WRATH OF THE GODS

by Glyn Iliffe

  ‘Are they gone?’

  ‘One escaped. The others are dead.’

  The man gave a wheezing cough and thick blood welled up through his teeth and over his chin. He raised his maimed hand slightly and let it flop against Heracles’s thigh.

  ‘Kill me, please,’ he croaked. ‘The pain is unbearable.’

  Heracles shook his head.

  ‘It isn’t right––’

  ‘I beg you. It will be a mercy.’

  Heracles looked at the bone protruding from his lower arm, the shredded flesh of his chest, and his disgorged innards. Then he nodded and drew his dagger, holding it to the man’s throat. But the light had already left his eyes. He raised the blade to his lips, but there was no breath to mist the polished bronze.

  Returning the dagger to his belt, he retrieved the arrows he had fired and headed towards the western treeline. The wood was narrow, and soon he was able to see the sun gleaming through the boles of the trees ahead of him. The sharp stench that he had detected during the approach to the first wood was much stronger now, and the ground underfoot was becoming boggy again. As he progressed, he noticed a strange clacking sound. It was melodious and undulating, sometimes distant, sometimes near; and yet it carried with it a sense of menace, like the snoring of a powerful monster that could wake at any moment. Readying his bow, he stepped carefully and quietly through the undergrowth to the edge of the wood.

  A wide area of marshland stretched out before him. Ill-defined patches of tufted grass were separated by pools of shallow, foetid water, bordered by thickets of bulrushes. This, then, was the source of the foul odour he had noticed. Away to the south, the Stymphalus River flowed wide and slow, its meandering course marked by lines of trees, while to the north, the mountains formed a line of buttresses that continued on to the horizon. In the west, the marshes were bordered by yet another line of trees, rising up tall and bare against the pale sky.

  And here, at last, were the birds. Hundreds upon hundreds of them, standing on their long legs in the pools and channels with their brazen beaks clacking softly as they sang to each other. The sound was mesmerizing and at the same time terrifying. The lowering sun flashed from their feathers like points of angry flame, while in the waters below, their reflections were dark and blurred.

  Now, at last, he understood the labour in all its exquisite hopelessness. If they had been nothing more than sparrows, he could never have hoped to scare them off or kill them all. And these birds were so much more than sparrows. Each beak was like a spear point, each feather an arrow. If they were easier to slay than the Hydra or the Nemean Lion, there had, at least, only been one of each of them; but these birds were an army, seemingly endless in number.

  Yet, as with every task that had preceded this one, he had to try. Or die in the attempt.

  He counted the arrows in his quiver. Twenty with poisoned tips and another ten without, including the one already fitted to his bow. If he could attack the nearest edge of the colony and drive them off in a panic, there was a chance the others might take flight with them, fleeing like startled sheep before a wolf. If they did not, then he would stand and kill as many of them as possible with his club, until their numbers overwhelmed him.

  Keeping low, he moved out from the shadow of the eaves and crouched by a patch of bulrushes. The ground was sodden, sucking his sandals into the mire so that muddy water washed around his feet. A wide pool spread out before him, filled with scores of the birds. The gentle clacking of their beaks rose and fell, sometimes growing louder at one end of the pool, then at another. It seemed odd that such deadly creatures could produce so beautiful a sound, but it did not dampen his determination to launch swift death upon them.

  He raised his bow to his cheek, took aim and released the arrow. One of the birds fell dead. The remainder leaped into the air with an explosion of wings. They flew westward, screeching loudly and startling other flocks into flight. For a moment, Heracles wondered whether the whole multitude was going to take wing and flee the marshes. Then, as quickly as they had risen up, the furthest groups of birds glided back down and settled themselves in the water again. Soon, only the first flock remained in the air, and this was now veering around and heading back towards Heracles.

  By their speed, it was clear they were not preparing to alight peacefully in the same stretch of water. They had seen their attacker and meant to feast on his flesh. He fitted another arrow and stood. The leading bird was hit in the chest and plummeted straight to the ground. Another followed, and then another, but there was no hope of hitting any more. Shouldering his bow, he took up his club and planted his legs apart in the soft earth.

  The first bird dived at his chest and was dashed aside, its body crashing into the bulrushes. A second was a heartbeat behind it, its beak thumping into Heracles’s left shoulder as his torso twisted to deal the death-blow to the first attacker. Though the impact was painful, the bronze beak did not penetrate the hide of the Nemean Lion. The momentum broke the bird’s neck as it crumpled into Heracles’s body and fell dead at his feet. A third attacker was smashed away with a return swipe of his club, sending its body flying into the pool with a splash.

  The following wave of birds suddenly extended their wings, stopping themselves in mid-air and angling their feathers in the same way Heracles had seen one of the others do as he had tried to save the farmer. He dropped to one knee and pulled his cloak about himself. An instant later, scores of bronze feathers rattled against the lion’s skin, dropping with a metallic clatter into the grass below.

  The birds darted down towards him, expecting him to be badly wounded and easy prey for their sharp beaks. Instead, he jumped to his feet, swept his cloak aside and met their assault with a mighty swing of his club. Several were sent tumbling back into the pool, where their broken bodies would struggle against the enveloping water until death took them. Most of the remainder drew back in confusion, though a few – driven by an unnatural hatred – pressed home their attack.

  With thrusting beaks and grasping talons, they launched themselves at him. As his club crushed the skull of one, another sank its talons into his shoulders and stabbed at his skull. Again, the lion’s head that he wore prevented it from penetrating skin or bone, though the blows were fierce and painful. Reaching back with his free hand, he seized the monster’s neck and twisted it hard. There was a brittle snap, and he hurled the body at another bird as it flew at him. It screeched in protest, the sound deafening.

  Another bird lacerated the exposed flesh of his arm, causing him to cry out with the pain. A swipe of his club sent the creature tumbling into the water, but as it fell, two more swooped on him. Unable to bring his club to bear, he threw a punch that crushed the body of one, killing it instantly. The other was knocked to the ground, and with a flap of its wings launched itself awkwardly up into the air again.

  The rest of the flock now joined the attack, darting down at him several at a time. The cruel strikes of their beaks fell mostly on his impenetrable cloak, though many tore at his limbs or tried to stab out his eyes. The latter he thwarted only by lowering his head, so that the hammer-like blows were turned by the lion’s skull; but it also restricted his movements and left him blind to the positions of his attackers.

  Bitterly, he accepted that his attempt to drive the birds away from the marshes had been futile. Crouching and half-blinded, he was barely able to fend off their relentless attacks, let alone kill them in the numbers that were necessary for any kind of victory. Grasping his club in both hands, he raised himself to his full height and swung the weapon in great arcs to left and right of himself, felling several of the creatures with each sweep. They dropped in heaps at his feet, many of them shrieking and flapping in their death throes. But many more took their places, throwing themselves at him in unrelenting assaults – careless of the danger to themselves and driven only by the desire to kill the man who had attacked them. And slowly, step by step, he was forced back to the edge of the wood.

  He was tempte
d to turn and run, but knew that to do so now would be fatal. The only thing holding them back was the swinging of his club, and if he stopped – even for a moment – they would tear him to pieces. He must have killed three dozen already, with the gleaming bodies of the dead and dying piled over the marshy sward between the trees and the bulrushes. But of the flock that was forcing him back into the wood, he might have killed one tenth of them, or less. And there were many more flocks spread across the fens, standing in the water and clacking their beaks in total disregard of the battle taking place at the edge of the trees.

  The constant handling of the heavy club was making his arms tire, but as he retreated into the wood and the trees grew denser, so the attacks became fewer and less determined. Even then, he had to slay several more of the birds before the last of them flew out of the undergrowth and back to the marshes. Bruised, bleeding and exhausted, Heracles stumbled back towards the village.

  The sun was low in the sky now and the collection of stone houses and wooden huts had fallen beneath the shadow of the trees. The bones in the surrounding meadow had turned to sombre grey, but everything else was as it was when he had left. Yet something felt different, as if a lurking presence hid in the long grass or among the abandoned buildings. Gripping his club tightly, he left the cover of the trees and headed for the village.

  The sudden clap of wings made him turn and look up. Instead of pursuing him through the wood, the birds had flown over it and perched in the highest branches, awaiting the moment he emerged from the trees. Now they dived towards him, aiming their beaks at his broad chest.

  Chapter Nine

  THE TRAP

  Before Heracles could swing his club at his attackers, a loud clattering erupted from the village. Startled, the plunging birds veered aside. Momentarily safe, Heracles glanced over his shoulder to see Iolaus running from the village with two wooden bowls, which he was clashing together as quickly and as noisily as he could. Before he could shout to his nephew to get back inside, the birds were flying over the treetops, screeching loudly as they disappeared from sight.

  ‘You’re hurt,’ Iolaus said as he ran over to him.

  ‘Cuts and bruises, that’s all. We have to get indoors, before they return.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘There are marshes beyond the trees. They’re filled with birds, thousands of them. I thought I could shoot a few and scare the rest off, but they attacked me.’

  ‘Then you fought with them?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve no appetite to fight them again. Not now, at least,’ Heracles said, looking back at the trees. ‘You had more luck with a couple of wooden bowls than I did with a bow and a club.’

  He trudged over the boggy ground towards the village. Iolaus followed at his shoulder.

  ‘Did you kill any of them?’

  ‘Killing them isn’t the problem,’ Heracles replied. ‘The problem is whether I can kill enough of them to scare the rest away. Right now, I don’t know that I can. Their beaks are like sword points, which they try to thrust into their victim’s heart at every chance; and they can shoot their feathers like arrows – shoot them, Iolaus. Most dangerous of all, they’re driven by an unnatural hatred. They aren’t like any birds I’ve ever seen or heard of. They’re monsters – aberrations of nature, or creations of evil, I don’t know which. Perhaps they’re echoes of the old age, before the Olympians brought order out of the chaos; or maybe Hera created them to hinder or destroy me. The only thing I know for certain is there are too many of them.’

  They reached the house, and Iolaus turned to face Heracles. He looked worried.

  ‘But you still mean to complete the labour? Somehow, you have to find a way to beat them.’

  ‘Of course I have to,’ Heracles snapped. ‘I just need… time. Time to work this out. Time to pray to my father and find inspiration.’

  ‘You look…’ Iolaus began, hesitantly.

  ‘Scared? Maybe I should be. Maybe I am, I don’t know. But I am exhausted, Iolaus. I dug a new riverbed to clean out those stables, only for Eurystheus to discount the labour – all because I took ten cows and gave them to a starving village. He denied me the killing of the Hydra, too, because you fired a few arrows at it. I’ve completed five impossible tasks, but only three of them have been credited to me. Seven remain, and each one will be harder than the last. I’d rather be out here fighting monsters than building towers and fixing roads in Tiryns – indeed, I feel more alive now than I have for many years – but sometimes I just want to be free. Free of Eurystheus; free of the blood on my hands. Even if I complete all these labours, I wonder if I’ll ever be free of that.’

  ‘You’re the son of Zeus,’ Iolaus said. ‘Have faith in the gods.’

  They waited in the house until the moon had risen, then set off for the farmhouse where they had left Iolaus’s chariot. Heracles had almost been obliged to bundle Leucus over his shoulder, so afraid was the boy to leave the house, but in the end the fear of being left behind persuaded him to come with them. Iolaus’s light spirits and joking conversation kept him from dwelling on his fear as they walked through the woods and across the watery meadows beyond – a sign of the bond they had formed while Heracles had been fighting the birds.

  But it was to Heracles that the boy looked for protection. Perhaps Iolaus had shared the stories of his labours during his absence; or maybe he was drawn by the awesome presence of the man, with his great club and the night-black lion-skin he wore. Either way, Leucus did not leave his side for a moment, until tiredness overcame him and Heracles carried him the rest of the way in the crook of his arm.

  By keeping the moonlit waters of the Stymphalus to their left, they reached the farmhouse a little before dawn. The farmer was already awake, letting his sheep out of their stone enclosure to graze on the nearby hills. The horses had been fed and well looked after, and in return Heracles told the man of what they had found in the neighbouring village. Before they drove off towards the river, he advised him to take his family and get as far away as possible from the marshes. Whether he heeded his counsel, Heracles never found out.

  They forded the Stymphalus and headed north towards the village on the Crisaen Gulf where Leucus’s aunt lived, reaching it at dusk. A dozen fishing boats with their masts removed lay drawn up on the grey sand. They found a fisherman making repairs to a rudder, and though he was clearly suspicious of the armed strangers – one of them a full head taller than most other men, and with a chest like an ox – he agreed to lead them to the home of Leucus’s uncle.

  Here, their news was met with great dismay. The boy’s aunt was beset with grief at the news of her sister’s death and the slaughter of the people she had grown up with. Her wailing stirred the whole village from its slumber, and soon the small stone house filled with women weeping as they consoled their friend. Meanwhile, the men discussed the danger of the same calamity befalling their own village. If Heracles had hoped to slip away amid the confusion, he was prevented by Leucus’s uncle and his neighbours, who plied him with questions.

  Eventually, everyone returned to their own homes. Spare mattresses were found for Heracles and Iolaus, while Leucus shared a bed with his cousins. Heracles woke to the feel of sunlight on his eyelids and the smell of porridge. He propped himself up on one elbow to see Leucus’s aunt – her grief set aside to concentrate on her daily chores – throwing logs onto the family hearth and stirring the contents of a black cauldron suspended over the flames. There was no sign of her husband, Iolaus or any of the children, though he was aware of shrill voices shouting outside, in competition with the crash of waves and the screeching of birds. The sound of the latter filled him with momentary alarm, until he realized the calls belonged to nothing more harmful than seagulls.

  His thoughts wandered briefly back to his dream. He had been running through the corridors of his own home in Thebes. He remembered the feeling of terrified panic – experienced half within his dream, and half in his sleeping body as he struggled to breathe, his ches
t rising and falling rapidly in his distress. Turning the corner that lead to the door of his sons’ room, he saw it filled with birds. They stood with their bronze beaks resting on their chests, making the same curious clacking noise he had heard in the marshes. Then he saw the door of his sons’ bedroom, torn from its hinges, just as he had found it that dreadful morning. He had often dreamed of that door and the horror that lay waiting for him inside the room. But this time it was different. Not just because of the birds, but because of the frightened sobbing coming from the bedroom.

  He knew at once it was Therimachus, and with an overwhelming sense of urgency he realized his boys were still alive. He could save them! But between him and the door were the birds, dozens of them, clicking their beaks with menacing monotony. And all the time the sobbing was growing louder, disturbing the birds nearest the door so that they stopped their noise and raised their heads. He knew he had to get to the room, but as he took his first step, he had woken.

  The dream left him with a renewed sense of loss. For a short while, he had been convinced his boys were alive again, that the horror of their deaths had been nothing but a wicked lie. But the lie had been the dream. It had offered him the chance to save them and hold them again in his arms – feel the warmth of their limbs and run his fingers through their hair – only to wake and find the nightmare had not gone away.

  The woman picked up a bowl and slopped a spoonful of porridge into it. She placed it back on the table and turned to look at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but her grief was not so overwhelming that it prevented her from looking at him with that familiar hunger.

  ‘I didn’t wake you, my lord, because your friend said not to. He said you were exhausted and needed rest.’