Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One

by Bernard Evslin

  “Thank you,” replied Bellerophon, “but I can’t. I’m on an urgent mission.”

  “Urgent? What could be more urgent than this? You shall be the first to hear verses that will be sung four thousand years hence.”

  “I’m not much on poetry.”

  “Oh, these verses will change all that. They’re not dreamy, moon-beamy stuff, but a story-song, full of violence and romance. Salted with reality. The story of Melicertes, king of Corinth, who was eaten by his own horses, all set in immortal quatrains.”

  “They didn’t eat him,” muttered Bellerophon.

  “What did you say?”

  “Melicertes’s horses. They kicked him to death but didn’t eat him.”

  “Please, my boy, I’m concerned with matters of meter and rhyme. I can’t be bothered with facts that don’t fit. How do you know so much about it, anyway?”

  “I come from Corinth. And now I must be on my way. I appreciate your conversation, good sir, but I must bridle Pegasus and ride him to Lycia, where the Chimaera hunts.”

  “Ride Pegasus? So you too are a would-be poet? No wonder you don’t want to hear anyone else’s work.”

  “I want Pegasus, sir, to ride into battle with the Chimaera.”

  “Into battle? On that treacherous beast? You won’t get past the top of the cedars.”

  “Watch me,” said Bellerophon.

  Pegasus was grazing on the slope somewhat above where the two men stood. Bellerophon moved toward the horse, calling softly, making the whickering sound that he used to call Sea Mist. Pegasus did not respond, did not raise his head. He was cropping grass and kept moving away as the young man approached.

  Thallo had followed. “If you’re really mad enough to want to ride him,” he said, “stand on that spur of rock there. Hunch your shoulders, groan a little, tear your hair. He’ll think you’re a poet and come to you. There’s nothing he enjoys more than lifting us toward the heavens, then bucking us off, damn him.”

  “Thanks,” said Bellerophon.

  The youth clambered onto the long spur of rock that jutted from the mountainside and overlooked the valley. He hunched his shoulders, groaned, and pulled his hair. He saw the great white stallion soaring toward him on golden wings.

  Bellerophon leaped from the rock onto the horse’s back. He had always loved the feeling that surged through him when astride a horse—as if the animal’s wild power was entering him, turning him into something better than he was. But he had never felt anything as strong as the godlike force that was lifting him now into the blue, thin, intoxicating air.

  Pegasus tilted his golden wings and, gull-like, caught a current of air, riding it up, up, past the cedar-tops. Bellerophon felt the weird power surging into his legs, turning bones into rods of iron, making them clamp the horse tighter. Pegasus bucked, but his rider was welded to him and holding fast.

  The winged horse trumpeted furiously, and rolled over in the air. Bellerophon, hanging by his knees, saw the flowered slope spinning beneath him and shouted with glee as he spotted Thallo’s amazed face lifted toward the sky.

  Pegasus rolled over and over in the air. Bellerophon clung fast. With both hands, he stroked the horse that was trying to throw him, and kept talking to the enraged animal as earth and sky kept changing places, blue spinning into green, and back again. But the youth clung as the horse whirled—never stopped stroking, crooning, using all the gentle, powerful skills he had learned breaking the wild horses of Corinth.

  Suddenly, Pegasus stopped whirling, spread his wings, and coasted down. Bellerophon guided him by the pressure of his knees until the horse landed near Thallo and stood there, trembling. Bellerophon slid off and stroked the wonderful, strong neck—white and silky as Egyptian cloth.

  Pegasus did not drop his head to his rider’s shoulder and nuzzle him as other horses had done. The winged stallion was docile now, but he had not lost a shred of dignity. Bellerophon looked into his eyes. They were brilliant but blank; they were not to be read.

  Bellerophon did not wish to fly to Lycia until the next day; he wanted to practice some aerial maneuvers with Pegasus before challenging the Chimaera. He also wished to practice his archery, which had grown rusty.

  The young man camped on Helicon that night. There his mother came to him.

  “Awake, my son,” she called.

  “Greetings, mother.”

  “Listen closely.”

  When you leave this place

  go straight to Thrace.

  Between two peaks

  Man shall find

  what boy but seeks.

  At the last, I tell you this—

  to win the battle,

  make heads rattle.

  Her voice stopped.

  “No, stay!” he cried. But she had gone. Bellerophon felt confused; he had not understood her completely. She had told him that he would find the Chimaera in Thrace; that he knew. But he couldn’t figure out the last couplet.

  “She’s sometimes mystifying, but never wrong,” he said to himself. “So I’d better find out what I can about Thrace.”

  He went to where Thallo was sleeping nearby, curled like a fetus. He knelt and shook him gently. “What? Who?…” groaned the little man. He sat bolt upright. “It’s you! You’ve changed your mind! You want to hear my ballad after all. Very well. I know it by heart.”

  “No, no,” said Bellerophon. “No ballad. I want to hear about Thrace. You come from there, you say.”

  “Is that why you woke me?”

  “Not because of an idle interest in geography, good Thallo. It’s something much more important. My mother’s ghost came to me tonight and told me that I would find the Chimaera in Thrace, so I go there in the morning.”

  “Ghosts, monsters. You give me an idea for a short tale to frighten children with. Just wait while I put together a few verses.”

  “Later, Thallo, please. This may be a matter of life and death. Tell me about Thrace.”

  “Well, it’s not unlike Boeotia. Much larger; its plains are wider, its mountains higher. And, of course, it’s much colder in winter. Really cold in the highlands. Sometimes the mountain passes are choked with snow.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ve never seen snow?”

  “I don’t know what it is—how do I know whether I’ve seen it?”

  “It’s a blossoming of frost,” said Thallo. “The freezing sky drops slow white flowers that cling to mountain slopes and trees and pile up on the ground. In a hard season snow fills the passes so no one can get through. That’s why Thrace’s neighbors feel safe from attack in winter.”

  “It’s winter now; I guess I’ll see the snow, then,” said Bellerophon.

  “Remember this, if you fly through a narrow pass, be careful not to make a loud noise. It can start an avalanche.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Snow, startled by noise, can come sliding down the mountain, growing larger and larger, tearing out pieces of mountain and carrying them along, until finally tons of snow and rock are falling, burying everything below.”

  “I’ll be careful,” said Bellerophon. “By the way, my mother mentioned something that I didn’t understand. Perhaps you can. Something about a rattle.”

  “I don’t know what she could have meant,” said Thallo. “The only special rattles I know of are those used by marsh dwellers to protect themselves against the spear birds. These terrible creatures are larger than eagles and have beaks like spears; hence their name. They settle upon the marsh in great numbers, and the folk there string together old pots and helmets and odd bits of metal that they shake, making a dreadful clamor. This alone makes the birds fly away. I don’t know how it might help you, though.”

  “Again, my thanks, good Thallo. I’ll let you go back to sleep now. But I promise this: If I survive my encounter with the Chimaera, I shall return one day. I can give you some details about Corinth, and its mad king, and his man-eating horses, that may help you enrich your ballad.”


  “And will you tell about vanquishing the Chimaera?”

  “Unless he vanquishes me,” said Bellerophon.

  15

  The Chimaera

  Bellerophon finally caught sight of the Chimaera as he was flying over a barren reach of ground—the last of the great Thracian plains before the highlands began. All he saw was a far glimpse of the monster vanishing in the distance. But it was unmistakable. And what it had left behind was sheer carnage. Apparently, it had caught a troop of warriors in the open field and dived upon them like a hawk striking a flock of doves. It had killed them all and eaten them out of their armor as foxes flip turtles to eat them out of their shells.

  Looking down, feeling himself grow dizzy with horror, Bellerophon saw breastplates, greaves, and helmets scattered about among the bones that wore only bloody tatters of flesh. Vultures coasted down to strip the corpses.

  Pegasus needed no urging. He seemed to share Bellerophon’s thoughts. Like a hound after a deer, he fastened on the scent of the Chimaera, and clove the air toward where the monster had disappeared.

  “Did it see us?” the young man asked himself. “Is it trying to flee? Will it turn and fight? Father, Poseidon, make it turn!”

  No sooner had he uttered this prayer, than he regretted it. For it was answered. There, hanging before him, was a grinning lion larger than an elephant—sulfur yellow, snarling, with claws poised. A winged lion with the body of a goat, but, most horrible, the tail of a serpent. When the beast curled its tail, a serpent’s head appeared beside the lion head, both glaring at the tiny foolish midget of a mortal who dared to mount a horsefly and come monster hunting.

  Pegasus had stopped in the air, and floated, facing the Chimaera. Bellerophon unslung his bow, notched an arrow, and let it fly, aiming at the beast’s one vulnerable spot—the eye. The lion’s jaws opened as if it were about to roar, but what issued from its mouth was flame, burning the arrow to a cinder as it flew through the air. Then, slowly, as if savoring its enemy’s fear, the Chimaera soared toward Bellerophon.

  Obeying his rider’s thoughts, Pegasus immediately dived toward the mountainside and dipped low over a pine tree freighted with snow, allowing Bellerophon to break off an armful of wet green boughs. Pegasus climbed again, soaring swiftly until he was directly above the monster, and Bellerophon dropped the compacted bundle of branches in front of the beast. When it spat flame again, it was enveloped in dense black smoke as the green branches burned.

  While the Chimaera groped blindly through the smoke, Bellerophon fled—not back toward the plains where he knew he’d be visible, but northward where mountains loomed, because he thought that, winding among crags, he might be able to hide from his pursuer. His pursuer … he was no longer hunting but being hunted. Bellerophon heard great leathery wings beating the air. He knew Pegasus could fly faster than the Chimaera, but he wasn’t sure about the winged horse’s endurance. At least for the moment, he could outrace the monster.

  It grew colder as they flew. They were still angling upward. Snowy peaks towered above them. Bellerophon was searching for a cleft in the mountains, one too narrow for the Chimaera to follow him.

  His mother’s voice crooned in his head:

  Between two peaks

  Man shall find

  what boy but seeks.

  Man, he was no man; he was a puling coward. As a boy he had been brave, had mastered savage horses, had challenged an even more savage king. Where had that courage gone? Could one sight of the grinning lion freeze his marrow, turn his heart to pulp?

  He was seized by such a spasm of disgust that he was tempted to let himself slip off the horse’s back and plunge to his death on the rocks below.

  “But if I’m going to smash myself in a shameful fall,” he thought, “I might as well imitate manhood by dying in the monster’s jaws.”

  With that thought, he turned Pegasus around. Like a golden arrow, Pegasus flew back toward the Chimaera. Bellerophon bent low, shielding his face in the horse’s mane, for the wind was blowing cold.

  But he was hatching a plan as they flew, and again Pegasus understood. He slanted upward again, soaring so high that the air was almost too thin to breathe. Bellerophon gasped for breath. He felt the horse go into a dive. Looking back, he saw that they had passed over the Chimaera. As he watched, the monster turned and flew toward them.

  Now they were nearing the plain where the dead warriors lay. He saw the foul litter on the ground, heard a rush of other wings as vultures rose from their feast.

  As soon as Pegasus touched ground, Bellerophon was off the horse’s back and running over the field. From corpse to corpse he ran, plucking helmets off skulls, tearing bloody tunics into rags, tying the rags together and stringing the helmets from them. When he had as many as he could carry, he mounted Pegasus again. The horse spread his wings and climbed into the air—just in time, for the Chimaera was almost upon them. A tongue of flame licked the air about them. Bellerophon felt the back of his neck scorching, smelled burning hair, and saw that the tip of Pegasus’s golden tail was on fire. But the horse calmly swished his tail, putting out the blaze.

  They climbed swiftly again, heading back toward the mountains. But they were going more slowly, for now they wished the monster to follow—not close enough to singe them with its flaming breath, but close enough to keep them in sight. They were among the mountains again, taking the exact path they had taken before. Bellerophon turned and saw the lion’s head, saw the lashing serpent tail as the beast curved in the air, making a tight turn around a crag.

  They were high enough now. The mountain slopes were packed with snow. Neither rock nor tree could be seen. Then Bellerophon found what he was looking for—a valley, a very narrow one, hardly more than a large cleft between peaks. Pegasus swooped down into the pass, flying between two walls of snow—going more and more slowly, allowing the monster to catch up.

  They reached the narrowest part of the pass. They were hemmed by walls of snow. Pegasus turned. The monster came toward them, spitting fire. In the thin mountain air its breath burned blue. Suddenly Pegasus folded his golden wings and dropped straight down. The Chimaera folded its leathery wings and dropped after them. Down, down, fell horse and rider until they were just above the valley floor.

  Then, Bellerophon unslung the string of helmets he had made into a great rattle. He swung it about his head, sending a clamor into the still air, a horrid clanging din that doubled and redoubled itself as it bounced off the mountain walls.

  Pegasus spread his wings again, caught a swell of air, and rose swiftly as the Chimaera was still dropping into the canyon. The monster, seeing them rise again, spread its wings also. But it could not soar like a gull. It had to beat its great leathery vans, trying to climb. By this time, the snow had begun to slide.

  First it sounded like an enormous whisper. The whisper became a roar, then a thunderous, crashing, overwhelming noise as the sliding snow tore rocks out of their sockets, and the mountain walls literally collapsed, burying the Chimaera. Pegasus was almost caught by the avalanche, but just managed to fly high enough to avoid the plunging rocks. Even so, horse and rider were rimed with snow by the time they reached the level of the peaks.

  Looking down, Bellerophon saw that the valley held a great mound of snow, a fitting grave, he thought, for so dreadful a monster. Then, aghast, he realized that he was savoring victory too soon. For the mound was melting, melting fast; it became a great lake of water even as he watched. The Chimaera’s flaming breath had melted the snow. And the creature, he knew, being born of sea monsters, was at home in the water.

  Horse and rider hovered above the new lake until they saw the Chimaera’s head poke out. It was trying to climb out of the water and fly after its enemy, but it had to float for a while, regaining its strength.

  “We can’t let it fly,” Bellerophon told his steed. “Once in the air, it will catch us, for its endurance is greater than ours. But there’s one last thing we can try.”

  Pegasus understood.
He tilted in the air and dove toward the lake. As they plummeted, Bellerophon drew his sword, lay flat on his belly, and allowed himself to slide along the horse’s neck, onto the horse’s head.

  The winged stallion dived toward the lion-headed monster like a great heron trying to spear a fish with its beak. But the beak was Bellerophon’s sword. Headfirst, Pegasus dropped, straight toward the Chimaera, steering himself so that the sword entered the monster’s one vulnerable spot, its eye. Into that glaring jelly plunged the blade, deeper, deeper, until the horse’s head skidded off the lion’s head, and Bellerophon’s fist was pressed against the bleeding socket.

  The point of the sword found the dim clenched brain. The Chimaera died, thrashing in agony. Horse and rider were flung into the icy lake. They swam about for a moment, cleansing themselves of blood. But Pegasus quickly flew up again, or they would have frozen stiff.

  The Chimaera lay still, all except the serpent tail, which was still twitching. Then that too stopped.

  “Back to Helicon!” shouted Bellerophon. And the stallion bugled, his warm breath turning to mist.

  They flew back to the mountain of the Muses, and there Bellerophon told Thallo two tales, as he had promised: one about his life in the court of Melicertes, the other about his battle with the Chimaera. And the little poet listened hungrily.

  Bellerophon built a fire and sat as close to it as he could. He couldn’t seem to get warm enough. Pegasus stood close too, sleeping on his feet, golden wings and mane gleaming in the firelight.

  In the morning, Bellerophon bade Thallo farewell. “Where to now, my young hero?” asked Thallo.

  “To Tiryns, to claim my reward—the fairest Anteia.”

  “Then you will have other adventures,” said the poet, “for her husband will not yield easily. Will you come again, and tell me what happened?”

  “I’ll try,” said Bellerophon. He mounted Pegasus and flew away.

  Thallo never saw Bellerophon again but didn’t much care. He had heard enough to fashion a new ballad. He knew that it was the best thing he had ever done, and grew so happy that he almost forgot the pain of his crippled legs. He had tried several endings to his poem before finding the right one. But he liked each of them in its own way and kept them all.