Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two (59 page)

“How do you know?” grunted Charon.

“Read it somewhere. I try to read everything written. Pick up a lot of useless knowledge that way—which sometimes comes in handy. Like now. Believe me, your river is bottomless, and grows colder as it deepens.”

“Even if true, so what?”

“This is the crux of my plan, so I'll have to whisper now.”

“Why?”

“I've been warned; there are spies everywhere. Flying ears, crawling eyes. Bend down, please, so you can hear me.”

Charon leaned down; Thallo whispered. He went on for a long time as Charon listened, scowling. Thallo ended by saying:

“The serpents will uncoil when they're directly over the river. You'll be able to grasp their tails, and pull her down into the icy depths, deeper and deeper until she freezes stiff.”

“I'll be farther down. I'll freeze stiffer.”

“No, Charon. You will have kissed Persephone first. You'll be warmed by the green fire of that springtide kiss. You won't freeze.”

15

The Battle, and After

The three-headed dog, Cerberus, guarded well the Gates of Hell, but it was a gloomy chore, and he quivered with eagerness now at the idea of quitting his post and fighting again. He had enrolled himself on Hecate's side. Before the coming of Charon, she had been the only one of Hades' staff to come sometimes and keep him company on his lonely vigil. Now he had become friendly with Charon also, and the ferryman had declared for Hecate, so the dog had no trouble making up his three minds about whose side he would fight on.

It was time to go. There was no one to bark at. Charon was ferrying boatload after boatload of guests across the river, and they were allowed to pass freely through the black iron gates. So the three heads of Cerberus sparred briefly with each other, warming up for the fight, then the great beast turned and trotted into Tartarus.

Preparing for his horde of guests, Hades had ordered that a vast viewing stand be erected on the Elysian Field. Here, the gods and goddesses and minor deities were to be placed according to rank. The highest seats were reserved for Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades himself. Tactfully, he had arranged for Zeus to be seated between his brothers, and that his seat be somewhat higher.

When the guests had thronged onto the field, Thanatos, black caped and very suave, ushered them to their seats. It was a festive horde, smiling, laughing, shouting to one another. All except Hera. She didn't allow herself to frown as she moved toward her place with stately step; neither did she smile. She was furious. For she saw that a separate podium had been set aside for Zeus's beautiful daughters—his but not hers—the Muses, the Graces, and the Hours. Seated together, these radiant daughters were like a bank of flowers, and the air was murmurous with their joy.

When everyone was seated, Hades arose. Silence fell. Everyone expected him to announce the beginning of the fight. But he nodded courteously to Zeus, who arose, thanked Hades with a gracious nod, and gestured to his herald, Hermes. The herald god stood, lifted his snake-entwined staff, and called out in a silvery voice:

“Let it begin!”

The Sphinx appeared first, stalking onto the field. She was so big that one expected her to lumber like an elephant; instead she prowled like a lion. And the crowd gasped as she lifted her huge wings, tossed her mane, smiled to show her fangs, and bared her claws, batting at her own shadow. The gasping grew to cries of wonder as she spread her wings, and the huge mustard body rose into the air and hovered midway between the audience and the raftered sky.

Posed there in midair, she could be seen wholly for what she was—a winged lion larger than an elephant with claws like ivory daggers and a face too cruel to belong to any animal but the human kind—a woman's face whose black hair became a lion's mane, and whose mouth gleamed with a lion's fangs. She looked so utterly savage that Hermes, who alone among the gods had bet on Hecate, counted his wager as lost. “No one,” he thought, “can possibly survive a fight with this monster of monsters.”

Then, Hecate flashed into view, coming not upon the field, but floating down from the rafters, and standing on air above the artificial sun. Half-hidden as she was, she glittered among the shadows. In a nuptial verse, Thallo had described her this way:

“Her mother was a nymph of the Falcon clan, her father an eastern panther god. She looks like a cheetah partially transformed into a woman—long legged, long armed, with blazing yellow eyes. Her hands and feet are tipped with ripping claws, but, when she draws them in, her touch is as soft as velvet. Her wings are ribbed and made of membranous leather, tinged gold, wherein has arisen the report that she wears brass wings. Her followers, the Harpies, do have brass wings and brass claws and are true hags with hideous, ravaged faces. But she, their queen, is beautiful as a cheetah in midleap.”

But to those gazing up at her now, she looked pathetically small compared to the Sphinx, and no one thought she had any chance at all.

Over the high seats where sat Zeus and his two brothers was stretched a canopy, and this showed foresight on the part of Hades. Soon after the fight started, it began to rain blood.

Now, the Sphinx was confident of victory, but wanted to give herself every advantage. She had strong allies and meant to use them. The strategy was to force Hecate out of the air, for she flew much faster than the Sphinx.

The Harpies were the first to attack. They had opted for the Sphinx. They expected her to become their queen in Hecate's place, and were trying to curry favor. They flew toward Hecate, separating so that they might attack from three sides. They unfurled their stingray whips as they flew. Hecate uttered a fluting call.

The audience saw things dropping out of the shadows. They were giant snakes, friendly to Hecate. They had wound their tails about the mountain roots that were the rafters of Hell and dangled there like leather stalactites, their blunt heads weaving about Hecate.

As the Harpies flew in, shrieking, lashing, the serpents snapped their long bodies and drove their heads into the hags, smashing wings, breaking shoulder blades, knocking the Harpies out of the sky.

Drops of blood began to fall. Zeus was shielded by the canopy. The others didn't care; they were too excited by the fight to let a little blood bother them.

A pair of hundred-handed giants rushed onto the field, bearing a huge boulder in each of their two hundred hands. They hurled their rocks at Hecate. The serpents recoiled themselves and hid among the rafters. Hecate dodged the hurtling boulders, but was forced to fly lower and lower.

A squadron of dragons trotted onto the field. Wingless blue dragons, standing on their hind legs. Bred specially for the uses of Hell, they hopped swiftly, using their spiked tails for balance, and spat accurate jets of blue flame. As Hecate descended, they hopped beneath her, spitting flame, trying to incinerate her as she flew.

Then it was that Cerberus charged. He had been crouched at the end of the field, awaiting his moment. He sped for the giants, whirling about them, snarling his triple snarl. Teeth flashed, gashing a leg of each giant. But he did not stay. He flashed among the dragons. Each pair of jaws grasped a giant lizard and shook it like a rabbit. Their heads snapped; spines cracked. The broken dragons fell to the ground, spat ash, and died.

There were five dragons left, spitting flame at Cerberus. With a mighty leap he left them, landed on the grass, and stood between the dragons and the giants who were limping toward him, bellowing, and hurling boulders. Now Cerberus showed his matchless speed—dodging, weaving, leaping, charging now at the giants and slashing them until blood poured from their wounds, now leaping among the dragons and savaging them, and leaping away again.

The wounded giants kept throwing rocks, but their aim was poor now. The dragons kept spitting fire. But their flame hit the giants, and the poorly thrown rocks smashed into the dragons. The giants became lumps of charred flesh, and the dragons lay squashed—like geckos stoned by cruel boys.

Cerberus was in a battle fury; he didn't want to stop. He wrinkled three bloody maws and leaped toward the Sphinx, barking furiously. But she was too high to reach. He turned and trotted off, looking for some demons to chew on.

The crowd's attention was wrenched away from Cerberus, for Hecate and the Sphinx were closing at last. Hecate had attacked. The Sphinx was roaring; her voice rumbled like thunder as the blood drizzled down. But the blood was hers now. Hecate was darting in and out like a wasp, lashing with her stingray whip, flicking off a patch of lion hide with each blow. And the Sphinx bled. Hades watched in wonder. He had seen Hecate in action before, and had admired her, but never before had she moved as fast as she did now, and attacked with such delicate savagery. She seemed to be breaking into a swarm of hornets, each one stinging a bloody place on the beast.

But a hundred wounds didn't even begin to tap the Sphinx's enormous strength. She suffered, but she waited. Was so quiet as she hovered that she seemed almost stupefied by Hecate's attack. Again Hecate swooped, coming very close, right toward her enemy's face, trying to flick out her eyes. Too close. One great barbed paw shot out, raking Hecate from shoulder to hip.

Thallo, hiding among a fringe of myrtles at the field's edge, attached to the battle with every fiber of his being, saw his wife's tunic rip, saw claws raking bloody furrows into her flesh. Wounded, bleeding, losing strength, she was still swift. Thallo saw her rise, fly toward the rafters, the Sphinx rising in pursuit.

Up, up, flew Hecate, up to where the serpents lay coiled among the rafters. There were four serpents. She hissed at them. They obeyed instantly, two by two, twining themselves about each other. Hecate lurked in Hell's rafters, grasping a pair of braided serpents in each hand. The Sphinx hovered beneath, waiting for her to reappear.

Thallo, watching from below, watching her vanish among the shadows, knew that she had reached her last resource—which was his own plan, desperate though it was. Now he had to move. He cawed like a crow, which was his signal to Persephone, who was also hiding among the trees, keeping out of Hades' sight.

“Go!” he cried. “Run to the river as fast as you can. Kiss him once, then jump off the boat. And watch from the shore, for that's where the action will be.”

She darted off, running so swiftly, so lightly, no blade of grass bent beneath her feet. Charon's ferry was moored to the near shore. He was on deck, listening to the far-off shouts of the crowd, trying to read their meaning. He saw Persephone flash through the gates, coming so fast that she was on board before he could leap ashore to greet her.

“Just time for one kiss,” she whispered. “Then do what you must.”

She kissed him and jumped lightly off the boat. With a mighty stroke of his oar, Charon sent the ferry to the middle of the river, and waited. He didn't have long to wait. Hecate was flying directly overhead. From each hand dangled a pair of braided snakes. The river darkened under the shadow of great wings as the Sphinx flew over.

Roaring, claws bared, she came right toward the hovering Hecate—who sank below the Sphinx and flung her snakes. They looped through the air headfirst toward the Sphinx. Four jaws clamped onto one front paw, four onto the other. They whipped their tails, trying to pull her toward the river.

They pulled her down until their tails dangled within reach of Charon. He stretched his arms full length and barely managed to grasp a pair of braided tails in each huge hand. He pulled. The Sphinx beat her wings and kept aloft. Charon pulled; the serpents pulled. The monster was too strong; she would not be pulled down.

Then Hecate, bleeding badly, used the very last of her strength. She forced herself to climb in the air until she was far above the Sphinx, then folded her wings like a stooping falcon and dropped with dead weight, landing on the Sphinx's broad back, between her wings.

The force of her fall combined with a final mighty yank by Charon and forced the Sphinx down, down. The monster beat her wings furiously; their downdraft capsized the ferry. Charon was thrown into the water. Quick-wittedly, he managed to clamp the ferry's anchor between his legs so that he would sink faster. Held on to the snakes as he sank, and they gripped the Sphinx. Down, down he sank, growing colder and colder. But he had kissed Persephone, drunk deeply of her springtide—and, warmed by her green fire, remembering Thallo's words, then, for love and beauty and honor and justice, he kept clenching the heavy fluke between his legs, and was dragged down, farther and farther into the freezing depths, dragging the Sphinx after him.

He felt the living cables that were the braided serpents pull out of his hands, and he knew that the Sphinx must be sinking of her own weight. He turned in the water and began to swim up—and passed the great frozen body as it sank toward the bottom.

When he surfaced, he saw that the river shore was thronged with gods and goddesses, shouting, cheering. He was disappointed. Shuddering with cold, he wanted one more kiss from Persephone to warm him again. But she was standing demurely beside Hades, and he knew that he would have to wait.

That night the guests banqueted in Hades' palace in Erebus. They reveled until dawn, then departed, thanking him for his hospitality. But the final words of Zeus were, “We're going to have to compromise, you know. Demeter is withholding her crops, and making too many people suffer, and I am being pestered by their complaints. Your bride will have to spend half a year with her mother. And that's final.”

Hades had to agree, and was further dismayed when Hecate refused to serve him. She returned to Crete bearing Thallo, who dangled from her claws as they went, scribbling happily.

Nor was the Sphinx left frozen in the depth of the Styx. “Remove her,” said Hades to the Cyclopes. “Take her up to the desert and deposit her in its hottest sands. It will be infernally interesting to see what happens when she thaws out in ten thousand years or so and enters a world that no longer believes in gods or monsters.”