“How long must I serve?”
“A thousand years … which in our time is not too long, not at all.”
“But she’s human,” growled Cerberus. “It will seem long for her.”
“She was human; she’s a shade now,” answered Hades. “She exists beyond time. She will be the same in a thousand years as she is now. But this discussion has gone on long enough. Do you accept, or refuse?”
“I accept,” growled Cerberus. “And you, will you keep your promise?”
“By my honor as a god, by my dignity as a king, and by the waters of the Styx—which is an unbreakable oath—I swear to you that if you serve me for a thousand years, your Delia will be restored to you alive.”
“I’ll start right now,” said Cerberus. “I don’t want this to take a minute more than a thousand years.”
He turned to Delia, but she had vanished among the asphodel.
16
The Three-Headed Sentinel
Cerberus kept his pledge. For the next thousand years he served Hades, guarding the tall iron Gates of Hell, keeping the dead in and the living out. On only three occasions did he fail his duty: the first time to let a loving wife through.
She was Alcestis, a beautiful young queen, who had come to offer her own life to redeem that of her dead husband. At first Cerberus, for all her impassioned pleading, barred the way. But then at the sight of her lovely grief-wracked face and the sound of her voice throbbing with tears, he remembered his own grief at Delia’s death and let her pass.
Upon the second occasion, it was a widower who trespassed. The young husband was Orpheus, the great minstrel who had invented the seven-stringed lyre and drew such ravishing melodies from it that trees would pull themselves out of the earth and hobble on their roots to follow him as he played. Wild beasts and gentle beasts would come out of the forest to stand in a circle listening, at peace with each other.
Orpheus had come to reclaim his young bride, Eurydice. “She was taken from me before we were married three days,” he told Cerberus. “Abducted and foully murdered. I shall go in there and ask Hades to return her to me. If he does, I shall sing his praises from now until the day I die, sing them so eloquently that he, the most hated god, shall become the most beloved. Let me through, good dog.”
Cerberus wanted to, but was afraid that if he did so, Hades would consider the pact broken and refuse to release Delia when the time came. All three heads snarled in warning, but gently.
Orpheus said nothing. He unslung his lyre and began to play, singing as he touched the strings. He sang not of his own grief but a happy song. A hound song, a hunting song. As he sang, Cerberus saw the iron gates vanish; they melted into a misty meadow—and happy young hounds yapping with eagerness as the hunt began. He dreamed of being such a dog, a normal dog with one head, running through the dappled shade of the forest, chasing a stag as dogs are meant to do. And as the song wove the enchanted forest about him, he pictured Delia, a young huntress, running at his side shouting with joy.
Cerberus whimpered, twitched, and fell into a deep sleep.
“Thank you,” said Orpheus, and carefully skirting the great form, passed through the Gates of Hell.
Hercules was the third one to pass the three-headed dog. His whole life was spent doing things that others could not. But how he entered Tartarus belongs to another story—to be soon told—of the monster Geryon.
Some say that Hades kept his promise and released Delia’s spirit, which immediately started to grow a new body just like the one Argus had killed. Cerberus, of course, followed her out of Tartarus, lived with her, and guarded her until she grew up. Then he guarded her husband and her children, who were the safest children anywhere.
But others say that Hades, who lied as naturally as he breathed, never had any intention of keeping his promise, that Delia’s shade remained in Limbo. Cerberus waited and waited and waited, keeping his promise, watching over the Gates of Hell—waited so diligently, so hopelessly, that his heads became specialized, were no longer three complete heads but three crania that divided the senses. The middle head had eyes but no ears or nose. The right-hand head had ears but no eyes or nose. And the head on the left had neither eyes nor ears; it was a blind snout tipped with quivering nostrils. But each had kept its huge jaws and dagger teeth.
Which tale is true? Who can know the truth about what happened so long ago? Unless, perhaps, as some say, time runs in a circle, and what has happened keeps happening.
What is certain is that the heart still dances at the sight of dogs and children, and when they play at dusk, it’s hard to count heads.
THE CHIMAERA
For our bonus grandson
JESSE CLINTON
and a handsome bonus he is.
Characters
Monster
The Chimaera
(ky MEE ruh)
A dreadful creature composed of lion, goat, and serpent, in the worst possible combination
Gods
Zeus
(ZOOS)
King of the Gods
Poseidon
(poh SY duhn)
Zeus’s brother, God of the Sea
Demeter
(duh MEE tuhr)
Goddess of the Harvest
Mortals
Bellerophon
(buh LAIR uh fuhn)
A young hero; son of Poseidon
Eurymede
(yoo RIM uh dee)
Bellerophon’s mother; dead, but still active
Melicertes
(mehl uh SUR teez)
King of Corinth
Anteia
(an TY yuh)
Queen of Tiryns; Bellerophon’s cousin
Iobates
(eye OB a teez)
Anteia’s father; king of Lycia
Proetus
(proh EE tuhs)
Anteia’s husband; king of Tiryns
Thallo
(THUH loh)
A poet
Pirate Captain
A sea-bandit of Lycia
The Oracle
A blind seer
Animals
Sea Mist
A great gray stallion
Pegasus
(PEG uh suhs)
A winged white horse
Other horses of Corinth
Owned by Melicertes and trained to be lethal
Contents
CHAPTER I
Monster and Monarch
CHAPTER II
The Smallest Archer
CHAPTER III
The Horse-Breaker
CHAPTER IV
The Warning
CHAPTER V
The Tormented Land
CHAPTER VI
The Blind Seer
CHAPTER VII
The Mad King
CHAPTER VIII
A Gathering Doom
CHAPTER IX
Hooves of Death
CHAPTER X
Anteia
CHAPTER XI
The Hunt Begins
CHAPTER XII
Dangerous Passage
CHAPTER XIII
The Ghost Returns
CHAPTER XIV
The Winged Horse
CHAPTER XV
The Chimaera
1
Monster and Monarch
It was a clear, hot morning, but the Lycians were frozen with horror. The Chimaera had appeared in their skies and was hovering overhead. One chieftain tried to hearten his people.
“It won’t land here,” he said. “It’s on its way to Corinth. For monsters are sent to punish wicked kings. And who is more wicked than Melicertes?”
While he was still insisting that the monster was going elsewhere, it swooped down on the village and devoured the entire population—men, women, and children; then it proceeded to the next village and ate everyone there, but more slowly. Whereupon, it flew heavily toward the mountains, and didn’t go to Corinth at all.
As for the hopeful chieftain, he had attacked t
he Chimaera as soon as it touched ground, struck one blow with his sword and disappeared down the smoky gullet before he had time to realize how little he knew about monsters.
Now, as the Chimaera flies eastward, we go west—to that bridge of land known as Corinth that connects the land masses of Arcadia and Boeotia. This rich kingdom was ruled by Melicertes the Malevolent, whose reputation for evil had spread to all the lands of the Middle Sea basin.
Melicertes bred horses; he fattened his coffers by betting vast sums on himself in chariot races. This kind of sport was the favorite pastime of ancient royalty, and Melicertes never lost a race. Nor did he depend on the speed of his horses; he had trained them to be killers.
Whenever a rival chariot threatened to pass his, Melicertes would whistle in a certain way; his steeds would swerve in their traces and attack the other team like a pack of wolves, throwing them into a panic, causing them to bolt frantically in the wrong direction. Then, bugling and snorting and tossing their manes, the Corinthian team would gallop off again, pulling the royal chariot across the finish line.
Early in the history of these races, one defeated driver claimed a foul. But protests were cut short by the sudden death of the complainant. An arrow sticking out of his throat aroused certain suspicions, but no one was prepared to accuse the king of foul play, nor did anyone ever again protest a Melicertes victory.
The king had brought his horses to this pitch of viciousness by raising them on a diet of raw meat. As soon as the foals stopped drinking mare’s milk, they were fed bloody hunks of beef and pork. When they became yearlings, they were introduced to forbidden food. Into the stalls of the gigantic colts were thrown those unfortunate enough to have offended the king, who was easily offended. This diet also saved the cost of jailers and hangmen. Every crime was punishable by death; a crime was whatever the king said it was; and there was a steady supply of human flesh for the royal stables.
So the king prospered as a charioteer; his only problem was keeping help. But he solved this in his own way. Since his particular administration of justice left many orphans, he formed them into a labor pool to be tapped whenever he needed a new groom or stable boy.
2
The Smallest Archer
Melicertes was about forty-five, and had already run through nine wives. No one knew what he did with them; they simply vanished. As soon as he discarded one, he would choose another—no older than eighteen and always the most beautiful maiden in the land. No girl dared refuse him, and if she were so inclined her parents would overrule her. For anyone who crossed the king became horse fodder.
Naturally, people wondered what happened to the ex-wives, but didn’t dare discuss it. In fact, they hardly dared think about it. For they feared the king so much that they believed he could read minds at a distance—that anyone who entertained any critical opinion of royal behavior would soon find himself being fed to the horses.
For all the secrecy and terror that surrounded Melicertes, however, there was one rumor that stubbornly refused to fade away. It was said that some years before, after only five wives, the king had been refused by a girl whom he wished to make his sixth. She couldn’t marry him, she had said, because she was already the bride of the sea. A year before, Poseidon had ridden in on a tidal wave, swept her up, and carried her away, then returned her to her village the next day. When the king refused to believe her, she produced an infant, who, she said, was Poseidon’s son. Melicertes still refused to accept her story, and insisted that she be his. She fled. He pursued. She raced to the edge of a cliff and flung herself into the sea. The king, enraged, was about to throw the baby in after her, but something stopped him.
“I’m not quite sure there are such things as gods,” he said to himself. “I’ve never seen any, and I dislike the idea that anything can be more powerful than I am. Nevertheless, I’m not certain that they don’t exist, and there’s no use taking unnecessary chances. If there should be a sea god named Poseidon, he might be annoyed with me. And if this child is really his, as she said, I’ll only make things worse by drowning it. My kingdom is an isthmus, after all, and a sea god, no doubt, can whistle up a storm whenever he pleases and bury this strip of land under fathoms of water. So I think I’ll assume that Poseidon exists and try to appease him by raising his brat as my own.”
So the king had the gray-eyed babe taken to the palace and dropped among a horde of other motherless princes and princesses who romped through the royal park, wild as bear cubs. The little boy was nameless at first. Then the other children began to call him Bellerophon.
He was as friendly and affectionate as a puppy. His one ambition was to grow big enough to join the violent play of the older children. They played outdoors from morning till night, and their favorite game was “War.”
Each morning, the biggest and strongest appointed themselves chiefs and chose up sides. Armed with wooden swords and blunted javelins, the little warriors would then rage over the fields and into the woods in whatever form of the game they had picked that day—“Ambush,” “Pitched Battle,” or “Siege.” They played rough. Any bruise or cut was a badge of honor, and no child ever complained. The king approved of these games. They were good training for the real thing. He chose his young officers from among his sons. He also watched for symptoms of dangerous ambition. A prince who showed signs of aspiring to kingship simply vanished, and no one asked why. The Corinthians had learned not to.
Now, little Bellerophon couldn’t wait to be chosen in a game of “War.” He hung about the outskirts of the battles, watching everything, picking favorites among the players, and studying their weapon play. Finally, one day, a boy slightly older than he sprained his ankle, leaving the sides uneven. Bellerophon’s heart began to gallop as the chiefs counted their troops. He almost burst with joy when one of them beckoned to him and ordered: “You! Get out here!”
Bellerophon was prepared. Ever since he could toddle he had been getting himself ready for this glorious day. He had made himself a little bow and a quiver of arrows. The chief guffawed when he saw the tiny bow and the arrows no bigger than darts.
“What are you going to do with that?” he cried. “Shoot grasshoppers?”
Bellerophon grinned at him, and darted off, so swiftly that it seemed he had been swallowed by the meadow. He lay in the tall grass amid the buzz and click of insects. Notching his arrow to his bow, he pointed it straight up, and waited.
It was a drowsy place, full of sleepy sounds. Bellerophon was lying on his back, but he had never felt more awake. For the enemy’s natural line of advance was across this meadow, and he knew that he was invisible. He waited. Then he heard someone yelling. He raised himself enough to take a quick peek, then sank back into the grass.
They were coming—in a long skirmish line. The grass trembled; insects departed. He drew back his arrow until the bow was bent double. And when the charging boy stumbled over him, stared down in astonishment, and then raised his wooden sword, Bellerophon released the bowstring. His arrow hit the attacker under the chin. Had it worn a sharp head it would have pierced the boy’s throat. As it was, it knocked him to the ground, making him gasp for breath.
“You’re dead!” cried Bellerophon. “Take yourself out.”
The fallen boy picked himself up and staggered away, dazed. Bellerophon snatched up his arrow and notched it again—just in time. Someone else was coming. He shot him too. Then another. And another. Nestling like an adder in the meadow grass, he stung fifteen of the enemy with his little arrows, knocking them out of the game, and sealing victory for his side.
It was upon this day that he earned his name, Bellerophon, which meant “archer.”
3
The Horse-Breaker
Poseidon, it is said, created the first horse as a gift for Demeter, and had always loved the animal. For himself he kept a string of white-maned stallions, which he rode at full gallop when the sea was rough. So it was that all his sons were ardent horsemen, could gentle the most vicious steed, and ride an
ything that moved. And now his smallest son was growing up among the mob of children sired by Melicertes.
Bellerophon was the youngest of this child swarm and different in other ways. They were not especially unkind to him, his adopted brothers and sisters, but they didn’t completely accept him either. Bellerophon didn’t let this bother him, though. While delighted when they played with him, he was nevertheless quite satisfied with his own company when left alone. In fact, he welcomed these hours of solitude, for he was making certain plans, which he preferred to keep to himself.
These schemes became the pivot of his lonely hours, and, finally, the theme of his young life. What happened was that he had become fascinated by the king’s horses and had determined to ride them.
Paddock and stables had never been declared off limits to the royal children. No one ever dreamed of going anywhere near the man-eating horses if he could help it. This paddock was no small fenced area. It was an open range, acres of grassland girded by the great circular track where the chariot races were run. The stallions roamed as freely as a wild herd; actually, they were almost wild, broken only to chariot work and obeying only the king.
One big meadow held a stand of apple trees, however, and Bellerophon had chosen this place for his own. He could climb like a squirrel. In a flash, he was off the ground, up a trunk and balancing on a huge limb. Here he would perch for hours, watching the horses—gazing rapturously as they ran free, studying them intently when the king came out to work them.
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One Page 21
