Then, at last, Hecate decided the time had come. One morning when Eurydice was out picking berries, the Harpy led a savage-tempered bear toward the blackberry bush. The famished beast arose to his enormous height and loomed over the girl. Eurydice stared up in fright.
Then the bear realized that this girl belonged to Orpheus, whose singing pleased him so. His growl changed to a snuffle. He dropped to all fours and shambled away.
Hecate was not pleased. “All the beasts in this place have been corrupted by that silly music,” she said to herself. “I’ll have to find something less appreciative. A snake perhaps? Some of them are musical, but they dwell in holes and may not have heard the Orphic songs. I know … a viper! A green viper. Its brain is the size of a pea, and it’s tone-deaf besides. And its venom is absolutely deadly.”
Hecate flew to a certain cave and dug out a tangle of green vipers. She plucked one loose and carried it by its tail, flying to the blackberry bush where Eurydice was still picking. The girl had eaten a berry for every one she put in the basket, and her lips were stained blue.
Hecate dropped the snake at the girl’s feet. The viper, furious at being handled in such a way, reared its head and struck at the nearest living thing—which was Eurydice. It sank its teeth into her taut, scratched leg, and shot its poison. The girl stiffened and fell.
Orpheus came home and found the house empty. He waited, but Eurydice did not return. He went looking for her. He ran through the woods, searching, calling. But he could not find her. Then, Hecate perched in a tree over the fallen Eurydice and raised her voice, imitating the girl. Orpheus rushed toward the sound.
He saw something on the ground. He knelt. He refused to believe what he saw. This could not be. She couldn’t be lying there like that, arms and legs still, eyes quenched. That slender face, blue smeared, was the face of a child eating berries. Death did not suit her, not at all. It could not be and must not be. It was unacceptable. An enormous error had been made, an unbearable discord at the very core of things.
He would have to go tune the world again, or it would have no place for him. He would go down to Tartarus to reclaim his wife’s shade and stuff it back into her unblemished body. Then he would take her to the little house near the river.
Murmuring, “I’ll be back soon,” Orpheus kissed her cold brow and rushed off. He didn’t know where Avernus was, but knew he would find it. In the Land Beyond Death, he would seek the ghost of his murdered bride.
7
The Healer
But there was one who caused Hades more trouble even than Orpheus; he was Asclepius, the greatest doctor who ever lived. His father was Apollo, the sun god, also God of Music and Medicine. His mother had been a Lapith princess, named Coronis, who hated Apollo because he had abducted her on her wedding night. She ran away from Apollo and rejoined her young husband—saddening the sun god, and, what was worse, enraging his twin sister, Artemis, Goddess of the Moon. Artemis, although only 15 minutes older than her brother, had always considered herself his protector. She sped to Arcadia where the young couple had fled and slew them with her silver arrows.
Asclepius was born during his mother’s death throes. But, destined for the healing arts, he had begun his study of anatomy while still in the womb. And continued to watch the events of his own birth with such intense concentration that he uttered no cry—making his midwife think that he had been born dead.
Hermes, who had always been the kindliest god, heard about the incredibly gifted child, who was his own nephew. He took charge of the babe and gave him to the Centaurs to raise. These hill dwellers, the fabled pony-spooks of Thessaly, knew more about herbs, poisonous and benign, than any other living creatures. And they taught the boy all they knew.
Asclepius developed other skills as well. He dosed and splinted, presided over the birth of the Centaur colts, and began to practice battlefield surgery at a very early age. There was plenty of need for this; his adopted tribe was quarrelsome and incredibly rash, always charging out of the hills to fight with the Lapiths of the plain—although vastly outnumbered.
After learning all he could, Asclepius left the Centaurs and began to wander the land, patching broken bodies wherever he found them.
As his talent ripened, he found himself calling on all the powers he had inherited from his father. Sunlight and music, he found, were the best medicines. He forbade his patients to lie in the dark, thinking sad thoughts, but dragged their pallets outside so that the brilliant sunlight could soak into them. Founding his own hospital, a collection of wicker huts set in a large garden on the bank of a river, he filled it with music. At all hours, the patients could hear the natural music of wind-song and birdcall; at certain hours, the flute and lyre, and voices singing. For Asclepius hired musicians, and recruited men and women with beautiful voices, and taught them to chant the praise-songs of Orpheus at sunrise and sunset and blazing noon.
Legends, of course, sprang up about the young doctor. It was said that he had been given a set of scalpels by his uncle Hephaestus, the smith god. It was said that he had stolen a skein of the vital thread used by his ancient cousins, the Fates, and that with such magically sharp knives and magically strong thread could cut someone open, whisk out a diseased organ, and sew the incision up faster than a fisherman could shuck an oyster.
Asclepius laughed when he heard these tales, but did not encourage them. He disliked cutting, and did so only when all else failed.
8
The Strangler
By this time, the song Orpheus was singing in the Land Beyond Death had begun to enter the four infernal rivers and on through underground streams to the rivers of earth. Reeds that grew upon the river banks soaked this song up through their roots. And when the wind moved among them, the reeds uttered the song anew. People, hearing it, learned for the first time what was happening to those who had died. Whoever learned about the torments of hell told others; and the dreadful news spread. The dead were not resting in peace, but were being tormented by demons.
So death was feared more than ever. Men and women, no matter how old, how feeble, how ill, clung desperately to the last flicker of life. And the young doctor, Asclepius, found himself working all day and most of the night. The very old, who were now refusing to die, prevented him from spending enough time among the young. This development, he felt, struck at the very core of his work; for more than any other physician, he had been able to save the lives of men and women in their prime, youths, and a multitude of children.
Using an enormous range of skills to salvage those felled by war or accident, he had snatched them from the very brink of death and restored them to health and beauty and the enjoyment of life.
But there were only so many hours to the day and to the night, and time spent by the bedside of a terrified oldster meant that some young patient, lacking medical attention, would slip into death and be handed over to the demons.
Asclepius, though, was young and strong; he trained himself to sleep less and less. So he was able to treat all who needed him, and save so many lives that Hades took note. He summoned Hecate.
“Our shipments are dwindling daily,” he said. “Do you know why?”
“Fewer people are dying, my lord.”
“That much I am able to deduce for myself. The question is, Why aren’t they dying as adequately as before? Do you have any ideas, or are you waiting for me to have one?”
“As you know, my Master, the Orpheus affair has taken me to earth frequently. And word has reached me of a certain doctor up there who is performing miraculous cures.”
“Who is this quack?”
“His name is Asclepius … a son of Apollo, they say.”
“Is he?”
“Who knows,” said Hecate. “These days, every village wife who bears a good-looking child is rumored to have entertained a god. And, since the rumor is flattering, she doesn’t deny it.”
“Well, it makes a difference,” said Hades. “If he is Apollo’s son he’ll be harder to get rid
of. I’ll do what I have to do, but I’d rather not start any family feuds.”
“I was about to suggest, your Majesty, that my Harpies may be useful in this matter. If we set a night and day guard upon Asclepius and assign a Harpy to accompany him on each house call, why then she can hover invisibly over the bedside, and as the doctor tries to fan the spark of life, our Harpy, still invisible, can reach out and snuff it. Asclepius will just think he has lost the contest, as sometimes he must, and proceed to the next patient, where the same thing will happen. And again, and again, until even he grows discouraged.”
“Sounds good,” said Hades. “Send out your hags.”
Now, of late, Asclepius had been aided in his labors by a wonderfully beautiful and gentle girl, named Telesphora. She adored the doctor but knew she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it until he was less busy. Whereupon, she was able to turn her love into healing energy, and to develop a unique skill. She learned to drain herself of strength each day and lend that strength to patients to carry them through the night—always the most dangerous time for those very ill. And, each morning, her strength renewed itself, and she was ready for that day’s task.
She accompanied Asclepius everywhere. Her strong hands became magically gentle when they touched a sufferer’s body; a vital force flowed through her fingers and into the sick body. And, despite the Harpies, who were now hanging over each bedside, trying to push the dying one over the brink, despite these invisible hags, Asclepius and his beautiful nurse were saving more lives than ever.
Hades grew so angry that he threatened to demote Hecate and put a vicious crone, Podarge, in charge of the Harpies.
“Give me one more chance, O master,” pleaded Hecate. “I’ll go up there myself, and if I can’t do something to mend matters, why, you won’t have to demote me. I’ll simply vanish from your sight forever.”
The whip coiled at Hecate’s belt had a lash that was the tail of a stingray. Wielded by the Harpy Queen, it could scourge the flesh from the bones of anyone she flogged. But she rarely used it. Her claws and teeth were weapons enough; her long sleek body had the fluid brutality of a saber-toothed tiger. Rarely did she meet any difficulty in killing or capturing or punishing anyone she wished.
It puzzled her mightily now that she seemed unable to kill Telesphora.
For she was trying to kill the girl who was so skillfully aiding Asclepius. Even with the young woman’s help, the great doctor was working himself to exhaustion, and Hecate knew that if she could deprive him of Telesphora, he would not be able to save so many people.
When the Harpy Queen had told Hades what she meant to do, he issued certain instructions. “Yes, kill her,” he said. “But it must seem like an accident. You mustn’t attack her in your own form because everyone knows you work for me. And Asclepius will complain to his father, Apollo, who will complain to Zeus, causing endless trouble.”
“I’ll be careful,” Hecate had promised. “She’ll soon meet with a fatal but natural-looking accident.”
But this proved easier to promise than to perform.
Hecate studied her quarry carefully before determining what accident should take place. The girl went out on the river frequently to gather a certain watercress that Asclepius made into a poultice for cuts and bruises. So death by drowning seemed a good idea.
After further observation, however, Hecate changed her mind about drowning the girl. “It won’t work,” she thought. “She swims like a naiad, damn her. I’ll have to try some other way.”
The next day, Telesphora climbed a cliff to hunt for a moss that grew in high places. Hecate followed her. She hovered invisibly as the girl wandered near the edge of the cliff. Then she dropped out of the sky, hitting Telesphora with all her weight, knocking the girl off the ledge. And was amazed to see her turn while falling and dive cleanly into the water—then bob up and swim toward shore as if she had gone off a low rock instead of a high cliff.
But Hecate was hard to discourage. Being thwarted made her angry; rage sharpened her purpose. “To be crushed by falling rock would seem a natural fatality for a mountain-climbing lass,” she said to herself.
She waited until Telesphora was climbing another slope. Then, scooping up a boulder, Hecate sprang into the air, and hung invisibly above the girl. She dipped so low she couldn’t miss, and dropped the boulder. As Hecate watched, the rock plunged through the shining air, then amazed her by skidding away from the neatly braided head as if glancing off an invisible helmet. The heavy rock crashed to the ground near Telesphora, who looked up, startled—and, seeing nothing, continued on her way.
Hecate was scorched by rage, and knew that only blood could cool her. She trembled with pent fury, wanting to swoop down on the girl and dig her talons into that glowing body. But she remembered Hades’ instructions, and managed to control herself.
“Eurydice was lucky too until her luck ran out,” gritted Hecate. “I’ll get this smug bitch if it’s the last thing I do.… I know! I’ll send the same snake that stung Eurydice to death. In fact, I’ll send two.”
She uttered the snake call, a thin hissing sound. A pair of grass-green vipers whipped out of a hole and slithered toward Telesphora, so swiftly that they were upon her before she knew they were there.
Hecate watched, gloatingly. These were earth’s most poisonous snakes. Once they sank their hollow teeth into the girl and injected her with their venom, she would stiffen before she could scream, die before hitting the ground.
Hecate heard the girl laugh. Saw her stretch out her bare arms. The snakes were climbing and twining about her. Her rosy, laughing face was flanked by two wedge-shaped heads that wove about her, tongues flicking, as if whispering into her ear. She looked like a living caduceus—the serpent-entwined staff of healing carried by Asclepius.
The girl, wound about with snakes, was twirling on her toes, singing. Finally, she plucked them off, playfully braiding them about each other, and flung them away. They untwined themselves and whisked back into their holes.
Hecate knew she would have to do something with her rage or find herself defying Hades’ direct order—falling upon the girl and ripping her to pieces where she stood.
Hecate flew off the hill and into the forest. She searched until she found a bear, which she immediately attacked. Locked in a deadly embrace, they rolled over and over, wrestling, biting, gouging. When the Harpy rose to her feet the bear was a heap of bloody fur.
She dived into the river and cleansed herself of blood. Letting herself dry in the hot sun, she grew calm enough to resume her task.
“This is ridiculous,” she thought. “I’m being less than I can be. What good are my diabolical wits, honed in the very fires of hell, if I act like a stupid human, befuddled by failure, reacting instead of thinking? I’ve been on the wrong course with this girl. I see now that she cannot be harmed in any ordinary way, because he whom she serves, Asclepius, son of Apollo, has invoked his father’s aid and cloaked her with an immunity. Which means that I shall have to attack her as if she were not quite mortal, but one of those superhuman creatures, hero or monster, who can only be defeated by turning its own strength against itself.”
“And what good is Telesphora’s special strength, her unique attribute? Why does Asclepius value her so? It is because she has the ability to lend a dying person her own energy, keeping the patient alive, and then somehow being able to renew that energy in herself. I can use this! I can destroy her through her own virtue. I know just how to do it.”
Whereupon, Hecate scrolled her wings so that they hung about her like a shabby cloak. She stooped, making herself dwindle, making her skin parch. She retracted her claws and pouched her eyes, dulling their yellow fire—and wrapped the stingray lash of her whip about its stock so that it became just a cane used by a crone.
Transformed into a feeble old woman, the Harpy Queen hobbled off to the hospital Asclepius had built upon the riverbank. There she pretended to collapse. She fell on the grass, and waited for someone to com
e.
Telesphora bent over the old woman who had been found in the garden. The girl had laid her on a pallet in one of the huts made of woven branches. Sequins of light slid across the ceiling, for one side of the hut was a wide door opening onto the sunlit river. The girl studied the old woman—the strange ashen face, the yolky eyes and shriveled shoulders. She seemed neither awake nor asleep, had not spoken, nor even moaned. Asclepius was away and would not return until the next day. The girl did not know whether the old woman would last, nor could she tell what was ailing her. For all her seeming weakness, her pulse was oddly strong. And yet … Asclepius had taught the girl that no two people were exactly alike, and that illness was always more than its symptoms.
One thing she did know. She would get no sleep that night. She would have to sit up with the old woman and be prepared to keep her alive by a transfer of energy.
Now, through eyes that seemed shut, Hecate was studying the girl who was studying her. The Harpy screwed her eyes tight so that no gleam of joy might show. For her plan was working, and soon, soon, Telesphora would deliver herself into the hands of her enemy.
Hours later, in that coldest, clammiest grip of night, just before dawn, Telesphora found herself shuddering with a dread she had never felt before. All night long she had sat beside the bed, letting her strength drain into the body of her patient. She was accustomed to this; this was her talent, her unique virtue, but it had never been quite like this before. The old carcass seemed to be soaking up strength like a sponge, claiming every last particle of energy. And the girl needed to save one drop of vitality so that she might renew herself in the morning.
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One Page 48
