by Glyn Iliffe
‘And where is my friend?’
‘Went for a walk along the beach. He hasn’t had breakfast yet, so he won’t have gone far. I’ve made you some porridge.’
He threw his blanket aside and stood, stretching the tiredness from his limbs. Her expression turned immediately to one of concern.
‘You’re hurt. Why didn’t you tell me last night? Those wounds will need cleaning and the bandages replacing – if they can be called bandages.’
He looked down at the rags tied around his arms and legs, where the beaks and talons of the birds had lacerated his flesh. He had washed the cuts and bound them with strips of cloth found in Leucus’s parents’ home, but now they were dark with blood and dusty from the journey in the chariot.
‘Come,’ the woman said. ‘Sit and eat, while I get fresh dressings.’
He sat down and took a spoonful of the porridge. It tasted good, reminding him that he had not eaten anything hot for over a day. He emptied the bowl and helped himself to more from the cauldron. As he sat and finished his second helping, the woman came to him with clean rags and a bowl of water, which she set down on the table.
‘It’s cold,’ she warned him.
He nodded for her to continue and she knelt before him. She untied the rag from around his thigh and began to clean the wound. The water was cold – as she had warned – but it felt good to have the dried blood washed away. It was equally pleasurable to feel the touch of a woman’s fingers on his skin again. He looked down at her sun-browned skin and her long black hair, knotted up behind her head. Noticing the movement of her breasts beneath her rough woollen tunic, he realized how much he needed a woman. As if sensing his thoughts, she looked up at him as she dipped the rag back in the water and squeezed out the old blood. The look in her eyes told him all he needed to know: if he wanted her, she would be his.
Before Megara, lovers had come easily and frequently, and he had had few qualms about who he shared a bed with. Once, while hunting a lion in Boeotia, he had slept with six of King Thespius’s daughters in a single night – though he later heard it said he had been with all fifty, and that each one had borne him a son! Maybe some of the six had, just as there would be other children who had his blood in their veins. But he did not want to think about his bastards. He could never love any child as much as he loved the sons he had killed. Just as he could never love any other woman after Megara.
The wound was bleeding again, though only a little. The woman wrapped a fresh bandage around it and tied it off, then removed the rag from his other thigh. This time, as she washed it, her hands wandered higher up his leg, almost sliding into the shadow beneath his tunic. He felt himself stirring at her touch, but it was a purely carnal reaction. He had slept with one other woman since Megara, but it had not been the same. It could never be the same.
The woman dropped the rag back into the bowl, then placed her hand back on his inner thigh. She looked up into his eyes as she slid her fingers beneath his tunic, probing for his manhood. He took hold of her wrist, just as the door opened and Iolaus entered.
‘Heracles, you must come and see––’
He paused and Heracles took the woman’s hand out from beneath his tunic. Staring down at the dirty water, she pulled the cloth from the bowl and wrung out the excess, before lifting it to his thigh again and rinsing off the last of the dried blood.
‘She insisted on cleaning my wounds,’ he explained, aware he could not even remember his hostess’s name. ‘Come and have some porridge.’
Dropping the rag back into the water, the woman stood and fetched an empty bowl. She filled it with porridge and handed it to Iolaus as he sat at the table, then returned to dressing the cut on Heracles’s leg. Iolaus met Heracles’s gaze and looked away again.
‘What must I see?’
‘I can’t explain it,’ Iolaus said. ‘I’ll have to show you.’
After Heracles’s wounds were cleaned and dressed, he followed Iolaus out of the house and down to the sandy beach. Distant fishing boats were silhouetted black against the silver waters of the gulf. Nearer to hand, naked children played in the surf while their mothers sat on the sand, sharing news in loud voices as they mended nets together. At the sight of Heracles and Iolaus, their tones became more confidential. Occasionally, they would laugh aloud and glance back up the beach at the strange men. Heracles ignored them.
On the other side of the gulf, he could see the hills and mountains of northern Greece. The early morning sun picked out the snow-capped peaks, and Heracles wondered if one was Mount Parnassus, the home of the famous oracle. It was there he had been told to become a slave to King Eurystheus and cleanse his guilt by completing ten labours. But why had the Pythoness not told him more? Why did she not reveal that his madness had been deliberately induced? If she had just given him the name of the one who had drugged him, he might have eased some of his pain by hunting down his tormentor and making him suffer as he had done – if anyone could be made to suffer that much.
A loud grinding noise disturbed him from his thoughts. A group of young children was running down the beach. All were shouting, but one was waving something above his head. This was the source of the grinding noise Heracles had heard, and at the sound of it, scores of seagulls rose up from where they had been nestling on the sand. Their cries of angry protest were lost on the children, who just laughed and picked up pebbles to throw at them. None hit, but the seagulls dispersed and flew out to sea, their wide wings speeding them easily away from the missiles hurled in their wake.
‘Hey, boy,’ Iolaus shouted. ‘Bring that thing over here. We want to look at it.’
The child forgot his game and walked reluctantly up the beach towards Iolaus, looking as if he expected to be admonished for his antics. Iolaus held out his hand, and the boy gave him the wooden object he was holding. It had a short handle that ended in a cog. Jutting out from the cog was a long box. The sides were missing and a wooden tongue ran from the end of the box to rest against the cog.
‘The fishermen use it to scare the seagulls away when they bring in their catch,’ Iolaus explained. ‘Watch.’
He held it out at arm’s length and began spinning his wrist, so that the box rotated around the handle. The wooden tongue clattered against the teeth of the cog, making a clamour that was out of all proportion to the size of the instrument.
‘You saw what it did to those gulls,’ he continued, as the ratchet came to a halt. ‘It’ll do the same to the bronze birds. Remember how they fled when I chased after them with a couple of wooden bowls? Maybe they’re terrified of the sound of wood.’
Heracles took the ratchet and studied it. It was crudely made, but sturdy. For a moment, the idea began to fill him with hope. Then he remembered how the first flock of birds he had startled had simply turned around and attacked him, with all the ferocity of a pack of lions. He handed the ratchet back to the waiting boy.
‘The problem is scaring them so much that they never come back. And a child’s toy isn’t the answer.’
‘But it’s a start, isn’t it?’ Iolaus replied, his enthusiasm turning to angry determination. ‘And at least I’m not giving up.’
‘Is that an accusation? Damn it, lad, who’s the one who went out and faced those birds? Who’s the one with the scars to prove it?’
‘It could hardly be me, Uncle, could it? I’m not allowed to help, remember?’ Iolaus retorted. ‘I just hope those scars haven’t taken away your hope of victory. And I hope your need for fresh bandages hasn’t stopped you fighting for the other things that are important in your life.’
His nephew’s words stirred Heracles to sudden anger, but the truth in them checked his reaction. For a moment, all he could do was glare at Iolaus; but the look of concern in the young man’s unflinching eyes was more than enough to quench his rage. Shamed, he turned his gaze away. If Iolaus had charged him with despairing over the labour, maybe he had good cause. And if the lad thought that he should remain faithful to Megara – in the naive beli
ef their marriage could be restored – then he had only spoken out of love. But Iolaus had not been in the hovel in Tiryns when Megara had recoiled from his fleeting touch, a reaction that spoke more than any words ever could of the death of her love for him. And he had not seen the vast numbers of the birds in the marshes, or faced the attacks of their powerful beaks and ruthless talons.
Iolaus knelt opposite the boy.
‘What do you want for the ratchet, son?’
‘It’s not mine, sir. It’s my father’s, and he’ll give me a proper hiding if I don’t scare off the gulls when his boat comes in.’
‘Then you have my sympathies – but what will you take for the ratchet?’
Heracles turned away, leaving Iolaus to his haggling. A little farther on was a ridge of sand topped by long grass. Climbing it, he sat and pulled his knees into his chest, resting his chin on them as he gazed out to sea. The water looked grey, cold and uninviting. He thought of the fishermen in their boats, hauling in their catches as he stared at their indistinct shapes on the distant waves; then he thought of the wooden screeching of the ratchets, scaring off the hungry gulls as the fishermen beached their boats and began emptying their nets. If Iolaus had scared away a host of the Stymphalian Birds by crashing together a couple of wooden bowls, then there was a good chance a ratchet would send them fleeing.
But what then? They might settle in another part of the marsh. More likely, they would veer round and attack the source of the noise. The task seemed as hopeless as trying to win back Megara’s love.
He picked at a piece of oat that had stuck between his back teeth, watching the women fixing the nets as he did so. There were around twenty of them, their heads covered against the slowly rising sun, and they were of all ages and descriptions. Some were mere girls, learning the skills from their mothers; others were young wives, keeping a watchful eye on naked toddlers playing in the waves; a few were toothless grandmothers, pleased of the company; while the rest were in their middle years, with husbands and older children to look after, and more chores to do than they ever had time for – though they still managed. They worked four or five to a net, the meshes thrown out before them on the sand as they probed for breaks in the flaxen cords.
As Heracles tried to drive his fingernail between the two teeth that had trapped the piece of oat, a seagull flapped down near to one of the nets and began tossing aside pieces of seaweed that had been washed up with the morning tide. A small crab sprang out from beneath one of the fronds and scuttled under a fold in the net. With a flap of its wings, the seagull leaped onto the mesh and drove its beak at the elusive crab. One of the women waved an arm at the bird, shouting at it as she did so.
Forgetting its prey, the seagull stretched out its wings and flew upwards. As it rose into the air, the net rose with it, the cords having tangled themselves around the bird’s foot. The weight of the mesh soon pulled it back down again, and this time all four of the women shouted and gesticulated at it. Once more, it tried to fly away, and once more it was pulled back down, screeching loudly in its panic. Eventually, one of the women crawled over the net, and warding off the pecks of the bird with one hand, freed its foot with the other. A few moments later, the seagull soared free, and with a final cry of protest flew out to sea.
The piece of oat popped free, at last, and was crushed beneath Heracles’s back teeth. His eyes remained fixed on the net as he pondered the idea it had given him, and he did not notice Iolaus’s approach until he sat next to him on the dune.
‘I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean to suggest you’d given up, or… or anything else.’
‘You’re young; you’re entitled to be impatient,’ Heracles answered. ‘And I’m sorry if I was angry with you. Did you get your child’s rattle?’
‘Not from that boy, he really was scared of getting a hiding. But I found Leucus, and he’s promised to bring me two in exchange for my knife. Obviously didn’t think saving his life and bringing him here was payment enough.’
‘They’ll be worth the price,’ Heracles said, standing and patting the sand from the backs of his legs. ‘Now, let’s get your chariot ready.’
* * *
Heracles edged forward on his hands and knees, gently parting the bulrushes to look out at the marshes. There was no moon, but the stars were bright in the clear skies and gave a faint sheen to the landscape before him. Thousands of birds stood knee-deep in the numerous pools of water, their beaks tucked beneath the gleaming feathers of their wings. All was still and quiet, but for the pounding of Heracles’s heart and the sound of his breathing, which was treacherously loud in his ears.
Cautiously, he lowered a leg into the water. It sank halfway up to his shin, but the moment he placed his weight onto it the soft mud gave way and tried to pull him down. He leaned forward and slipped into the cold water on his hands and knees. His lion-skin cloak spread over the surface, hiding the white of his limbs and shading his face so that he was almost invisible in the darkness. The mire sucked at his hands, and he was forced to keep moving to avoid being dragged down.
The first flock of birds, clustered together on one side of the pool did not notice his passing, and soon he was pulling himself up through the bulrushes on the other side. Lying flat on the boggy grass – the block of wood he had strapped over his chest cumbersome and heavy beneath him – he crawled to the edge of the next pool. This was bigger than the last, with a large gathering of birds at each end. Again, he slipped quietly into the water. Being a little deeper, he was able to push himself along with more ease. As he reached the middle, a bird at the edge of the nearest group suddenly withdrew its beak from under its wing and craned its neck as if swallowing. It stretched out its wings and made the soft clacking noise he had heard on his first visit to the swamp. A bird from the other group replied, forcing him to lie still while his hands and knees sank slowly into the mud. He was conscious of the bow on his back, and considered silencing the bird before it could sound the alarm.
Then, with a final series of clacks, it tucked its beak back under its wing and was silent again. Heracles pulled himself free of the sludge and moved on to the opposite bank. Once on the narrow strip of grass, he raised his head a little and looked around. The next stretch of cold, rank-smelling water was filled with thousands of birds, congregated in large groups with only narrow strips of empty marsh between them. But if his plan was to have any chance of working, he had to get as close to the heart of the swamp as possible.
He eased himself chest-first into the pool, but the bottom fell away quickly and he disappeared beneath the surface. The dark waters swirled around him, filling his ears and nostrils as they clouded his senses. He swallowed a mouthful of the vile liquid before he was able to push himself free again, bursting from the surface with a sputter as he gasped for air. Several birds unfolded their wings and looked around, clacking their beaks rapidly to each other. He sank back down into the water so that only his eyes and the head of the lion were visible in the starlight. After a while, the birds settled down and were silent again.
He moved forward once more. The ground beneath rose up enough for him to crawl forward on hands and knees with his cloak floating out behind him on the surface. The mire beneath was thick and glutinous, forcing him to pull himself free at every movement of hand or knee. Soon, he was passing between small groups of the birds, the tail of his cloak almost brushing against their legs. There was a lessening of the darkness in the east now, and as he looked at the birds around him, he noticed the pale sheen of approaching dawn on their bronze feathers.
He had reached the midst of the largest group. Several times, the edges of his cloak brushed against their legs, and occasionally a red eye would flutter open and stare at him for a moment, before closing again. The cover of the opposite bank was closer now, tempting him to rush the last stretch and hide himself among the bulrushes. He maintained his discipline, though, moving as slowly as possible until, at last, he reached out and laid a hand on the coarse grass.
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br /> Then, as his fingers sank into the soft turf, he heard a low clacking behind him. Turning, he saw the eyes of the nearest bird fixed upon him. It slipped its beak out from under its wing and extended its neck. Suddenly, it opened out its wings to their fullest extent, making itself as large as possible, and gave a loud screech. The silence of the marsh was shattered as the cry echoed across the waters and back from the trees on either side. Heracles reached across, grabbing the bird with his fist and snapping its neck in an instant.
But it was too late. Almost as one, every bird in the marsh raised its head and looked at Heracles. He scrambled onto the bank with not a moment to spare. Water streamed from his cloak and tunic as he reached for the ratchet hanging from his belt. Before he could untie it, a bird darted at him. He swung his fist at its head and broke the creature’s neck.
More birds rose up from the waters and flew at him. Untying the loop that held his club, he snatched it from his belt and swept it in an arc before him. Two birds were caught by the blow, their fragile bodies flung aside into the bulrushes. More followed, darting headlong at his chest. A backswing of his club dashed the life from two more, but a third – close behind the others – drove its beak into his chest.
But he had not forgotten the favoured tactic of the birds during his first battle with them. Before he and Iolaus had left the fishing village, the local shipwright had made a thick wooden block for his chest. Secured by sturdy cords it covered him from his collarbones down to the bottom of his ribs. Most men would have found it too heavy to bear, but Heracles hardly noticed its weight.
The bronze beak sank into the oak like a nail driven by a hammer. But the block was too thick, and the bird flapped desperately as it tried to pull itself back out again. Heracles grabbed its neck and tore it off, leaving the head and beak still impaled in the wood.
The rest of the flock rose up in the air before him. The eastern sky was growing lighter and reflected palely from their bronze plumage. The front rank spread their wings, giving Heracles just enough warning to cover himself with his cloak before they launched a hail of feathers at him. The metal barbs sprang off the impenetrable hide and fell to the ground in a metallic whisper. The next instant, the monstrous creatures were upon him, striking with their beaks and tearing at him with their talons. Another swing of his club sent half a dozen flying back into the pool behind. But he could hear the beating of wings from the stretch of water behind him, where another flock was filling the air in readiness to attack.
