“It will not erupt, it cannot erupt,” said Athena. “What’s happening, no doubt, is that the Cyclopes are fighting again. They do that now and then. They’re so incredibly strong and their tempers so savage that they sometimes stop working and use their mallets on each other. The fallen ones are flung into the forge fires; therefore does the mountain belch red smoke. And Aetna shakes when the Cyclopes do battle, and rocks roll down its slopes. When Hephaestus arrives and decrees a truce, the Cyclopes will stop fighting and the mountain will stop trembling.”
“That may be so, Goddess. But the villagers are still fleeing, and there is great grief and confusion upon the land.”
“I shall go there myself and calm them,” said Athena.
Whereupon she flew to Sicily and laid a sweet swoon upon the fleeing villagers, and appeared to each of them in the form of a dream, promising them that Aetna would not erupt and that they might return to their homes and dwell in safety.
The villagers awoke, rejoicing. Right there in the field where the strange sleep had overtaken them, they built altars to Athena and Hephaestus and loaded them with fruit and flowers. Singing songs of praise, they returned to their homes.
Athena lingered in Sicily, enjoying the prayers of thanksgiving and the hymns of praise. “Since we’re here,” she said to her owl, “we’ll go and visit that famous smithy. I’ve never seen the Cyclopes at work and I’m curious about them.”
The smoke from the mountain mingled with the morning mists as Athena approached. Making herself invisible, she flew up to the crater, then floated gently down into it, down through darkening air into the great smithy that was the workshop of Hephaestus.
It was an enormous chamber, taking up the whole inside of the mountain. For Aetna was just a shell. Ages before, when it was an active volcano, earth’s primal fire had eaten up through its roots, melting its rocky guts—which had then spewed out as red-hot lava. After Zeus quenched the flames with a sudden torrent of rain that had flooded the entire countryside, he had ordered the Cyclopes to hollow out the rest of the mountain, informing them that this was to be their home and their workplace forevermore.
Athena knew all this, of course; it was family history, but she had never actually visited the smithy before. Now she stared about in amazement. The Cyclopes, male and female, were tall as trees and their half-naked bodies writhed with muscle as they moved about their gigantic labor of forging thunderbolts for Zeus, and weapons and armor for the other gods. The hafts of their sledges were oak trunks, peeled of bark and trimmed of branches. The sledge heads were thousand-pound lumps of fire-tempered iron. And they swung these stupendous mallets like tack hammers.
Not all of them were working at the anvils. Some were making charcoal, tossing whole uprooted trees into the flames. Others were using shovels as big as skiffs, scooping up the charcoal and using it to feed the forge fires, which had to be coal fed to melt metal.
The noise would have shattered the eardrums of anyone who was not a god or goddess. The clanging of sledge against anvil, the crackle of the flames and the wild yelling of the Cyclopes made the loudest clamor Athena had ever heard. But she did not mind it at all. The scene was too fascinating, as interesting as a battle, or an earthquake or tidal wave. For Athena doted on violence, and moved among dire events as easily as a gull riding storm winds.
Unseen by anyone, she slid through the smoke toward one young Cyclops and studied him as he worked. Even his maimed head set upon those magnificent shoulders seemed splendid to her. The single eye embedded in the middle of his forehead was as large as two eyes—big and lustrous, full of innocent savagery like a tiger’s eye—but glowing with a kind of proud pain known only to those who feel themselves different from everyone else.
She watched him as he swung his sledge, shaping a red-hot bar of metal. He laid down his sledge, picked up a pair of tongs, nipped the bar, and dipped it into a bucket of water. Steam hissed up, veiling his body. When the steam cleared, he was oiled with sweat and shone like a newly gilded statue. He dropped his tongs and with one hand swung up an enormous keg of water—put it to his lips and drank it all down in one long swallow. He cast the keg aside, picked up a full one and emptied it over his head, drenching himself. Laughing, he wrung out his hair, then picked up his sledge again.
Athena was known for her icy calm in all situations. Now, however, she felt herself being torn by strange feelings. Suddenly, she knew she had to stop breathing this smoky air; it was choking her. With her, as with all gods, wish was action. She wafted herself up, up through sooty shadows, up through the crater and out onto a slope of Aetna.
Athena kept thinking of the Cyclopes after she left the smithy. “They must be the strongest creatures in all the world,” she said to herself. “More powerful than the Titans, who are their closest kin. Oh, how I’d like to have an island full of them, right in the middle of Poseidon’s sea. I’d be able to do so much with them. I’d inflame their appetites, implant them with so gluttonous a craving for meat that they would devour all the cattle on their island and turn to cannibalism—swimming out to capsize ships, plucking the sailors out of the water and eating them raw. Oh, what a menace to shipping they’d be. More so even than the Sirens perching on jagged rocks, calling sailors to drown. More destructive than my witch, Circe, who lures entire ships’ companies into her castle and turns them into swine.… Yes, they work well, Circe and the Sirens, and have done me good service. But these Cyclopes, if I can only get them somehow, would destroy more ships and crews than all the rest of my monsters put together … But how can I persuade them to leave their smithy? They are creatures of habit and have labored there for thousands of years. I must think very hard about this …”
The goddess stood near the top of the mountain, gazing across a sunstruck plain toward a silver glimmer of sea. The sound of mallets striking anvils drifted from the crater; filtered by rock, they chimed like bells. Thinking very hard, she spun one plan after another. One after another, she discarded them. As she pondered, one picture kept flashing in her head: the huge, sweaty young smith hoisting a heavy keg of water and gulping it down, tossing that keg aside, lifting another and pouring it over his head, the grimed one-eyed face grinning under the cascade.
“They work amid flame,” she murmured. “They breathe smoke and charcoal dust. Coolness must they crave. Every pore of their parched hides must lust for moisture. Yes-s-s, that giant lad with his buckets gives me a clue.”
She knew what she wanted to do now, but she had to wait until nightfall. When the moon had climbed and waned and the chiming of hammers had ceased, she knew that the Cyclopes slept. She stretched her arms and turned slowly, weaving a spell. The owl rose from her shoulder and hovered over her head, pivoting in the air as the goddess turned on the grass.
Athena sent the Cyclopes cool dreams. She slid seascape visions through the crater into their sleep: swirling tides, foam-laced waves, and the changing colors of the deep as the sun sifted through water—jade green on top, turning blue, becoming purple, then blue-black, all of it cold, cold, colder. She shuffled dreams all night long, one seascape after another. The older Cyclopes awoke refreshed and went to work immediately. But the younger ones were tangled in their dreams and couldn’t cast them off. Nor did they wish to. Overnight their smithy had become loathsome to them. They felt they could not breathe one more breath of the hot smoky air. The blue core of the forge fire became flickers of the blue sea. They felt their salt blood dance in their veins, pulling them out of the crater toward the shore.
3
Owl and Seal
Indeed, twelve young Cyclopes did find themselves entangled in their cool dreams when they awoke the next morning. They looked about the great sooty chamber and couldn’t believe that they had consented to spend so much of their life there, and were expected to labor there through eternity. They studied the waiting anvils, the smouldering forge fires, the sullen heaps of charcoal; they gazed upon the other Cyclopes still sunk in slumber. It all made no sense to t
hem; only their sea dream seemed real.
“Let’s do it,” muttered one named Brontes. He was the giant youth who had doused himself with water as Athena watched. He picked up his mallet and strode out of the smithy and the others followed. They filed through a chain of linked caves; the final one opened out upon a slope of Aetna, near its base.
Athena, still perched near the top of the mountain, heard them shouting as they burst out of the cave. She looked down and saw them running off the slope, into the forest. She watched them as they disappeared into the woods, and listened to their wild yelling as if it were music. For the goddess knew that her magic was working, that she had cast her dream as skillfully as a fisherman casting his net—that she had caught the Cyclopes in her vision, and that they were being pulled toward the sea.
In that part of Sicily, then, the woods ran right down to a strip of beach. Brontes stopped at the fringe of the forest, laid down his mallet, wrapped his arms about the trunk of a tree and began to pull. Straining every muscle, he tried to wrench it out of the ground. This tree was well grown and had a deep root system. But Brontes, in the early prime of his enormous strength made even stronger by joy, pulled the roots right out of the clinging earth, and cast the tree on the beach. Each of his comrades was also uprooting a tree. When twelve trees lay on the beach, Cyclopes lashed them together with vines and made a huge, heavy raft.
They lifted the raft, ran into the surf, and jumped aboard, rowing with their mallets. Now, a raft is the clumsiest of all vessels and extremely hard to move the way you want it to go. And this raft was probably the largest ever made. But with six Cyclopes rowing on each side, the ponderous wooden platform skimmed across the chop like a canoe.
Athena, who had followed them through the forest and watched them launch the raft, now set off for Olympus, chuckling. She knew that they would find an island and drive cut whoever dwelt there. “Once they devour all the game on the island,” she said to her owl, “I’ll send them cannibal dreams and implant in them a ravening appetite for human flesh. I’ll slide scenes of shipwreck into their slumber and show them pictures of themselves fishing sailors out and barbecuing them over a driftwood fire. Once they get the yen, they’ll not wait for storms, but swim out and capsize their own ships, and swim home with pockets full of sailors … Fly after them,” she said to the owl, “and see where they land, so that I’ll know what island to visit when the time comes. I’d like to follow them myself, but I have to go to Athens now and inspire young Daedalus with the idea for a hinged steering board to be called a rudder and which will take the place of the awkward sweep oars used now. This device will allow ships to be managed more easily and give seamen more confidence in’ themselves so that they will depend less on the favor of that puffed-up windbag, Poseidon. So off with you, Owl, and follow my Cyclopes until they make landfall.”
As it happened, though, Athena would have done better not sending the owl. For the Cyclopes’ raft had been sighted by a creature called Proteus, who served Poseidon, and served him well. He made an admirable spy because he could change shape at will and was very sharp-witted and observant in whatever body he chose to use. Now, in his favorite form of white seal, he was circling the raft, studying the Cyclopes, and wondering what had brought them out of the crater and into the sea. Then he spotted the owl hovering over the raft.
“Athena’s bird!” he exclaimed to himself. “Which means that her spiteful mistress is mixed up somehow with this mysterious raft. Which, in turn, means that it’s part of some plot against my master. For the owl goddess loathes Poseidon, and seeks every opportunity to damage his reputation and rob him of worshipers … I’ll tell him immediately.”
But seals can swim only a certain distance underwater. So Proteus changed himself into a barracuda, and streaked into the ocean depths. Through darkening fathoms he flashed, to the deepest part of the Middle Sea where Poseidon had built his castle. It was a magnificent pile of coral and pearl.
He found Poseidon sitting on his walrus-ivory throne and clove the water toward him, scattering Nereids as he swam. For sea nymphs swarmed about their green-bearded king like minnows about a crust of bread.
“Oh Master,” he cried. “I have seen a strangeness afloat! A crew of Cyclopes rowing a great raft somewhere with their mallets—and following them, Athena’s own owl.”
“Athena!” shouted the sea god, twirling his trident. “Is that armored bitch up to her foul tricks again? Has she sent forth these one-eyed giants to disrupt shipping in some way and strip seamen of faith in their great protector—namely, me? I have no idea how she intends to use them, but whatever she intends, I’ll see that she’s thwarted. I’ll guide their raft into a riptide and drown them all … No … I’ve always admired the Cyclopes and the work they do. I’ve always wished I could have a few of them working for me. I have vaults full of silver and gold, and heaps of jewels from the holds of sunken treasure ships—and I have no one to work this precious stuff. Yes, I’d very much like to have a band of titanic smiths working for me, beating out gorgeous trinkets that I could pass out as favors to these sweet Nereids that cluster about my throne. Yes, and larger and more gorgeous necklaces and rings and brooches and bracelets for my wife, Amphitrite, so that she might overlook my gifts to the sea nymphs. Yes, yes … I’ll send my riptide, but not to drown them. I’ll draw them down here. I’ll give them an underwater cave for their smithy. What a splendid idea! How brilliant I am today! And how furious that stupid Goddess of Wisdom will be when she learns that I’ve turned her plot against her and that the one-eyed giants are working for me. Thank you, Proteus, you have brought me valuable information today, oh Changeable One.”
“All my changes,” said Proteus, “have but one theme: to serve my master.”
He became an eel, a dangerous kind, and touched his electric tail to a few sea nymphs, of whom he was jealous, shocking them, making them quiver and yelp. Then he sped away before they could catch him.
4
The Crystal Smithy
It all happened as Poseidon had decreed. He sent a riptide that spun the huge raft like a twig. The Cyclopes went flying off into the water, were gripped by the riptide and sucked down to the bottom of the sea.
They lost consciousness as they sank, and awoke in a great underwater chamber full of filtered green light. The walls of the chamber were pure crystal. Beyond the walls glided silent fish, big ones and little ones, shark and octopi, balloon fish, rainbow fish, sea turtles as large as the lost raft, and tiny flickering red sparks of fish—and a school of green-haired Nereids. The lovely lithe young sea nymphs shouldered the fish away from the crystal walls and smiled in at the Cyclopes—who were convinced that they were still caught in a dream.
For those who wield strange powers and are familiar with enchantments, there is only a thin membrane between dream and reality, because the most potent dreams are wishes told in code. And for the Cyclopes, for Titans, Olympians, petty gods and demons, and all who are god kin, wish immediately becomes deed—or tries to. So to the Cyclopes, who had been enmeshed in the sea dream sent by Athena and had deserted their crater in Aetna, what happened afterward became part of the same dream. The raft, the riptide, the swooning plunge, and now the crystal chamber with its filtered green light, the wonderful healing coolness, the goggling fishes and the smiling sea nymphs—were all part of a shared dream into which they were sinking deeper and deeper.
It was perfectly natural then for them to see anvils sprouting like mushrooms from the floor of their chamber. An anvil for each … and beside each anvil a chest full of gold and silver. And beside each chest a tall coral branch hung with rubies and diamonds and sapphires. No forge fires here in this magic cool smithy. For they were not required to work crude slags of iron here, heating the bars red hot, then hammering them out. No, silver and gold were softer metals, ingots that the Cyclopes could take into their enormously strong hands and twist into any shape they desired. For they understood immediately that they were to make ornaments now, no
t spears or swords or thunderbolts—that with beautiful work they would pay for coolness and fathoms of space and sea nymph smiles.
Natural … it all seemed natural and fitting. Are not sprouting anvils and sudden treasure chests the ordinary furniture of dreams?
Now in the Aetna workshop Brontes had been able to swing his heavy mallet all day while allowing his mind to drift, but here in the crystal smithy he had to concentrate as he twisted gold and silver into delicate ornaments. Upon this certain day he was stringing diamonds and pearls onto a gold wire and didn’t see the Nereid until she was standing near his bench.
He gaped at her in wonder. Before this he had only seen the nymphs as they swam or floated beyond the crystal walls—seen them lying in the water, or darting through, bodies tilted. Now here was one standing before him, and she was very close. Nor was she smiling; she was regarding him gravely, and was so beautiful that Brontes found himself unable to breathe. The great bellows of his chest rose and fell, but he felt that he was suffocating. He reached for her; she glided away.
“Are you a monster?” she murmured.
“I am a Cyclops, cousin to the gods.”
“You look like a monster, though. Big and strong—which is nice. But monstrously ugly.”
“Our great-grandparents were born of Uranus and Gaia, who were grandparents to the Olympians, including your own Poseidon … But I’m sorry you think I’m ugly, because I think you’re beautiful.”
“Well, you have a terrific build. But that huge single eye in the middle of your forehead rather mars your appearance, don’t you think?”
“Wait a second,” said Brontes.
“What for?”
“I mean to please you more than I do now.”
As she watched, he snatched up a gold ingot and squashed it in his mighty hands, pressing it into a sphere, slightly larger than his head. He put the shining sphere on his anvil and smashed his fist into it, driving a hole into it, making it bowl shaped.
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One Page 2
