The next day the ship arrived in port. Captain and crew were seized by the king’s guard and taken to the castle. Arion stayed hidden.
“Why have you taken us captive, O King?” said the captain. “We are peaceable law-abiding sailors.”
“My friend Arion took passage on your ship!” roared the king. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”
“Poor lad,” said the captain. “He was quite mad. He was on deck singing to himself one day, and then suddenly jumped overboard. We put out a small boat, circled the spot for hours. We couldn’t find a trace. Sharks, probably. The sea’s full of them there.”
“And what do you sailors do to a man-eating shark when you catch him?” asked the king.
“Kill him, of course,” said the captain. “Can’t let them swim free and endanger other sailors.”
“A noble sentiment,” said Arion, stepping out of his hiding place. “And that’s exactly what we do to two-legged sharks in Corinth.”
So captain and crew were taken out and hanged. The ship was searched, and Arion’s property restored to him. He insisted on dividing the rich gifts with the king. When Periander protested, Arion laughed and said, “Treasures are trouble. You’re a king and can handle them. But I am a minstrel. I must travel light.”
And all his life he sang songs of praise. His music grew in power and beauty until people said he was a second Orpheus. When he died, Apollo set him in the sky, him and his lyre and the dolphin too. And they shine in the night sky still, the stars of the constellation Arion. They shine on pirates and minstrels, on wise men trying to learn the language of animals, and on simple men who have always known it.
DEMIGODS
Perseus
KING ACRISIUS OF ARGOS was uncertain in battle, unlucky in the hunt, and of fitful, flaring temper. He sat brooding in his throne-room.
“My daughter, Danae, grows tall and ripe,” he said to himself. “Her eyes fog over when I speak to her. She is ready for a husband, but am I ready for a son-in-law? I dislike the idea and always have. A son-in-law will be a younger man waiting for me to die so he can take the throne. Perhaps he will even try to hasten that sad event. Such things are not unknown. I loathe the idea of a son-in-law. But she is ready for a husband, and princesses must not be spinsters…a grave decision…I shall consult the oracle.”
THE PROPHECY
He sent to the oracle at Delphi, and the messenger returned with this prophecy: “Your daughter will bear a son who will one day kill you.”
Acrisius had the messenger beheaded for bringing bad news and retired to his throne-room to continue his brooding.
“The auguries of the Pythoness are supposed to be immutable.” he said to himself. “But are they? How can they be? What if I were to slay my daughter now while she is still childless; how then could she have a son to kill me? But, must I kill her to keep her childless? Is it not sufficient to forbid her male company all her days? Would I not be accomplishing the same purpose without calling upon my head the vengeance of the gods? Yes, that is a much better plan.”
Thereupon he shut the beautiful young girl in a brass tower which he had specially built with no doors and only one window, a slit too narrow for a child to put an arm through. The tower was surrounded by a high spiked wall patrolled by armed sentries and savage dogs. Here Acrisius locked his daughter away, and so murderous was his temper in those days that no one dared asked him what had become of the laughing young girl.
Acrisius stayed away from the tower and waited for someone to bring him word that his daughter had died; but the news he was waiting for did not come, and he wondered what was keeping her alive. How could a girl like that, a princess used to hunting, swimming, and running free on the hillsides, a girl who had never had her wishes crossed in her life—how could she stand this imprisonment?
He rode past the brass tower which glittered in the hot sunlight. The brass helmets of the sentries glittered as did the brass collars, on the necks of the huge dogs. As he rode past, he tried to see through the slit, tried to glimpse her face looking out, but the brass glitter was so bright he could not see.
The king took to watching the tower from his own castle wall, but the tower was far away, across a valley on the slope of a hill. The tower was only a splinter of light, but it seemed to glow more and more hotly until it hurt his eyes. One night he could not sleep so he went out on his castle wall in the night wind and looked out across the valley. It was a black night—no moon, no stars. The hill was only a thicker darkness. Then, suddenly, as if a torch were lighted, the tower burned clear, shining as brightly as if it were day instead of night; but the tower was lit from the inside now—the brass walls flaring more whitely, like silver, casting a dim radiance over the valley and throwing the giant shadow of trees past the hill.
Amazed and fearful, Acrisius summoned his soldiers, leaped on his horse, and rode to the tower. As they galloped toward it, the light died, and the burning tower subsided into the hillside. He led his soldiers up to the black wall. The dogs were howling. The sentries recognized the king and opened the gate. He galloped through and rode up to the slit window. Then, through the snarling of the sounds and the clatter of weapons, he heard another sound, sudden as an arrow—the sound of a baby crying.
The brass tower had no doors, having been built with no doors, so now Acrisius bade his soldiers take sledges and batter the brass walls. When the wall was breached the king stepped through and entered his daughter’s cell. There in the torchlight he saw her sitting on a bench nursing a baby. She looked up at him and, smiling secretly, said, “I have named him Avenger.” The word for avenger in Greek is Perseus.
The king’s first thought was to kill mother and child, but he had a second thought. “She must be under special protection; of Apollo himself, perhaps, master of the Delphic Oracle, who does not wish his prophecies thwarted. I can die but once, true enough; but if she is being protected by the gods, and I kill her, then they will torture me through eternity. Well, we shall test the quality of her protectors.”
Acrisius ordered that Danae and the baby be taken from the prison and put in a wooden boat without sails, without oars, and without food or water. “Yes,” he said to himself, “we shall test the drift of events. If she is under divine patronage, the ship will be guided safely to harbor. If, on the other hand, it runs into misfortune, then, obviously, she is not being protected by the gods, and the accident of her death will bring upon me no high reprisal. Yes, I like this idea.”
Thereupon, the princess and her infant son were set adrift in an empty skiff without sails and without oars. Acrisius returned to his castle and went to sleep.
Danae sat up straight in the boat and tasted the night wind as it sang past her face and whipped her hair about her shoulders. The baby laughed for joy and reached his hands to catch the glittering points of the waves. All night they drifted, and the next day, and the next night. A light rain fell, giving them water to drink; and a gull dropped a fish right into the boat, giving them food. On the second morning Danae saw that they had drifted into the lee of an island. Fishing boats stood off the shore, and fishermen were casting their nets.
She shouted. One of the slender boats sailed toward them. The fishermen was a huge, bearded fellow named Dictys who took them on board and put into shore. He was amazed by the beauty of the girl and by the impudence of the baby who pulled boldly at his beard and gurgled, but did not cry.
Dictys took mother and child to King Polydectes of the island of Sephiros. Polydectes too was amazed at the beauty of the young woman. He called her daughter and offered her the hospitality of the island—a house to live in and servants to wait upon her—and paid Dictys the value of a month’s catch for the prize he had drawn from the sea.
THE ISLAND
Perseus grew to be a strong, fearless lad. He loved to run, to swim, to hunt, to fight with the other boys. At night, lying near the fire, he loved to hear his mother tell stories that made his brain flame with excitement—stories
of the gods, of heroes, of monsters, of battles, of transformations, and of strange loves.
She told him about the three sisters called the Gorgons who were very tall and beautiful with long golden hair and golden wings. She told of how the youngest and most beautiful, named Medusa, flew into one of Athene’s temples to meet with Poseidon, risen secretly from the sea. Athene, learning of this, became enraged and wove a spell upon her loom; and Poseidon, below, awakened to find that he was holding a monster in his arms. Medusa’s eyes bulged as if someone were strangling her, and a swollen blackened tongue forced her mouth open, showing the yellow fangs of her teeth. Her fingers and toes were brass claws; and, worst of all, each golden hair was now a live, hissing snake. Poseidon roared with fury, cast her aside, and dived into the sea. Medusa spread her wings and flew away, weeping, to find her sisters. She was so horrible to look upon that everyone who saw her face was turned to stone. So her sisters took her to a far place, a secret place, where they lived together plotting revenge upon Athene.
Perseus made his mother tell this story over and over again for, like many children, he was fond of stories that frightened him. Best of all, though, he liked to hear of the days when his mother had been shut up in the brass tower: how she had been so sad she thought she must die; how she would look out of the slit in the wall and see nothing but a single star; how she gazed at that star, magnified by her tears, until it seemed to fill the whole sky. Its light fell keen as a sword-blade through the blackness; and, as she watched, the blade of light flashed through the slit in the brass wall filling the dark chamber with a golden light. The gold pulsed, thickened, and gathered itself into a tall column of light and formed itself into the shape of a man, but such a man as she had never seen…taller than mortal man with golden hair and hot golden eyes, wearing gold bracelets on his mighty arm, and carrying a volt-blue zigzag shaft of pure light as other men carry spears.
She knelt before him. She knew he was a god, but he raised her up and said, “Yes, I am a god, but do not be afraid. I come as a man.”
“He rode the golden light every night into my dungeon,” she said to Perseus, “and was always gone by dawn…as the morning star vanishes when day begins.”
“And was he my father?” asked Perseus.
“He was your father. And some day he will return to me, I know. That is why I must not take another husband, for how can I love an ordinary man, remembering him?”
“So I am the son of a god?” said Perseus.
“Yes.”
“What does that make me?”
“A hero. Or a very great scoundrel.” She smiled and drew the boy to her. “But let us hope that you too will rescue maidens and thwart mad kings. Sometimes, as now, with the firelight in your eyes, you look quite like him, but not so tall, not so tall.”
So Perseus grew to manhood. He was the most splendid young man on all the island. He could outrace, outswim, outclimb, outfight any other lad on Sephiros; but he raged at the peacefulness of the times because he wished to try himself in battle.
Now there was one who had watched Perseus grow with great displeasure. King Polydectes, long in love with the beautiful Danae, was very eager to get rid of her fierce, young son so that he might compel her to marry him. He was a sly one, Polydectes, sly and patient and very cruel in his quiet way, and he made a skillful plan to rid himself of Perseus. He spread the news he was to marry a princess of another island and invited all the young men of Sephiros to the palace. There he asked them, as was the custom, for gifts which he would bring to the bride.
“What she loves above all else is a fine horse,” he told the young men. “And I have promised her fifty splendid stallions. Will each of you select the best of his herd?”
All the young nobles promised, except Perseus, for he had nothing of his own, living as he did on the bounty of the king.
“Well, Perseus,” said Polydectes. “I hear nothing but silence from you. What gift will you bring? What do you offer your king and your host who has been so generous with you and your dear mother over the years?”
Polydectes had studied Perseus well and felt sure that the boy’s flaming pride would lead to some rash offer—that was the whole point of his pretended marriage and the gathering at the palace.
“I do not wish to embarrass you, Perseus,” he said. “I know that you do not have the resources of these other young men; but surely I can expect a token gift, a rabbit you might snare, perhaps, or a fish you might catch.”
“Oh, King,” cried Perseus. “Oh, Host and Benefactor, I owe you too much gratitude to repay you with the common gift of a horse. I shall bring you the head of Medusa!”
The throne-room rang with laughter, but Polydectes’ face was grave. “You choose to jest,” he said. “That is not courteous for a guest of such long standing.”
“I do not jest,” cried Perseus. “Promises are sacred to me. I will bring you the head of Medusa, or you can take my own. This is a pact of blood, Polydectes.”
Perseus turned and strode out of the throne-room. He went to a cliff overlooking the sea and, stretching his arms to the sky, said, “Oh, unknown father on Olympus—Zeus, or Apollo, or Ares, or whoever you may be who visited my mother in a shower of gold—grant your son one boon. Not the head of Medusa. I shall win that for myself, but I need to know where she is and how to get there. Please help me.”
He dropped his arms and stared at the blank sky, which seemed more blue and more empty than ever before.
“Good day, brother,” he heard a voice say.
He whirled around. There stood a magnificent creature with a round hat, a laughing face, a jaunty beard, winged sandles, and a golden staff entwined with serpents. Perseus knew that it was the god, Hermes, and that he should fall on his knees; but his knees would not bend, so he bowed instead.
“Our father, Zeus, is away on one of his trips,” said Hermes, “but in his absence I do some of his business so I am here to serve you. What is all this now about the head of Medusa?”
Perseus told him of the rash promise he had made to Polydectes.
“Rash, indeed,” murmured Hermes. “Foolhardy, in fact. It’s a family trait, I suppose. God-seed and human make a strange mixture, a ferment in the blood; leads to great exploits or great folly. But…folly itself can be the seed of exploit. Let us see what we can do.”
“I need…”
“Please, allow me to tell you what you need. First of all, I must tell you that sister Athene takes a special interest in your case. She is responsible for Medusa’s petrifying aspect, you know, and is a sworn enemy of the Gorgon sisters. She sends you these.”
Hermes reached into his pouch and pulled out a pair of Talaria, silver-winged sandals like those he himself wore. “She is not only a potent spinster,” he said, “but she cobbles magically too. She made me my winged shoes, and now she has made you a pair. With these you can fly more swiftly than an eagle. Now, listen, and I will tell you what to do. Set out today. Fly north. Search until you find the Gray Sisters. When you find them you must force them to tell where you can find the Nymphs of the West; no one else can tell you. These Nymphs have in their keeping certain pieces of equipment which you will need to kill Medusa. Without these implements you must fail…Come down, Perseus! How can I speak to you when you’re up there? Come down. You can practice later.”
Perseus laughed with joy, turned a somersault in the air, then hovered above Hermes’ head, ankle-wings whirring like the wings of a humming bird.
“I heard you,” he cried. “I heard you. Gray Sisters, Nymphs of the West…their secrets will be my weapons. Thank you, dear brother. Thank you, Hermes. Thank Athene for me. Farewell.”
He turned so that the setting sun was on his left hand and sped away, shouting, “I can fly! I can fly!”
THE QUEST
Gulls screamed, amazed, at the tall thing which flew but did not fish; falcons stooped for a closer look, then flew away; and Perseus flashed over the sea to where the land began again—a fair, rich la
nd. He flew over fields of wheat and groves of olive trees, herds of sheep and cows, tiny villages and white cities. The land became wilder, and mountains stood up with only a few poor villages clinging to their sides. Behind the first mountains were taller crags topped with snow, the first snow Perseus had ever seen. He flew past these mountains, great forests, a plain full of rivers, and another range of mountains where neither man nor beast was to be seen. A hailstorm raged, spitting hard sharp pieces of ice at Perseus so that he had to wrap his face in his cloak as he flew.
When the storm blew itself out, Perseus found himself over the sea again, a sea of ice, not flat but full of great billows and troughs as if it had frozen all at once during a gale. The sun was a huge pale moon peering heavily over the edge of the sky. The air was so cold he could hardly breathe.
Perseus heard a thin cackling, keener than the wind. He dipped and saw three hunched figures. Thereupon, he raised his arms, pointed his toes, and plunged to earth feet-first, landing among the three Gray Sisters. Three hags they were, very long and lean. They had been born old countless years before time began and had grown older every day since. They had gray hair, never cut, so long it fell to the ground and dragged behind them as they walked. Their skin was gray; they wore no clothes, just their long gray hair; and their skin was tough and wrinkled as an alligator’s. Their bare feet were like leather claws.
They sat in a close circle, scolding and jabbering and tittering. They kept snatching at each other’s hands, and then Perseus saw that they had but a single eye and a single tooth for the three of them. They quarreled constantly, snatching the eye and tooth away from each other.
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