“No,” murmured Cadmus. “I can see I’m not even worthy to feed your flames. I shall trouble you no more. Farewell.”
“You have offered your all,” said Hephaestus. “That’s enough for me. Here’s your dagger. And here’s your shield. I have fixed a handle to it. Take them. Use them well. But you must have a helmet too. I insist. I’m the armorer; I know best. Take this brass thimble. I had intended it for Clotho, youngest of the Fates, but I’ll make another for that dire spinster.”
He clapped the thimble on Cadmus’s head. It fit perfectly.
“If that tiny weight hurts your head, just think how it would ache under a touch of the dragon’s claws,” said Hephaestus.
Cadmus seized the smith god’s great, grimy hand and kissed it. “Thank you, my lord. Memory of your kindness will lighten the heaviest gear. I shall bear your weapons with pride as great as the mightiest warrior can know.”
“I must warn you,” said Hephaestus, “that the gifts of the gods are not always what they seem. We extract heavy payment for what we give. It’s our nature. This sword, for example; if it slays one of your enemies, it will insist on tasting the blood of one you love. I tell you this so that you may refuse the gift while you still have a chance.”
Cadmus thought hard. The god’s words terrified him, the more because they had been said with such kindness. “But there’s no one I love except my sister,” he said to himself. “And I have been told that a long time must pass before I see her again. Surely by then I shall have thrown the sword away. She’ll be in no danger from me.”
Aloud, he said: “Great Hephaestus, God of Fire, Master of Metal, I thank you for both weapons and warning. I shall keep your gifts and try to use them well.”
“You’re welcome, little one. Good hunting.”
Cadmus climbed out of the crater and whistled for the goat. His new weapons were heavy, but they glittered so brightly, and the mountain air was so clean after the smoky forge that he grew half drunk on it and danced for joy. The goat pranced up to meet him. Cadmus flung his arms about her neck and rubbed her face with his. She bit his shoulder gently, then knelt while he climbed on her back. And down the slope of the great crater they went.
10
A New Dragon
Abas obeyed those haggish sisters called the Fates and journeyed to an oak grove in the land of Boeotia where the shoulder bone of the butchered god had been buried. There the taproots of the trees had drunk of his rich blood and grown huge. The insects had eaten of the buds of these trees and grown huge. Birds had eaten the insects and grown enormous. And, deep underground, worms had feasted and grown into dragons.
When Abas reached the grove, he burrowed deep, as he had been told, and found the shoulder bone of Uranus. He ate of its magically replenished flesh and grew into a dragon. He was larger than any other dragon, with brass scales instead of leather ones, and brass claws. His tail had spikes of iron instead of bone. His breath was now aflame, not only with his own spite, but with that of the ancient god whose scattered body still called for vengeance.
Abas came into that grove a little lizard; he came out as an enormous dragon. Full of bloodthirsty zeal, he immediately began to terrorize the countryside. He devoured cattle, cowherds, sheep, shepherds—and wiped out entire villages. Throughout the land, he became known as the Dragon of Boeotia, or Abas the Abominable.
One other thing happened to this dragon who had been a lizard, and before that, a prince. Having taken a monster form, and behaving as a monster, his human brain had clenched, shriveled and become reptilian. Stupefied by successful cruelty, he was losing the power to reason, and was quite happy without it.
11
Journey to Boeotia
From the Great Smithy to Boeotia was a long overland journey. Cadmus had no idea where Boeotia might be, and in those days travelers did not stop to ask directions. It was too dangerous. For the savagely inhospitable tribesmen along the route were very likely to offer strangers as sacrifice. In that region, sacrifice was made to a bat goddess, who would refuse to bless the orchards without her ration of human blood.
So Cadmus did not stop to ask his way but let the goat take him where she would. He knew that she was under some mandate from Prometheus and was guided by secret knowledge. And he was in no hurry to reach the hunting grounds of the dragon.
Prince and goat were traveling northward now along the shore of a narrow gulf. Across the bay, mountains loomed. But on their shore were flatlands. They came to a place where the gulf opened into what seemed to be a river.
The goat waded in and began to drink, then moved upstream and dipped her muzzle again. Cadmus tasted the water too, and realized that the salt gulf was turning to brackish river water. It was almost sunset, an early dusk because of the mountains to the west. The river, bathed in red light, looked like blood flowing from some great wound in the earth. Cadmus shuddered. He was seized by a premonition of evil. Suddenly, he knew what he had to do, although it would almost break his heart to do it.
“I must leave you here,” Cadmus told the goat. “I shall strike inland, following this river. I understand that dragons and such favor the banks of freshwater streams; they find good hunting where man and beast come down to drink. You wait here for me. Wait seven days. I shall return when I have killed the dragon. If I don’t return, farewell to you.”
The goat nodded. She had no intention of obeying, but was glad that Cadmus had chosen this route. Now she could follow the river, keeping out of sight, but knowing all the time that he was just ahead. For she intended to be there when he met the dragon.
Cadmus followed the river upstream all day, and grew to dislike it. He was used to the swift, tumbling little rivers of the foothills near his home. This one cut through flatlands, was broad and shallow, and seemed to have no current. It oozed rather than flowed. A green scum flecked its surface. He would have preferred to angle away toward the forest. But some instinct told him to stay near the slow river.
He slept on its bank that night. A brown mist arose and thickened into a tall shape. A voice grated down at him: “I am Asopus, an ancient river god. The high thief, Zeus, stole my daughter, the beautiful naiad Aegina. When I protested, he pelted me with boulders, wounding me to death but never allowing me to die. So that I flow forever in a pestilential stream and am loathed by man because a dragon now harries my shores and litters them with corpses, making my waters fouler still. Nor shall I be cleansed until the dragon is killed.”
“I have come to kill it. Tell me where to find it, O river god, that I may cleanse your waters.”
“I do not know where the dragon is,” said Asopus. “I break into many streams at this point. For this is where Zeus broke my body with boulders.”
“Can’t you give me any idea where to find the monster?” asked Cadmus.
Follow a cow
She’ll show you how.
The grating voice dwindled away. The mist cleared. Cadmus moaned and fell into a deeper sleep. When he awoke he saw a cow grazing nearby. She lifted her head, lowered it again to wrench out another mouthful of grass, and then ambled over to the youth. She was a pretty brown heifer with large amber eyes and small horns. She mooed musically, then moved off. Cadmus followed. He understood nothing. He knew only that he must do as the river god had bidden him.
For the rest of that day Cadmus followed the cow. She kept to the shore of a stream that branched northwest. Her ambling pace was swifter than it looked, and Cadmus found it hard to keep up. He could not stop to eat or drink. Night came. Surely, Cadmus thought, she’ll rest now. But she did not. The stars hung low and it was still easy to see her.
The heifer climbed a low hill and went down the other side. Cadmus followed. His legs were weary. The shield and sword seemed to weigh more with every step. They dragged him toward the ground. “Heavy, heavy, these gifts of the gods,” he murmured. “But if their favor is such a burden, how weighty must be their displeasure.” He stumbled on. He could not cast off his weapons, nor could he r
est while the heifer moved forward.
All night Cadmus followed her. His legs turned to bladders. He staggered and sank to the ground.
“Am I to fail before I even reach the dragon? Simply because I am weary? No! This shall not be.”
He pulled himself to his hands and knees but could rise no farther. The cow was moving out of sight. He crawled after her. He tried to encourage himself by thinking that she too was tiring. She was climbing the steep slope of another hill. Cadmus struggled up the hill, dragging himself along on his knees, pulling himself by the strength of his arms. Finally, the cow reached the top of the hill and began to go down the other side. Now Cadmus simply let himself roll. When she started across the plain, he again crawled after her. His hands were scraped, his knees, bleeding. He could see the river glinting in the afternoon sun, and realized they had worked their way back to the main branch.
“I will go on even if my flesh is torn away and I have to creep on my bones,” he said to himself.
Then, to his delight, he saw the cow suddenly fold herself into a low shadow and lie down. As he watched, she lowered her head and slept. Cadmus drew in a deep breath of fresh air. He took off his helmet, laid down his shield, and placed his sword carefully upon it. His eyelids sagged, but he kept them open a moment to savor the marvelous idea that he could close them when he wished, and sleep.
To his horror he saw the cow’s shadow grow tall again as she arose and moved on. He tried to get up but was nailed to the ground. Groaning, he took his sword, stuck it in the ground, and then, holding the hilt, dragged himself up. He clapped the helmet on his aching head, then took a great breath, and lifted his shield. He couldn’t hold it but had to drag it behind him as he limped after the cow. He knew he couldn’t walk far. He knew also that he dared not sink to his knees again and crawl because his legs were raw meat now. He would never be able to bear the pain of crawling over the rocky ground.
The moon had risen. The stars flared. The meadow was flooded with brown light. Now the cow seemed to be walking on her hind legs. He blinked and looked again. The cow danced before him, shaking one raised forehoof at the moon.
That sight finished him. Sword and shield slipped from his grasp and fell clanking. He dropped to the ground. His helmet rolled away. He lay on his back looking at the moon. It was a curdled yellow that seemed to pulse in the sky as he watched. His throat was so dry that he couldn’t swallow. He moved his tongue but could work up no spittle. He had not eaten all day, but thirst made him ignore his hunger. His thirst was unbearable, but he hadn’t the strength to drag himself across the field to the river.
Cadmus swiveled his neck painfully to look at the cow. If she had been dancing, she had stopped. She was cropping grass again. He tried to call to her, heard himself croaking feebly. He gathered up the last tatters of his strength and sent a thought toward her. “Come here!” She raised her head, swung her tail, and loped toward him. Her swollen bag swung above him. He grasped it, pulled himself up, and tried to drink from her udder.
The cow pulled away. She was skittish. She was moving off. Cadmus fell back onto the grass. “If I don’t drink, I’ll die,” he thought. He flung himself on his helmet and rolled to his knees. It was agony. He forced himself to bear the pain, and crawled toward the cow. He grasped her. She did not skitter. She stood. Cadmus milked her into his helmet. Twin jets tinkled in. The sound gave him strength enough to keep milking until the helmet was half full. He tried to lift it in both hands, but they were shaking so much that he had to put it down. He stretched himself on the ground and drank from the helmet like a snake out of a trough. Every swallow of the warm rich milk was the taste of life itself. He drank every drop. The cow had ambled off again, but stood closer than before, wrenching grass. His belly full, his thirst quenched, Cadmus didn’t move, didn’t want to. He felt deliciously drowsy and closed his eyes.
Screams woke him, terrible, hoarse, bellowing screams. The cow was screaming. Brass tinkled strangely. Great brass claws were digging into her. The moon was covered by clouds; it was hard to see. The cow was rising slowly into the air, bellowing horribly—a dreadful, clotted, phlegmy sound. Metal wings clanked. Cadmus smelled sulfur and dung. He saw a gout of red fire, and, by its light, a huge lizard shape. It disappeared into the blackness above, taking the cow with it.
12
Fighting the Dragon
Cadmus was dizzy with horror. He didn’t know whether he was awake or asleep, but he feared he was awake. “It took the cow,” he thought. “It’ll be back for me.” But he could not move. Fatigue was stronger than fear. He fell into a suffocated sleep.
The cow danced in his sleep. She frisked on hind legs and beckoned him with one forefoot, crying, “Moon! moon!” He arose and danced with her. One brisket was torn away; the raw meat bulged. But it did not sicken him; he pitied her too much. He danced with her in the moonlight—dim brown light; the moon swam in a chink of clouds; it was brown as an old bloodstain. The cow’s eyes were pits of amber light; her white horns glistened. Her breath was heavy and sweet with the smell of cropped grass.
They danced down to the river. The moon flared, casting a yellow light, turning the river into a mirror. The cow gazed at herself in the water. Her head swayed. She mooed at her reflection.
In the clarity of his stunned, moonstruck sleep, Cadmus knew that this play of cow and mirrored cow held great meaning for him somehow, that this was why he had been commanded to follow her. But what the meaning was he did not know. The cow bellowed and disappeared.
Cadmus awoke at dawn. His weapons lay on the grass; the cow was gone. He looked about. He lay in a circle of trampled grass. He tried to remember what had happened. Suddenly, the air was filled with a hideous clanking sound. The sun was blotted by an enormous shadow. He smelled fire.
“It’s here,” he said to himself. “I’m about to die.”
Shuddering, he looked up. It was worse than he had thought; it was the most dreadful sight imaginable. A crocodile as big as a ship, a flying crocodile with brass wings. The monster’s hide was made of sliding brass scales; its long, thick tail bristled with iron spikes. Its feet wore brass claws. And, from its jaws, spurted hot, red fire.
The dragon was still a mile away, but Cadmus could feel the awful heat as he stood there on the plain. “Well,” he said to himself. “I understand that the waters of the Styx are very cold. So my first sensation of death should be refreshing.”
But he could not hearten himself. He almost swooned in the stinking blasts of heat. There was no way under the morning sun that he could fight this flaming spiked beast. Now the heat had become unbearable. Clutching sword and shield, with helmet firmly planted on his head, he rushed to the river.
All this time, the black goat had been following Cadmus, but she had found it no easy task. For the beasts of the forest, never having encountered a giant goat, considered anything with horns their natural prey. She had fought off a lion, goring it severely, but had herself been raked by its claws before it had slunk away. Then a pack of wolves had caught the scent of her blood and hunted her over the fields. She outran them eventually, but was forced to make a great circle back to the river. She had lost time, but had finally caught up with Cadmus. As she entered the meadow, she saw the dragon hovering and Cadmus diving into the river. She positioned herself on the shore as close as possible to where he had dived, keeping her hooves on a flat rock.
Cadmus had dived as deep as he could, holding his breath. The water grew warm as the dragon passed overhead, but the flames could not reach him. He waited, crouching on the bottom of the river until he heard the clanging fade. Then he kicked against the bottom, heading for the surface. But he could not move. His weapons were too heavy.
He struggled. He could not surface. Iron bands tightened around his chest. Pain spiked him. He began to gag. One instant more and he would have to take a breath, even of water. He opened his right hand and let the shield go. Then he shot to the surface and floated there, panting. The dragon, wheeling ab
ove, saw him surface. It folded its brass wings like a giant pelican and plunged toward the water.
Down, down, straight at the floating Cadmus, hurtled the monster. The goat sprang up at the dragon, just as it had sprung at the vultures tormenting Prometheus. She hurled herself between monster and prey. The brass beast struck the goat with the full weight of its dive, breaking every bone in her body.
Cadmus was not aware that the goat had come. But he saw the dragon swerve suddenly and fly off carrying a dark mass in its claws. It dropped what it was carrying, rose high, flew a distance, but did not vanish. Cadmus threw his sword onto the bank. He dived down to the river bottom, found his shield, and hauled it to the surface. Then he climbed out and retrieved his sword. The dragon was a speck in the sky. It was growing larger.
Cadmus heard a hoarse moaning sound. He dropped his weapons and ran back to the riverbank. He fell to his knees and embraced the dying goat. He kissed her face, weeping, pleading, “Don’t die. Please don’t.”
But the hard, graceful body was broken and bleeding, all power fled. She twitched piteously, moaning. Only her eyes were alive, golden, more sentient than ever. She looked at Cadmus, and he read the plea in her eyes. He arose, walked away, picked up his sword, and came slowly back.
He stooped beside her and gently closed her eyes; for he knew he could not do what he must do if they were open. Then he kissed her. “I’ll see you in Hades,” he said. He raised his sword over his head with both hands and struck down, point first. He stabbed through the body, driving a last sound out of it, and all tension. The body flopped loosely. The goat was dead.
Cadmus had forgotten about the dragon. Now he turned and looked up. He was ready to be killed. A notion half formed itself. He would drop his weapons, let the dragon strike as it would. Then his soul would join the goat’s, and they would enter Hades together. He was slimy with mud, exhausted, sick of living, afraid of dying. But he did not drop his sword. Once again the cruel pattern had asserted itself—brutality assuming more power, more purpose than innocence and playfulness. Snuffing aspiration, nullifying questions, imposing a doomed certainty.
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One Page 35
