course. Where are my manners?” Philemon stooped down and blew into the hearth, awakening the embers.

  “Let me take your cloaks,” said Baucis. “Have a seat, sir, by the fire. And you, sir, I beg.”

  “That is most kind,” said the older of the two. “My name is Astrapos, and this is my son Arguros.”

  The younger man bowed at the mention of his name with something of a flourish and seated himself beside the fire. “We are very thirsty,” he said, with a loud yawn.

  “You must have something to drink,” said Baucis. “Husband, you fetch the wine jug and I shall bring dried figs and pine nuts. I hope you gentlemen will consent to dine with us. We can’t offer rich fare, but you would be most welcome.”

  “Don’t mind if we do,” said Arguros.

  “Let me take your hat and staff . . .”

  “No, no. They stay with me.” The young man pulled the staff close to him. It was of a most curious design. Was it a vine that was carved all around it, Baucis wondered? He was twisting it so deftly that the whole thing seemed alive.

  “I’m afraid,” said Philemon coming forward with a jug of wine, “that you may find our local wine a little thin and perhaps a little . . . sharp. People from neighboring regions mock us for it, but I assure you that once you are used to the taste it can be really quite drinkable. We think so at least.”

  “Not bad,” said Arguros after a sip. “How did you get the cat to sit on the jug?”

  “Ignore him,” said Astrapos. “He thinks he’s amusing.”

  “Well, I have to admit that was rather funny,” said Baucis, approaching with fruit and nuts on a wooden plate. “I hate to think, young sir, what you’re going to say about the appearance of my dried figs.”

  “You’re wearing a blouse so I can’t see them. But the preserved fruit on this plate looks pleasant enough.”

  “Sir!” Baucis slapped him playfully and went very pink. What a strange young man.

  The slight awkwardness that usually attends the drink and nibbles phase of an evening was quickly mellowed by the cheek and cheerfulness of Arguros and the ready laughter of their hosts. Astrapos seemed to be of a gloomier disposition, and as they went to the table Philemon put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I hope you will forgive the inquisitiveness of a foolish old man, sir,” he said, “but you seem a little distracted. Is there anything we can help you with?”

  “Oh, ignore him. He’s always down in the dumps,” said Arguros. “That’s where he gets his clothes from, haha! But, in truth, there’s nothing wrong with him that a good meal won’t put right.”

  Baucis met Philemon’s eyes for a brief instant. There was so little in the larder. A side of salted bacon that they had been saving for the midwinter feast, some preserved fruit and black bread, half a cabbage. They knew they would go hungry for a week if they fed so much as half the appetites of two such hearty men. But hospitality was a sacred thing and the needs of guests must always come first.

  “Another glass of that wine wouldn’t hurt,” said Arguros.

  “Oh dear,” said Philemon, looking at the jug, “I fear that there isn’t any more . . .”

  “Nonsense,” said Arguros snatching it away, “plenty left.” He filled his cup and then Astrapos’s too.

  “How strange,” said Philemon. “I could have sworn the pitcher was only a quarter full.”

  “Where are your cups?” asked Arguros.

  “Oh please, we don’t need any . . .”

  “Nonsense,” Arguros leaned back in his chair and reached for two wooden beakers on the side table behind him. “Now then . . . Let’s have a toast.”

  Philemon and Baucis were amazed, not only that there was enough wine in the pitcher to fill their beakers to the brim, but that its quality was so much better than either of them remembered. In fact, unless they were dreaming, it was the most delicious wine they had ever tasted.

  In something of a daze, Baucis wiped the table down with mint leaves.

  “Darling,” Philemon whispered in her ear, “that goose that we were going to sacrifice to Hestia next month. It’s surely more important to feed our guests. Hestia will understand.”

  Baucis agreed. “I’ll go out and wring its neck. See if you can get the fire hot enough to give it a fine roasting.”

  The goose, however, would not be caught. No matter how carefully Baucis waited and pounced, it leapt honking from her grasp every time. She returned to the cottage in a state of agitated disappointment.

  “Gentlemen, I am so very sorry,” she said, and there were tears in her eyes. “I”m afraid your meal will be crude and disagreeable.”

  “Tush, lady,” said Arguros, pouring more wine for everyone. “I’ve never partaken of a finer feast.”

  “Sir!”

  “It’s true. Tell them, Father.”

  Astrapos gave a grim smile. “We have been turned away from every house in Eumeneia. Some of the townspeople swore at us. Some spat at us. Some threw stones at us. Some set dogs on us. Yours was the last house we tried and you have shown us nothing but kindness and a spirit of xenia that I was beginning to fear was vanished from the world.”

  “Sir,” said Baucis, feeling for Philemon’s hand under the table and squeezing it. “We can only apologize for the behavior of our neighbors. Life is hard and they have not always been brought up to venerate the laws of hospitality as they should.”

  “There is no need to make excuses for them. I am angry,” said Astrapos, and as he spoke a rumble of thunder could be heard.

  Baucis looked across into the eyes of Astrapos and saw something that frightened her.

  Arguros laughed. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “My father is not angry with you. He is pleased with you.”

  “Leave the cottage and climb the hill,” said Astrapos, rising. “Do not look back. Whatever happens do not look back. You have earned your reward and your neighbors have earned their punishment.”

  Philemon and Baucis stood, holding hands. They knew now that their visitors were something more than ordinary travelers.

  “There is no need to bow,” said Arguros.

  His f
ather pointed to the door. “To the top of the hill.”

  “Remember,” Arguros called after them, “no looking back.”

  Hand in hand Philemon and Baucis walked up the hill.

  “You know who that young man was?” said Philemon.

  “Hermes,” said Baucis. “When he opened the door to let us go, I saw the snakes twined around his staff. They were alive!”

  “Then the man he called his father was . . . must have been . . .”

  “Zeus!”

  “Oh my goodness!” Philemon paused on the hillside to catch his breath. “It’s getting so dark, my love. The sound of the thunder is getting closer. I wonder if . . .”

  “No darling, we mustn’t look back. We mustn’t.”

  Disgusted by the hostility and shameless violations of the laws of hospitality shown to him by the townspeople of Eumeneia, Zeus had decided to do for this community what he had done back in the time of Deucalion and the Great Flood. The clouds gathered into a dense mass at his command, lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and the rain began to fall.

  By the time the elderly couple struggled to the top of the hill, torrents of water were gushing past them.

  “We can’t just stand here in the rain with our backs to the town,” said Baucis.

  “I’ll look if you will.”

  “I love you, Philemon, my husband.”

  “I love you, Baucis, my wife.”

  They turned and looked down. They were just in time to see the great flood inundating Eumeneia before Philemon was turned into an oak tree and Baucis into a linden.

  For hundreds of years the two trees stood side by side, symbols of eternal love and humble kindness, their intertwining branches hung with the tokens left by admiring pilgrims.200

  200. This theoxenia, this divine testing of human hospitality, is notably similar to that told in the nineteenth chapter of Genesis. Angels visit Sodom and Gomorrah and only Lot and his wife show them decency and kindness. The debauched citizens of Sodom of course, rather than setting the dogs on the angels wanted to “know them”—in as literally biblical a sense as could be, giving us the word “sodomy.” Lot and his wife, like Philemon and Baucis, were told to make their getaway and not look back while divine retribution was visited on the Cities of the Plain. Lot’s wife did look back and she was turned, not into a linden, but into a pillar of salt.