“Ludo!” he called.
Another Cyclops came to him. “We’re the same head size,” said Brontes. “Help me out, will you?”
He balanced the bowl on Ludo’s head. The opening wasn’t large enough; the bowl sat on top of his head. “This may give you a slight headache,” said Brontes. “But I’ll do the same for you, if need be.”
He lifted his mallet and smashed the great sledge down on the bowl, driving it down over Ludo’s face. The Cyclops’s legs, thick as tree trunks, trembled a bit, but the muscled column of his neck stayed rigid, holding his head still.
“Work it off now,” said Brontes. “Gently … gently; it’s tight, you’ll scratch yourself.”
Ludo tried to say something, but his voice was muffled inside the bowl. He worked it up past his mouth and said, “It’s coming off easily; it’s slippery with blood.”
The sea nymph gasped as he pulled the bowl off. Blood gushed from his nose; his lips were cut.
“Thank you,” said Brontes.
Ludo nodded and walked away. Brontes dipped the bowl into a bucket of water, washing out the blood. Then he took an awl and punched out two eyeholes. With his powerful fingers he pinched a nose shape under the eyes, and poked two nostril holes. With his thumbnail, stronger and sharper than any knife blade, he cut out a mouth. He studied a large sapphire, and sliced it into a pair of lenses, which he stuck into the eyeholes.
Now a golden head stood on the anvil. He picked it up and pulled it over his own head. It fit exactly. And the nymph gazed in admiration at the giant upon whose shoulders sat a magnificent golden head. Brontes laughed with pleasure as he saw her expression. He took her by the waist and lifted her until her eyes were level with his glittering sapphire ones.
“Be careful how you kiss me,” she whispered. “I bruise easily.”
5
A Monster Is Born
Athena, of course, was furious when she learned that the sea god had sent a riptide to capsize the raft and had taken the Cyclopes deep into his own realm—where they were now doing his work. She couldn’t endure the thought that these one-eyed giants, whom she had tempted out of Aetna to disrupt shipping and damage Poseidon’s reputation, were now actually serving her enemy. For all her hot temper, though, Athena never allowed anger to scatter her wits, and she immediately began to plan some kind of counterattack.
But she didn’t quite know what to do because she lacked exact information about what was happening below. Nor could she send her owl. But the canny bird was very good at reading Athena’s wishes.
“Oh Mistress,” she said. “Forgive me, but I have acted without orders.”
“What do you mean?” asked Athena.
“Well, I knew that you would want to know just what was happening down there in that crystal smithy where the Cyclopes now dwell, and I also knew that I was useless to you underwater, for I drown easily. So I made bold to act in your name. I found a spiteful swordfish, a fine, big, sleek fellow but very resentful of things because, in a fury of greed, he had mistaken a mossy rock for a manta ray, had tried to stab it to death and broken his sword. Now he’s unable to duel the other fish or do much hunting, and he’s mean and hungry. I asked him to do his swimming about the crystal chamber, to observe what was happening, to surface and to report everything to me. In return for his spying, I said you would fit him out with a brand-new sword.”
“I am very pleased with you,” said Athena. “How often will he report to you?”
“I’ll give him a week to learn what he can, then I’ll fly out to meet him. After that, it will be every few days.”
“Good, good,” said Athena. “Let me know immediately if you learn anything.”
Some days later, the owl flew back to Olympus, sat on Athena’s shoulder and whispered, “Important news, oh Goddess.”
“Speak, speak …”
“It seems that a Nereid named Liana has caused Brontes to fall violently in love with her.”
“Those Cyclopes do everything violently,” said Athena. “Does she love him in return?”
“Seems to.”
“How is it possible? He’s so ugly. They all are.”
“He has improved himself,” said the owl. “He has made himself a golden head with sapphire eyes. It slips over his own head and makes him look quite splendid.”
“Where do they meet? Inside the crystal smithy, among all the forges?”
“That’s where they first met,” said the owl. “But now, needing privacy, he slips out of the smithy and swims with her. He’s a very powerful swimmer, of course, and she has taught him to breathe underwater. This my swordfish has told me. At first I thought he might be making it up just to have something interesting to tell; then I realized that he doesn’t have the imagination for so gorgeous a lie, and that it must all be true. By the way, he’d like his new blade as soon as possible. When can he have it?”
“Not quite yet,” said Athena. “But tell him he has made a fine start, that I am pleased, and that if he keeps up the good work he should have his sword soon. One that will not break, incidentally, no matter how many rocks he wants to stab.”
Every few days, the owl left Olympus and flew over the changing waters until she reached the appointed spot and hovered there until the glittering fish lanced out of the sea. She dropped down to meet him, and he told her all that he had seen. Then she flew back to the sacred mountain. After the third such meeting she came to Athena, bursting with news.
“Oh Goddess,” she cried, “they’re all doing it now!”
“Who’s doing what?”
“The Cyclopes down there. They’ve all made golden heads for themselves and are courting sea nymphs.”
“Indeed? Aren’t they shirking their labors? Doesn’t Poseidon object?”
“Oh no,” said the owl. “Love seems to make them work harder than ever. They’re making wonderful jewelry for him, and then they work for themselves making pieces for the sea nymphs. And do you know, to check the fish’s tale, I flew over the place on a moonless night and saw faery lights dancing in the dark waters as if the whole sea bottom were ablaze. It must be all those golden heads moving down there and the garlands of jewels being flung to joyous nymphs.”
“Ah, they’re fiery creatures, those Cyclopes,” murmured Athena. “Baked first in the earth’s buried flames, now working the sea’s sunken treasures. Tell me, do they quarrel among themselves at all? I mean, do two of them ever court the same nymph and fight for her favors?”
“So far, no,” said the owl. “Only Brontes seems to have some anger smouldering in him. He was not pleased at all when the others began making their own gold heads. I think he thought they might be wanting to impress Liana, you know. And he would growl if any of them even looked at her. But now that every Cyclops has claimed his own Nereid, I suppose Brontes has cooled off.”
“Has he?” said Athena. “Well, perhaps. But this gives me the beginning of an idea. And you shall have a reward. The gardener dug up a litter of field mice today, and I made him save them for you.”
Now, the owl did not like tame food. She much preferred to catch her dinner for herself—where the intense listening and the silent dive and the pounce and the devouring of whatever she caught in her claws were all part of the same wild savor. Nevertheless, she thanked Athena and flew off to eat the captured mice. For she was much too wise to refuse any gift of the gods—whose generosity so swiftly became rage when they sensed any lack of gratitude.
Athena thought hard about what the owl had told her, and finally decided what to do. She visited Brontes’ sleep and hung pictures of him and Ludo standing at an anvil with Liana between them. But it was Ludo she was smiling at; it was Ludo who wore the newly made golden head. Brontes raised a hand to seize the nymph, but she drifted away and twined herself about Ludo. Brontes flung himself upon them, ready to kill. Ludo swung his mallet. Brontes heard his skull cracking and felt an awful pain. Darkness swarmed.
He awoke into blackness; he didn’t know where
he was, whether he was dead or alive, awake or asleep. Liana was kneeling to him, stroking his face, murmuring, “Wake up … wake up … You’re having a terrible dream.…” And he had to clench one hand in the other to keep from strangling her. It had all been a nightmare, he realized. She had not smiled at Ludo, and Ludo had not struck him with a mallet. Nevertheless, he couldn’t shake off his wrath.
He tried to go back to sleep, hoping to cleanse himself of bewilderment and savage pain. As he slept, however, Athena sent another vision. A technical one, this time. She inspired him with invention. She taught him to read certain secrets of metal. In his vision he was standing over a vat of melting copper. Into it he was casting slags of tin. A bright bubble grew from the vat. It was a head, but not of gold, nor of silver, nor of copper or tin. This was some new metal, very bright; when he tapped it with his hammer, he knew that it was hard, hard as iron, but would not rust.
“I name you Brass,” he said.
He awoke and swam away from Liana, entered his smithy, took copper and tin, and began to smelt them as his dream had taught. He made himself a brass head, and set it with diamond eyes instead of sapphire, for diamonds are harder. Then he strode forth, looking for trouble.
The vision sent by Athena had warped his senses, and made him see what was not there. He became convinced that not only Ludo but every other Cyclops was planning to steal Liana from him, and was trying to mislead him by pretending interest in other Nereids. So he decided to get rid of his rivals once and for all.
He moved in a strangeness. Everything had changed. He didn’t fight in his usual way, didn’t try to smash the others with his enormous fists, or to break bones with his mallet. His dream had laid a magic mandate upon him; the brass head was to be his weapon.
The water heaved as great bodies writhed below. The swordfish made his rounds and sped toward the surface. The owl dipped to meet him. She heard what he had to say, then flew off to Olympus. She perched on Athena’s shoulder and poured out her news.
“He butts them, he butts them!” she cried.
“Who’s butting whom? What are you talking about?”
“Brontes I’m talking about. He’s become a terror among his fellows. He’s butting them to pieces. The Cyclopes fight now as stags do, knocking their heads together. And, oh wise Goddess, what you planned is working beautifully. No gold head can take a knock from the brass one. One blow of Brontes’ head crushes a golden helm, and no one dares risk a second blow that would pulp any skull. One butt from Brontes and his enemy flees. This has touched off a great migration. The Cyclopes are quitting the underwater smithy as fast as they can. Only Brontes remains.”
“Oh glory!” cried Athena. “Just what I wanted! Now I shall guide them to an island I know, right in the path of busy shipping lanes. Once they reach the island I shall starve them into cannibalism. They’ll wreck ships and devour the crews. Yes, just as I originally planned. Won’t Poseidon be furious? Oh, I shall gloat, gloat, gloat!”
Things did happen that way for a while, and Athena was very happy. So was the swordfish, for he now had a new sword, longer and sharper than the one he had before. He immediately stabbed some of his enemies, plus a few friends, and set out to hunt manta rays.
And this successful plan of Athena’s had another consequence, which she hadn’t planned, but which also pleased her mightily. Brontes stayed underwater, working for Poseidon and making ornaments for Liana, whom he had forgiven for what she had done in his dream. He wore his brass head so much that it became a natural part of him, and Liana gave birth to a son who had a brass head.
They named him Amycus, which means “bellower,” for no sooner had the brass-headed babe entered the world than he began to utter hideous loud braying sounds. He grew with monstrous speed; by the time he was three weeks old he was almost as big as his father, and had learned to use his brass head with deadly effect, pounding sharks into jellyfish. Then, much to his parents’ relief, he swam away, declaring that the sea was too salty and much too wet, and that he intended to live on dry land.
Athena was delighted to hear about this. “That gruesome babe has possibilities,” she told her owl. “Only three weeks old and already a regular monster. How useful he’ll be when he reaches his full growth.”
6
Wingless Dragons
Guided by Athena, the brass-headed young monster landed on an island called Bebrycos—which had a curious history. Before the Great Flood it had been a mountain standing some twenty miles inland. This was shortly after the human race had been planted on earth, and Zeus was becoming sorry he had done so.
“They’re impossible,” he declared to the High Council. “They lie as fast as they can talk, help themselves to their neighbors’ property, and murder each other wholesale.”
“But Sire,” said Hermes, who had always been a friend to man, “they only do what we do.”
“Perhaps …” said Zeus. “But we are gods and know how to forgive ourselves. Our habits, when practiced by mortals, become abominations. I’m going to send a flood of water and wash that foul breed right off the earth.”
Whereupon, angry Zeus scooped the oceans out of their beds, and the rivers and the lakes—lifted the mass of water up to heaven and dropped it upon earth in a mighty flood. Cities, towns, and villages were swept away—and farms and sheepfolds, and all the dwellings of man. The Middle Sea doubled its size, swallowing up great chunks of land whose mountaintops became islands.
Everyone on earth was drowned except a man named Deucalion and his wife, Pyrrha—who were either more virtuous than others, or better swimmers. For the ancient tale tells how the boat built by Deucalion was sucked under, how he and his wife struggled to stay afloat in the raging waters, and were finally deposited, half dead, on the island that had once been the top of Mt. Bebrycos.
The island was lush. The castaways found fruit to eat, springwater to drink. But there were no other people on the island, and, looking out upon the waste of waters, they could see no sail.
“We must build another boat and go to a place where there are other people,” said Pyrrha.
“How do you know that there are any people anywhere?” asked Deucalion. “Perhaps we’re the only ones left alive.”
“No, it can’t be! I can’t bear the thought!” cried Pyrrha. “It would be too lonesome that way.”
Deucalion could not bear to see his wife suffer. He turned his face to the blank sky and said: “If there be something up there, speak to me, I pray. Tell me if there are any other people on earth. Or are we the last?”
A voice spoke out of the sky. “You are the last. Praise our mercy.”
“I thank you for holding our heads above the water,” said Deucalion. “Now I ask a further act of mercy. If we are the last people left alive on earth, then take us also. For we cannot bear the loneliness.”
There was silence. A great hush filled the world. Even the gulls had stopped calling. Man and wife looked at each other. The voice spoke again.
“Deucalion and Pyrrha, gather the bones of your mother, and as you walk cast them over your shoulders.”
“What’s that mean?” whispered Pyrrha. “The bones of our mother? We had different mothers. And their bones aren’t here anyway.”
“The gods speak in riddles sometimes,” said Deucalion, “and measure our faith by our ability to unriddle what they say.”
“You’re speaking in that funny way too,” said Pyrrha. “I can’t stand it. Tell me plainly—what does he mean by the bones of our mother?”
“Since we do have different mothers, perhaps the voice means a common mother—Mother Earth. But what would be her bones?”
“How about rocks?” said Pyrrha.
“Rocks?… Well, we can try.”
But rocks were big, and socketed deep in the earth; they couldn’t be budged. So they each gathered an armful of stones and walked along the beach casting them over their shoulders.
They heard footsteps behind them, and whirled about. The stones wer
e turning into people. Those Deucalion had cast became men, and women grew from the stones cast by Pyrrha. Twelve men and twelve women, full of wonder and hope and ignorance. And from these twelve men and women were born a new generation.
Bebrycos grew too small for them. The young ones built boats and sailed away, found other islands, and settled there. Found a mainland and settled there.
Generation followed generation, and Zeus sent no more floods. For without people to worship him, he decided, it was hard for him to know that he was a god.
Now, hundreds of years later, as Amycus was plowing the Middle Sea toward Bebrycos, Athena took a journey. She traveled down to Tartarus, to the ebony and fire-ruby castle of her uncle, Hades.
“Welcome, Niece,” he said. “It is centuries since you have honored our gloomy precincts with your presence.”
“I have come to ask a favor, great Hades.”
“Of course,” he said. “Why else would anyone come down here who didn’t have to? Speak. What is it I can do for you?”
“You will remember, Uncle, that the Great Flood swallowed fifty miles of the Trinacrian coast, including a mountain called Bebrycos, whose highest peaks now form an island. But since it was once a mountain, the roots of this island are still anchored here in Tartarus. And these roots are hollow shafts of rock leading straight up into the caves of the island.”
“I hear ancient history and some bits of geology,” said Hades. “What do they have to do with the favor you are asking?”
“Patience, my lord. I was describing a natural passageway from your realm to Bebrycos. What I want is to borrow some of your creatures for a hundred years or so. They can climb up through the shafts of rock onto this island, and serve my purpose there. I mean our purpose.”
“Our?” asked Hades. “What possible interest of mine can be served by my creatures above ground?”
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One Page 3
