Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two (42 page)

“Even if I were inclined to believe your crazed promises,” said the captain, “how do you think I could manage to sail directly against a head wind?”

“You take care of the navigation,” said Nisus, “and I'll take care of the wind. I'll whistle one up that will take us right to Crete.”

“I've heard enough,” cried the captain. “Be silent immediately or I'll have you chained like a madman and set you ashore at the first landfall.”

Whereupon, it is told, the amazed crew saw the prince's head catch fire. Then they realized that what they saw was a single lock of his black hair changing color, glowing red-gold. They saw him raise his hand, his fingers making horns, and point at the captain—who uttered a shriek, raced across the deck, and leaped into the water.

Nisus put his fingers to his lips and whistled. The crew heard the masts creak as the wind shifted. “Put about!” cried Nisus. They seized the lines and pulled down the huge clumsy sail, then raised it again as the bare-masted vessel swung around, pointing its prow at the setting sun.

The captain was still afloat, but soon became a speck as the ship scudded toward Crete under a freshening east wind. They still heard his screams, and knew that sharks were gathering.

King Minos summoned Daedalus to the palace and said, “I have another task for you, my artful one.”

“It is my pleasure to serve you,” said Daedalus, bowing low.

“I want to arrange the security of this island while my war fleet is absent—which will happen more and more frequently as I begin to attack my neighbors in a serious way. But the seas are wide. Anyone who can sail a ship is a potential enemy, and can raid us while I am invading someone else.”

“What you need then,” said Daedalus, “while your navy is patriotically pursuing your plans for empire, is something other than a war vessel to repel enemy shipping. Do I understand you correctly?”

“You do.”

“Give me a few hours to think, Your Majesty, and I shall return with a plan, Athena willing, of course—and Hephaestus.”

“Oh, I think my half brother and sister will favor our designs,” said Minos, “and inspire you with another of your brilliant notions.”

He spoke this way because he sought every opportunity to claim that he was a son of Zeus, something he wasn't too sure of but wished fervently to believe, and even more, to make others believe.

But whether the gods did, indeed, favor Minos, or whether imperial designs are advanced by some other agency, Daedalus was again kindled by inspiration almost divine. He created a unique sentinel for the island of Crete.

It was a statue cast in bronze, the great hollow of its thorax stuffed with springs and wheels and cogs so artfully constructed that they endowed the bronze figure with its own weird energy. Daedalus named him Talus, meaning “ankle,” for the energy flowed through a veinlike channel that ran from head to foot. The vein was stoppered at the ankle by a single bronze pin. There was never a sentinel like Talus. Tall as a tree, tireless, invulnerable to weapons, he was completely obedient to the orders issued by Daedalus. He circled the island three times a day. Whenever a ship approached, he threw boulders at it, sinking it, or driving it off.

One of the under-officers approached Nisus and requested permission to speak.

“Permission granted,” said Nisus, smiling at him—which confused the officer because the former captain had smiled only when about to do something cruel. This is why none of the crew had been sorry to see him go overboard.

“What I wanted to say, Your Highness, is that these waters have proved perilous of late.”

“Pirates, do you mean? Why, we haven't seen a sail in days.”

“No, Prince, the war galleys of Minos have swept these waters clear of pirates. And that war fleet itself is no menace to trading vessels; the Cretans are eager for trade. But Minos is away now; his ships blockade the island of Thera. And when the king sails off with his fleet, he leaves a giant patrolling the shores of Crete. He hurls boulders at any ship that approaches. He usually hits what he aims at, and what he hits, sinks.”

“A single giant to patrol the entire coast?” said Nisus. “That would hardly seem sufficient.”

“He's supposed to be some sort of extraordinarily magical monster, performing far beyond what flesh and blood can do.”

“Well, my good man, you awaken my curiosity. I'm eager to see this unusual creature. Don't worry, though. I shan't endanger ship or crew. We'll anchor a safe distance offshore, and I'll smuggle myself onto the island in a small boat, do what I have to do, and return to you.”

“Oh my Prince,” cried the man. “We have known you only a few days but we have learned to love you. Now you're proposing to throw away your life trying to do what no man can. I pray you, desist. And I know that I speak for the entire crew.”

“Thank you,” said Nisus. “I value what you have told me more than you can know. Still, I must ask you to have faith in me and not despair of my life. I may be a bit magical myself, you know.”

Having been warned of the bronze sentinel that patrolled the Cretan coast and hurled boulders at approaching vessels, Nisus kept his ship offshore and, when night came, dived overboard and swam in.

He slept on the beach, and in the morning pushed inland, looking for the cattle. He found them grazing on a meadow, and stared in admiration at the great sleek animals, hot gold against the green grass.

He heard something and whirled about. Coming toward him was what looked like a giant in full armor. Then he saw that it was not armor. The giant
itself
was made of bronze, but moving as if alive. Nisus came to a lightning decision. He knew that he would be helpless in the grasp of that metal monster. Knew that he had only one chance—and only if he was able to reach the beach.

He needed to be on the beach because he needed sand. One of the wizardries he had learned from Thoth was the
djinn
trick of calling up a sandstorm. The ibis god had taught him a magic whirling dance that would make the sand rise in tall spouts and whirl with him. Then the spouts would go where he pointed.

He was racing through a fringe of trees toward the beach. He had chosen this route because Talus was too wide to pass between the trees and had to crash through the bush. Nevertheless, the bronze giant was enormously powerful and could cover twenty yards at a stride—and had almost caught up to Nisus before he burst out of the trees onto the beach.

Nisus immediately began to whirl. Tall spouts of sand arose and whirled also. Nisus whirled faster and faster, trying to thicken the flying sand to make himself invisible. Then, suddenly, remembering how the metal monster was constructed, he had another idea. To move the way it did, it had to be jointed at shoulder, elbow, wrist, hip, knee, and ankle. But being made of bronze and having no hide, the joints were open.

Whirling among the spouts of sand, Nisus pointed to Talus, who was groping toward him. The sand spouts moved that way and swirled about the towering figure. Nisus stopped whirling. The air cleared. The giant stood stiffly on the beach. Stiffly, creakily, it was trying to raise one massive leg. With a mighty effort it began to move toward Nisus, but rigidly, so slowly that Nisus saw that his idea had worked. Sand had settled into the metal joints, clogging them, making it almost impossible for the monster to move despite its inhuman strength.

So Nisus was able to race back to the meadow, cut out three cows and a bull, and drive them to the beach and into the sea before Talus had moved ten yards.

Nisus swam the cattle out to the ship, and heard the men cheering as he approached.

6

Prince and Wolf-girl

Scylla crouched on the brow of a hill, howling to the moon. She was very lonesome. It was spring, and the rest of the pack had paired off, leaving her to herself. She raced downhill and through the woods, over a meadow and up a steeper slope to the top of the headland which looked over the sea.

She walked toward the cliff's edge.

“No-o-o,” called a cavernous voice.

She whirled about. It was the cowled boulder, the Stone Crone; her eyepits were full of moon-glare; the wind was blowing through her mouth-hole and was a voice.

“No-o-o.”

Scylla faced her. “No what?”

“Don't do it. Don't jump.”

“I don't want to live anymore,” cried Scylla. “I'm too lonely.”

“You have come into your strength. It is springtime. You need a mate.”

“I can't find one. I'm too different.”

“It's time you learned that,” said the Crone. “You're not a wolf. You're a girl. You must find a man.”

“A man? Never! Good-bye. I'm going off the cliff.”

“That won't solve anything.”

“Why won't it?” said Scylla.

“Those who kill themselves, particularly those who are young, return as resentful ghosts who wander the earth trying to reclaim their estranged bodies. Such ghosts are the very essence of loneliness, and are condemned to wander through eternity never finding what they seek. You must try another way.”

“What way?”

“Do you remember what I told you once when you asked me what was to be?”

“I remember some windy verse. I was very happy that night. I was among my brothers. It was beginning to storm. Everything was wild and beautiful.”

“I'll tell you again what I told you then:

You shall stalk

the Son of the Hawk …

First a wedding,

then the beheading …

“I still don't know what that means,” said Scylla.

“It means that someone is coming to Corinth—

Strong in battle,

rich in cattle …

He is your destiny.

“Not if he's a man,” said Scylla. “I can't bear men. They're too ugly—with their bald bodies and useless noses and dull eyes and tiny teeth.”

“He's not quite a man,” said the Crone. “He's part wizard, as you are part wolf. He'll know how to please you.”

The Crone fell silent. Scylla moved to the edge of the cliff and looked down upon the dark heaving mass of the waters. It was a long way down. Surely, such a fall would shatter even a stubborn ghost. She shuddered, backed off, turned and raced into the woods.

The next day, Scylla was prowling the edge of the forest. She hadn't eaten, but was too disheartened to stalk any game. She stiffened as the wind brought her a rich meaty smell. She followed the spoor across a meadow. In the distance she saw a blur of gold, and circled so as to conceal herself among a fringe of trees. Moving silently, blending with the shadows, she came close enough to see.

The odor was coming from three golden cows and a golden bull. Scylla hadn't realized how hungry she was. She slavered as she watched the cows. She wasn't sure she could pull one down without the help of other wolves. For these animals were enormous, and the bull was larger still; his gilded horns were sharp as spears, and he was carved of living muscle.

The bull bellowed suddenly and lowered his horns. The cows gathered in a tight group and became a hedge of horns. Scylla saw why. A bear was lumbering toward them across the meadow—a springtime bear, fresh out of hibernation, famished and foul-tempered.

A man sprang out from behind the cows and placed himself in front of the bull, facing the bear. Scylla gaped in amazement. She hadn't smelled him. He didn't quite smell like a man; he smelled of spice-wood and hot sand. He wore only a short, embroidered apron and a spiral hat. He was very slender, boyish, almost birdlike, not one to fight a beast that the mightiest hunter dared not face alone.

The bear reared up, towering over the man, prepared to take him into its fatal hug. Scylla stared at the man. Was he actually smiling, or was his face twisted by a rictus of fear? He raised his right hand and pointed at the bear. His fingertips glowed. Five streams of blue light flowed toward the bear. It whimpered and dropped to all fours—rolled over like a huge affectionate dog, waving its paws in the air. The man laughed aloud and tickled the bear's belly. The huge animal whined with pleasure.

Without conscious decision, Scylla found herself walking across the grass. She stood before him. She was much taller. Looking at his slender figure and seeing a smile kindle his face as he gazed back at her, she was swept by a desire to do what the bear had failed to do—hug him to her until she felt his ribs breaking. If he dared raise his candelabra of a hand to melt
her
will with blue flame, she would seize that arm, whirl him off his feet, smash him to the ground.

He did not raise his hand. But one lock of black hair turned red-gold. She couldn't stop herself from gasping.

“What's the matter?” he said.

“Your hair's on fire.”

“No it's not.”

“I see it. Some of it's burning.”

“Just changing color,” he said. “It's not hot. Feel …”

He tried to take her hand and put it on his head. She bit him. He stared at his bleeding hand in wonder, then stared at her. She was licking the blood off her lips.

“You bit me,” he murmured.

“You tried to burn me.”

He shook his head, a head that changed as she watched. His hair became feathers. His eyes grew huge and flared with wildness. Nose and mouth merged and solidified, became a sharp beak. It was a hawk's head he wore. Great wings sprouted from his shoulders.

“What are you doing?” she cried. “What are you?”

“A prince of Egypt,” he said. “Rightful heir to a throne I shall never occupy. Nevertheless, blood is stronger than politics, and Egypt's rightful king on certain great occasions can become an earthly mode of Horus, the hawk-god.”

“Can you use those wings?”

“On great occasions.”

He seized her. She drew back her fist, preparing to knock him senseless—for a blow from that fist could fell a full-grown stag. But before she could strike she felt herself being lifted into the air, a feeling so delicious that she unclenched her fist and wrapped her arm about his waist as he bore her upward through the shining air.