The boy was a natural mimic. He amused himself by imitating the call of lark and thrush and the hectoring crow. He also taught himself to whistle exactly as the king did when summoning the horses or ordering them to attack.
All this time, an intention was ripening within him—crowding his heart, following him into the night, and painting pictures on the walls of sleep. Finally, one day, the idea hatched.
He waited in his tree, trying to stifle his impatience until the king had finished his morning’s work with the horses and departed. The boy filled his pouch with apples, waiting until he was sure the king was out of earshot. Then he whistled the piercing whistle that meant “Come!”
The nearest horse, a huge reddish brown colt, swiveled the keg of its head and rolled its eyes. The boy whistled again. The horse arched its neck, whisked its tail, and pranced sideways, then turned and trotted toward the sound.
The horse came under the apple tree. Lightly as a leaf, the boy dropped down onto its back. But the colt had never been ridden. It bolted through the orchard, brushing against tree trunks, trying to knock the boy off. But Bellerophon drew one leg up, then the other, and finally sat cross-legged, riding this awful power as comfortably as a petrel bobbing on a stormy sea.
The colt burst through the orchard and entered the open meadow—bucking, sunfishing, landing jarringly on stiff legs, trying to get rid of its weird little burden. The boy felt no fear. This was where he belonged. Not for a moment did he consider that he might be thrown, smashing his head against a rock; or that the great jaws might catch his leg and tear it off; or that the furious horse might roll over on him, crushing him beneath its enormous weight.
No, nothing bad would happen. They were bound in a dance. The boy’s small body was adjusting itself to the huge one. They were connected by a secret bond, throbbing with life. The colt didn’t know it yet. It was slower to know things. But it would learn. It had to. He loved the animal too much for it not to become aware.
He perched on the raging animal and laughed with joy. The colt bugled suddenly, as if answering his laughter, then reared on its hind legs, pawing the air with its forehooves. Bellerophon clung to its mane. The horse came down with a jolt, stood on braced forelegs, and kicked out its back hooves in a terrific whiplash movement. But the boy was part of the horse now; he could not be thrown.
The colt’s neck was satiny with sweat, wrapping the boy in its fragrance. The animal’s strength was entering him, nourishing his courage, tuning his reflexes. He pulled an apple from his pouch, clasped the horse’s neck with his legs, and slid around, hanging upside down with his face under the horse’s mouth. He thrust the apple between its huge teeth, and twisted away, perching again on its wide back.
The beast ate the sweet fruit. It stood stock still, crunching. Bellerophon leaped off, stood before the animal and thrust another apple into its jaws, then another. The great, glossy wild eyes looked into his. The big head sank. The velvet lips began to nuzzle at him, searching for apples.
The boy turned his back and began to walk away. The colt reached again, seized the belt of his tunic between its teeth, swung the boy off the ground, and flipped him into the air. Bellerophon turned a backward somersault and landed on the horse’s back. He stood there for a moment, laughing. When he slid to riding position, the colt trotted off.
The sun was sinking behind them now and cast a great humped shadow that swung before them as they moved toward the rest of the herd.
4
The Warning
For the next year, Bellerophon visited the horses every day, and, one by one, mastered them all. He was able to do all this without being observed, for everyone shunned the royal paddock except the king and whatever stable help had survived the month.
Finally, however, another craving began to gnaw at the boy. He found himself wanting everyone to know that he alone could manage these terrifying animals. He pictured himself riding toward the other children just as they were choosing up sides for the war game—riding in on one of the great stallions, vaulting on and off its back at a full gallop, doing handstands on its back, sliding around its neck and feeding it apples, performing all these marvelous tricks as the other children gaped in wonder.
How they would admire him! How they would fight among themselves for the privilege of being on his team. Why, he would be named a squadron of cavalry all by himself. His heart swelled with these visions of glory; it got so that he couldn’t sleep.
One night he grew so excited that he sat bolt upright in bed, preparing to dash out into the moonlight, race to the stables, and ride one of the horses right up the palace steps and among the sleeping children.
“How wonderful,” he whispered to himself. “They’ll think they’re dreaming, but then realize they’re awake. I’ll laugh and ride away, and in the morning they won’t know whether I’m a dream or not.”
Moonlight shifted through the arrow-slit that served as a window for his little chamber. The light curdled, thickened, lengthened itself—became a tall milky form. It lifted its arms and threw back its cowl. He saw a fall of dark hair and a pale sliver of face.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
“I am your mother.”
“She’s dead.”
“I am her ghost.”
“Why do you come?” he asked.
“I love you.”
“But you’re dead.”
“Love outlasts death. It is what troubles our repose and makes us walk the earth again.”
“Why haven’t you come before?” asked Bellerophon.
“I am permitted to appear to you only when you are to be warned,” said the ghost. “Hush now, and listen. I can stay only a brief time and must speak my message only once.”
I am your mother,
a bride of the sea.
You have no other,
only me.
“Who is my father, then?” asked the boy. “Is it Melicertes?”
Not Melicertes,
of a certainty.
Your father,
rather,
is Lord of the Sea.
“Poseidon?” cried the boy. “Master of Tides? Who created the horse?”
Indeed, ’twas he
who made the horse, and gave you mastery.
But that skill you must hide
oh Son of the Tide.
Let no one know
how well you ride.
“But why, mother? I’m proud of it.”
“That pride can be fatal, my boy,” said the ghost.
Hide, hide, hide your pride;
let no one know
how well you ride.
Or the killer king
will do again
what he loves to do,
And the royal ax will fall on you.
The boy sat silently.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Will you heed my words?”
“Yes … yes. Why are you fading?”
“I am leaving,” said the ghost.
“No! Please! Stay!”
“Will you come again?”
“Perhaps. Farewell, my lovely boy. Farewell!”
She faded, vanished. The boy’s tear-stained face caught the last ghostly light. He had never cried before. He wiped his eyes angrily, and sat staring into the shadows.
5
The Tormented Land
Of those unfortunate enough to encounter the Chimaera, few lived to tell about it. And those who did manage to escape while it was devouring their neighbors were so stupefied by terror that they were unable to describe the monster.
Some said it was half dragon, half ram. Others said it was a flying lion, but with an eagle’s head. Still others spoke of a winged serpent. All agreed, however, that it was a combination of at least two huge beasts, that it flew, that it spat flame, and that it was capable of devouring an entire village at a single meal.
Sifting through all these tales after some four thousand years, it is now thou
ght that the monster which plagued Lycia had a lion’s head and chest, a lion’s teeth and claws, and the torso of a giant goat, with a tail that became a serpent, giving the beast jaws at both ends. It had leathery wings like a dragon, and a dragon’s ability to spit fire. Of all the monsters spawned since the beginning of time, the Chimaera had perhaps the biggest appetite and the smallest intelligence.
No one knew why the Chimaera had chosen Lycia as its hunting ground. But during the years when Bellerophon was growing up in Corinth, the monster nested in the Lycian mountains and devastated the hillside villages. Then, when the hills were eaten bare, it flew out to ravage the coastal towns.
The king, Iobates, a kindly man, was so bewildered and grief-stricken by what was happening to his once happy people that he thought of offering his own life to appease whatever god was punishing his land. His wife and daughters pleaded with him not to sacrifice himself, but his decision grew stronger with each new report of a village destroyed. He was hesitating only because he couldn’t decide which god would be the most likely to accept the sacrifice. Iobates consulted seven priests. Each of them named a different god or goddess, which left him more confused than ever.
“Since it’s impossible to learn who’s punishing us,” he thought, “I’ll go right to the top, and put myself to the sword at the altar of the Almighty Zeus, who rules all the gods.”
He returned to the palace to bid farewell to his family, but his youngest daughter, Anteia, clutched him, crying, “No, father, you must not!”
“Indeed, I must,” he said.
“No, no, please listen. A dream visited me last night. No ordinary one but a vision from on high. I saw a monster in the sky breathing fire. The thatched roofs were burning. People ran, screaming. The beast came lower. Then the clouds broke, and light poured down. It turned to a spear of light and pierced the body of the monster like a fisherman gaffing a fish. The monster turned into black smoke and vanished, leaving the sky clear. A voice spoke, saying, ‘Tell your father not to despair. A hero is being prepared to slay the foul beast.’ Then I woke. But father, father, I believe that vision, I believe that voice. You must have faith, for help is on its way.”
“A hero is being prepared to save us, is that what your voice said?” asked the king.
“Yes.”
“Well,” said Iobates. “Whoever’s preparing him better do so quickly or there won’t be anything for him to save.”
“Please, father, please. Have faith.”
Now, the king had six daughters, some of them quite silly, and he was not prone to put much stock in anything they said. But this youngest daughter, Anteia, was far brighter than her sisters, as well as more beautiful, and the king loved her very much. While not quite believing in her dream, he was moved by her tears, and promised her he would not sacrifice himself, at least not immediately.
“I’m grateful for one thing,” he said to himself. “She is betrothed to the king of Tiryns, and while she’s much too good for him, will at least be safe at his court. I’ll hasten the marriage.”
6
The Blind Seer
During the years that the boy Bellerophon was ripening into manhood, King Melicertes was ripening into madness. He had always been cruel, had always been ruthless to his enemies, but such traits were not unusual among the rulers of that time, when the words king and tyrant were virtually synonymous. Melicertes, perhaps, was more cruel than other kings—more ruthless, certainly more dramatic; his man-eating horses were notorious throughout the Middle Sea basin. But, of late, his suspicions had grown into a frenzy.
He saw enemies everywhere and ordered so many executions that he couldn’t use his horses on his prisoners; they would have grown too fat to race. So he kept his ax-men busy, cutting off heads. Nevertheless, this wholesale butchery did not ease his fears. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was threatened—by what or whom he did not know, but he knew the threat was growing.
Finally, Melicertes consulted an oracle, although he had never believed in them. Word had come to him of a man who had gained a reputation for holiness by plucking out his own eyes, so that, as he said, he might listen without distraction to what the gods were trying to say. People flocked to this man, and were amazed at the accuracy of his predictions.
Melicertes did not send for this oracle; he wanted to test him. He doffed his crown, cast off his rich garments, ordered his royal guard to stay behind, and, in the guise of an ordinary horse breeder, visited the blind seer.
The old man turned the empty sockets of his eyes upon him, and said, “You are welcome, king. What do you want to know?”
It was not the king’s nature to allow himself to be impressed; he tried hard now not to be. “Ah, bah,” he thought to himself, “so he knows I’m a king, is that remarkable? I can change my clothes, but I cannot cast off my royal bearing or muffle the impact of my regal personality. It is so powerful that even a blind man recognizes me.”
Aloud, he said, “I’ve heard great things about you. You read the future, I understand, as clearly as though it has already happened.”
“True,” said the blind man. “In fact, our future is embedded in our past. How could it not be? Time is circular. Or, more accurately, our lives spiral around the fixed point of what we are. We are our own fate. We lift ourselves out of the darkness of pre-birth into a brief light, making and unmaking ourselves as we travel toward the final darkness.”
“Very fine,” said the king. “Actually, I don’t have much of a head for philosophy. I prefer facts. Can you tell me who threatens me, and why?”
“There are so many ‘whys,’” said the seer. “You have created a multitude of corpses, O king. If you were to multiply each corpse by the number of those who had loved that person, alive, you might calculate the number of potential assassins you have made for yourself. But numbers don’t matter. Like all of us, you are allowed only one death, and should concern yourself only with the assassin who will succeed.”
“Then there is one!” roared the king. “Who is he? Tell me quickly, on pain of death.”
The blind man sighed and pointed to his empty sockets. “Do you really think I fear pain, O king? When I tore out my own eyes I freed myself from the fear of physical pain as I freed myself from the distractions of the visible world. You cannot threaten me.”
“Please,” whispered the king, “I implore you. I, who have never begged for anything in my life, am begging now. Tell me the name of my assassin.”
“I can tell you this,” said the oracle. “You have fashioned your own death. It waits for you. And will be presented to you by one who comes from the sea.”
After leaving the seer, Melicertes did some hard thinking. “Can I believe that pompous old charlatan? What did he say, after all? My death will come from the sea. What kind of prophecy is that? We’re all pirate-kings in this part of the world. Our death usually comes from the sea, even as our wealth does.”
So the king strode toward the stables, trying to reassure himself. But he wasn’t able to. He couldn’t shake off the memory of those empty sockets fixed on him, and the deep quiet voice saying, “You have devised your own death, Melicertes.”
He entered the paddock and worked the horses for a while, but stopped sooner than was his custom. They were off their feed, sluggish and irritable. One stallion actually snapped at him. He did not return to the palace. He walked along the chariot course, trying to recall his greatest triumphs. But they would not come. All he saw were the puckered red sockets staring at him, the bony hand, gesturing.
“Let me approach this another way,” he told himself. “Let me examine the prophecy as if it contained some truth. My death will come from the sea. He couldn’t have meant that I was to perish in some ordinary sea battle or drown in a tidal wave. He must have meant something special. Some doom springing from one of my own actions. Accursed old wizard! I should have drawn my dagger and finished him off then and there. Why didn’t I? Actually, it’s tricky, killing oracles. Some of th
em claim to enjoy the special patronage of the gods.”
Then, suddenly, Melicertes was swept by the feeling that he had thought this same thought before—that he had decided to kill someone and had been stopped by the same fear of divine reprisal.
“Yes!” he cried. “I remember! It was when I was about to throw that babe off the cliff after his stubborn mother—but I held back because she had said he was the son of a god. Poseidon’s son! That’s it! Of course … that brat that I took into my home and raised as my own, the one they call Bellerophon, is sea-spawned; it is he who plans my death. He is the death from the sea. Well, I’ll turn that prophecy upside down. I’ll be his death before he’s mine.”
And the king stumped off to find Bellerophon.
7
The Mad King
Bellerophon saw him approaching. The man’s lips were writhing in a horrible way, and he realized that the king was trying to smile. The youth had had little acquaintance with fear. But now he felt something strange clutching at his windpipe. He knew that he was in mortal danger. Suspicion hardened to certainty as the smirking king came closer and dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Greetings, young fellow,” said Melicertes.
“Greetings, majesty.”
“We haven’t had much conversation together, you and I. Royal business presses hard, you know. And I may have been neglecting my household a bit. But now I intend to pay more attention to my sons and heirs. Tell me something about yourself, lad—your likes and dislikes, your hopes and disappointments.”
“It’s very good of you, sir,” stammered Bellerophon, “to take such an interest.”
“Well, I’m a family man at heart. And there’s something about you that attracts my special attention. Tell me, do you like horses?”
“No, your majesty, I do not. I’m fond of animals in general, but not of horses.”
“I see.… Is it because of the unusual reputation my stock has gained?”
“Frankly, sire, I’m afraid of them. We all are.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. For I have planned a series of chariot races, pitting me against each of my sons, beginning with you.”
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One Page 22
