Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One

by Bernard Evslin

  “I’ve just found you, Aunt. Don’t go away. I can’t bear another loss.”

  “Another? What do you know of loss, my child?”

  “Too much. A few months ago I tracked down my father, whom I’d never met, and was just teaching him to love me when he was taken.”

  “How?”

  “Well, we were going for a ride in his sun chariot when Zeus hurled a thunderbolt, hitting him square.”

  “Your father is Apollo?”

  “No!” cried Circe. “Not that thief! My father is the true sun god—Helios. Zeus stripped him of his authority and put Apollo in his place. Took away his chariot and his horses and his proud task, and broke his heart—which I was just mending before he vanished.”

  “What happened? Did he steal the chariot?”

  “Not steal; it was his. He repossessed it. Whistled up the horses, who love him, and they came galloping. He didn’t mean to keep the chariot. He knew he couldn’t. He just wanted it for long enough to take me for a ride. Then slimy Poseidon made some trouble because we boiled a bit of his sea away, and the tyrant, Zeus, flung his fiery shaft. And my father fell from the chariot. I jumped out after him but couldn’t find him anyplace. I’ve been searching and searching.”

  “Let’s try a finding,” said Dione.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll try to locate your father for you. Witch me up a fire on that flat rock.”

  “How do you know I can do that?”

  “You have the look of someone who’s been dabbling in magic. It’s a family trait. Start me a fire so that a daughter’s sharp young love can enter the spell—and I’ll do the rest.”

  Circe pointed her hands at a rock, mumbling as she whirled about three times. Pale flame stood upon the stone. Dione cupped one hand in the other; when she opened them they were full of herbs. She dropped the herbs on the fire. The flame leaped. It danced on the rock, spitting purple and green gouts of smoke. Aromatic smoke, very sweet.

  Breathing it, Circe felt herself go blank. She didn’t know her own name. She was being translated into a place beyond words. In the burning crystal of her new state she saw patches of hard whiteness that might have been snow-covered rock, but were only glimmers of whiteness behind struggling shapes of darkness. She screamed. Nameless horror filled her. Blackness swarmed. Deeper and deeper she sank.

  When she awoke it was into fragrant warmth. She found herself in Dione’s lap. The great arms cradled her, rocked her gently. She heard her voice coming out in a thready whisper.

  “Oh, Dione, I saw things. Horrid, huge, ragged things. Their blackness covered everything. I couldn’t see past them.”

  “Yes,” said Dione. “I saw them, too.”

  “What are they?”

  “The Furies.”

  “Furies?”

  “Flying hags. Hell hags. They serve Hades. They hunt down runaway shades and flay them with their stingray whips.”

  “What are they doing up here?”

  “Pursuing your father.”

  “Why would Hades send them? It was only Zeus my father offended. Well, and Poseidon and Apollo, too, perhaps. But not Hades.”

  “Ah, my child,” said Dione, “while the gods quarrel among themselves, they tend to help each other when there’s an important cruelty to be done.”

  “But I didn’t see my father. Just those things flying.”

  “It means they’re pursuing him hotly, but haven’t caught him yet. Helios is very powerful and resourceful. It may be that they’ll never catch him. But they’ll keep trying, you can be sure of that.”

  “Then I must leave immediately,” declared Circe. “I must find him before they do.”

  “Then what?”

  “Help him fight the Furies, of course.”

  “You’re a very brave girl, but you’re not ready to fight the Furies, not even one of them, let alone three. As you are now, you wouldn’t last the wink of an eye. You must prepare yourself before you go against them.”

  “How?”

  “You must grow into your full strength. And while you’re doing so, you must learn real sorcery. I will teach you.”

  Circe felt a sharp pain in her calf. She kicked out, heard a squealing, and saw Dione’s little man sprawled on the ground. She was amazed when Dione slapped her, and tumbled her off her lap.

  “You kicked him, you wicked girl,” shouted Dione.

  She scooped up her husband and held him to her, kissing him.

  “Something was pinching my leg,” said Circe. “I didn’t know it was him. I just kicked. Why was he pinching me?”

  “He was jealous because you were sitting in my lap. That’s his place, he thinks; no one else belongs there.”

  Circe saw that the little man, high above her, safe in his wife’s arms, was grinning down at her. “He’s rather childish for his age, isn’t he,” she said.

  “He is, he is,” said Dione mournfully. “Everything about him has shrunk—his mind and his spirit, too. But I love him just the same, even more, perhaps. And if you’re going to stay here with me, you must learn to love him, too, and not hurt him in any way.”

  “I’ll try,” muttered Circe.

  “You must do more than try,” said Dione. “You must succeed.”

  Circe looked up at the husband again. His eyes twinkled pure malice; he stuck his tongue out.

  “All right,” she said. “But do you think you could tell him not to pinch me?”

  “Have you ever had a puppy or a kitten?” asked Dione.

  “Oh, yes, lots of them. They’re dogs and cats now, and waiting for me at my mother’s place. I miss them.”

  “Well,” said Dione, “you didn’t mind when a kitten scratched you or a puppy nipped you, did you? You didn’t kick them, I’m sure. Can’t you look at him the same way?”

  “Yes, I really will try,” said Circe.

  She knew there was something wrong with Dione’s comparison; nevertheless, she was determined to learn sorcery, and knew that to do that she would have to put up with the little man, or at least pretend to.

  7

  Sorcery Lessons

  The next day Circe began to learn sorcery from Dione. “The lesson begins,” said the big woman. “Come to the oak.” Circe came into the spangled shade under the tree. “Now, cast off your garment,” said Dione, “and I shall do likewise. For you must enter sorcery with your whole body. You must feel the wind on you, birdcall must enter you, and you must know the touch of this mighty oak—the living totem of our clan whose taproot drinks the blood of mutilated gods.”

  Circe shed her tunic. She felt sequins of hot sunlight upon her, felt the fingers of the wind searching her. A musk of summer grass beat about her, threaded with birdcall. Screaming with joy, lithe as a cat, she sprang to a lower limb of the tree. Dione doffed her tunic. Unclothed, she seemed larger. She easily lifted herself into the tree.

  But then the little husband dashed out from behind the trunk and began to jump up and down, blubbering and bawling. “Oh, dear,” murmured Dione. She swung down, lifted him in one hand and climbed up again. She stood him on her knee and passed her hand over his face, whispering, “Sleep, sleep … Do not weep, my dearie, but sleep, sleep …”

  He slumped on her lap, fast asleep. “Come up here,” she said to Circe. The girl climbed to the upper limb and sat beside her. And, to her dismay, was handed the sleeping husband. “Here,” said Dione.

  “What shall I do with him?”

  “Please don’t use that tone. He’s not really a slug or a snail, you know. Just hold him carefully and roll him up in my hair so that he rests against my back between my shoulders. He’ll sleep soundly there, and I’ll be able to start our lesson without interruption.”

  Circe took the little man, holding him gently, although she yearned to twist his ears. She wrapped him in Dione’s thick, fragrant hair and rolled him up until he hung against her back between her shoulder blades, snoring slightly.

  “Thank you,” said Dione. “
Now swing down to your own branch and make yourself comfortable. We have a lot to cover.”

  To do magic,” said Dione, “is to tamper with nature, and the risk is enormous. For a spell gone wrong will not only destroy its target; it will turn and rend whoever has wrought the spell.”

  “Worth the risk, it seems to me,” said Circe.

  “Does it? Well, hearken now. There are two kinds of magic.”

  “Good and bad?”

  “Yes.”

  “But so is everything else—either good or bad,” said Circe.

  “Magic even more so,” said Dione. “It’s always more so, in every way. Witchcraft is evil magic, cruelly twisting nature and wrenching things out of their form and their own meaning, and changing them into something worse, always worse. Sorcery is good magic. It looks into the essence of living forms, and when it transforms something it is always within the nature of what it really is, only more so.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” said Circe.

  “I’ll give you an example,” said Dione. “Ages ago, when I was young and this oak was just a sapling, there was a young hunter who roamed the forest. He was a pretty lad, very brave and merry, and I grew fond of him. I did not make myself known to him, but watched him, kept watching, for I enjoyed the sight of him. And I noted that toward the close of day he lost his merriment, grew sad, in fact. And when he left the wood and turned toward what I thought must be his home, his sprightly gait changed, his footsteps dragged.

  “So I followed him home one dusk and learned the reason. Followed him to a trim little cottage which he must have built with his own hands, and saw him enter. And heard a voice start up. A woman’s voice, a young one, but with no sweetness. Harsh, rasping, mean, accusatory. Occasionally, he spoke a soft answer, which made her screech. I peered in and saw her. She was a little thing for such a loud voice. Not bad looking if her face hadn’t been twisted by all the rage that was in her.

  “Well, I felt that I had to do something, and did it that very night. He awoke to find her gone. He mourned for a few days, but I taught him to forget his loss and count his blessings.”

  “What did you do to the woman?” asked Circe. “Kill her?”

  “Oh, no, no, no. I worked a good magic. Abrupt but good. I turned her into a jaybird. She flew off, found herself a blue-crested mate and happily scolded him all day long. And is not angered by soft replies, for he scolds also.”

  “And you call that a good magic?”

  “Certainly. You see, she was really meant to be a jay from the first, or a raving bitch, perhaps, but something went askew. In her soul’s journey toward birth she took a wrong turn somewhere. And was full of mysterious rage and unhappiness until I turned her back into what she should have been in the first place.”

  “Why not a bitch, then, since you didn’t like her?”

  “Well, I actually do like dogs; they’re usually sweeter-tempered than birds, even the vicious ones. Besides, she was really more birdlike than doglike. Yes, it was a good magic, Circe. Slightly selfish, but basically good. I made both of them happy; him, perhaps, more. But things can’t always be equal.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that was a good magic. It still leaves the sorceress quite free, doesn’t it?”

  “All you’re free to do now, my girl, is learn. And the lessons are quite hard. Every herb that heals or harms. All the spook words of benefit or bane. Charm-rhymes plain and puzzling. And countercharms for everything, of course, so that you may combat witches and evil wizards—and undo your own mistakes.”

  8

  Salmoneus

  Salmoneus, king of Aeolis, was very rich and powerful, but he was gnawed by dissatisfaction. “King … king …,” he muttered to himself. “It’s better to be one than not, but it’s still not much. Every piddling little state has someone who wears a crown and squats on a throne and calls himself king, so the title is not sufficiently revered. Take me, for example, ruler of a big, warlike country which is getting bigger all the time as it gobbles up its neighbors—even I, who am outgrowing kingship and becoming an emperor, am not paid enough honor. Oh, I’m feared and obeyed, but I’m not worshiped. People are afraid of me because they know that extremely unpleasant things will happen to them if they don’t exhibit wholesome terror—which is all very well—but the idea of me doesn’t awe them, overwhelm them, cause them to fall on their silly faces and worship. And that’s because I’m still only a man and not a god. I can’t stand it any longer. I must find a way to be more than I am. But how? There’s a way … there must be a way.”

  He thought and thought and finally decided what to do. He sent heralds throughout the land, to every city and town and village. They announced that Zeus, ruler of heaven, had honored the nation by choosing its own king to represent god power here below; not merely as priests do, but as the very embodiment, on certain occasions, of the divine will on earth.

  Whereupon Salmoneus ordered an enormous marble pedestal to be built in the courtyard in front of the palace. Upon this pedestal a golden throne was set, even larger and more splendid than the one inside the palace, and studded with diamonds and rubies and sapphires. Above the throne was spread a canopy of gold-threaded silk and peacock feathers to shade him from the sun.

  And to the great square in front of the palace in the capital city of Elis were summoned the populace. One day each month everyone was required to attend. This day was called the Day of Justice. Anyone who felt himself wronged in life in any way could appeal to the king. And he, with the wisdom and power conferred upon him by almighty Zeus, would render judgment, declaring either that the unlucky one deserved his bad luck, or that he had been unjustly used by fate and was due for a change in fortune.

  Of course, Salmoneus cared nothing about the pleas themselves. He would listen with less than half an ear, and his decision would be based on whether the plaintiff happened to please or displease him. Nor were bribes discouraged. Often, Salmoneus made no decision at all, but postponed the matter, because he enjoyed the feeling of keeping people in suspense.

  But the real point of this entire business was the closing ceremony, which was held at dusk. Then Salmoneus would arise from his throne, stand tall upon the pedestal, lifting his face to heaven and stretching his arms high, and quiver for a while, uttering low, ecstatic moans, as if the power of Zeus were an actual current flowing down from Olympus and entering him as he stood there.

  Then servants would rush to him bearing brass pots, which he would clang together to imitate thunder. Others would come bearing torches, which he would snatch from them and hurl in the air to mimic lightning. And the great crowd had been rehearsed to fall on its knees at this moment, shouting, “Glory, glory, glory to our god, Salmoneus!”

  9

  Jealousy

  For some time now Circe had dwelt in the oak grove, learning the art of sorcery as fast as Dione could teach. And her body grew along with her mind. Her legs grew very long and suavely muscled. Rose over bronze was her skin, and the rich mane of her hair seemed woven of light. All in all, she was a sleek, powerful young nymph, taller now than Dione, bursting with health, and casting a fragrance of sunshine and crushed grass.

  Upon this day Circe and Dione were lying on a flat rock near the river’s edge, letting the sun dry them after their swim. Circe was amused, for Dione had caught her husband and bathed him—something he hated. She had disregarded his complaints, and scrubbed and dried and oiled him rather roughly. And he had rushed off, cursing.

  “You know,” said Circe, “he seems to have stopped shrinking.”

  “I’ve noticed,” said Dione.

  Circe was puzzled by her tone. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Yes there is.”

  “Well,” said Dione. “He’s not only stopped shrinking, he’s stopped glaring at you and doing little mischiefs. Or haven’t you noticed?”

  “I have, and I’m glad, of course.”

  “Don’t you know what that
means?”

  “What?”

  “The little fool is falling under your spell. Not one I’ve taught you. Nobody had to teach you. You cast this spell as naturally as a rose putting out her scent to pull a bee into her cup. Yes, yes, I know it’s not your fault. You can’t help being so young and beautiful, damn you.”

  “Do you want me to go away?”

  “We are going away, you and I, for a little while. To Elis to attend Judgment Day.”

  “What’s that?”

  “King Salmoneus claims that once every month he is invested with the authority of Zeus and can change the fortune of anyone who had been treated unjustly by the gods.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I don’t believe or disbelieve,” said Dione. “I’m willing to be shown. I shall appeal to him to undo the treachery of Cronos and grant me another thousand years with my husband. I shall also pray that the poor tyke be released from the spell you have cast. No, no, don’t say it. I know what I know.”

  “I’m sorry, Dione.”

  “And while we’re there you can ask the king to aid you in finding your father. I don’t know whether he’ll want to since it is Zeus your father offended. Isn’t that your story?”

  “It’s what happened. In any case, I shan’t be coming back here. How can I live with you if you feel this way?”

  “Yes, perhaps it would be better for you to resume your journey. There’s not much more I can teach you, anyway.”

  Aeolis lay on the other side of the mountain; the road there lay through valley and wood. But Circe and Dione walked tirelessly with an easy, swinging gait. They didn’t speak much on the way; each was wrapped in her own thoughts. Of course, what Circe was thinking about was what Dione had said.

  “He’s such a treacherous little thing,” she said to herself. “I don’t think he hates me a bit less than he ever did. I think this is just a new trick. He’s pretending to fall in love with me just to make Dione jealous. Yes, of course, that must be it. He’s found the one sure way to turn her against me. Oh, if it were only possible to give him what he deserves. How I would enjoy getting my hands on him. Pooh! What’s the difference? I’ll never see him again. This chapter of my life is ending, and I’m ready for a new one to begin.”