Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two (26 page)

CHAPTER VII

The Stretching

CHAPTER VIII

The Nemean Lion

Characters

Monsters

Gods

Mortals

Animals

Others

1

Zeus Is Uneasy

Clouds raced across a great blowing lilac sky. Lightning split an oak; the voice of a wood nymph sounded above the thunder. But no one could tell whether she was screaming with fear or joy. For Zeus fancied dryads, and was known to brandish his thunderbolt when he came a-courting. And when the dryad who dwelt in the blasted tree was ready to give birth, the covey of oak nymphs wondered whether they were about to welcome a child of Zeus.

But when the babe made her appearance, it was decided that she must have been sired by something less than a god. For the infant was undersized and looked sickly—a tiny blue scrap of tissue fighting for every breath. And nobody was surprised when she vanished. For the forest was full of hunting beasts, and the young of every species had to be hardy to survive.

Once every thousand years a strange wind blows from all directions at once, shaking the chandelier of stars and branding the night sky with a scrawl of fire. And only the eldest Fate, Atropos, Lady of the Shears, could read that scroll which held the mighty secrets of What Was To Be.

This traffic with the future lent Atropos special authority—so that she was feared by the gods themselves. Even their king, Zeus, who feared nothing, was made uneasy by her.

And the next morning, when he saw the Scissors Hag winding her way among the flower beds in the Garden of Olympus, he knew by the smile on her face that she was bringing bad news for someone and hoped it was for someone else.

“Greetings, your majesty,” she grated.

“A fair day to you, my lady. I trust the windstorm last night did not disturb your slumbers.”

“I do not sleep much, my lord. Most old folk die at night, you know, and I must be ready with my shears when the thread of life has to be snipped.”

“Yes, of course,” muttered Zeus.

“Besides,” she said, “if I were inclined to nap, it would certainly not be when the thousand-year wind comes to jostle the stars. It is part of my task, you realize, to read the fiery splinters. Indeed, this time their message is especially interesting.”

Zeus shuddered as he heard these words and saw the smirk twisting her withered lips. For she smiled, he knew, only when she had something unpleasant to announce. He said nothing; just waited.

“It concerns you, O Zeus,” she said.

“I am all attention.”

“A certain child dwells in a deep wood. A sickly, undersized babe, but she is fated to shake your kingdom.”

“Impossible,” growled Zeus.

“Nay, my lord, possible. Even, perhaps, probable.”

“How can such a thing be?”

“This girl child is destined to be the embodiment of female strength and wisdom, and will dedicate herself to avenging the Great Goddess. Yea, she will seek to restore the glory of the Mother, even by dislodging you from your throne.”

“Ridiculous!”

“Quarrel with the thousand-year wind and the splintered stars, my lord, not with me who only reads their message.”

“Whose child is she? Who has spawned her?”

“Mystery within mystery. But she will claim to be Hera's daughter, although not yours. Indeed, she will call herself Heraclea.”

“I thank you for your warning, my lady. Where do I find the presumptuous brat?”

“In the depths of the forest girdling Thebes. She is called Palaemona now; the name Heraclea will come later.”

“Too late …” said Zeus. “I shall hunt her down and snuff her out before she can pronounce that absurd name.”

“Good hunting,” said Atropos, grinning. And humped off. After she left, Zeus thought very hard.

“How shall I proceed?” he asked himself. “Hasten to Thebes and gaff her with a thunderbolt? Effective, but unwise. It would proclaim to the world that she is as important as she claims to be—dangerous enough to attract my personal attention and merit the use of my ultimate weapon. No! I shall do her no such honor. She must die, but her death must resemble other deaths. In other words, I shall employ a monster. But which?”

He thought and thought. “There are monsters aplenty,” he told himself. “But they all seem to work for other gods. Hades employs Cerberus. Poseidon commands a hideous flotilla of sea serpents. The snake-haired Medusa serves Athena's vengeance. The Calydonian boar is the handiwork of my daughter, Artemis. The Cyclopes work for the smith god inside smoky Aetna. And that dreadful three-bodied Geryon acts for my wife, Hera. The Chimaera tends to free-lance, and is stupid besides …

“I could borrow one of these repulsive creatures, no doubt. But to do so would be to reveal my intentions toward that forest brat. What I must do is find one that will be mine alone. I'll go to an expert. My grandmother, Gaia, most ancient of earth goddesses, has spawned an enormous brood of monsters—as well as giants, Titans, and gods. She will help me if I ask her.

“But what shall I ask her for? I am hampered by my keen sense of beauty. I detest ugliness. And the appearance of these monsters tends to be revolting. Surely, though, there must be some creature who possesses a bestial beauty. A lion, for example. All other animals tremble when his scent is borne to them on the wind. When he roars, their marrow freezes; they are too frightened to run, and he kills them with one stroke of his barbed paw and devours them at leisure.

“Yes, he is a killer, and magnificent! A very king of the beasts as I am King of the Gods. A lion … the idea grows on me. But an animal such as no one has ever seen, or even dreamed—one that will make an ordinary lion look like a house cat. Superb notion! I must summon Gaia now.”

He sent a message to Gaia and received her in the Garden of Olympus, bowing low to her. “O Queen of Earth, wise and powerful, I ask your help.”

“To be asked when it is yours to command, to be given an opportunity to assist omnipotence—this, kingly grandson, is to do me high honor. How can I serve you?”

“I am displeased with certain mortals—a nationful, in fact. The Nemeans.”

“How have they offended you?”

“They favor other gods. Shun my temples. Pray to me seldom, and make me few gifts.”

“They deserve to be punished, of course.”

“Yes, but I do not wish to visit them with swift destruction, blast them with my lightning, incinerate their forests and their cities. For they would die ignorant and serve no example to others. Their punishment must be spaced over time. I want to teach them a slow lesson in the meaning of true faith. I need a monster.”

“No problem.”

“Not a fire-spitting dragon, mind. Nor a gaping serpent, nor something with a lot of heads. That's not my style, Grandmother. I crave an imperial beast. A lion. But a very special one.”

“Special how?”

“Huge, Earth, huge. Surpassing ordinary lions as we gods surpass mortals. And let his teeth be like ivory daggers, his talons made of brass and as big as baling hooks. His hide should be a supple armor that no spear point or arrowhead can pierce, or blade can slash.”

“A task worthy of my best efforts,” murmured Gaia.

“Take your time,” said Zeus. “I want him perfect …”

“When next I see you, Grandson, I shall be accompanied by your lion.”

And she left. Zeus laughed gustily, shaking the trees. “She'll take her time all right. She's slow, Mother Earth, slow but sure.… However, there is no hurry. A century is a summer's afternoon to me; I can afford to be patient. I'll let the lion roam Nemea for a while, feast upon the inhabitants thereof, and their cattle, and teach them the cost of impiety. He'll grow into his work, gain a reputation, and when I do send Heraclea against him, her death will seem entirely natural.”

2

The Waif

No woodsman ever entered the grove where the dryads dwelt, for it was a sacred copse. And a woodcutter was circling the grove one day when he saw a pile of dead leaves tremble and heard a faint, mewing cry. He dug into the leaves and felt something squirm. He pulled it out. It was an infant; a girl. He yelled with joy. For his wife had just had a miscarriage with their first child, and he thought that the gods had answered their grief with the gift of another child. He bore the baby home, and the young couple raised her as their own, naming her Palaemona.

Other children came; they soon outgrew her. She was a curious child altogether, so weirdly small in that tall family. Huge yellow eyes flared in her famished face. “Eyes of a panther in a mouse's face,” her father said. But she was tough as a bowstring, was never ill, and would play tirelessly from dawn till night.

And so she lived quite happily until her twelfth year. Then one night a robber band came to the hut. They killed the woodsman, abducted his wife, and rounded up the children to sell at the slave mart in Thebes.

Palaemona fled. A robber chased her. He was a tall, gawky fellow, but she was a very fast runner despite her size and was drawing away from her pursuer. But another robber jumped out from behind a tree and stood in her path. She tried to duck around him, but he grabbed her. She went limp; his grip slackened. Her hand flashed up. She struck like a cat, raking his face with her nails, gouging with all her strength, feeling the flesh pull away. He screamed and lunged for her. His face dripped blood. He did not stop to wipe it but kept after her. She dodged under his arm and darted toward the river.

She flung herself off the bank, flattening her body in a shallow dive. Had she wished to escape she could have swum underwater, for she slid through the water like an eel. But she did not want to escape; she wanted him to follow her into the river. She surfaced immediately and saw him standing knee deep, looking for her. She dived again and came up in a thick clump of weeds. She splashed to attract his attention, then pretended to struggle in the water as if she had been caught in the reeds. His head swiveled. He saw her. She saw his teeth flash in the bloody mask of his face and knew that he was grinning. He was a squat man, very hairy.

As he came near, she moved very slowly out through the clinging reeds. He waded toward her. Now he was waist deep. She waited until he was almost within arm's length, then dived. She groped in the mud until she found a heavy little rock. She arched in a tight turn underwater, slid behind him, and swept his legs from under him. She surfaced as he sank and waited for him to come up.

As he arose, spluttering, she lifted her arm high and slammed the rock down on his head. He grunted and collapsed. She stood shoulder deep, watching the bubbles rise. She saw the water changing color and couldn't bear the idea of his blood fouling her river. She went under, seized him by the hair, and dragged him up. His eyes were closed; his face was greenish white. He did not seem to be breathing.

She shifted her grip and held him beneath the armpits. Blood seeped through his soaked hair. She dragged him to the shore and let him drop. She took off her tunic and washed it in the river, beating it against a flat rock. Then she dived again and swam underwater, keeping away from the clump of reeds, turning and corkscrewing until she felt clean. She came out, put on her wet tunic, and went to look at him.

The robber lay there motionless. His hair was a mat of blood. Fat blue flies buzzed slowly about his head. She felt her stomach churning and fought back nausea, trying to cling to triumph. Flies clotted about his head. She waved them away, blaming him. Even dead he kept attacking her, smearing her with filth.