Hercules (11 page)

“I’m no thief,” said the young man. “I do not steal. I take. I am Hercules.”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place? I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve been standing here for a thousand years, waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For someone strong enough to hold up my part of the sky while I take a little rest. The name they spoke was Hercules.”

“ ‘They’ are mistaken, whoever ‘they’ are,” said Hercules. “I haven’t come here to hold up any sky, but to pick some apples.”

“One little stamp of my foot and a ton of rocks will roll down on you,” said Atlas. “So you won’t get very far with your apples.”

Indeed, just at that moment, a huge boulder came rolling down the slope of the Titan’s thigh. Hercules had to leap away or he would have been crushed beneath it.

“That was just a sample,” said Atlas.

“All right,” called Hercules. “I’ll make a bargain with you. If you let me have an apple or two, I’ll take your place for a little while.”

“I agree. I agree. Take the sky.”

“But only for a very short while. I’m supposed to be strong for a human being, but I’m no Titan, you know. If I take the sky from you, you must take it back quickly.”

“Agreed, agreed,” said Atlas. “Are you going to stand there talking about it for another thousand years? Climb to the top of that hill there, and I’ll pass you the sky.”

Hercules climbed to the top of a nearby hill and called out, “Before I take it, just tell me in plain words how long you’ll be.”

“Not long, not long. I just want to stretch my legs a bit. I’ll run across to that orchard, pick your apples, and come back.”

“Do you promise?”

“Upon my word as a Titan—Titans are older than the gods and much more honest.”

And Atlas, moving swiftly for something so large, lifted the bowl of the sky from his shoulders and set its rim on the shoulders of Hercules. His knees sagged. He felt them sagging. He felt his spine crumbling. But he couldn’t bear to show any weakness. Pride became a steel rod running from his soles to the top of his head, stiffening his backbone. His knees locked. Thighs and legs bunched like rock, welding him to the mountain top. He stood there, hunched, muscles writhing, stood there on the mountain top holding the sky on his shoulders.

Atlas skipped over the island, trampling trees and blowing eagle nests out of the cliffs with the wind of his laughter.

Hercules stood, waiting. His shoulders were on fire. He felt his ribs caving in. He could hardly turn his head. He rolled his eyes, searching for the Titan. The light faded. He felt the sinking sun warm his back, saw his own hunched shadow on the plain below. It was a sight he didn’t want to see.

“Atlas,” he called. “Atlas!”

A thunderous chuckle rolled across the valley.

“Atlas! Where are you? Come back!”

Thunder chuckled again. “Little fool, I’ll never come back.”

“You promised.”

“I lied.”

Hercules, with great effort, moved his head, shifting his gaze upward. The evening star had come out. It is the first star to burn in the western sky. He looked deep into its greenish blue light; it seemed to be laughing at him. He shrugged. And the star fell hissing into the sea, starting a plume of steam and leaving a scar of light in the sky.

“Hold still!” roared Atlas. “If you move, the stars will fall, and we will burn, burn …”

“I can’t help moving,” said Hercules. “My shoulders are sore.”

“Never mind pain. It’s only for eternity. Bear your burden like a man.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Hercules. “But I’ll need a pad of some kind. My lion pelt will do. If I can fold it on my shoulders under the edge of the sky, then I’ll be able to stand here forever and not twitch or shake the stars.”

“Very well,” said Atlas. “Use your pelt.”

“But you must hold the sky for a bit, while I fold the pelt on my shoulders.”

“Oh, no,” said Atlas. “Out of the question. Never again will I hold that sky.”

Hercules shrugged. The horn of the moon snapped off and the tide, feeling its silver reins loosen, sprang upon the beach. Atlas found himself knee-deep in water. It swirled higher and higher.

“Clumsy little idiot!” he bellowed. “Miserable weakling! You cracked the moon and unbound the tides.”

“My shoulders are getting sorer and sorer,” said Hercules. “And look, there are more stars out now. They’ll be raining down in a minute. Better let me fix that pad.”

He saw Atlas wading toward him.

“All right, all right,” called the Titan. “I’ll hold that accursed sky again, but just for a second. Then you must take it back and bear it forever.”

“I promise,” said Hercules.

Atlas groaned, hunching his back again under the awful weight of the sky. Hercules, feeling light as a feather and full of joy, raced down the slope of the mountain and splashed through the shrinking tide to where the apple tree stood. He filled his pouch with the golden fruit.

“Stop! Stop! What are you doing?” cried Atlas.

“Breaking the same promise you did. Taking a few apples.”

Atlas lifted his gigantic foot, preparing to stamp, and to start an avalanche that would bury Hercules under a ton of rock. But the stars were still wobbling and began to rain spears of fire. And Atlas had to steady himself quickly and quiet the sky. For in the beginning of the world, all the gods had helped adorn the heavens and were very proud of their great chandelier of stars. He did not dare let it break.

“Farewell,” called Hercules. “Don’t think badly of me. I, too, have burdens which I can’t pass on to anyone else.”

Atlas didn’t answer. He was weeping. His tears were snowflakes, the first of that year.

D
EEP DOWN BENEATH THE
earth, in the very depths of Tartarus, Hades sat on his ivory and ebony throne watching the hordes of the newly dead passing before him driven by demons. Hades was so happy, he almost smiled, for he was getting the help he asked for, and his kingdom was growing and growing.

Poseidon prowled the waters of the world. He whistled up the four winds and sent them rampaging across the sea, sinking ships and drowning their crews. He whipped the winds into a wild circular dance, which became tempest and hurricane, sweeping away forests, farms, entire cities. He quaked the bottom of the sea, splashing up a huge tidal wave that swept over the islands, drowning everyone.

And on fair days, when the weather wasn’t killing them, men were killing each other. Ares had come to earth to kindle hatred in the hearts of men, and the nations of the world hurled armies against each other. With spear and arrow they attacked each other, with fire and sword and flung stone. The beaked ships of their navies rammed great holes in each other; sailors were flung into the water and eaten by sharks.

Finally, the sounds of anger and grief and terror reached even to heaven, and Zeus, sitting on Olympus, heard the clamor. He looked down, and what he saw made him very sad. He couldn’t understand what was happening below. He called his daughter, Athene, goddess of wisdom.

“Why is mankind behaving this way?” he said. “Why are they killing each other?”

“They are following our example and dancing to our tune.”

“What do you mean?”

“When they kill, they copy us. When Poseidon whistles a typhoon out of a clear sky and sweeps away their homes, they know that the god of the sea is a killer; his weapon is storm. And they have been told that whatever gods do is good.”

“You can’t blame their wars on Poseidon.”

“I can blame Ares. He has planted the seeds of hatred in their hearts. He has stuffed the minds of foolish kings with the idea that their safety depends on the number of corpses they can produce and the amount of treasure they can steal from one another. So they raise armies and make war. O Father, if we really want to know why humankind is bloodthirsty, we should look at ourselves.”

“What do you suggest, O wise maiden?”

“We gods are very mighty; our faults are mighty, too. We’re all related and share the same bad habits. We have known absolute power, and that rots our sense of pity. We should enlarge our councils.”

“You mean bring in more gods?”

“I think we need a human up here to teach us humanity.”

“A man?”

“Or a woman. Someone who has lived on earth and known the toil and the danger and the suffering—and the hopes and the joys that people know.”

“But who? Whom shall we call up here to teach us humanity?”

“I cannot tell you. If I were you, I should call upon the wisest of humankind and heed that opinion.”

“Who is the wisest of humankind?”

“An old old man who has been blind for many years and in his blindness has seen more than anyone else. His name is Tyresias, but he is known simply as the Blind Man.”

“You have given me much to think of, daughter. When the time comes, I shall consult with you again … and with your blind friend.”

O
NCE AGAIN, HERCULES
had done what he set out to do and was sailing home with three golden apples. Once again, he was sailing on a raft he had made himself with his spear as a mast and his lion skin as a sail. The raft was slow and clumsy, but ever since his fight with the octopus, he considered a raft to be the best platform for fighting sea monsters, and that was more important than speed.

However, he was not allowed to sail peacefully home. Hera whispered to Poseidon, who called a half-gale out of the north, driving the raft southward toward the hot hump of land called Libya, where the giant Anteus ruled. Hercules stood on his raft, studying the coast. He didn’t like what he saw. It was a bare scorched-looking stretch of shore. But then he saw something he liked even less. An enormous figure was wading toward him, waist-deep in the sea.

“Can this be that giant Nereus spoke of?” wondered Hercules. “The one I have to fight? I hope not. He’s almost as big as Atlas.”

He watched, horrified, as the giant reached into the water with a hand as big as a skiff and pulled out a swordfish. This was a terrible creature, as big as a shark; its sword was three feet long, and needle-pointed. But the giant cupped it out of the water like a boy catching a minnow and stood there, waves swirling around his waist, picking his teeth with the swordfish. He cast it back into the water, laughing a great rumbling laugh.

“Ho there,” he called. “You, little one, standing on those twigs, who are you?”

“I am Hercules.”

“I’m glad to see you, Hercules. You’re bringing me three golden apples, aren’t you?”

“I have three golden apples,” said Hercules. “But not for you. One of them I must bring back to the king of Mycenae, for that is my task. Another one is a gift for a girl I know, named Iole. And the third is a gift for a young lady named Dienera.”

“Very generous. But I’m afraid you don’t understand. I am Anteus. This is my land and my harbor. And I am charging you a docking fee: three golden apples. You must pay or you cannot leave.”

“I won’t give you these apples. You’ll have to take them.”

“Do you really want me to use force? You’re either very brave or very foolish or perhaps both. Don’t you know that I can squash you like an ant?”

“Very well, I challenge you to a wrestling match. But let me come ashore and eat something and sleep a bit. I have sailed a long way.”

“I like you, little Hercules,” boomed Anteus. “You’ve not only brought me three beautiful golden apples, but you’re going to give me some sport as well. Come ashore, come ashore. We’ll dine together. It’ll be your last meal, of course, for tomorrow we fight.”

When you’re not used to the desert, it looks flat and ugly by day. But it can be beautiful at night. If you sleep outdoors, you see stars flaring like torches in a black sky, and they sink toward you, spinning like fire-wheels. You can weave their threads of light among your thoughts and make pictures that flicker against the velvet sky.

That’s what Hercules was doing the night before the fight. He lay out on the sand looking up at the sky. He couldn’t sleep. He was trying to puzzle out the verse spoken by Nereus. “To prove the giant’s worth,/stretch him flat on earth.” Earth was Mother Earth, Nereus had said. And contact with earth robbed Anteus of his strength. But was this the truth or a lie? Should he believe it or do the opposite? Had the verse helped him before or not? A memory picture flared. He was standing in the orchard throwing beehives into Ladon’s gullet. Had Nereus told him the truth about that? “Honey to the snake,” he had said, but hadn’t mentioned bees. Yet bees and honey were connected, very much so. So was that line a lie or not? And the next line, “Titan’s burden take.” Another picture flared, his own hunched shadow being crushed by the heavy rim of the sky. He had shouldered the Titan’s burden and had almost been stuck with it forever. Yet, and this was true too, if he hadn’t taken the sky from Atlas and frightened him by shaking the stars, he would never have been able to get the golden apples away from the orchard. So, were those lines true or not?

Now another picture flickered. Himself fighting the giant, Anteus, who was ten times his own size, strong enough to crush stones in his hands and to pick his teeth with swordfish. “To prove the giant’s worth,/stretch him flat on earth.” A truth or a lie or something between? Important to know, because when fighting an Anteus, one mistake is all you’re allowed.

“Well, maybe it’ll get clearer during the fight,” he said to himself. “Best thing I can do now is get some sleep.” So he chased the pictures and the puzzling verse out of his head, shut his eyes, and went fast asleep.

The next morning, they fought, and everyone in the land came to watch. They wrestled in a natural arena, a level place cupped by worn-down hills. The only rule in this match was that you had to come in without weapons. After the bout started, you could do anything you wanted, use anything you could get. Punching, kicking, gouging, choking—these were what the people wanted to see. But they were also used to being disappointed. No one had ever lasted more than a minute against Anteus.

The wrestlers stripped and oiled themselves. Slaves had to lean ladders against Anteus and climb with sponges and buckets of oil to the great plateau of his shoulders and the huge keg of his chest. The slaves departed. The wrestlers crouched.