Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two (32 page)

“What are they doing to him?”

“Tartarus is the Land Beyond Death, you know. Which means that it harbors not only the dead but also those not yet born. There is an enormous spawning tank down there. In its waters swim the tiny fishlike shapes of those striving to be born. Melampus has been stationed there. It is his task to judge each creature as it swims past, and to decide whether or not it shall be permitted birth. He is given but a fraction of a second to decide—to dip his net and scoop out the chosen one. The ones not chosen are flushed away.

“Now this alcove is dense with onlookers. Black gulls hang above the tank, diving upon the rejected, which are tasty as sprats There is an audience of fiends, too, studying the swarm of tiny swimmers. Now when Melampus chooses one who is destined to do well in the life to come, who will be happy or heroic or useful, the demons are silent. But when they see his net holding one whom they have divined will be cruel or unjust or simply unhappy, why then they cackle their approval. Their thin, jeering voices mingle in a fiendish shriek of glee as they celebrate bad news.

“And, since by the nature of things most of his choices must be bad, he lives in this demonish din—the ugliest sound in all the world. Each time he chooses with less confidence, but he must continue to choose, must continue to dip his net, knowing that his healing art is being twisted and perverted to serve the All Nothing. And the great-hearted doctor burns with shame and pain and loss—not in the ruddy blaze of physical pain, but in the cold blue fire of mental suffering. And there must he freeze and burn for all time to come.”

“Can no one deliver him?” cried Palaemona.

“Who?”

“Me! I am strong enough for anything now. I will go to Tartarus. I will arm myself with the great plow, and harrow hell!”

“Softly, my girl,” hissed the snake. “You are new to your strength. You don't know how to use yourself yet. It may be that your love and his torment are part of a great purpose. And perhaps not. Perhaps you simply move in that monstrous waste beyond design. I don't know. I am trained to prediction and I don't know. But there does seem to be a mighty force behind all this. Perhaps you have been enlarged to contain it. I do not know, I cannot tell. This much I do know: You must learn to use your giant abilities. You must be polished by brutes, honed by ordeal. A task has been decreed for you. If you fulfill it in all its dire passages you may be given what you most want. And you may not. There is no certainty; that is part of the ordeal. But to accomplish these labors is your only hope of seeing Melampus again.”

“What must I do?”

“You will receive your instructions from the king of Mycenae, whose name is Eurystheus.”

“I thought someone else was king of that place.”

“Not anymore. The fattest, laziest, meanest-minded prince in all the lands of the Middle Sea has now become the fattest, laziest, meanest-minded king—for his father died last night.”

“And such is to be my taskmaster?”

“Yes-s-s-s … he will know you as Heraclea.”

The sky had reddened. She saw the snake more clearly now, the whole mottled green-and-black weaving length of him. She grasped the smooth throbbing cable, drew his head to hers and kissed it. “Thank you, serpent. First friend, thank you. Will you come to me sometimes and tell me what to do?”

“Sometimes … sometimes,” said the serpent. “You'd better get some clothes for yourself, by the way.”

She stretched her great supple body, drinking the dawn wind. “Where can I get anything to fit me?”

“Go down to the river where it widens. You will find an abandoned boat. Take its sail. It will make a short tunic until you find something better to wear.”

courtiers thronged the throne room, fawning about the new king of Mycenae. A stranger entered and walked slowly toward the throne. He was of haughty bearing, very tall, wearing a black cape with bat wings. The mob fell away before him. He stood at the foot of the throne and said:

“I seek audience, O King.”

“Speak,” said Eurystheus.

“I seek private audience.”

“Private audience? On the morning of my coronation? Who do you think you are?”

“My name is Thanatos. I serve Hades.”

“Out!” shouted Eurystheus to the crowd of courtiers, who vanished immediately. “I crave your pardon, Thanatos,” he said. “And thank you for the honor of your visit. Please extend my gratitude to your master and assure him of my lasting veneration.”

“Nothing lasts, little king. My master understands this. Terminations are his specialty.”

“Do not look upon me so gravely,” cried Eurystheus. “You frighten me.”

“I do not come to frighten you, but to bring you certain instructions—which, by the way, are being issued by my master but originate with one even greater than he.”

“Oh, terror! Speak, speak, I am yours to command!”

“There will appear before you presently a young woman. She is under decree of utter obedience, and it is you she must obey. Written upon this scroll are certain tasks you will impose upon her. Of course, you will impose the second only if she survives the first, which is doubtful. The third only if she survives the second, and so on.”

Eurystheus glanced at the parchment. “Ridiculous!” he cried. “You should have used a shorter scroll, good Thanatos. No one can accomplish this first task, especially a woman. She will perish.”

“It is well,” said Thanatos. “Death has grown amorous. Nevertheless, keep the scroll and set her about her labors.”

“What is her name?”

“Her name was Palaemona. For god-task she will be known as Heraclea. She is quite young.”

“A girl! She won't make a mouthful for any of these creatures.”

“Perhaps. I cannot tarry. You have your instructions. Farewell.”

He spread the wings of his cape and flew out of the throne room. Like leaves in a windstorm, the courtiers were sucked into the wake of his departure, and fluttered back to the king.

8

The Nemean Lion

The king's palace stood on high ground in the fortress city of Mycenae. A great wall surrounded the city, its only entrance a pair of massive iron gates. When Palaemona came to the city she found the gates closed.

She shouted. No one came. She saw sentries high on the wall, but they paid her no heed. She pounded on the gate; no one answered. She stepped back, studying the gates, trying to decide whether to climb them or try to wrench the huge grills out of their stone sockets. She heard a clank of metal and saw a file of armed men coming down the avenue at half trot. They unbarred the gates and swung them open. She stepped forward. A hedge of spears formed in front of her; a voice cried, “Halt!”

The men fell back, forming an isle of metal. Through it rode a man on a white truce horse. He carried a white herald's staff. He raised the staff and cried, “In the king's name!”

He reined up his horse and shouted: “Are you she who is called Heraclea?”

“I am now, I suppose. My business is with the king.”

“You will conduct it with me. I bring instructions to you from Eurystheus, high king of Mycenae.”

“Why are the gates locked against me?”

“King's orders.”

“I don't understand. Why the soldiers? Why am I barred entry? Why can I not speak with Eurystheus himself?”

“King's orders, king's orders. He does not deign to explain, and no one must question his decree.”

“No questions? No explanations? He has been king for but three days. His reign promises to be eventful.”

“I do not intend to tarry here listening to treasonous remarks. If you do not wish to receive the king's message, I shall return to the palace. The gates will be closed. And you can go back to Thessaly, or wherever you come from.”

“Forgive me, little herald,” said Palaemona. “If I seem awkward it is because I am only a simple country lass, and feel somewhat overwhelmed by this royal reception. Give me the message.”

She smiled down at him, and saw his eyes fill with loathing. He had a sly, malicious, cheese-colored face under greasy brown curls. And the herald, looking up at her, felt himself choking with dismay. For he feared and disliked women, especially young healthy ones. And this was more woman than he had ever seen. She towered over him on tall, golden legs. Sitting on horseback he reached only to her breastbone. The muscles of her wide, sleek shoulders and long, tapering arms did not bulge, but writhed, half hidden, like serpents, with every move she made. She cast a fragrant heat like a garden in midsummer. He felt himself growing dizzy. He backed off his horse, took a bit of parchment from his pouch, stuck it on the end of his staff, and held it up to her so that he would not have to touch her hand.

She took the message and read it. “Kill the Nemean lion and bring its pelt back to Mycenae.”

“Nemean lion,” she murmured.

“The Nemean mountains lie between Corinth and Argos,” said the herald. “You had better get started.”

“What is your name, O courteous one?”

“I am called Copreus.”

She smiled again, watching his averted face darken with rage.
Copreus
in Greek means “dung man,” or one who does dirty jobs.

“Copreus … odd name for so elegant a herald.”

“I wear that name with pride,” he said. “It signifies that I am the most loyal of the king's subjects, the one whom he entrusts with the most unpleasant tasks.”

“Is this task so unpleasant then?”

For the first time she saw him smile, a spasm of the lips more dismaying than any scowl. He said, “It's always unpleasant to send anyone off to certain death, especially one so young and in such blooming health. Our king is but a lad himself, you know, and for all the dread authority vested in him, has a very tender heart. That undoubtedly is why he denies himself the pleasure of conversing with you on this occasion.”

“Convey my humble thanks to the king,” said Palaemona, “and tell him that I mean to spare him further grief by surviving this lion hunt.”

Copreus said, “The king has empowered me to give you some information about the game you hunt. Do you care to hear it?”

“Certainly. I shall be grateful for anything you can tell me.”

Studying his face, she knew that he relished what he was about to say—which meant that she would not. Nevertheless, she understood that the more she learned about the lion—no matter how discouraging it might be—the better prepared she would be to fight the beast.

“Tell me, please,” she murmured.

“First of all,” said Copreus, “it's of monstrous size—bigger than an elephant, they say. Its teeth are ivory knives, its claws are brass hooks, and it wears a hide that no weapon can pierce. For many years it has prowled the country between Corinth and Argos, killing men and cattle, snapping up children, goats, and dogs. Hunting parties have been sent against the monster. An entire generation of the keenest hunters and strongest warriors have sought to rid the land of its curse. They failed. Many were mauled to death. They were the lucky ones. Others were wounded and eaten alive. Of late, however, no one has hunted the lion, for it seems a hopeless task. His hide, as I said, is armor. Spears and arrows skid off him like hail drops; no blade can pierce him, no net hold him. In short, Missy, the Nemean lion is pure yellow murder.”

Now the man's cheesy face was creased in a broad smile as he looked up at her, searching for signs of fear. She gazed back at him—laughed suddenly, reached down, plucked him from his saddle and turned him so that he sat facing the horse's tail.

“Dung man, farewell!” she chortled—and bounded away with great leaps, shouting with laughter.

The likelihood of being killed did not worry the girl. She welcomed the idea of descending to Tartarus, for Melampus was there. What did plague her was the prospect of hurting an animal. In all her life she had never injured a living creature, except for the murderous robber. How then could she bear to kill a beautiful big lion?

This was the problem she pondered as she traveled from Mycenae to Nemea. Since she could not solve it, she put it out of her mind and concentrated on smaller things. First of all, she had to arm herself. She already owned bow and arrows. Before leaving Thessaly she had found a Titan longbow on the site of the vanished courtyard. It was an enormous bow made of polished ash wood strengthened with stag bone. She did not use it in the mortal fashion, drawing bowstring only to breast, but in the powerful long-armed Titan way, bending the heavy bow almost double. In practice she had driven her bolts through a wall three feet thick.

Now, she wanted a spear and knew she had to make one. For the spears used by ordinary warriors seemed small as darts to her. Searching along the shore she found a stove-in boat, which she dismasted. She broke the mast in two and took the slender half. She did not wish to tip it with the leaf-shaped spearhead commonly used. That kind of spearhead made a large wound, but she wanted more penetrating power. She found an old iron spike and drove it into the end of the mast. Then she sharpened the spike against a rock, flaking the rust off, bringing it to a needle point. She practiced with this spear, throwing it at trees. After half a day she could split an oak in two at fifty paces.

She kept busy so that she wouldn't have to think. Or, rather, she thought of everything but her problem. Nevertheless, her thoughts came back to it; what could she do about not wanting to kill anything? She tried to do as Melampus had taught her, isolate her dilemma from her feelings and treat it as a problem in logic.

“Yes,” she thought, “but would
he
ever kill anything? Not likely, not even to save his own life. Perhaps to save someone else's. I don't know.”

But she had to stop thinking about Melampus. Hot tears gushed from her eyes. And it was several miles before she could think of anything except her grief.