“Possibly,” said Bellerophon, who thought to himself: “This weasel-faced bully is worse than Melicertes. I am much inclined to strike him down where he stands and run away with his wife. But that hulking brute of a guard stands too close, and the rest of his troop is undoubtedly hiding in the underbrush. They’d be upon me before I could draw my sword.”
Aloud, he said: “Farewell, gracious queen. Do you have any message for your father?”
“Yes!” she cried. “Tell him I love him! Tell him not to despair. A hero will come one day and slay the Chimaera. I know he will.”
She burst into tears and ran out of sight behind the roses.
“Cousin,” said Proetus. “I think you had better be on your way without any more ceremony. I don’t like young men speaking to my wife, cousin or not. And my captain of the guard over there, that huge fellow standing in the shade of the tree, is quick to read my wish, even that which remains unspoken. His method is simple, bless him, a bowstring about the neck of the offender, inducing acute strangulation—and behold! Whoever has displeased me will do so no more. You wouldn’t want to fall into the hands of such a fellow, would you?”
“I thank you for your hospitality,” said Bellerophon, and departed.
11
The Hunt Begins
When Bellerophon had left Corinth, he had taken one of the horses that had killed the king, a huge gray stallion. He named it Sea Mist, and it became more than a mount to him. The horse was a fierce guardian, a loyal companion. During the long ride Bellerophon had fallen into the habit of speaking his thoughts to it.
Now, riding the great gray stallion out of Tiryns toward Lycia, Bellerophon suddenly wheeled the horse about and began to ride back. Then he stopped, and sat there on the horse’s back, torn by indecision.
“I must go back and fetch her!” he cried. “No weedy tyrant will stop me, nor all his murderous bodyguard. Yes, we must return immediately.… But how do I know that she wants me to? A few soft words, a smile, a cousinly kiss—are they enough to build on? Why, she’s the most beautiful girl in the world, and married to a very rich, very powerful king; could she really prefer me? Why do I think so? I do, but I’m not sure. When I asked if she had any message for her father, she cried, ‘Tell him I love him!’ and her throbbing voice seemed to say, ‘Not only him, but you too.’ Could she have meant that? Or did I hear what I wanted to hear? She has reason to be concerned about her father, of course, deviled as he is by that Chimaera, waiting for a hero that does not come.”
Bellerophon had dismounted and was leaning against the horse. He cried out suddenly, startling the animal. Then he clasped its great neck, exclaiming, “That’s it! Yes! Why didn’t I think of it before? I’ll go and kill the monster that’s been tormenting her father. We’ll start right now. We won’t even stop at the royal palace in Lycia, but go to the hills immediately, and begin our Chimaera hunt. She’ll have to love me if I kill it, won’t she? Surely she will. And you’ll enjoy the hunt, won’t you, Sea Mist? You haven’t had much action lately.”
He leaped onto the stallion’s back, drummed his heels, and they galloped away.
12
Dangerous Passage
Last reports had placed the Chimaera among the Lycian hills, and it was there that Bellerophon rode. The track was easy to follow; the monster had left terrible traces. From village to devastated village, Bellerophon stalked the monster. Sometimes he came so close that houses were still burning when he arrived and the kill was so fresh that vultures had not yet come to strip the bones.
Eagerly, he searched the sky for smoke plumes. Sometimes, he thought he saw gray coils winding up in the sky, and his heart would leap, but it was only the mist or a wisp of cloud. Once, he was sure that he saw the monster as a speck on the horizon growing larger and larger. He drew his sword and shouted a battle cry. But it was only an eagle hunting goats.
“I don’t understand it,” he said to the horse. “Everyone else tries to avoid the monster, and dies in the process, while I, who want so desperately to find it, can’t even catch a glimpse of the damned thing. Perhaps some god is playing games with me.”
The next village Bellerophon came to had not yet been destroyed. When he questioned the villagers, he found them unwilling to answer, as if they feared that any mention of the Chimaera might make it appear. Finally, a child told him that he had seen the beast flying high, in the direction of the sea.
“Back to the coast, then!” cried Bellerophon. And the horse went into its tireless swinging trot.
On the way, Bellerophon devised a plan, which he confided to the horse. “I’ve heard that the Chimaera attacks fishing fleets, for then it can eat the catch as well as those who do the catching. What I shall do is leave you on shore, swim out to one of the boats, climb aboard, and wait for the monster to attack.”
When the youth had left Corinth, he had also taken the dead king’s sword, a magnificent weapon, with a blade so sharp it could cut a floating feather in two. Its hand guard was made of beaten copper and its hilt was wrapped in tough, pliant calf’s hide, stitched with gold wire. “I must have it,” Bellerophon had said to himself, standing over his fallen foe. “I killed an enemy who was trying to kill me, and by the rules of battle I am entitled to his weapon. It’s not theft, it’s legitimate loot.”
But this priceless sword was to plunge Bellerophon into an adventure that threatened to end his career before he encountered the Chimaera.
Riding along, he could smell a salt wind now, and glimpsed the sea like a tilted tin plate, reflecting the sunlight. He had decided not to ride all the way to the shore, afraid that the faithful horse might follow him into the water when he tried to swim out to the fishing vessels.
He stopped, dismounted, and instructed Sea Mist to roam the meadows and wait for him until he should return. The stallion laid back its ears, nudged him with its head, and whickered plaintively. But the lad said, “You can’t come. Wait for me here.” He set off on foot, trying to shut his ears to the lonely, trumpeting cry the horse sent after him.
The piers were empty. A large school of mullet had been sighted and the entire fleet had been put out to sea. They had sailed a good distance; Bellerophon saw only smudges on the horizon. He knew that the boats would not have bunched themselves, but would be strung out for miles, for fishermen of the same village gave one another generous room to cast their nets.
The shore was rocky here. Bellerophon began searching for a break in the boulder line where he might enter the water and begin his long swim. He heard someone shouting, and turned.
A huge, burly man was clambering over the rocks toward him. He was bearded and swarthy, with a look of subdued ferocity, but he spoke courteously: “Good day, stranger. You are a stranger, are you not?”
“I am,” said Bellerophon. “My home is Corinth.”
“I saw that you were gazing out to sea as if trying to identify some vessel out there. I know most of the folk hereabout. Is there someone special you’re looking for?”
“No, sir,” replied Bellerophon. “But I mean to join a crew. My intention is to swim out and board one of the fishing boats.”
“You won’t make it,” said the man. “There are sharks in these waters; they tend to cluster around fishing boats when the catch is good.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your advice. Nevertheless, I mean to get out there, sharks or not.”
“I can save you a long dangerous swim,” said the stranger. “I was just about to join the fleet myself. My ship’s waiting in the next cove. I’ll be glad to give you passage.”
“You’re very kind. What is your fee?”
“No fee at all,” said the man. “We here on this coast have a reputation for hospitality.”
The man led Bellerophon along the rocky shore to a cove where a black vessel lay moored. The crew was as savage looking as the captain, but said nothing as Bellerophon boarded. He noticed that the ship carried no nets, but he forgot all about that in the excitement of setting sa
il.
The ship was fast. It scudded before the wind. Bellerophon searched the sky as they sailed, hoping to spot the Chimaera. He did not realize that there were other dangerous creatures prowling much closer. For fishing was not the sole occupation of the coast dwellers. Many of them found piracy more profitable. And the crew of this particular vessel happened to be the most viciously successful pirates in those waters.
Blinded to everything else by his desire to find the Chimaera, the lad did not realize his peril until a heavy hand clamped his shoulder and swung him around. It was the captain. His other hand held an ax.
“Farewell, stranger,” he said.
“Why farewell?” stammered Bellerophon.
“You are about to leave us, young sir. A final journey, in fact.”
“But why?”
“Because you’re too foolish to live.”
“What have I done that is so foolish?”
“You have come among us alone, wearing a treasure at your belt. Very unwise.”
“But why?”
“Because we’re pirates, of course. Pirates take what they want and throw the rest away.”
“You mean you want my sword?”
“Exactly. Indeed, I have considered it my sword ever since I first laid eyes on it. And the time has come to take possession.”
“But why must you kill me?” asked Bellerophon. “Just take the thing and let me go.”
“I can understand your point of view,” said the pirate. “But it just doesn’t work that way. We don’t like to leave witnesses; it’s not our policy. However, I can assure you, you’ll feel no pain. I’m a skilled axman, and this blade will shear through your neck so swiftly that you won’t feel a thing until you’re reunited with your head down in Hades.”
“I appreciate your compassion,” said the youth. “Please … take my sword.” Bellerophon drew it from its sheath, and, with a lightning flexion of his arm, whisked the blade through the pirate’s thick neck like a cook cutting a celery stalk. The body fell to the deck, spouting blood. The head rolled into the scuppers.
“You’ll be reunited with it in Hades!” shouted Bellerophon, and jumped overboard as the other pirates rushed at him.
Remembering the sharks, he swam under the ship and clung to its keel—a position that tended to discourage sharks, who need space above them to turn and strike. He hung on to the keel, pondering what to do. He had no fear of drowning. As a son of Poseidon, he could breathe underwater. But his wet clothes clung to him, and after a while he began to feel cold. “No use,” he thought. “I’ll have to swim back to shore. If there are any sharks about, I’ll give them some distraction.”
Drawing his sword underwater, he stabbed it through the planking of the ship, stabbed again and again, until he knew it was taking on a weight of water. He swam out from under the sinking vessel, cleaving the water as swiftly as a seal, for he didn’t know how long the drowning pirates would occupy the sharks. He heard men screaming as he headed toward shore, and swam faster than ever.
13
The Ghost Returns
Upon reaching shore, Bellerophon immediately struck inland, and did not stop until he came to the meadow where he had left Sea Mist. He heard a rushing, a drumming of hooves; the stallion’s eyes were pits of yellow light as it came thundering across the field to greet the lad.
“I’ll tell you all about it in the morning,” Bellerophon said to the horse. “But let’s sleep now. I’m weary.”
Bellerophon awoke while it was still dark. He heard her voice before he saw her. The moon was half veiled by clouds, and the horse, bulking in the weak moonlight, looked like a bank of fog. She drifted closer as the moon swam clear, and Bellerophon was able to make out a faint shape.
“Welcome, mother,” he said. “If ever I required good counsel, I do so now.”
“That is why I have come to you, my son.”
“I’m heartsick and weary, mother. I’m helpless against the Chimaera. Nothing I do alters the course of the beast. He’s here, there, and everywhere, killing, destroying, and I can’t even find him.”
“I’m not aware that I ever counseled you to go monster hunting.”
“No, mother, that was my own idea.”
“Are you sure you want to be a hero? It doesn’t leave much room in life for other things, you know.”
“It’s not the title I’m after. I don’t want the name; I want the deed. I have a special reason for wishing to kill the Chimaera.”
“Hearken, son,” said the ghost.
To perform this deed
you need a steed
who’s half your brother,
son of your father,
But not of your mother.
“Need a steed?” cried Bellerophon. “I have one, a marvellous one. He’s over there. Isn’t he a beauty?”
“Can he fly?”
“He runs like the wind. He seems to fly.”
“Seeming is not enough. To kill a monster demands all kinds of hard realities. To vanquish this one, which flies better than any bird, you will need a horse that flies as swiftly.”
“What kind of horse can do that?”
“One with wings.”
“Is there such a creature?” asked Bellerophon.
“There is. A great white stallion with golden wings—and many other unusual attributes. He is of divine stock, having been sired by Poseidon upon one of his earlier brides, the snake-haired Medusa.”
“She who was slain by the hero, Perseus?”
“The same. When Perseus cut off her head, two drops of blood fell to the ground. From one of them sprang the winged horse, Pegasus, whom, it is decreed, you must ride if you are to vanquish the Chimaera and claim Anteia.”
“You know about her then.”
“Of course. I know everything about you. It’s the only knowledge that reaches me in Hades.”
“But will Anteia have me if I slay the Chimaera?”
“Is it not this hope that has launched you on your perilous quest?” asked the ghost.
“Yes … yes it is. But sometimes I think that it’s only my own fantasy. A wild dream.”
“Wild dreams can become wilder realities. But only if you make them so.”
“What shall I do, mother?”
“Seek the winged horse.”
“Where?”
“On the slopes of Mount Helicon, in the land of Boeotia. Godspeed, my lovely boy.”
14
The Winged Horse
Traveling night and day, Bellerophon rode his great gray stallion out of Lycia back toward Boeotia. They reached Mount Helicon at mid-morning. It was a cloudless day; the hillside shimmered in a green haze. Searching the near slope, Bellerophon spotted a patch of whiteness, too large for sheep or goat. He rode uphill and saw gold flashing upon the whiteness. Coming closer, he gasped in wonder. A stallion of astounding beauty stood before him, snow-white and tall as a stag, with golden wings and mane, coral-red nostrils, and brass hooves.
“Pegasus!” he shouted. Dismounting, he ran toward the horse. The animal tossed its head and moved away. Bellerophon heard Sea Mist neighing in a tone he had never heard before. Turning, he saw the stallion’s great eyes brimming with tears.
“No!” cried Bellerophon, running toward Sea Mist. But the horse whirled and galloped away, racing down the slope and out of sight before Bellerophon could reach him.
“He’s jealous,” thought the lad. “The sight of me going after that magnificent winged horse was more than he could bear. Well, I can’t think about it now; I’ve got to catch Pegasus.”
Bellerophon was starting uphill again when a little man popped out from behind a rock as if he had been hiding there. “Greetings!” he cried. “My name is Thallo. What’s yours?”
“Bellerophon.”
The little man limped toward him, and Bellerophon saw that both his legs were twisted. He waited, quivering with impatience. Finally, Bellerophon said: “I don’t wish to seem discourteous, sir, but I’m in somewhat
of a hurry.”
“No one’s in a hurry here,” the little man replied. “Are you sure you’re in the right place?”
“This is Mount Helicon, isn’t it?” asked the lad.
“Mount Helicon, indeed, where the Muses dwell, and where Pegasus finds pasture. To these slopes unpublished poets flock. For they believe that a short ride on the winged horse will endow them with the talent they lack. I know—I was among the first to try that flight. Pegasus let me mount him, and with one beat of his golden wings soared above the top of that cedar tree. I would have been dizzy with fear had I not been consumed by ecstacy. For, as we rose and the earth tilted beneath us, verses began to sing in my head. Oh, they were magical lines, sparkling with wit, brimming with melody. And just as I was beginning to savor my own worth, the damned brute bucked me off. I fell a long way, shattering both legs when I hit the ground.”
“And you’ve been here ever since?” asked Bellerophon.
“Certainly. I wasn’t going to drag myself back to Thrace. They’re a warlike breed there, splendid specimens every one, curse them. They didn’t show much regard for me when I had two good legs: just imagine what chance I’d stand with them as a cripple. So, here I dwell, trying to recapture the verses I composed during my brief flight, and which were knocked out of my head when I fell.”
“Is that all you do?”
“All? Did you say all?” groaned the little man. “It’s a lifetime occupation, my dear sir. It leaves no room for anything else. Of course, I spend some time observing other would-be poets trying to ride Pegasus, deriving a bitter pleasure from seeing them fall as I did.”
“Are they here too, all the others?”
“They are indeed. In that grove yonder you will find an encampment of gimpy versifiers. They cluster about a spring called Hippocrene, whose waters are said to possess healing powers, especially for those wounded in the service of the Muse. But I don’t associate with them. I keep to myself, working on a great ballad, which I just began this year and which I wouldn’t mind reciting to you if you can spare a few hours of utter attention.”
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One Page 24
