“And I suppose,” said Lampon, “that you’re expecting me to let that damned brute out of his pen and lead him all the way to the castle? Is that right?”
“Why yes,” said his brother. “Now’s the time to show some of that bravery you were talking about. I’ve done the thinking, the next part is up to you. None of our dog handlers will go near him. Nor any of our slaves. They say they’d rather be flogged to death than eaten alive. So now it’s up to you. You should be all right if you wear a full suit of armor. Even a simba hound can’t bite through brass.”
“I’m going to try to develop some brains,” said Lampon. “It’s getting too dangerous to be brave.”
7
The Simba Hound
Meleager awoke to the sound of his dogs making a racket such as he had never heard before. Not the baying of hounds following a hot trail, nor the ragged snarling of a pack going in for the kill, but a howling chorus of pure outrage.
He leaped out of bed and rushed from the castle, ran out onto the courtyard and across the flagged stones to the kennel. The dogs’ voices changed as they heard him coming. The howls were laced with barking which said: “Let us out! Let us loose!”
The moon swam into a chink in the clouds and he saw what the pack was howling at. A shape loomed near the kennels. The moonlight struck green fire from its eyes. It stood like a dog, but larger than any he had ever seen. It seemed as big as a pony. Its mouth was wrinkled back in a terrible mirthless grin. The green light of its eyes pierced Meleager’s chest like twin skewers. It was a cold night. The stones felt icy beneath his bare feet, but he was boiling inside. He had to have that noble beast for his own. The wonderful power pent in that lionlike shape was meant to serve him; he knew it was. The great heart that held such ferocity must be filled with passionate obedience to him, Meleager. This was to be his dog, the dog of dogs. The gods meant it so; that’s why they had sent it.
He heard the animal snarl, a snarl that said death! Those huge jaws were about to tear out his throat. Across the darkness he could feel the whole body of the beast tensing to spring. He backed up, never taking his eyes off the dog, moving so swiftly and smoothly that he seemed to be sliding across the courtyard without moving his legs. Reaching behind him, he caught the edge of the kennel gate and pulled it open.
The dogs came pouring out, wild to attack, but he held them with a single word: “No!” They looked at him in bewilderment; they couldn’t believe he was calling them back from attack, he, the beloved little figure who always led them in a pell-mell chase after their prey.
“No!” he said again. “Stand!”
They stood. But he could feel mounting force behind him, felt as if he were the frailest of dams holding back the mighty surge of a river in flood. And the simba hound, who had been prepared to leap, stood also, trying to understand. And what he understood was that he might kill that small morsel of a boy, but he’d never get to eat him—because those other dogs loved that boy. And they would fall upon him, the attacker, and tear him to pieces. For while he was larger and more powerful than any one of them, or any two, still these were big, fierce dogs and would be too many for him.
Nevertheless, he had never refused a fight in his life. He trembled with hunger and rage. Twenty pairs of eyes gleamed at him from behind the boy; as many sets of teeth flashed in the moonlight. Then, amazed, he saw the boy coming toward him. Heard him speak.
“You, big dog, accept me. We shall go hunting together. I shall show you such game as you have never known. See this splendid pack, finest hunters in all the world—well, you shall be their leader. You shall join your life to mine and we shall do nothing but hunt from morning till night. And what shall we pursue? Not merely meat on the hoof, but we shall know such sport as the gods enjoy. Killers we shall kill. Special creatures called monsters designed to be the bane of mortal man and mortal beast. These shall we bring to bay. For such have I been promised in my dreams—which also come from the gods. So stay, good dog. Let me come to you. Do not bite me.”
Of course, the five-year-old Meleager could not say such words, nor could the great dog have understood them if they had been said. But Meleager, like all young heroes, was born with a magical lore that lived in his voice before he had the words for it. And the simba hound, like all great-hearted dogs, heard meanings in the human voice beyond what any words said.
So the child crossed the courtyard, walking toward the dog. Step by step his pack followed him. The simba hound growled low in his throat; the pack answered. Deep growling enwrapped the boy who was walking so slowly beneath the moon. He felt he was within a great vibrating bell. Danger bubbled in his blood. Made him smile. Made him laugh. He wanted to run across the courtyard now, and, risking all, fling his arms about that big furry neck.
He did not. He knew enough not to make any sudden move. He glided across the flagstones, the pack keeping pace.
Finally, boy and dog stood facing each other. Their heads were on a level. They stood eye to eye. Green fire mingled with hazel fire. But dogs judge by smell. And this boy cast a strange, joyous aroma: clean wood and goosefeathers of arrows, smell of running dog and lathered horse, cold scent of running water, and a fragrance of sunshine and crushed grass. The smell of the chase.
And the hungry dog wanted that chase to start immediately. The hot rage in his heart became a fire of comradeship. His hackles sank. He dipped his head, put an icy nose to the boy’s face, then his hot tongue. Then indeed did Meleager fling his arms about the great furry neck, press his face to the dog’s muzzle, and say, “I name you Alcon.”
He whispered it into the simba hound’s ear so that the others would not grow jealous. For Alcon meant mighty.
Lampon sat on a tree stump, thinking bitter thoughts as he waited for his brother. His leg was stretched straight before him; it was bandaged from ankle to knee. He felt that the birds in the trees were jeering at him. He heard someone approaching but didn’t look up. He knew it was his brother and was too angry to look at him.
Plexippus spoke in a timid voice. “What’s the matter with your leg?”
“Oh, nothing to trouble yourself about,” said Lampon. “I’ll just probably be lame for the rest of my life because of that damned dog.”
“How could he do that? Weren’t you wearing armor?”
“Indeed I was,” said Lampon. “A full suit. It didn’t seem to discourage him, though. He simply knocked me to the ground and tried to bite my leg off.”
“He couldn’t bite through brass. Don’t tell me that.”
“He closed those awful jaws about the brass greave covering my leg. He couldn’t bite through, but he crushed the greave. Felt like he was pulping my shinbone. The smith needed a torch to cut me loose. Added a few burns to complete a charming evening.”
“Well, things didn’t turn out as we planned,” murmured Plexippus.
“As we planned? Don’t try to give me any credit for that plan. It was all yours, as you pointed out before we tried it. All yours, Brother, and it stank.”
“Well, I’ll simply think of something else,” said Plexippus. “We’re no worse off than we were before last night.”
“Yes, we are,” said Lampon. “At least I am. And as for our goal of taking over the kingdom, we’re farther away than ever. It was bad enough that the king had assigned a special squadron of Royal Archers to protect the kid, but now we’ve helped out by providing him with a guardian worth three squadrons of Archers. That savage brute is utterly devoted to him and will rip anyone to pieces who even thinks an unkind thought about the brat.”
“Things didn’t turn out well, I admit it. Even the best generals lose a battle or two.”
“But they occasionally win one.”
“I’ll find a way,” said Plexippus. “I promise.”
“That’s a promise I seem to have heard before.”
“Please, I’m studying the situation from every angle. Have a little patience.”
“I’ve had nothing but patience,” said Lampo
n. “We’re not growing any younger, you know. I’d like to dip my hands into the royal treasury while I’m still young enough to enjoy it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re still quite young, both of us. And very healthy.”
“I was a lot healthier yesterday,” said Lampon. “I had two legs.”
“I’ll make it up to you, brother. I’ll give you that slave girl I took when we raided Lemnos last month. I’ve seen you looking at her.”
“No, thanks,” said Lampon. “She dresses her hair with rancid butter. Have you ever passed downwind of her?”
“Well, take your pick, then. I have a whole string.”
“I know you do. I remember that raid. It was typical. While I was busy fighting, you were taking slaves.”
“I’m offering you your pick, am I not?”
“Mmm. I might consider that blond Scythian.”
“I was reserving her for my own use,” said Plexippus. “But very well.”
8
A Death and a Promise
For fifteen years boy and dog were inseparable. They hunted all over Calydon and into Arcadia and Aetolia. What they chased they caught; what they caught they killed. Bear, wolf, wild bull. They did not care to hunt any animal that could not put up a fight for itself.
When Meleager was nineteen, Alcon was fourteen, which is old for a hunting dog. He was as powerful as ever, but he had lost a lot of speed. The boy tried not to recognize this, but he knew that his dog had slowed down, and that he shouldn’t be bringing big wild animals to bay. But when Meleager tried to go hunting without Alcon, the dog looked at him with such tragic eyes that he didn’t have the heart to leave him behind.
“He’s bound to get himself killed this way,” said Meleager to himself. “But if I don’t take him he’ll die of grief. And I know he’d rather go out full of excitement and joy and battle fever. I know I would. I’d much rather die fighting.”
So they continued to hunt together, the prince and the simba hound, and Meleager tried not to think what had to happen. Then one day it did happen.
They were chasing a gigantic bear up a hill. Meleager had wounded him with an arrow, but the beast seemed to be climbing very easily. Finally, it turned, backed up against a rock, and stood at bay. And Alcon, as if knowing this to be a special day, appeared to regain the speed of his youth and rushed up the slope in a headlong charge as if he were chasing a doe instead of a bear. He left his feet, flew through the air straight for the bear’s throat. The bear hunched its huge shoulder and swung its thick paw so fast it became a blur—batting the dog to the ground in mid-leap. Alcon sprang up immediately and closed his jaws on the bear’s hind leg. Something he would not have done had he been able to reach higher. But he could not; his back was broken.
Meleager rushed up the slope, leveling his javelin. He did not dare throw it lest he hit his dog. Nor could he shoot arrows for the same reason. He was running as hard as he could but seemed to be going with agonizing slowness. For the bear was allowing the dog to bite one leg, while the great talons of his other paws were ripping Alcon to shreds.
By the time Meleager reached the spot, his beloved friend was a heap of bloody fur. Forgetting all about the bear, he stooped and gathered the dying dog in his arms. Alcon’s green eyes looked into his. They were dulling now, but still held a spark of love. A warm tongue and cold nose touched his face for the last time. The great head lolled.
Then Meleager remembered the bear and sprang up, wild to kill. But the beast had sidled off. Meleager drew his sword; he meant to dig a grave. Then he shoved the sword back into its scabbard and lifted his face to the sky.
“No,” he said. “I won’t shut him away in a dark hole. Let him abide in the open air that he loved, under the wide sky and the sun and the moon and the stars. Let his bones be plucked clean by eagle and crow and carrion worm. Aye, let his brave bones whiten on the hillside; he shall be his own tomb. And shall live always in my memory as long as I myself live. And may the gods grant me as noble a death when my time comes.”
From that time on Meleager haunted that range of hills, trying to find the bear that had killed his dog. But he could not. He sighted several bears; they were smaller, though, and he didn’t bother chasing them.
His parents, the king and queen, were very worried about him. He would leave the castle at dawn and not come home until nightfall, and he looked so stricken by loss that his mother couldn’t stand it. She had never wanted him to marry, had always feared the day when he would tell her that he had chosen a bride. But now, seeing him the way he was, she decided to speak to the king.
“I think our boy should marry,” she said.
“Marry? Whom?”
“Anyone he chooses.”
“Why, though? He’s still very young.”
“He needs something to make him happy—or someone. His heart is breaking because of that stupid dog.”
“Nonsense!” said the king. “Hearts don’t break so easily, and if they do, they mend themselves. Men die of sword thrust or spear thrust or well-aimed arrow. Or a bull gores them, perchance, or a bear claws them. But they do not die of grief. Only women do that, and not as often as they think.”
Nevertheless, the king, who doted on his son almost as much as his wife did, went to Meleager and said: “Perhaps it’s time you married.”
“Have anyone in mind?” said Meleager.
“No. But I thought you might. Calydon is famous for its beautiful girls.”
“Father, please! I can’t stand them. Soft, squealing little things, no good with spear or bow, hopeless on horseback. I’ll not marry until I can find a girl who can hunt by my side.”
“As you like, my son,” said the king. “But remember this. We who are royal enjoy total privilege. One thing, however, are we not permitted—to appear downhearted. We may feel grief but not show it. For when kings weep, their tears water the seeds of fear and rage that are buried deep in the souls of those who are not kings, and these seeds ripen into revolt. You are heir to my throne, Meleager. If you would govern, smile—though your heart is breaking.”
“Thank you, Father,” said Meleager. “I shall not disappoint you.”
He kissed his father’s hand, then hurried out.
9
The Bear’s Sister
Meleager returned to the hills and hunted harder than ever, but with no luck. He kept hunting. Now he camped out instead of returning to the castle after dark, for some bears prowl by night.
Then, finally, he spotted a bear that looked big enough. He couldn’t tell whether it was the one he wanted, but he thought it might be. It was gigantic.
The bear had seen him also. It stood halfway up the hill, looking down at him. Meleager tethered his horse well back among a fringe of trees, and started up the hill. He was surprised that the bear did not retreat. The huge beast seemed to be waiting for him, welcoming his attack. Anger flamed in Meleager. He made a great effort to control himself and advanced very cautiously.
The bear backed up a few steps, then wedged itself between two rocks, and waited there. The young man’s hair whipped about his face, and he realized that a hard wind was blowing, a crosswind, that made him hesitate to use his bow. He could hope for no accuracy in such a wind, expert archer though he was. And to merely wound a beast that size would be worse than useless. It would not be weakened enough, and pain would feed its rage, making it even more dangerous.
Meleager danced about and shouted, trying to make the bear leave its shelter, trying to tempt it into charging downhill so that he might use the bear’s own weight against it, meet the hurtling beast point-first, allowing it to impale itself upon his spear. The bear did not budge, just waited there between the two rocks. It uttered a chuckling growl that sounded to Meleager as though the beast were jeering at him. More than ever the prince was convinced that this was the bear that had killed his dog.
Forgetting all about caution, he charged up the hill straight at the rocks. The bear waited, and as soon as Meleage
r came within reach, swung its paw, knocking the spear out of his hand. It then charged so swiftly that the lad barely had time to draw his dagger before the beast was upon him. He saw the bear loom above him, stretch its enormous furry arms to catch him in a bone-crushing hug.
But to lift those heavy paws for the fatal embrace took slightly more time than if the bear had simply swung a paw knocking the youth to earth, or had raked him to shreds with its claws. Meleager was just able to slip under the outstretched paws, duck behind the bear, and sink his dagger into the back of its neck, but was knocked off his feet by its backward lurch. As he sprang up, he saw it rushing away up the slope, the dagger stuck in its neck. Blood was welling from the wound.
Meleager scrambled after it. Despite its terrible wound, the beast moved swiftly and was soon out of sight. Meleager followed the trail of blood, knowing that sooner or later the animal had to drop. It had been midmorning when he fought the bear; now the blazing summer sun was directly overhead, and he was panting as he ran.
Then, rounding a big boulder, he saw an astounding sight. A tall, bare-legged maiden was running down the hill with long strides. He gaped at her. She was wearing a great shaggy fur cloak. Just as he thought, “Why is she wearing that heavy thing in all this heat?” he saw that blood was dripping on her shoulders, and realized that it was not a fur cloak she was wearing, but that she was carrying a huge bear on her back, the bear that he had fought.
The animal’s head was lolling on her shoulder. Its blood was dripping all over her. He saw his dagger sticking out of its neck. He stood there, facing the girl. She stopped, let the bear slide to the ground, straightened up, and faced him. He was stunned by her beauty. Standing on long, sleek, powerful legs, she was as tall as he, perhaps taller. She was clad in a brief tunic of deerskin, her red-brown hair hanging to her thighs. Her face was muddy, her bare arms and shoulders streaked with blood.
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One Page 14
