He left the fire burning in the first cave, with children staring at it wide-eyed, and then went to every cave in the land.
Then one day Zeus looked down from the mountain and was amazed. Everything had changed. Man had come out of his cave. Zeus saw woodmen’s huts, farm houses, villages, walled towns, even a castle or two. He saw men cooking their food, carrying torches to light their way at night. He saw forges blazing, men beating out ploughs, keels, swords, spears. They were making ships and raising white wings of sails and daring to use the fury of the winds for their journeys. They were wearing helmets, riding out in chariots to do battle, like the gods themselves.
Zeus was full of rage. He seized his largest thunderbolt. “So they want fire,” he said to himself. “I’ll give them fire—more than they can use. I’ll turn their miserable little ball of earth into a cinder.” But then another thought came to him, and he lowered his arm. “No,” he said to himself, “I shall have vengeance—and entertainment too. Let them destroy themselves with their new skills. This will make a long twisted game, interesting to watch. I’ll attend to them later. My first business is with Prometheus.”
He called his giant guards and had them seize Prometheus, drag him off to the Caucasus, and there bind him to a mountain peak with great chains specially forged by Hephaestus—chains which even a Titan in agony could not break. And when the friend of man was bound to the mountain, Zeus sent two vultures to hover about him forever, tearing at his belly and eating his liver.
Men knew a terrible thing was happening on the mountain, but they did not know what. But the wind shrieked like a giant in torment and sometimes like fierce birds.
Many centuries he lay there—until another hero was born brave enough to defy the gods. He climbed to the peak in the Caucasus and struck the shackles from Prometheus and killed the vultures. His name was Heracles.
Pandora
AFTER ZEUS HAD CONDEMNED Prometheus for giving fire to man, he began to plan how to punish man for accepting it. Finally he hit upon a scheme. He ordered Hephaestus to mold a girl out of clay and to have Aphrodite pose for it to make sure it was beautiful. He breathed life into the clay figure; the clay turned to flesh, and she lay sleeping, all new. Then he summoned the gods and asked them each to give her a gift.
Apollo taught her to sing and play the lyre. Athene taught her to spin, Demeter to tend a garden. Aphrodite taught her how to look at a man without moving her eyes and how to dance without moving her legs. Poseidon gave her a pearl necklace and promised she would never drown. And finally Hermes gave her a beautiful golden box, which, he told her, she must never, never open. And then Hera gave her curiosity.
Hermes took her by the hand and led her down the slope of Olympus. He led her to Epimetheus, brother of Prometheus, and said, “Father Zeus grieves at the disgrace which has fallen upon your family. And to show you that he holds you blameless in your brother’s offense, he makes you this gift—this girl, fairest in all the world. She is to be your wife. Her name is Pandora, the all-gifted.”
So Epimetheus and Pandora were married. Pandora spun and baked and tended her garden, and played the lyre and danced for her husband, and thought herself the happiest young bride in all the world. Only one thing bothered her—the golden box. First she kept it on the table and polished it every day so that all might admire it. But the sunlight lanced through the window, and the box sparkled and seemed to be winking at her.
She found herself thinking, “Hermes must have been teasing. He’s always making jokes; everyone knows that. Yes, he was teasing, telling me never to open his gift. For if it is so beautiful outside, what must it be inside? Why, he has hidden a surprise for me there. Gems more lovely than have ever been seen, no doubt. If the box is so rich, the gift inside must be even more splendid—for that is the way of gifts. Perhaps Hermes is waiting for me to open the box and see what is inside and be delighted and thank him. Perhaps he thinks me ungrateful…”
But even as she was telling herself this, she knew it was not so—that the box must not be opened, that she must keep her promise.
Finally she took the box from the table and hid it in a dusty little storeroom. But it seemed to be burning there in the shadows. Its heat seemed to scorch her thoughts wherever she went. She kept passing that room and stepping into it, making excuses to dawdle there. Sometimes she took the box from its hiding place and stroked it, then quickly shoved it out of sight, and rushed out of the room.
She took it then, locked it in a heavy oaken chest, put great shackles on the chest, and dug a hole in her garden. She put the chest in, covered it over, and rolled a boulder on top of it. When Epimetheus came home that night, her hair was wild and her hands were bloody, her tunic torn and stained. But all she would tell him was that she had been working in the garden.
That night the moonlight blazed into the room. She could not sleep. The light pressed her eyes open. She sat up in bed and looked around. All the room was swimming in moonlight. Everything was different. There were deep shadows and swaths of silver, all mixed, all moving. She arose quietly and tiptoed from the room.
She went out into the garden. The flowers were blowing, the trees were swaying. The whole world was a dance in the magic white fire of that moonlight. She walked to the rock and pushed it. It rolled away as lightly as a pebble. And she felt herself full of wild strength.
She took a shovel and dug down to the chest. She unshackled it and drew out the golden box. It was cold, cold; coldness burned her hand to the bone. She trembled. What was inside that box seemed to her now the very secret of life, which she must look upon or die.
She took the little golden key from her tunic, fitted it into the keyhole, and gently opened the lid. There was a swarming, a hot throbbing, a wild meaty rustling, and a foul smell. Out of the box, as she held it up in the moonlight, swarmed small scaly lizardlike creatures with bat wings and burning red eyes.
They flew out of the box, circled her head once, clapping their wings and screaming thin little jeering screams—and then flew off into the night, hissing and cackling.
Then, half-fainting, sinking to her knees, Pandora, with her last bit of strength, clutched the box and slammed down the lid—catching the last little monster just as it was wriggling free. It shrieked and spat and clawed her hand, but she thrust it back into the box and locked it in. Then she dropped the box and fainted away.
What were those deathly creatures that flew out of the golden box? They were the ills that beset mankind: the spites, disease in its thousand shapes, old age, famine, insanity, and all their foul kin. After they flew out of the box, they scattered—flew into every home and swung from the rafters—waiting. And when their time comes, they fly and sting—and bring pain and sorrow and death.
At that, things could have been much worse. For the creature that Pandora shut into the box was the most dangerous of all. It was Foreboding, the final spite. If it had flown free, everyone in the world would have been told exactly what misfortune was to happen every day of his life. No hope would have been possible. And so there would have been an end to man. For though he can bear endless trouble, he cannot live with no hope at all.
Phaethon
LONG AGO, WHEN THE world was very new, two boys were racing along the edge of a cliff that hung over a deep blue sea. They were the same size; one boy had black hair, the other had yellow hair. The race was very close. Then the yellow-haired one spurted ahead and won the race. The loser was very angry.
“You think you’re pretty good,” he said. “But you’re not so much. My father is Zeus.”
“My father is Apollo,” said the yellow-haired boy, whose name was Phaethon.
“My father is the chief god, king of the mountain, lord of the sky.”
“My father is lord of the sun.”
“My father is called the thunderer. When he is angry, the sky grows black and the sun hides. His spear is a lightning bolt, and that’s what he kills people with. He hurls it a thousand miles and it never misses.”
“Without my father there would be no day. It would always be night. Each morning he hitches up his horses and drives the golden chariot of the sun across the sky. And that is day time. Then he dives into the ocean stream and boards a golden ferryboat and sails back to his eastern palace. That time is called night.”
“Sometimes I visit my father,” said Epaphus, the other boy. “I sit on Olympus with him, and he teaches me things and gives me presents. Know what he gave me last time? A little thunderbolt just like his—and he taught me how to throw it. I killed three vultures, scared a fishing boat, started a forest fire. Next time I go, I’ll throw it at more things. Do you visit your father?”
Phaethon never had. But he could not bear to tell Epaphus. “Certainly,” he said, “very often. I go to the eastern palace, and he teaches me things too.”
“What kind of things? Has he taught you to drive the horses of the sun?”
“Oh, yes. He taught me to handle their reins and how to make them go and how to make them stop. And they’re huge horses. Tall as this mountain. They breathe fire.”
“I think you’re making it all up,” said Epaphus. “I can tell. I don’t even believe there is a sun chariot. There’s the sun, look at it. It’s not a chariot.”
“Oh, what you see is just one of the wheels,” said Phaethon. “There’s another wheel on the other side. The body of the chariot is slung between them. That is where the driver stands and whips his horses. You cannot see it because your eyes are too small, and the glare is too bright.”
“Well,” said Epaphus. “Maybe it is a chariot, but I still don’t believe your father lets you drive it. In fact, I don’t believe you’ve been to the palace of the sun. I doubt that Apollo would know you if he saw you. Maybe he isn’t even your father. People like to say they’re descended from the gods, of course. But how many of us are there, really?”
“I’ll prove it to you,” cried Phaethon, stamping his foot. “I’ll go to the palace of the sun right now and hold my father to his promise. I’ll show you.”
“What promise?”
“He said I was getting to be so good a charioteer that next time he would let me drive the sun chariot alone. All by myself. From dawn to night. Right across the sky. And this time is next time.”
“Poof—words are cheap,” said Epaphus. “How will I know it’s you driving the sun? I won’t be able to see you from down here.”
“You’ll know me,” said Phaethon. “When I pass the village I will come down close and drive in circles around your roof. You’ll see me all right. Farewell.”
“Are you starting now?”
“Now. At once. Just watch the sky tomorrow, son of Zeus.”
And he went off. He was so stung by the words of his friend, and the boasting and lying he had been forced to do, that he traveled night and day, not stopping for food or rest, guiding himself by the morning star and the evening star, heading always east. Nor did he know the way. For, indeed, he had never once seen his father Apollo. He knew him only through his mother’s stories. But he did know that the palace must lie in the east, because that is where he saw the sun start each morning. He walked on and on until finally he lost his way completely, and weakened by hunger and exhaustion, fell swooning in a great meadow by the edge of a wood.
Now, while Phaethon was making his journey, Apollo sat in his great throne room on a huge throne made of gold and rubies. This was the quiet hour before dawn when night left its last coolness upon the earth. And it was then, at this hour, that Apollo sat on his throne, wearing a purple cloak embroidered with the golden signs of the zodiac. On his head was a crown given him by the dawn goddess, made of silver and pearls. A bird flew in the window and perched on his shoulder and spoke to him. This bird had sky-blue feathers, golden beak, golden claws, and golden eyes. It was one of Apollo’s sun hawks. It was this bird’s job to fly here and there gathering gossip. Sometimes she was called the spy bird.
Now she said, “Apollo, I have seen your son!”
“Which son?”
“Phaethon. He’s coming to see you. But he has lost his way and lies exhausted at the edge of the wood. The wolves will surely eat him. Do you care?”
“I will have to see him before I know whether I care. You had better get back to him before the wolves do. Bring him here in comfort. Round up some of your companions and bring him here as befits the son of a god.”
The sun hawk seized the softly glowing rug at the foot of the throne and flew away with it. She summoned three of her companions, and they each took a corner of the rug. They flew over a desert and a mountain and a wood and came to the field where Phaethon lay. They flew down among the howling of wolves, among burning eyes set in a circle about the unconscious boy. They pushed him onto the rug, and each took a corner in her beak, and flew away.
Phaethon felt himself being lifted into the air. The cold wind of his going revived him, and he sat up. People below saw a boy sitting with folded arms on a carpet rushing through the cold, bright moonlight far above their heads. It was too dark, though, to see the birds, and that is why we hear tales of flying carpets even to this day.
Phaethon was not particularly surprised to find himself in the air. The last thing he remembered was lying down on the grass. Now, he knew, he was dreaming. A good dream—floating and flying—his favorite kind. And when he saw the great cloud castle on top of the mountain, all made of snow, rose in the early light, he was more sure than ever that he was dreaming. He saw sentries in flashing golden armor, carrying golden spears. In the courtyard he saw enormous woolly dogs with fleece like clouddrift guarding the gate. These were Apollo’s great sun hounds.
Over the wall flew the carpet, over the courtyard, through the tall portals. And it wasn’t until the sun hawks gently let down the carpet in front of the throne that he began to think that this dream might be very real. He raised his eyes shyly and saw a tall figure sitting on the throne. Taller than any man, and appallingly beautiful to the boy—with his golden hair and stormy blue eyes and strong laughing face. Phaethon fell on his knees.
“Father,” he cried. “I am Phaethon, your son!”
“Rise, Phaethon. Let me look at you.”
He stood up, his legs trembling.
“Yes, you may well be my son. I seem to see a resemblance. Which one did you say?”
“Phaethon.”
“Oh, Clymene’s boy. I remember your mother well. How is she?”
“In health, sire.”
“And did I not leave some daughters with her as well? Yellow-haired girls—quite pretty?”
“My sisters, sire. The Heliads.”
“Yes, of course. Must get over that way and visit them all one of these seasons. And you, lad—what brings you to me? Do you not know that it is courteous to await an invitation before visiting a god—even if he is in the family?”
“I know, Father. But I had no choice. I was taunted by a son of Zeus, Epaphus. And I would have flung him over the cliff and myself after him if I had not resolved to make my lies come true.”
“Well, you’re my son, all right. Proud, rash, accepting no affront, refusing no adventure. I know the breed. Speak up, then. What is it you wish? I will do anything in my power to help you.”
“Anything, Father?”
“Anything I can. I swear by the river Styx, an oath sacred to the gods.”
“I wish to drive the sun across the sky. All by myself. From dawn till night.”
Apollo’s roar of anger shattered every crystal goblet in the great castle.
“Impossible!” he cried. “No one drives those horses but me. They are tall as mountains. Their breath is fire. They are stronger than the tides, stronger than the wind. It is all that I can do to hold them in check. How can your puny grip restrain them? They will race away with the chariot, scorching the poor earth to a cinder.”
“You promised, Father.”
“Yes, I promised, foolish lad. And that promise is a death warrant. A poor charred cinder floati
ng in space—well, that is what the oracle predicted for the earth—but I did not know it would be so soon…so soon.”
“It is almost dawn, Father. Should we not saddle the horses?”
“Will you not withdraw your request—allow me to preserve my honor without destroying the earth? Ask me anything else and I will grant it. Do not ask me this.”
“I have asked, sire, and you have promised. And the hour for dawn comes, and the horses are unharnessed. The sun will rise late today, confusing the wise.”
“They will be more than confused when this day is done,” said Apollo. “Come.”
Apollo took Phaethon to the stable of the sun, and there the boy saw the giant fire-white horses being harnessed to the golden chariot. Huge they were. Fire-white with golden manes and golden hooves and hot yellow eyes. When they neighed, the trumpet call of it rolled across the sky—and their breath was flame. They were being harnessed by a Titan, a cousin of the gods, tall as a tree, dressed in asbestos armor with helmet of tinted crystal against the glare. The sun chariot was an open shell of gold. Each wheel was the flat round disk of the sun as it is seen in the sky. And Phaethon looked very tiny as he stood in the chariot. The reins were thick as bridge cables, much too large for him to hold, so Apollo tied them around his waist. Then Apollo stood at the head of the team gentling the horses, speaking softly to them, calling them by name—Pyroeis, Eous, Aethon, Phlegon.
“Good lads, good horses, go easy today, my swift ones. Go at a slow trot and do not leave the path. You have a new driver today.”
The great horses dropped their heads to his shoulder and whinnied softly, for they loved him. Phaethon saw the flame of their breath play about his head, saw Apollo’s face shining out of the flame. But he was not harmed, for he was a god and could not be hurt by physical things.
He came to Phaethon and said, “Listen to me, son. You are about to start a terrible journey. Now, by the obedience you owe me as a son, by the faith you owe a god, by my oath that cannot be broken, and your pride that will not bend, I put this rule upon you: Keep the middle way. Too high and the earth will freeze, too low and it will burn. Keep the middle way. Give the horses their heads; they know the path, the blue middle course of day. Drive them not too high nor too low, but above all, do not stop. Or you will fire the air about you where you stand, charring the earth and blistering the sky. Do you heed me?”
Heroes, Gods and Monsters of the Greek Myths Page 5
