Beasts and Monsters

by Anthony Horowitz

  Introduction

  The Riddle of the Sphinx

  Greek

  The Incredible Spotted Egg

  Cheyenne Indian

  The Dragon and Saint George

  English

  The Washer at the Ford

  Celtic

  The Gorgon’s Head

  Greek

  Ten Brilliant Beasts and Marvellous Monsters you might not have heard of

  This is not a new book. In fact, I wrote most of these myths and legends a very long time ago. I was twenty-eight at the time and in bed with glandular fever. Over a period of three months, I wrote (or rather, retold) thirty-five stories, and these were published in a book called THE KINGFISHER BOOK OF MYTHS AND LEGENDS. It’s rather frightening to think that they have been in print now for almost thirty years.

  The good news is that they’re back in a completely new shape. The stories have been reinvented, with brand new illustrations, and they’re published in six smaller editions.

  A quick note on the thinking behind these retellings.

  I’ve always loved myths and legends but some of the versions that I read when I was in my teens tended to be a bit dry. That is to say, they didn’t have many jokes. There wasn’t enough blood. The authors always made me feel that I was reading something serious and important just because the stories were so famous and so ancient – and the language they used was almost deliberately old-fashioned. It was a bit like walking around a museum, looking at dusty relics behind glass cases with ‘Do Not Touch’ signs all over the place.

  Lying in bed with my grapes and Beano comics, I made two decisions. First of all, I would have fun. I would try to write the stories as if they were being told for the first time. Just because I was dealing with heroes and gods, I wouldn’t be too reverential. And I also wanted to cast my net wide. I wouldn’t just tell the stories that everyone knew – the Trojan Horse, the Minotaur, and so on. Nearly all the most famous stories come from the Ancient Greeks. But every culture has its own myths and legends. So I would also look at the tales of the Chinese, the Egyptians, the Cheyenne Indians, the Celts, the Incas and so on, all around the world.

  Anyway, this is the result of my work all those years ago. I must confess that I have taken this opportunity to rewrite some of the stories a bit. Reading them again, I took out some of the more feeble jokes. I shortened some of the descriptions and cut bits that I thought were boring. And just for the hell of it, I’ve added a couple of new myths and legends. In this book, for example, you’ll find the story of THE WASHER AT THE FORD, which I’ve always wanted to tell.

  It’s amazing to think how much has happened since I started work on this collection. When I first wrote these stories (on a typewriter – there were no computers then), I wasn’t married. My two sons hadn’t been born. I was renting a room in a flat in West London. And a certain Alex Rider didn’t exist, not even as a flicker in my mind.

  It was all a long time ago. But the stories existed a very long time before that. In fact they’ve existed for centuries and provided we keep on telling them, they will surely survive for centuries more.

  Anthony Horowitz

  ‘What creature has four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon and three legs in the evening?’

  This was almost certainly the first riddle ever invented. It was told by a ghastly creature that had arrived one day outside the city of Thebes in Ancient Greece. The creature was called the Sphinx and it had the head of a woman, the body of a lion, the wings of an eagle and the tail of a snake. There was only one road to Thebes and you could not get into the city without passing the creature. And you could not pass the creature (which was also very large and very fast) without being asked the riddle.

  One of the first people who came across the Sphinx was a young man called Haemon. He had been on his way to see his uncle, who happened to be the King of Thebes, when he found his way blocked. Many other people would have run away from so bizarre a mixture of bird, beast, snake and woman, but Haemon, coming from royal stock, was afraid of nothing.

  ‘Stand where you are!’ the Sphinx demanded with the voice of an angry school teacher. Its tail writhed in the dust and its wings beat at the air.

  ‘What do you want?’ Haemon asked, his hand falling to his sword.

  ‘I have a riddle for you,’ the Sphinx said.

  ‘A riddle?’ Haemon relaxed. ‘That sounds fun. What is it?’

  ‘What creature has four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon and three legs in the evening?’

  ‘Well . . . let me see now. Four legs in the morning? It’s not a dog or anything like that? I did once see a goat with three legs, but it wasn’t alive so I suppose that doesn’t count. A frog perhaps? I don’t know. I give in . . .’

  The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the Sphinx pounced. Using its wings, it leaped up in the air. Then its tail slithered round Haemon’s neck and began to tighten. And finally, while its woman’s face laughed insanely, its claws tore him into several pieces and in seconds the road was slippery with blood – which is one of the very earliest jokes, for ‘haimon’ is the Greek word for ‘bloody’. But Haemon, who was by this time being devoured, did not find it very funny.

  Nor did the people of Thebes. When they discovered that it was impossible to get anywhere near the city without being confronted by a horrible monster, asked an impossible riddle, and torn apart when you failed to get it right, they almost had a riot. But there was nothing they could do. It was a bad year for business in Thebes. The bottom fell out of the tourism industry. Although King Laius and Queen Jocasta – who ruled over the city – offered a huge reward to anyone who could rid them of the Sphinx, the prize was never claimed.

  Of course, princes and warriors came from far and wide to chance their arm against the creature, but it could not be destroyed by sword or arrow. Its hide was as hard as iron. Its huge claws were razor-sharp. Its wings would carry it into the air and its tail would tighten round your throat before you could blink. Some people tried to answer the riddle. As the months passed, all manner of answers were tried: rats, bats, cats, gnats and ocelots were just some of the unsuccessful ones. Every day another scream would split the air and fresh blood would splatter on the road.

  Eventually the situation became so bad that the king decided he would have to do something about it himself.

  ‘If only we knew why this horrible creature was here,’ he said, ‘we might be able to find a way to get rid of it.’

  ‘Why not ask the Oracle?’ Queen Jocasta suggested.

  The Oracle was the name given to a priestess who could not only tell the future but also answer any question put to her. As soon as the queen had mentioned it, Laius wondered why he had never thought of the Oracle himself.

  ‘An excellent idea, my dear,’ he said. ‘I’ll set off at once.’

  Now, had King Laius ever reached the Oracle, he would have had a nasty shock. For the truth of the matter was that it was entirely his own fault that the Sphinx was there – even if he didn’t know it.

  A short while before, Laius had gone to stay with a friend of his and had taken a fancy to the friend’s son. In fact, he had gone so far as to carry off the boy, Chrysippus, and keep him locked up as a servant in his palace at Thebes. Eventually Chrysippus had killed himself, and that might have been that, had not the entire episode been witnessed by Hera, the queen of the gods. It was to punish King Laius that she had sent the Sphinx to Thebes.

  But King Laius never reached the Oracle and never found this out. For, driving along the road in his chariot, he came across a young man who was actually on his way to Thebes to challenge the Sphinx. It was a narrow road and there wasn’t enough room for the two of them to pass. They exchanged
angry words. Then King Laius drove his chariot over the young man’s foot. The young man, who had a rather violent temper, responded by hurling his spear through the king’s stomach before continuing on his way.

  The young man was called Oedipus. He was quite a complex character. He was not really a bad man, despite his temper. He genuinely wanted to be a hero but didn’t know how to go about it. Anyway, he now turned up outside the city of Thebes and confronted the Sphinx.

  ‘Stand where you are!’ the Sphinx cried. ‘And tell me – if you value your life – what creature has four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon and three legs in the evening?’

  Oedipus thought about it while the Sphinx licked its lips and practised curling and uncurling its claws. But this time it was not to be so lucky.

  ‘I have it,’ Oedipus said at last. ‘The answer is man. For in the morning, when he is a baby, he crawls on all fours. In the afternoon of his life, he walks upright on two legs. And when he is old, in the evening, he walks with the aid of a stick.’

  When the Sphinx heard that its riddle had at last been guessed, it went red with anger. Its woman’s head screamed, its lion’s body writhed, the feathers fell out of its eagle’s wings and its serpent’s tail shrivelled up. Then it leaped into the air and exploded, and that was the end of it.

  As for Oedipus, he was given the crown of Thebes as his reward and married Queen Jocasta. He never suspected for a single minute that she was in actual fact his long-lost mother and that it was his father whom he had killed on the road . . .

  But that is very definitely another story.

  The Cheyenne Indians, who rode the plains of North America in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, had a strange custom. Whenever they came to a wide stretch of water – a lake or a river, perhaps – they would throw some food or tobacco in before they rode across. Nobody asked the Cheyennes why they did this, but then, of course, nobody asked the Cheyennes anything. If you met a Cheyenne in eighteenth-century America, it was safer just to run away.

  But there was a reason. It was to be found in a tale told by the Cheyenne storytellers, a tale about a great river monster and two brothers who discovered an incredible spotted egg.

  The two brothers were known simply as Elder and Younger and they had managed to get themselves lost on the prairie. The sun was beating down and the horizon formed a great big circle all around them with nothing – not a tree, not a building – to interrupt the unbroken line. They were surrounded by wild grass waving in the wind, and here and there they stumbled across the bleached-out bones of animals that had had the misfortune to wander into this desolate place. The brothers had a little water, but they had no food. They could feel their strength beginning to run out.

  They walked a few miles and they got hungrier and hungrier, and soon the rumble of their stomachs was as loud as the rustle of the wind. Then all of a sudden, and completely unexpectedly, they came upon an egg, just lying on the ground with no sign of a bird or a nest anywhere near.

  ‘The Great Spirit has been good to us,’ Younger said. ‘Look at that egg. I reckon it will last the two of us a whole week.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ Elder growled. ‘It doesn’t look good to me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Younger cried. ‘It’s just an egg.’

  But if it was just an egg, it was certainly a very peculiar one. For a start, it was bright green with red spots. Also it was enormous – much bigger than a chicken’s egg. Much bigger, in fact, than a chicken. And how had it got there? It was, after all, in the middle of nowhere.

  ‘It looks bad magic to me,’ Elder said. ‘I say we don’t touch it.’

  ‘Where is your courage?’ Younger replied. ‘This egg was laid by a great bird, or perhaps a turtle. You are right, my brother. It is a strange, a funny colour. But my stomach is empty. If I do not eat soon, I will be joining my ancestors. I would eat this egg if it was the colour of a tiger beetle. In fact, I would eat a tiger beetle too, cooked on a fire with cactus juice . . .’

  So while Elder watched, Younger lit a bonfire and roasted the egg. Then he cracked the shell and began to eat.

  ‘Are you sure you do not want to eat some of this, my brother?’ he asked.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Elder said.

  ‘It is powerful good. You cannot imagine what you’re missing.’

  In fact, Younger was lying when he said that. The egg was hard and rubbery. The yolk was green, the same colour as the shell, and the white wasn’t white but a sort of pink. And it didn’t taste like an egg should. It tasted of fish.

  Even as Younger ate he began to feel sick, but something made him go on eating. He couldn’t stop. Faster and faster he spooned the egg down until it had all gone and only the shell was left.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Elder muttered.

  The next morning, when they woke up, Younger was feeling really ill. His stomach was like a funfair merry-go-round and his eyes were as big as ping-pong balls. Worst of all, he was really thirsty. He drank all the water in his bottle, but it could have been a thimbleful for all the good it did him. Elder looked at him and sighed.

  ‘You look terrible,’ he said.

  ‘I feel terrible,’ Younger agreed.

  ‘You’re green!’

  ‘Green?’

  ‘And you’ve got red spots.’

  Younger stood up. ‘Let’s go!’ he said. ‘The sooner we find water, the better. I need a drink.’

  They walked until sunset, by which time Younger’s skin had turned a brilliant shade of green and his red spots had got larger and more distinctive too. All his hair had fallen out and he seemed to be having trouble talking.

  ‘Ssssso,’ he hissed. ‘Do you think I made a missssstake eating that egg?’

  ‘I think so, my brother,’ Elder replied.

  ‘I supposssse it was ssssstupid. But I will feel better when I get to water. I really want a ssssswim.’

  The next morning Younger was worse. His arms had somehow glued themselves to his sides and his nose had dropped off. He was a vivid green and red and his skin was slimy. Like a toad’s.

  ‘I feel worssssse,’ he moaned.

  ‘You look worse,’ Elder said.

  ‘Water!’

  They reached water at sunset. It was a river, frothing and bubbling, twisting through the hostile landscape. Shrubs and flowers were sprouting close to its banks. There would have to be a settlement close by. Their people would choose to live close to a river like this.

  Younger, whose legs had almost melted into one another, decided that he would rather sleep in the river while Elder curled up on land beside a bonfire. Elder hadn’t eaten for five days now and he was weak and tired. It didn’t take him long to fall asleep.

  He was woken up by the sound of a strange, unearthly singing. He opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was a great heap of fish lying on the bank, waiting to be cooked. Then he looked beyond, in the water, and saw his brother.

  Except that it wasn’t really his brother any more. Younger had become an enormous sea-monster with pointed teeth, bright silver scales and a forked tail. He was swimming to and fro, stopping now and then to fork another fish with the point of his tail and flip it on to the bank.

  ‘Good morning, my brother!’ Elder called out. ‘How are you feeling today?’

  ‘Sssstrong!’ Younger replied. ‘It’sssss not ssssso bad being a sssssea-ssssserpent. And I’ve caught a whole lot of fisssssh!’

  ‘You have my thanks!’ Elder said.

  ‘Then – lisssssten,’ Younger continued. ‘Don’t you forget about me. I got you food, ssssso you get me food. I don’t want to eat fisssssh all my life.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Elder promised.

  ‘And tobacco too. Just because I’m a monssssster, it don’t mean I can’t sssssmoke!’

  And that is why the Cheyennes always stopped and threw food or tobacco into the water before they crossed it (even when they were being chased by the cavalry). It wa
s to keep the sea-serpent singing.

  There are no dragons today – mainly thanks to the knights and heroes who so thoughtlessly rode about the place killing them off. This is a pity, for dragons must have been astonishing creatures: part snake and part crocodile, with bits of lion, eagle and hawk thrown in for good measure. Not only could they leap into the air and fly (a tremendous feat when you think how heavy their scales must have been) but they could also run at great speed. Not that a dragon would ever run away. Dragons were generally very brave creatures. When they were angry or frightened, smoke would come hissing out of their nostrils. When things got really rough, flames would rush out of their mouths. But there was no such thing as a cowardly dragon.

  Only the Chinese understood and admired the dragon. It was often said that some of the greatest Chinese emperors had been born the sons of dragons. Dragon bones and teeth were used as medicine. A dragon guarded the houses of the Chinese gods and brought rain to the earth when the crops needed it. That is why the Chinese still fly dragon kites and honour the dragon by including paper models of it in their New Year celebrations. The Chinese really did like the dragon.

  But in fourth-century Palestine – when Saint George was alive – dragons were more feared than admired. It is true that they did have some unsettling habits. They tended to live in rather dank and nasty caves, for example, often guarding huge piles of treasure which had almost certainly been stolen from somebody else. They also had an unhealthy appetite for human flesh, their favourite food being princesses – although any young woman would do. But they were not the only man-eating animal on the globe. It was just that they got all the bad publicity.

  Anyway, Saint George was the most famous dragon-killer of all – which is strange because he never actually killed a dragon. The other strange thing is that, although he is best known today as the patron saint of England, George (as he was known before he became a saint) wasn’t even English. He was actually born in Palestine.

 
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