Catching sight of a moth caught in the strands, Abas climbed onto the web and was pleased to find that it was strong enough to hold him.
But nothing moves faster than a spider in its web. This spider appeared so suddenly it was as if a piece of the web itself had clotted and come alive. Abas found himself confronting not the moth, but a spider bigger than any he had ever seen. To the little lizard it looked as big as a chariot wheel. In fact, it was about as big as a dinner plate.
Between two flicks of his tongue, the spider had already cast a loop of silk about him and pulled it tight, then cast another. Abas couldn’t move. The spider pulled him closer and looked down at him with her multi-paned eyes. She spoke in a rustling voice.
“Were you about to steal my moth?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Abas. “I thought this web was vacant. That you had gone off somewhere and that it didn’t matter if I trespassed.”
“Gone off, and left the larder full? You know more about spiders than that. I know you do, little thief. You’ve been robbing webs for a long time.”
“Are you going to eat me?”
“You would certainly represent a change in diet,” said the spider. “Actually you look quite edible under all that leather.”
“How is it you speak so well?” asked Abas, stalling for time. He had puffed himself out when she cast the loops about him and was now slowly letting his breath out, trying to shrink away from her grasp. He was trying to keep the conversation going until he could manage to slip out of her loops. “Your command of the language is not only fluent, it’s eloquent.”
“You’re pretty articulate yourself for a miserable little gecko,” said the spider. “I speak for the same reason you do. I was not always a spider, as you were not always a lizard. Oh, my goodness, you’re not trying to get away, are you? When we’re conversing so nicely? That’s not polite.”
Swiftly, she cast three more loops about him, and drew them very tight. “If you’re going to eat me, eat me now,” cried Abas. “Get it over with!”
“Gently, little friend,” replied the spider. “Don’t you want to hear my tale? Well, you will, whether you want to or not. You’re a captive audience, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” murmured the lizard.
“I was once a maiden in the land of Lydia,” said the spider. “Perhaps the most skillful spinner and weaver amongst mortals since the world began. I made garments that were lighter than silk but warmer than fur. And when I wove counterpanes, each square became a picture of some happy hour, making a quilt of joyous dreams. Well, I was on the threshold of a good life, anyone might think. I was honored in the countryside, well paid for my work, and several young men were eager to marry me. But, I made a fatal error. Carried away by pride, I boasted one day that I could spin and weave better than the goddess Athena.”
“Are you Arachne, by any chance?” asked the lizard.
“By an evil chance, yes. I am Arachne.”
“I’ve heard of you. Every child in the Middle Sea basin has heard nursery tales of you. How Athena grew angry at your boast and challenged you to a contest, which she won. And, as the price of losing, you were changed into a spider. You are the first of all spiders, mother of spiders.”
“Is that what children are told?” asked Arachne.
“That’s what I was told. Isn’t it true?”
“Up to a point. Then it becomes a lie. Athena was indeed angered when she heard my boast. But she fell into a more murderous fury after the contest, which I won.”
“You won?”
“I certainly did. And she had a big head start, you know. She set up her loom on top of a mountain. She didn’t need a spindle; she didn’t have to draw thread from flax. All she had to do up there was gather handfuls of cloud-wool and dye them in the colors of sunset and the colors of dawn. Then she wove the stuff on her loom and flung great colored tapestries across the sky. Oh, they were beautiful, all right. And the people stopped to look up and admire them. Then they hurried on their way to my door where the whole countryside had queued up, eagerly waiting for the cloaks and tunics and quilts that I was turning out so fast that I had clothed an entire village before Athena had flung out her first tapestry. The people were so happy they danced for joy in the meadow where my cottage stood, for it was threatening to be a hard winter. Oh, I won all right. And Athena knew it. She came striding down the mountain and stood there, taller than my cottage. She spoke in a voice that rattled the eaves:
“‘Stand forth, Arachne! Receive your award.’
“I came out and knelt before her. She glared down at me. Her gray eyes were like marsh water when the first scum of ice forms. She spoke again:
“‘Since you spin so well, and are so happy doing it, hereafter you shall be relieved of all other duties and can spend your life doing what you do best. Nor shall you need to concern yourself with heavy equipment—with spindle and distaff and loom. Out of your own body shall you draw all that you need.’
“I was dwindling as she spoke—shrinking, sprouting legs, antennae, becoming what you see before you now. When she had finished speaking I hung by a thread from my own lintel and was spinning a web.
“‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Spin, my friend, spin.’
Spread your web
so light and fine
for that upon
which you will dine.
“With those words, she took up my spindle and struck my loom, knocking it to splinters. Then she broke the spindle over her knee, and strode off. From then on, I was a spider.”
“Have you lived here all this time, in the rafters of this palace?” asked the lizard.
“Not at all,” said the spider. “I just arrived.”
“And to what do we owe the honor of this visit, ma’am?”
“I was sent here—for you.”
“For me? Who sent you?”
“Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Did you not hear of them in your nursery tales?”
“No ma’am. I don’t think so.”
“You should have. Some consider them more important than the gods themselves. They are the three crones who call themselves the Fates, and claim that they control destiny.”
“Do they?”
“Who can tell? Everyone’s afraid of them, so they probably do. They live in a hovel on a crag beyond Mount Olympus. There they sit, gnawing at pork bones and crusts of wheaten loaves, and swigging barley beer by the pail—and working as they eat. For they never stop doing either, except to sleep. And they don’t sleep much. The youngest sister, Clotho, sits with comb and spindle, carding the flax and drawing the thread. The second sister, Lachesis, holds her notched rod, measuring out the thread. And the eldest sister, the most fatal crone, Atropos, the Scissors Hag, wields her shears, deciding where to cut the thread of each life—deciding, in other words, who lives and who dies. Then at midnight they leave their seats and go into a wild coven dance, tangling the threads, and calling the tangle a design. They have two pets, a cat and a spider. I am the spider. I was the first of my kind, and they liked my style and took me to live with them. The cat is my enemy, of course, but he can’t catch me, no matter how he tries.”
“Very interesting,” said Abas. “But what, pray, do they want with me?”
“I have no idea,” said the spider. “But they have decided, apparently, that you will play some role in the Master Design. So they have sent me for you, and where they send me, I go. What they bid me, I do. Come along then. I’ll wrap you up just a bit more so you won’t fall, and carry you there. We’ll travel faster that way.”
8
The Three Fates
Lachesis, the second Fate, held the little lizard on her lap and stroked his polished head with her fore finger.
“Atropos,” she said, “the cat belongs to you. And Clotho, you have the spider. Neither loves me best, you have to admit. So I’m claiming this lizard for my own.”
“He won’t be staying with us,” said Atropos. “He’s here to receive instr
uction. Then out into the world he goes to play his role in our Master Design. You know that.”
“But he’s here now!” cried Lachesis. “And he’s mine! And later, when he’s out in the world, doing what he must do, perhaps he’ll remember me now and then, and even visit me sometimes.”
“Very well,” said Atropos. “If you mean to adopt him you must be the one to instruct him.”
“Oh, lizard mine,” said Lachesis. “When you leave us you will go down the mountain, then eastward into the forest. You will search until you find a grove where the oaks grow to giant size. The birds there are larger too, and the insects. For there, buried deep, abides a fragment of the body of Uranus, the First One, the Rain God, butchered by his son Cronos at the dawn of time. The taproots of the trees in this place have drunk of his rich blood and grown large. And insects that eat the buds off the branches grow huge. The birds eat the insects, and wrens become as big as owls. But most wonderful of all, a greedy swarm of worms ate of the flesh, drank the blood of the butchered god, and grew enormous. They were filled with the boiling spite of that vengeful blood and put on armor, leather armor; they grew teeth, claws, and vicious spiked tails. And taught themselves the deadly trick of spitting fire.
“Now, my little green beauty,” continued Lachesis, “you shall dig yourself a tunnel and burrow your way to the shoulder bone of Uranus. You shall eat your fill, and become a dragon also—a king among dragons, much larger than the ordinary kind, as you are now larger than a worm.”
“I shall do all that you bid me, madam, and I thank you and your sisters for this your instruction. To become a dragon has been my fondest hope.”
“It won’t be all basking in the sun and gobbling cattle,” said Atropos. “There are difficult tasks before you, risky ones, bloody ones.”
“But that’s what dragons are for!” cried Abas. “The opportunity to rend, crunch, destroy. Exactly why I have wanted to be one. Know this, venerable dame, there is a rage festering inside me that can be laved only by rivers of human blood.”
“After you sharpen your skills on a few minor heroes,” said Atropos, “and wipe out a village or two, you will go to Boeotia and await the coming of one Cadmus, a prince of Phoenicia. And that is your prime mission, to destroy him, leaving not a trace, not a morsel of flesh nor splinter of bone.”
“Cadmus,” said the lizard. “A great warrior?”
“Worse, much worse,” said Atropos. “He’s a meddler, a disciple of Prometheus. A mischief among mortals. One who views our mighty edicts as idle whim, who regards the Master Design as a web of cruel fantasy, and believes only in his own dreams—which he refuses to forget upon awaking, but pursues all day long, trying to make them come true. The dream he pursues now is to steal a divine privilege and extend it to mankind.”
“What privilege?” asked the lizard.
“It’s called ‘writing.’”
“What’s that?”
“It’s what appears on the Great Scroll. Only the gods know of it and understand its meaning. It is a code, a set of magic signs through which language remembers itself and utters itself anew. It will focus vague images and make them sing. It will make dreams dance. It can put wings to thought so that it passes from mind to mind, gaining strength as it goes, enriching the minds it touches and drawing forth those dangerous things called ‘ideas,’ which, if allowed to grow wild, will cause men and women to think they’re as good as we are. In their pride, they will storm Olympus, hurl us off the mountain, and try to rule their own lives.”
“And it is Cadmus who has set all this foul business afoot?” asked Abas.
“He and he alone. Although, if allowed to continue unchecked, he will certainly attract disciples. So he must be killed before he infects others. And the perfect antidote to the poison of ideas is a dragon.”
“I am proud to have been chosen,” said the lizard.
“Listen, little pet,” said Lachesis. “You will have to practice on the standard warrior-brand of hero before tackling Cadmus. So I want you to heed this: Never eat a hero without peeling him. Make sure to spit out helmet, breastplate, greaves, sword, battle-ax—every last bit of indigestible gear. Otherwise, you’ll get a monstrous bellyache. Do you promise?”
“I promise,” said the lizard.
9
The Smith God
Mount Aetna, an extinct volcano in Sicily, was where Hephaestus had set up his first smithy. But Aetna suddenly decided to stop being extinct, and began to belch fire and spit red-hot lava. So the smith god moved forge and anvil to another dead crater in the eastern range of the Hellenic peninsula. And that is where the great black goat carried Cadmus.
The young prince dismounted and began to descend into the crater. He moved very cautiously. The place was full of sooty shadows. He winced at the great clamor rising from below. Metal struck metal, clanging and screeching. Rock rumbled. He heard ferocious laughter and shouting, cries of anger and pain. The noise was unbearable and the heat was worse. Cadmus felt as if he were standing right at the mouth of an open furnace.
Indeed, the huge figures he saw near the furnace pits wore thick leather aprons and helmets of hollowed rock with a single eyehole—one eyehole each in the middle of the forehead. And he knew that he was viewing creatures he had thought belonged only to legend—the Cyclopes, tall as trees, savage-tempered, master craftsmen who served the gods by laboring in the Great Smithy.
“What do you want?” boomed a voice. “Visitors are unwelcome here.”
Swiftly, Cadmus tried to recover his wits, which had been scattered by the clamor and the heat. He knelt on the rock floor, for he recognized Hephaestus. The smith god was so huge that he seemed to fill the great crater. His enormous span of shoulders and broad chest were knotted with muscle. He wore a leather apron and swung the heaviest hammer ever made. Its shaft was the trunk of a tree, its head a single lump of iron larger than a boulder.
“Who are you?” the god roared.
Cadmus tried to answer but couldn’t hear himself through the hammering and clanging. He jumped up on an anvil and spoke into the god’s ear.
“O Hephaestus, mighty lord of mechanics and inventors, forgive my intrusion, but I have been sent to ask a favor.”
“Who are you and what do you want? Be brief.”
“I am Cadmus, a prince of Phoenicia, and am pledged to slay the Dragon of Boeotia.”
“Presumptuous runt! How can you slay a dragon that has fattened itself on a diet of heroes?”
“Perhaps he has grown too fat,” said Cadmus. “Perhaps he has been spoiled by heroes. Perhaps he has never met a clever coward. Perhaps the desperate strategies of sheer funk may prevail where heroics falter.”
“Don’t jest with me, little one,” warned the god. “How can you possibly hope to slay a dragon?”
“With the weapons you will provide.”
“As yet I have heard no reason I should do anything for you.”
“My lord, I know that others come here loaded with treasure to repay you for what you alone can provide. But I, I can offer only my need, and can repay you only with gratitude.”
“You’re a persistent little fellow, I’ll grant you that—and not uncourageous in your own way. Well, I happen to have some battle gear made for one who was killed before he could get here. A helmet of beaten brass which no battle-ax can dent. And a shield of brass, which no spear or sword can pierce. It is polished more brightly than any mirror so that you can flash the sun in your enemy’s eyes. These weapons are for defense, but to conquer you must attack. Here is a sword of thrice-tempered iron that can cut through armor as easily as a tailor’s shears slice through a bolt of wool. Watch this.”
Hephaestus swung the sword and struck the anvil, splitting it cleanly in two.
Cadmus gawked at the gifts. The helmet was bigger than the great cooking pot used in the kitchen of his father’s palace.
The shield was as big as a chariot wheel. And the sword … with its point stuck in the ground, Cadmus had to
reach as high as he could to grasp its hilt.
“Don’t you have something more my size?” he asked.
Hephaestus scowled. “This is the Great Smithy, you know. We forge weapons for gods and demigods and the larger heroes. Why don’t you take your business to some village smith out there. I’m sure he’ll be able to accommodate you.”
“I can do without a helmet,” murmured Cadmus. “Even one that fits would give me a headache. And the dagger you made for this same warrior will do me as a sword. And a single scale of that mail coat will make a fine shield; all it needs is a handle.”
Hephaestus looked away. His face knotted in fury.
“I know how you must hate to alter your superb handiwork,” said Cadmus. “But weapons are meant to be used; otherwise they are idle shapes of metal. And these are too big for me to use. Nevertheless, having seen them, I shall never be content with anything less splendid. Give me the dagger, I pray. And fix a grip for that brass disk. For I will not go from here weaponless. If you do not think me worthy to bear your arms, then be good enough to pitch me straightaway into your furnace flames so that my worthless carcass may help to fuel your mighty labors.”
“A generous offer, but my fires require heartier fare. See.”
Hephaestus was pointing at a Cyclops who held an enormous uprooted tree in each hand; he flung them into the flames.
“That’s not the furnace,” said Hephaestus. “Just a small fire for making charcoal. There’s how they feed my forge-fires.”
He was pointing to a pile of charcoal lumps that towered to the roof of the great cave. A line of Cyclopes stretched from that pile to a fire pit near an anvil as large as a courtyard. Buckets of charcoal were being passed from hand to hand. The Cyclops nearest the blaze tossed the black lumps in, whirled, and hurled the bucket over the heads of the others to the Cyclops at the charcoal pile. Each bucket was the size of a gardener’s shed.
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One Page 34
