Perseus heard the water hiss, saw spouts of steam rise as the monster’s scorching breath ruffled the surface and made the sea boil. He knew they had spoken too long. Without waiting to put on his Cap of Darkness, he drew his sword and leaped into the air. Over the beast’s head he flashed and fell like lightning, right onto the great scaly back. He rode the monster there, in the water, hacking at the huge head with his new-moon sword until the flames of the beast’s breath were laced with blood, and the great neck split like a log under the woodman’s ax.
The monster sank. Perseus flew off his back, dripping wet, flew to the rock, struck away Andromeda’s chains, lifted her in his arms, and bore her gently through the air to where her mother and father stood.
“Here is your daughter,” said Perseus, “but only briefly, very briefly, for I claim her as my bride.”
“As your bride?” shouted Cepheus. “What do you mean? Do you think I shall give my daughter, Andromeda, the most richly dowered princess in me East, to an unknown vagabond?”
“I may be a vagabond,” said Perseus, “but I shall not long be unknown. If you were not going to be my father-in-law, Cepheus, I should explain to you what kind of fool you are. For the sake of family harmony, however, I forbear. You were content to serve your daughter up as dead meat to this monster as the price of your wife’s vanity because he came well-recommended, but you refuse to give her, warm and alive, to him who slew the monster. And why? Simply because it is unexpected. Father-in-law or not, you are a fool, Cepheus, a pitiful fool; and if by word or deed you seek to prevent me from taking your daughter, you will be a dead fool. I do not ask your leave, I am announcing my intention. Say goodbye to your parents, Andromeda.” Perseus lifted her in his arms again and flew away.
When he landed on Sephiros, he was amazed to find the island deserted. His mother was not at home, nor was anyone in the village. He hurried to the castle and found it blazing with light. There was a clamor of shouting and laughter and a clatter of weapons. He forced his way through a crowd of revellers, and entered the throne-room.
There he saw his mother, deathly pale, but loaded with jewels, sumptuously garbed, her beautiful bare white arm in the swarthy clutch of Polydectes. Now Perseus understood that the king had taken advantage of his absence to force Danae to marry him. He had returned just in time.
His great voice clove the uproar. “Polydectes—ho!”
All voices ceased. The king stood rigid, staring at him, his face fixed in an amazed snarl. Perseus saw him gesture to his guards. They drew their swords and stepped forward, twenty of them.
“I have brought you your gift, Polydectes,” said Perseus. “Your wedding gift. Remember? Different bride, same gift.”
He put his hand into his pouch. “Mother!” he shouted. “Close your eyes!”
He drew out the head of Medusa, and the throne-room became a grove of statues. Stone guards stood with stone swords upraised. One held a javelin, about to plunge it into Perseus’ back. A statue of Polydectes, mouth frozen in a scream. Among all the frozen shapes of terror and wrath, the white beloved trembling figure of his mother, Danae.
He put the head in his pouch, stepped to Danae, and took her in his arms. “Be happy, mother,” he said. “I am home now. Your danger is a dream, your enemy has become his own monument.”
“It is the gods,” she whispered. “Their whim is implacable; their caprice, our fate. Look, Perseus…” She led him to one of the stone figures. A bearded old man wearing a crown.
“Who is that?”
“Your grandfather, Acrisius, one of the guests, attending the nuptials of a fellow-king. He did not know that I was the bride.”
“Your father? He who shut you in the tower?”
“Shut me there to thwart the prophecy…that his grandson would kill him.”
“Delighted to oblige,” said Perseus. “I never did fancy his style. Shut you up in a dungeon…Met another parent like that recently. Oh, that reminds me. Come home. I want you to meet your daughter…”
It was Perseus’ own wedding night; but before he received his bride, he went to the temple of Athene and the temple of Hermes to thank them for what they had done. He made them gifts: he gave the bright shield to Athene, a very curious shield now, permanently emblazoned with the reflection of Medusa’s head which had burned itself on the metal; the Cap of Darkness to Hermes. He very much wanted cap and shield for himself, but he knew that gods who give gifts expect a rich return. However, he did keep the winged sandals and the new-moon sword. He knew that his deeds had just begun and that he would have a great deal of traveling and fighting to do in days to come.
As for Medusa’s head, it was too dangerous to keep. He threw it into the sea. It sank to the bottom, where it still rests, pushed here and there by the tides, passing islands, making coral where it goes.
Daedalus
THE GODS, BEING ALL-POWERFUL, needed a more subtle praise than obedience. They preferred their intention to become man’s aspiration, their caprice, his law. Athene, in particular, liked to be served this way. The gray-eyed goddess of wisdom, whose sign was the owl, taught men the arts they needed to know, not through gross decree, but through firing the brightest spirits to a white heat wherein they perceived the secret laws of nature and made discoveries and inventions.
Now, in those times, her favorite among all mortals was an Athenian named Daedalus. In the white city of the goddess Daedalus was honored among all men, and treasure after treasure flowed from his workshop—the wheel, the plough, the loom. Finally, as happens to many men, his pride raced away with his wits; and he fell into a black envy of his own nephew, Talos, a most gifted lad, whom he had taken into his workshop, and who, everyone said, was bound to follow in his footsteps.
“Aye, but he’s following too fast,” grumbled Daedalus to himself. “He’s treading on my heels.”
Daedalus, at that time, was working on a special project, a blade to cut wood more quickly than knife or ax. He had puzzled, tested, and tried many things, but nothing seemed to work. Then, one day, coming early to his workshop, he heard a curious sound. It was his nephew, Talos, who had come even earlier. He was leaning over, holding a board pinned to a low table under his knee, and swiftly cutting into it with what looked like the backbone of a fish.
The boy turned to him, smiling. “Look, uncle,” he cried. “See, how splendid! Yesterday I saw a large fish stranded on the beach, half-eaten by gulls, and a notion came to me that his spine with its many sharp teeth might be just the thing we’re looking for. So I took it from the fish who had no more need of it and tried it right there. I cut through a great piece of driftwood. Isn’t it wonderful? Don’t you think the goddess, Athene, herself, washed the fish on shore for me to see? Why are you looking at me that way, uncle? Are you not pleased?”
“Very pleased, my boy. I have long been considering your case and have been weighing how to reward you according to your merit. Well, now I think I know. But first we must go to Athene’s temple to give thanks for this timely inspiration.”
He took the boy by the hand and led him up the sunny road to the top of the hill, to the Acropolis where the temple of Athene stood—and still stands. Daedalus led him to the roof of the marble building; and there, as the lad stretched his arms toward heaven, Daedalus stepped softly behind him, placed his hands on his shoulders, and pushed. The boy went tumbling off the temple, off the hill, to the rocks below. But Athene who had heard the first words of the boy’s prayer, caught him in mid-air, and turned him into a partridge, which flew away, drumming. She then withdrew her favor from Daedalus.
Word of the boy’s death flashed through the city. Nothing could be proved against Daedalus, but he was the target of the darkest suspicions, which, curiously enough, he took as an affront, for nothing could be proved, and. so he felt unjustly accused.
“Ungrateful wretches!” he cried. “I will leave this city. I will go elsewhere and find more appreciative neighbors.”
He had not told them about hi
s invention of the saw, but took the model Talos had made and set out for Crete. Arriving there, he went directly to the palace of King Minos, who, at that time, was the most powerful king in all the world, and made him a gift of the marvelous tool that could cut wood more swiftly than knife or ax. Minos, delighted, immediately appointed Daedalus Court Artificer, Smith Extraordinary, and fitted out a workshop for him with the likeliest lads for apprentices. Minos also gave the old fellow a beautiful young slave girl for his own.
Now, the Cretan women were the loveliest in the world, and Crete’s court the most glittering. The capital city of Knossos made Athens seem like a little village. Women and girls alike wore topless dresses, gems in their hair, and a most beguiling scent made by slaves who had been blinded so that their noses would grow more keen. Daedalus was an honored figure at this court—and a novelty besides. The Cretans were mad for novelties so the old man was much flattered and content.
He was a special favorite with the young princesses, Ariadne and Phaedra, who loved to visit him at his workshop and watch him make things. He became very fond of the girls and made them marvelous jointed wooden dolls with springs cunningly set and coiled so that they curtsied and danced and winked their eyes. Queen Pasiphae also came to see him often. He made her a perfume flask that played music when it was uncorked and a looking glass that allowed her to see the back of her head. She spent hours with him gossiping for she was very bored.
The queen kept coaxing Daedalus to tell her why he had really left Athens for she sensed a secret; but all he would ever say was that the goddess, Athene, had withdrawn her favor, so he had been forced to leave her city.
“Goddess Athene!” she cried. “Goddess this and god that…What nonsense! These are old wives’ tales, nursery vapors, nothing for intelligent men and women to trouble themselves about.”
“Oh, my lady,” cried Daedalus. “In heaven’s name, take care what you say. The gods will hear, and you will be punished.”
“And I took you for a sophisticated man,” said the queen. “A man of the world, a traveler, a scientist. I am disappointed in you. Gods, indeed! And are you not, my smith, more clever by far than that lame Hephaestus? And am I not more beautiful than Aphrodite?”
She stood up tall and full-bodied, and, indeed, very beautiful. The old man trembled.
“Come here. Come closer. Look at me. Confess that I am more beautiful than the Cytherean…Aphrodite. Of all the gods, she is the one I disbelieve in most. Love…my serving maids prate of it, my daughters frisk with the idea. All through the island men meet women by rock and tree, their shadows mingle; and I, I have Minos, the crown on a stick who loves nothing but his own decrees.”
“Softly, madame, softly,” said Daedalus. “You are not yourself. It is midsummer, a confusing time for women; what they say then must be discounted. Your wild words will be forgiven, but please do not repeat them. Now, see what I have made for you, even as you were saying those foolish things: a parasol, lighter than a butterfly’s wing, and yet so constructed that it opens by itself like a flower when it feels the sun.”
But Aphrodite had heard, and she planned a terrible vengeance.
Now, Minos had always been very fond of bulls, especially white ones. He was not aware that this was a matter of heredity, that his mother, Europa, had been courted by Zeus who had assumed the guise of a white bull for the occasion. The king knew only that he liked white bulls. And, since he was in a position to indulge his preferences, he sent through all the world for the largest, the finest, and the whitest. Finally, one arrived, the most splendid bull he had ever seen. It was dazzling white, with hot black eyes, polished hooves, and coral-pink nostrils; its long sharp horns seemed to be made of jet. The king was delighted and sent for all the court to see his fine new bull.
He had no way of knowing that the animal had been sent there by Aphrodite, and neither did Pasiphae. As soon as the queen saw the bull, she felt herself strangling with a great rush of passion. She fell violently, monstrously, in love with the bull. She came to Daedalus and told him.
“What shall I do?” she moaned. “What can I do? I’m going mad. It’s tearing me to pieces. You are the cleverest man in the world. Only you can help me. Please, please, tell me what to do.”
Daedalus could not resist the beautiful queen; besides she had touched his vanity. He had to prove himself clever enough to help her in her impossible wish. He thought and thought, and finally went to work. He fashioned a wooden cow with amber eyes, real ivory horns, and ivory hooves and tenderly upholstered it with the most pliant cowhide. It was hollow, and so shaped that Pasiphae could hide herself inside. He put wheels on the hooves, and springs in the wheels. That night, as the moon was rising, the great white bull saw the form of a graceful cow gliding toward him over the meadow, mooing musically.
The next morning, Pasiphae came to the workshop. She gave Daedalus a great leather bag full of gold, and said, “Be careful, old friend. This secret is a deadly one.”
Both Pasiphae and Daedalus were good at keeping secrets; but this was one that had to come out for, after a while, the queen gave birth to a child, who attracted a great deal of notice as he was half bull. People derisively called him the Minotaur, or Minos’ bull.
Even in his most cruel fury, Minos was a careful planner. He decided to hide his shame, knowing that the world forgets what it does not see. He had Daedalus construct a tangled maze on the palace grounds, a place of thorny hedges and sudden rooms called the Labyrinth. There were paths running this way and that, becoming corridors, plunging underground, crossing each other, crossing themselves, each one leading back to the middle, so there was no way out.
Here King Minos imprisoned Pasiphae and the Minotaur—and Daedalus too. Minos wanted to make very sure that the old craftsman would never divulge the secret of the Labyrinth so here Daedalus dwelt. His workshop was in the Labyrinth, but he did not work well. At his bench he could hear Pasiphae howling, and the hideous broken bellowing of the bull-man, who grew more loathsome and ferocious each day.
His only comfort was his son, Icarus, who, of his own free will, chose to live with him because he so loved and admired his father. It was Icarus who said to him one day, “Father, I grow weary of this maze. Let us leave this place and go to places I have not seen.”
“Alas, dear boy,” said Daedalus, “we cannot. It is forbidden to leave the Labyrinth.”
“You know the way out, do you not? You built the thing, after all.”
“Yes, certainly, I know the way out. But I dare not take it. Minos would have us put to death immediately. All I can do is petition the king to allow you to go, but I must remain.”
“No. We go together.”
“But I have explained to you that we cannot.”
“Minos is a great king,” said Icarus. “But he does not rule the whole earth. Let us leave the island. Let us leave Crete and cross the sea.”
“You are mad, dear boy. How can we do this? The sea is locked against us: Every boatman on every craft, large and small, is under strict interdict against allowing me voyage. We cannot leave the island.”
“Oh, yes, we can,” said Icarus. “I’ll tell you how. Just make us wings.”
“Wings?”
“To fly with. Like the birds—you know—wings.”
“Is it possible? Can I do this?”
“Birds have them; therefore, they have been made. And anything, dear father, that has been made you can duplicate. You have made things never seen before, never known before, never dreamed before.”
“I will start immediately,” cried Daedalus.
He had Icarus set out baits of fish and capture a gull. Then, very carefully, he copied its wings—not only the shape of them, but the hollow bone struts, and the feathers with their wind-catching overlaps and hollow stems, and he improved a bit on the model. Finally, one day, he completed two magnificent sets of wings with real feathers plucked from the feather cloaks the Cretan dancers used. They were huge, larger than eagles’ wings.<
br />
He fitted a pair to Icarus, sealing the pinions to the boy’s powerful shoulders with wax. Then he donned his own.
“Goodbye to Crete!” cried Icarus joyfully.
“Hear me, boy,” said Daedalus. “Follow me closely and do not go off the way. Do not fly too low or the spray will wet your wings, not too high or the sun will melt them. Not too high and not too low, but close by me, through the middle air.”
“Oh come, come,” cried Icarus, and he leaped into the air, spreading his wings and soaring off above the hedges of the Labyrinth as if he had been born with wings. Daedalus flew after him.
They flew together over the palace grounds, over the beaches, and headed out to sea. A shepherd looked up and saw them; and a fisherman looked up and saw them; and they both thought they saw gods flying. The shepherd prayed to Hermes, and the fisherman prayed to Poseidon, with glad hearts. Now, they knew, their prayers would be answered.
Icarus had never been so happy. In one leap his life had changed. Instead of groveling in the dank tunnels of the Labyrinth, he was flying, flying free under the wide bright sky in a great drench of sunlight, the first boy in the history of the world to fly. He looked up and saw a gull, and tried to hold his wings steady and float on the air as the gull was doing, as easily as a duck floats on water. He felt himself slipping, and he slipped all the way in a slanting dive to the dancing surface of the water before he could regain his balance. The water splashing his chest felt deliciously cool.
“No…no…,” he heard his father call from far above. “Not too low and not too high. Keep to the middle air…”
Icarus yelled back a wordless shout of joy, beat his wings, and soared up, up, toward the floating gull.
“Ha…,” he thought to himself. “Those things have been flying all their lives. Wait till I get a little practice. I’ll outfly them all.”
Crete was a brown dot behind them now; there was no land before them, just the diamond-glittering water. Old Daedalus was beating his way through the air, steadily and cautiously, trying this wing-position and that, this body angle and that, observing how the gulls thrust and soared. He kept an eye on Icarus, making mental notes about how to improve the wings once they had landed. He felt a bit tired. The sun was heavy on his shoulders. The figures spun in his head.
Heroes, Gods and Monsters of the Greek Myths Page 11
