Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (31 page)

“My mother's dead, actually. It's her ghost who visits me.”

“Often?”

“Just when I'm in danger of some kind. She doesn't stay long—just appears and says ‘do this, do that.' She wouldn't have known about you, maybe, because you would have been only a child when she died. You look very young to be married and a queen.”

“Well, you've come to the right place, my dear, sweet, new cousin. And the queen of Tiryns hereby officially welcomes you.”

She smiled mischievously, lightly kissed his lips, and glided back into the roses. He followed. He took the pruning knife from her hand, and bent to the flowers.

“Careful,” she murmured. “They have thorns.”

R
eturning from the hunt, Proetus, king of Tiryns, sent for his wife, and was informed that she was not in her chambers but in the garden, conversing with a young stranger. Instructing the captain of the royal guard to follow him at a distance, the king hurried to the garden.

Bellerophon and Anteia were standing amongst the roses, staring at each other. He was trying to think of something to say; she waited, smiling. Past the shining fall of her hair, the lad saw someone enter the garden—a man, tall and thin, with a face like a meat cleaver. He was in hunting clothes and wore no crown, but Bellerophon, raised in the court of a tyrant, knew immediately that here was another who demanded complete and instant obedience. Coming toward them in the green garments of the chase, the king looked like a weed, the kind that strangles roses. He came closer and stood over them, saying nothing, glaring from one face to the other.

“Greetings, my lord,” said Anteia. “May I present to you our cousin, Bellerophon, prince of Corinth.”

The king stood motionless for a moment, staring at the young man. Then he spoke in a dust-dry voice. “Are you here on official embassy, young sir? Do you bear messages from Melicertes?”

“No, your majesty, I bear no message.”

“But he brings important news!” cried Anteia. “Melicertes is dead, and there is strife in Corinth as his many sons contend for the throne.”

“That information has already reached me through other channels,” said the king. “Is that what brings you here, prince—to ask me to support your claim to the throne?”

“No, sir,” said Bellerophon. “I make no such claim.”

“Then why, may I ask, have you decided to honor us with your presence? A sudden impulse of kinship?”

“He's just passing through, my lord,” said Anteia. “He's on his way to Lycia.”

Now, Bellerophon, of course, had no such intention. He barely knew where Lycia was. But he realized that the girl was saying the first thing that came to her mind.

“Lycia, eh?” said Proetus. “To visit my esteemed father-in-law? He's not doing much entertaining these days. Some undiscriminating monster seems to find the Lycians very appetizing. This lady's father, the king of that land, is quite frantic with worry. He has been hoping, for some reason, that the gods will send a hero to slay the beast, but he's beginning to realize that the gods are forgetful, and that monsters are more plentiful than heroes.”

Bellerophon turned to the girl. “Have you seen this creature?”

“It has a name,” said Anteia. “It's called the Chimaera. Those who see it at close range are devoured. Those who glimpse it from afar and manage to escape are too frightened to see straight, and their descriptions vary. But we do know that it's gigantic, it flies, it spits fire—and eats everything in sight.”

“Perhaps you'll see for yourself when you get there,” said the king.

“Possibly,” said Bellerophon, who thought to himself: “This weasel-faced bully is worse than Melicertes. I am much inclined to strike him down where he stands and run away with his wife. But that hulking brute of a guard stands too close, and the rest of his troop is undoubtedly hiding in the underbrush. They'd be upon me before I could draw my sword.”

Aloud, he said: “Farewell, gracious queen. Do you have any message for your father?”

“Yes!” she cried. “Tell him I love him! Tell him not to despair. A hero will come one day and slay the Chimaera. I know he will.”

She burst into tears and ran out of sight behind the roses.

“Cousin,” said Proetus. “I think you had better be on your way without any more ceremony. I don't like young men speaking to my wife, cousin or not. And my captain of the guard over there, that huge fellow standing in the shade of the tree, is quick to read my wish, even that which remains unspoken. His method is simple, bless him, a bowstring about the neck of the offender, inducing acute strangulation—and behold! Whoever has displeased me will do so no more. You wouldn't want to fall into the hands of such a fellow, would you?”

“I thank you for your hospitality,” said Bellerophon, and departed.

11

The Hunt Begins

When Bellerophon had left Corinth, he had taken one of the horses that had killed the king, a huge gray stallion. He named it Sea Mist, and it became more than a mount to him. The horse was a fierce guardian, a loyal companion. During the long ride Bellerophon had fallen into the habit of speaking his thoughts to it.

Now, riding the great gray stallion out of Tiryns toward Lycia, Bellerophon suddenly wheeled the horse about and began to ride back. Then he stopped, and sat there on the horse's back, torn by indecision.

“I must go back and fetch her!” he cried. “No weedy tyrant will stop me, nor all his murderous bodyguard. Yes, we must return immediately.… But how do I know that she wants me to? A few soft words, a smile, a cousinly kiss—are they enough to build on? Why, she's the most beautiful girl in the world, and married to a very rich, very powerful king; could she really prefer me? Why do I think so? I do, but I'm not sure. When I asked if she had any message for her father, she cried, ‘Tell him I love him!' and her throbbing voice seemed to say, ‘Not only him, but you too.' Could she have meant that? Or did I hear what I wanted to hear? She has reason to be concerned about her father, of course, deviled as he is by that Chimaera, waiting for a hero that does not come.”

Bellerophon had dismounted and was leaning against the horse. He cried out suddenly, startling the animal. Then he clasped its great neck, exclaiming, “That's it! Yes! Why didn't I think of it before? I'll go and kill the monster that's been tormenting her father. We'll start right now. We won't even stop at the royal palace in Lycia, but go to the hills immediately, and begin our Chimaera hunt. She'll have to love me if I kill it, won't she? Surely she will. And you'll enjoy the hunt, won't you, Sea Mist? You haven't had much action lately.”

He leaped onto the stallion's back, drummed his heels, and they galloped away.

12

Dangerous Passage

Last reports had placed the Chimaera among the Lycian hills, and it was there that Bellerophon rode. The track was easy to follow; the monster had left terrible traces. From village to devastated village, Bellerophon stalked the monster. Sometimes he came so close that houses were still burning when he arrived and the kill was so fresh that vultures had not yet come to strip the bones.

Eagerly, he searched the sky for smoke plumes. Sometimes, he thought he saw gray coils winding up in the sky, and his heart would leap, but it was only the mist or a wisp of cloud. Once, he was sure that he saw the monster as a speck on the horizon growing larger and larger. He drew his sword and shouted a battle cry. But it was only an eagle hunting goats.

“I don't understand it,” he said to the horse. “Everyone else tries to avoid the monster, and dies in the process, while I, who want so desperately to find it, can't even catch a glimpse of the damned thing. Perhaps some god is playing games with me.”

The next village Bellerophon came to had not yet been destroyed. When he questioned the villagers, he found them unwilling to answer, as if they feared that any mention of the Chimaera might make it appear. Finally, a child told him that he had seen the beast flying high, in the direction of the sea.

“Back to the coast, then!” cried Bellerophon. And the horse went into its tireless swinging trot.

On the way, Bellerophon devised a plan, which he confided to the horse. “I've heard that the Chimaera attacks fishing fleets, for then it can eat the catch as well as those who do the catching. What I shall do is leave you on shore, swim out to one of the boats, climb aboard, and wait for the monster to attack.”

When the youth had left Corinth, he had also taken the dead king's sword, a magnificent weapon, with a blade so sharp it could cut a floating feather in two. Its hand guard was made of beaten copper and its hilt was wrapped in tough, pliant calf's hide, stitched with gold wire. “I must have it,” Bellerophon had said to himself, standing over his fallen foe. “I killed an enemy who was trying to kill me, and by the rules of battle I am entitled to his weapon. It's not theft, it's legitimate loot.”

But this priceless sword was to plunge Bellerophon into an adventure that threatened to end his career before he encountered the Chimaera.

Riding along, he could smell a salt wind now, and glimpsed the sea like a tilted tin plate, reflecting the sunlight. He had decided not to ride all the way to the shore, afraid that the faithful horse might follow him into the water when he tried to swim out to the fishing vessels.

He stopped, dismounted, and instructed Sea Mist to roam the meadows and wait for him until he should return. The stallion laid back its ears, nudged him with its head, and whickered plaintively. But the lad said, “You can't come. Wait for me here.” He set off on foot, trying to shut his ears to the lonely, trumpeting cry the horse sent after him.

T
he piers were empty. A large school of mullet had been sighted and the entire fleet had been put out to sea. They had sailed a good distance; Bellerophon saw only smudges on the horizon. He knew that the boats would not have bunched themselves, but would be strung out for miles, for fishermen of the same village gave one another generous room to cast their nets.

The shore was rocky here. Bellerophon began searching for a break in the boulder line where he might enter the water and begin his long swim. He heard someone shouting, and turned.

A huge, burly man was clambering over the rocks toward him. He was bearded and swarthy, with a look of subdued ferocity, but he spoke courteously: “Good day, stranger. You are a stranger, are you not?”

“I am,” said Bellerophon. “My home is Corinth.”

“I saw that you were gazing out to sea as if trying to identify some vessel out there. I know most of the folk hereabout. Is there someone special you're looking for?”

“No, sir,” replied Bellerophon. “But I mean to join a crew. My intention is to swim out and board one of the fishing boats.”

“You won't make it,” said the man. “There are sharks in these waters; they tend to cluster around fishing boats when the catch is good.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your advice. Nevertheless, I mean to get out there, sharks or not.”

“I can save you a long dangerous swim,” said the stranger. “I was just about to join the fleet myself. My ship's waiting in the next cove. I'll be glad to give you passage.”

“You're very kind. What is your fee?”

“No fee at all,” said the man. “We here on this coast have a reputation for hospitality.”

The man led Bellerophon along the rocky shore to a cove where a black vessel lay moored. The crew was as savage looking as the captain, but said nothing as Bellerophon boarded. He noticed that the ship carried no nets, but he forgot all about that in the excitement of setting sail.

The ship was fast. It scudded before the wind. Bellerophon searched the sky as they sailed, hoping to spot the Chimaera. He did not realize that there were other dangerous creatures prowling much closer. For fishing was not the sole occupation of the coast dwellers. Many of them found piracy more profitable. And the crew of this particular vessel happened to be the most viciously successful pirates in those waters.

Blinded to everything else by his desire to find the Chimaera, the lad did not realize his peril until a heavy hand clamped his shoulder and swung him around. It was the captain. His other hand held an ax.

“Farewell, stranger,” he said.

“Why farewell?” stammered Bellerophon.

“You are about to leave us, young sir. A final journey, in fact.”

“But why?”

“Because you're too foolish to live.”

“What have I done that is so foolish?”

“You have come among us alone, wearing a treasure at your belt. Very unwise.”

“But why?”

“Because we're pirates, of course. Pirates take what they want and throw the rest away.”

“You mean you want my sword?”

“Exactly. Indeed, I have considered it
my
sword ever since I first laid eyes on it. And the time has come to take possession.”

“But why must you kill me?” asked Bellerophon. “Just take the thing and let me go.”

“I can understand your point of view,” said the pirate. “But it just doesn't work that way. We don't like to leave witnesses; it's not our policy. However, I can assure you, you'll feel no pain. I'm a skilled axman, and this blade will shear through your neck so swiftly that you won't feel a thing until you're reunited with your head down in Hades.”

“I appreciate your compassion,” said the youth. “Please … take my sword.” Bellerophon drew it from its sheath, and, with a lightning flexion of his arm, whisked the blade through the pirate's thick neck like a cook cutting a celery stalk. The body fell to the deck, spouting blood. The head rolled into the scuppers.

“You'll be reunited with it in Hades!” shouted Bellerophon, and jumped overboard as the other pirates rushed at him.