Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (32 page)

Remembering the sharks, he swam under the ship and clung to its keel—a position that tended to discourage sharks, who need space above them to turn and strike. He hung on to the keel, pondering what to do. He had no fear of drowning. As a son of Poseidon, he could breathe underwater. But his wet clothes clung to him, and after a while he began to feel cold. “No use,” he thought. “I'll have to swim back to shore. If there are any sharks about, I'll give them some distraction.”

Drawing his sword underwater, he stabbed it through the planking of the ship, stabbed again and again, until he knew it was taking on a weight of water. He swam out from under the sinking vessel, cleaving the water as swiftly as a seal, for he didn't know how long the drowning pirates would occupy the sharks. He heard men screaming as he headed toward shore, and swam faster than ever.

13

The Ghost Returns

Upon reaching shore, Bellerophon immediately struck inland, and did not stop until he came to the meadow where he had left Sea Mist. He heard a rushing, a drumming of hooves; the stallion's eyes were pits of yellow light as it came thundering across the field to greet the lad.

“I'll tell you all about it in the morning,” Bellerophon said to the horse. “But let's sleep now. I'm weary.”

Bellerophon awoke while it was still dark. He heard her voice before he saw her. The moon was half veiled by clouds, and the horse, bulking in the weak moonlight, looked like a bank of fog. She drifted closer as the moon swam clear, and Bellerophon was able to make out a faint shape.

“Welcome, mother,” he said. “If ever I required good counsel, I do so now.”

“That is why I have come to you, my son.”

“I'm heartsick and weary, mother. I'm helpless against the Chimaera. Nothing I do alters the course of the beast. He's here, there, and everywhere, killing, destroying, and I can't even find him.”

“I'm not aware that I ever counseled you to go monster hunting.”

“No, mother, that was my own idea.”

“Are you sure you want to be a hero? It doesn't leave much room in life for other things, you know.”

“It's not the title I'm after. I don't want the name; I want the deed. I have a special reason for wishing to kill the Chimaera.”

“Hearken, son,” said the ghost.

To perform this deed

you need a steed

who's half your brother,

son of your father,

But not of your mother.

“Need a steed?” cried Bellerophon. “I have one, a marvellous one. He's over there. Isn't he a beauty?”

“Can he fly?”

“He runs like the wind. He seems to fly.”

“Seeming is not enough. To kill a monster demands all kinds of hard realities. To vanquish this one, which flies better than any bird, you will need a horse that flies as swiftly.”

“What kind of horse can do that?”

“One with wings.”

“Is there such a creature?” asked Bellerophon.

“There is. A great white stallion with golden wings—and many other unusual attributes. He is of divine stock, having been sired by Poseidon upon one of his earlier brides, the snake-haired Medusa.”

“She who was slain by the hero, Perseus?”

“The same. When Perseus cut off her head, two drops of blood fell to the ground. From one of them sprang the winged horse, Pegasus, whom, it is decreed, you must ride if you are to vanquish the Chimaera and claim Anteia.”

“You know about her then.”

“Of course. I know everything about you. It's the only knowledge that reaches me in Hades.”

“But will Anteia have me if I slay the Chimaera?”

“Is it not this hope that has launched you on your perilous quest?” asked the ghost.

“Yes … yes it is. But sometimes I think that it's only my own fantasy. A wild dream.”

“Wild dreams can become wilder realities. But only if you make them so.”

“What shall I do, mother?”

“Seek the winged horse.”

“Where?”

“On the slopes of Mount Helicon, in the land of Boeotia. Godspeed, my lovely boy.”

14

The Winged Horse

Traveling night and day, Bellerophon rode his great gray stallion out of Lycia back toward Boeotia. They reached Mount Helicon at mid-morning. It was a cloudless day; the hillside shimmered in a green haze. Searching the near slope, Bellerophon spotted a patch of whiteness, too large for sheep or goat. He rode uphill and saw gold flashing upon the whiteness. Coming closer, he gasped in wonder. A stallion of astounding beauty stood before him, snow-white and tall as a stag, with golden wings and mane, coral-red nostrils, and brass hooves.

“Pegasus!” he shouted. Dismounting, he ran toward the horse. The animal tossed its head and moved away. Bellerophon heard Sea Mist neighing in a tone he had never heard before. Turning, he saw the stallion's great eyes brimming with tears.

“No!” cried Bellerophon, running toward Sea Mist. But the horse whirled and galloped away, racing down the slope and out of sight before Bellerophon could reach him.

“He's jealous,” thought the lad. “The sight of me going after that magnificent winged horse was more than he could bear. Well, I can't think about it now; I've got to catch Pegasus.”

Bellerophon was starting uphill again when a little man popped out from behind a rock as if he had been hiding there. “Greetings!” he cried. “My name is Thallo. What's yours?”

“Bellerophon.”

The little man limped toward him, and Bellerophon saw that both his legs were twisted. He waited, quivering with impatience. Finally, Bellerophon said: “I don't wish to seem discourteous, sir, but I'm in somewhat of a hurry.”

“No one's in a hurry here,” the little man replied. “Are you sure you're in the right place?”

“This is Mount Helicon, isn't it?” asked the lad.

“Mount Helicon, indeed, where the Muses dwell, and where Pegasus finds pasture. To these slopes unpublished poets flock. For they believe that a short ride on the winged horse will endow them with the talent they lack. I know—I was among the first to try that flight. Pegasus let me mount him, and with one beat of his golden wings soared above the top of that cedar tree. I would have been dizzy with fear had I not been consumed by ecstacy. For, as we rose and the earth tilted beneath us, verses began to sing in my head. Oh, they were magical lines, sparkling with wit, brimming with melody. And just as I was beginning to savor my own worth, the damned brute bucked me off. I fell a long way, shattering both legs when I hit the ground.”

“And you've been here ever since?” asked Bellerophon.

“Certainly. I wasn't going to drag myself back to Thrace. They're a warlike breed there, splendid specimens every one, curse them. They didn't show much regard for me when I had two good legs: just imagine what chance I'd stand with them as a cripple. So, here I dwell, trying to recapture the verses I composed during my brief flight, and which were knocked out of my head when I fell.”

“Is that all you do?”

“All? Did you say all?” groaned the little man. “It's a lifetime occupation, my dear sir. It leaves no room for anything else. Of course, I spend some time observing other would-be poets trying to ride Pegasus, deriving a bitter pleasure from seeing them fall as I did.”

“Are they here too, all the others?”

“They are indeed. In that grove yonder you will find an encampment of gimpy versifiers. They cluster about a spring called Hippocrene, whose waters are said to possess healing powers, especially for those wounded in the service of the Muse. But I don't associate with them. I keep to myself, working on a great ballad, which I just began this year and which I wouldn't mind reciting to you if you can spare a few hours of utter attention.”

“Thank you,” replied Bellerophon, “but I can't. I'm on an urgent mission.”

“Urgent? What could be more urgent than this? You shall be the first to hear verses that will be sung four thousand years hence.”

“I'm not much on poetry.”

“Oh, these verses will change all that. They're not dreamy, moon-beamy stuff, but a story-song, full of violence and romance. Salted with reality. The story of Melicertes, king of Corinth, who was eaten by his own horses, all set in immortal quatrains.”

“They didn't eat him,” muttered Bellerophon.

“What did you say?”

“Melicertes's horses. They kicked him to death but didn't eat him.”

“Please, my boy, I'm concerned with matters of meter and rhyme. I can't be bothered with facts that don't fit. How do you know so much about it, anyway?”

“I come from Corinth. And now I must be on my way. I appreciate your conversation, good sir, but I must bridle Pegasus and ride him to Lycia, where the Chimaera hunts.”

“Ride Pegasus? So you too are a would-be poet? No wonder you don't want to hear anyone else's work.”

“I want Pegasus, sir, to ride into battle with the Chimaera.”

“Into battle? On that treacherous beast? You won't get past the top of the cedars.”

“Watch me,” said Bellerophon.

Pegasus was grazing on the slope somewhat above where the two men stood. Bellerophon moved toward the horse, calling softly, making the whickering sound that he used to call Sea Mist. Pegasus did not respond, did not raise his head. He was cropping grass and kept moving away as the young man approached.

Thallo had followed. “If you're really mad enough to want to ride him,” he said, “stand on that spur of rock there. Hunch your shoulders, groan a little, tear your hair. He'll think you're a poet and come to you. There's nothing he enjoys more than lifting us toward the heavens, then bucking us off, damn him.”

“Thanks,” said Bellerophon.

The youth clambered onto the long spur of rock that jutted from the mountainside and overlooked the valley. He hunched his shoulders, groaned, and pulled his hair. He saw the great white stallion soaring toward him on golden wings.

Bellerophon leaped from the rock onto the horse's back. He had always loved the feeling that surged through him when astride a horse—as if the animal's wild power was entering him, turning him into something better than he was. But he had never felt anything as strong as the godlike force that was lifting him now into the blue, thin, intoxicating air.

Pegasus tilted his golden wings and, gull-like, caught a current of air, riding it up, up, past the cedar-tops. Bellerophon felt the weird power surging into his legs, turning bones into rods of iron, making them clamp the horse tighter. Pegasus bucked, but his rider was welded to him and holding fast.

The winged horse trumpeted furiously, and rolled over in the air. Bellerophon, hanging by his knees, saw the flowered slope spinning beneath him and shouted with glee as he spotted Thallo's amazed face lifted toward the sky.

Pegasus rolled over and over in the air. Bellerophon clung fast. With both hands, he stroked the horse that was trying to throw him, and kept talking to the enraged animal as earth and sky kept changing places, blue spinning into green, and back again. But the youth clung as the horse whirled—never stopped stroking, crooning, using all the gentle, powerful skills he had learned breaking the wild horses of Corinth.

Suddenly, Pegasus stopped whirling, spread his wings, and coasted down. Bellerophon guided him by the pressure of his knees until the horse landed near Thallo and stood there, trembling. Bellerophon slid off and stroked the wonderful, strong neck—white and silky as Egyptian cloth.

Pegasus did not drop his head to his rider's shoulder and nuzzle him as other horses had done. The winged stallion was docile now, but he had not lost a shred of dignity. Bellerophon looked into his eyes. They were brilliant but blank; they were not to be read.

Bellerophon did not wish to fly to Lycia until the next day; he wanted to practice some aerial maneuvers with Pegasus before challenging the Chimaera. He also wished to practice his archery, which had grown rusty.

T
he young man camped on Helicon that night. There his mother came to him.

“Awake, my son,” she called.

“Greetings, mother.”

“Listen closely.”

When you leave this place

go straight to Thrace.

Between two peaks

Man shall find

what boy but seeks.

At the last, I tell you this—

to win the battle,

make heads rattle.

Her voice stopped.

“No, stay!” he cried. But she had gone. Bellerophon felt confused; he had not understood her completely. She had told him that he would find the Chimaera in Thrace; that he knew. But he couldn't figure out the last couplet.

“She's sometimes mystifying, but never wrong,” he said to himself. “So I'd better find out what I can about Thrace.”

He went to where Thallo was sleeping nearby, curled like a fetus. He knelt and shook him gently. “What? Who?…” groaned the little man. He sat bolt upright. “It's you! You've changed your mind! You want to hear my ballad after all. Very well. I know it by heart.”

“No, no,” said Bellerophon. “No ballad. I want to hear about Thrace. You come from there, you say.”

“Is that why you woke me?”

“Not because of an idle interest in geography, good Thallo. It's something much more important. My mother's ghost came to me tonight and told me that I would find the Chimaera in Thrace, so I go there in the morning.”

“Ghosts, monsters. You give me an idea for a short tale to frighten children with. Just wait while I put together a few verses.”

“Later, Thallo, please. This may be a matter of life and death. Tell me about Thrace.”

“Well, it's not unlike Boeotia. Much larger; its plains are wider, its mountains higher. And, of course, it's much colder in winter. Really cold in the highlands. Sometimes the mountain passes are choked with snow.”