Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two (53 page)

1

Enter the Sphinx

In a desert, long ago, dwelt a tribe of female demons who rode sandstorms and raided caravans. They lived in what is now north India, and had made themselves feared by everyone. Until, one night, their queen was stepped on by an elephant. Too tough to die, she was too squashed to rule, and passed the crown on to her daughter, the princess Lila. And Lila, made reckless by joy, gathered the tribe about her and said:

“Hear me now. We are grown false to ourselves through easy living. For some time now our only forays have been against caravanning merchants who are unable to put up a decent fight. So we scatter them, help ourselves to their gold and their jewelry, and roast their camels, and a few of the fattest merchants—and count our booty and sleep, and are visited by no dreams of glory. We are not meant for so soft a life, swift sisters. We are lean and mean and keen. Aye, we twirl the sand into whirling spouts and spin in the midst of them in a fine demon dance. And all who dwell in this dry land dread our name. So … let us use our powers lest they wither and fall away. Let us raid a truly worthy foe.”

“Who … who?” screeched the coven.

“Why, the Griffins.”

“No! No! Woe! Woe!” the witches shrieked in dismay. Although they were savage in battle, they had no stomach for fighting Griffins—and with good reason.

For these creatures were winged lions, but their heads were eagle heads. When hunting they darkened the sky, then dived like eagles falling upon a flock of sheep. But what they ate were elephants, hippos, camels, and gorillas. And there were strong rumors that they spent their time when not hunting in scratching gold out of the desert sand—and had heaped up a mountain of gold.

“Don't say ‘no,'” said Lila. “Don't say ‘woe.' Anyone who denies my leadership must meet me in single combat.”

She stood to her full, towering height and stretched her powerful arms. And no one dared challenge her, much as they feared the Griffins. For she was the largest of them by far, and wrestled crocodiles for sport.

That night, under the indifferent gaze of the great low desert stars, they whirled in a demon dance. Raised cones and funnels of sand that enclosed each one in a fine, suffocating grip. Whirling, dancing, shrieking, they moved across the desert to where the Griffins dwelt.

All night they traveled, and through the morning hours, and then at noon, when the sand was as hot as iron filings, they struck. They fell upon the Griffins in a stifling rush. But the winged lions were swifter still. Beating their eagle vans, they rose into the air, then fell with bared claws.

What happened then exactly was hidden in spouts of sand and gouts of blood. And the story itself of that strange battle has blown away like desert dust. What we do know is this: A few witches managed to escape; the rest were torn to shreds. Except for Lila: she was taken captive by the Griffin chief. And when he released her she did not wish to go, but dwelt with him for many centuries.

She presented him with a daughter, it is said. And that daughter had a woman's head, a lion's body, and an eagle's wings. They named her Sphinx, and she grew to Griffin size in a single day. She stayed with the Griffins for a week or so, then decided that she preferred to hunt alone. So she left her mother and father and the Griffin pack, and flew far away.

The Sphinx developed extreme tastes. She either craved or loathed, nothing between. She loved intense heat and hated the cold. The place she was fondest of was the very middle of the Egyptian desert where the sand under the midday sun grew hot as molten gold. And there is where she would have dwelt always had it not been so hard to find food.

For she had a very picky appetite. Her favorite meal was a kind of humpbacked whale that sang as it swam, and even sang on its way down her gullet, tickling her palate in a very pleasurable way. Among land animals she preferred a certain silvery ape. And these preferences made her bad temper worse. For the whales soon learned how much the Sphinx hated to be cold, and began to hide in the deepest gulches of the sea where the water was icy. By the time the Sphinx caught a whale, she would have to fly off to the desert and burrow under the sand and stay there until she thawed. So, finally, she gave up on the singing whales and began to hunt giant octopi and two-ton sea turtles—which filled her belly but gave her no pleasure.

As for the silvery ape, it was considered a delicacy also by lions and tigers and leopards and such, and its numbers were shrinking fast. So the Sphinx had to eat gorillas and baboons—who were nourishing but flavorless.

She found herself feeding, therefore, less heavily than she liked, and felt always half-starved. And her temper grew worse and worse.

2

An Unlikely Match

When Hecate announced that she meant to wed the lame little poet, Thallo, no one could understand why. But the assorted fiends and demons who staffed Hell had learned not to question the tigerishly beautiful Harpy queen no matter what she did. In the vast realm of the Land Beyond Death only Hades, its king, claimed authority over her, and he didn't trust himself to approach her. The idea that his chief aide should wish to leave his employ threw him into such a fury that he kept his distance. He knew that if he came close he would assault her—and even he didn't relish closing with that savage creature. For her great wings bore her more swiftly than an eagle, and her brass talons could rip an armored giant to shreds.

No one questioned her, therefore, when she quit Tartarus forever and flew off to Helicon to collect her unsuspecting man.

The rabble of poets who were wandering the slope of Parnassus, picking flowers and muttering bits of verse to themselves, scattered like quail when a huge, winged shadow fell upon them. Thallo alone did not flee, but sat on his rock, grinning, as Hecate alighted.

“A good day to you,” he said.

“A very good one,” she said. “My wedding day.”

“Oh, are you to be married?”

“Yes.”

“To whom?”

“To you, of course.”

“Me? Why me?”

“That's either a modest answer or an extremely rude one. And I hope for your sake that it's not rude.”

“Let's put it this way,” he drawled. “We've had a few sprightly conversations, and I'm aware of a kind of excitement between us, but a man does expect to be courted, you know.”

“Everyone else is shocked by my choice,” she said. “So you may as well be too. While I make it a rule never to explain myself, I will say this: I have certain powers and have gained a certain measure of fame, but now I intend to devote myself entirely to you.”

“Thank you,” said Thallo. “You are the Arch Tormentress, are you not?”

“So I have been called,” she said modestly.

“And now you wish to focus these impressive talents upon me?”

“On you alone, sweetling.”

“Wish to quit public service and contrive a little private hell for me, is that it?”

“You have a way with words, gimpy one,” she murmured. “That's how you won my heart.”

She unsheathed her brass claws and raked him tenderly. He shuddered with delight.

Her claws closed upon him; her wings beat the air; they arose. He dangled from her claws, laughing, still clutching the thick scroll on which was written the tale he had been working on for the past twenty years. He used it now to wave good-bye to his fellow poets, who were staring up in amazement.

3

The Ferryman

Thessaly is studded with mountains. For three months of the year they are clad in snow. But spring comes early there, and the melted snow cascades down to flood the rivers.

Of all these swift-flowing rivers the most perilous was Alpheus. Centuries before, an idle, mischievous river god by the same name fell in love with a nymph named Arethusa. He pursued her over the field and through the wood and was about to catch her when she gained the aid of Artemis, who changed her into a stream. Whereupon Alpheus changed himself into a river and sought to mingle his waters with the stream. But Artemis dammed him up and left him in thwarted flood. This curdled his disposition, which was not too good to begin with. He boiled with spiteful currents and tried to drown anyone crossing him. He also delighted in overflowing his banks, washing away towns and farms and drowning cattle.

Now, in the beginning of things man had not yet learned bridge building. The only way to cross a swift river was by boat, and this was dangerous also. To be a ferryman demanded great strength and courage. And the one who ferried folk across the treacherous Alpheus was the most experienced boatman in Thessaly, a gigantic grizzled old fellow named Abas. He had worked the river for more than fifty years, and seemed as powerful as ever. But he wasn't quite. Suddenly one fair summer day the river went into spate. Abas was swept overboard and drowned.

His place was immediately taken, to everyone's surprise, by his eighteen-year-old son, named Charon. Nobody objected, however, when the young man claimed his father's post. For he was a hulking youth, much too big for anyone to challenge.

In order to carry more passengers, Charon decided to use a raft instead of a boat. He made it himself, felling a massive oak, trimming it, chopping it into logs, and binding them with vines. For an oar he used the trimmed trunk of a smaller tree. When he finished he had a huge, heavy, clumsy thing, more of a floating platform than a vessel. But he was so powerful that he sent it scudding across the river like a canoe.

The silent youth and his giant raft became very popular. After a month or so, more people were traveling with him than had ever crossed with his father.

One day, however, things were slow, and it was hours before a single passenger came to the dock. Charon eyed him closely, not liking what he saw—a big, burly fellow with a greasy beard. He wore a leather tunic and bore a heavy knobbed club. But he smiled at Charon and wished him good day.

Charon grunted, and said, “Get aboard.”

“I don't want to cross,” said the man.

“What do you want then?”

“Just to talk to you.”

“Talk?”

“Is that so strange?”

“You'll have to talk on board. There may be people on the far shore waiting to be picked up.”

The stranger stepped onto the raft. Charon dipped his oar and with a mighty thrust sent the clumsy craft scudding along.

“You handle this thing well,” said the stranger. “And I know. I'm a ferryman myself.”

Charon said nothing.

“In fact, I'm chief of the clan.”

“What clan?” Charon grunted.

“Ferrymen.”

“That's no clan; it's an occupation.”

“Well, this is what I want to talk to you about. All the other ferrymen have joined up. You're the only one who isn't a member.”

“And I don't mean to be.”

“Why not?”

“Why yes?”

“We do each other a lot of good. Help each other.”

“How?”

“Fix fares.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, before we got together, people paid us anything they felt like. A small coin, a sack of apples, a sausage. And those who had nothing gave nothing.”

“So …?”

“It's no good. We had a meeting and decided to raise fares—and in such a way that our passengers couldn't object; that's the beauty part. What we do is simply stop the boat in the middle of the river and tell them to empty their pockets.”

“Suppose they don't?”

“We reason with them for a minute or two, and if they're still stubborn we hit them on the head with an oar and toss them overboard. Works like a charm. None of us had to drown more than one or two before people saw the light. Now, we're doing very well.”

“If you're doing so well, why are you bothering with me?”

“Because if even one ferryman does things in the old way it makes the rest of us look bad. In fact, we've noticed that people are going out of their way to cross over with you instead of using the river nearest them.”

“I'm not surprised,” said Charon.

“What it amounts to, brother, is that we'll have to insist that you join up.”

“Insist how?”

“Well, if you don't see reason and enroll yourself in the clan and start fleecing your riders like a good loyal member, then we'll have to take drastic measures.”

“Drastic, eh?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Want my answer now?”

“Yes.”

Charon stopped rowing. Unshipped his oar, raised it high and smashed it down on the man's head. He caught the slumping body, whisked it into the air, and pitched it into the river—where it sank immediately. He dipped his oar, and with a powerful stroke drove the raft toward the other shore.

4

Menthe

For some months now Alpheus had been fast asleep under the river that bore his name. Then in the first week of spring he awoke, hungry and irritable—in a mood for drowning people. But there were no fishermen on the banks, no swimmers on the rocks, and he knew that he would have to wait until someone boarded the ferry.

But no one came to the old wooden dock. The raft was moored, and Charon lounged on it, braiding a rope. Alpheus squatted underwater, watching the shadows that slid across the surface. He glared at the shadow of the raft. He disliked everyone, but had formed a special distaste for the big, raw youth who plied his river so boldly.

“I'd drown him now,” thought Alpheus, “but I want to wait until he has some passengers.”