The Poison In The Blood (3 page)

The next day, another village was found empty, save for the remains of melted human flesh. Again, a monstrous trail led from the village to the swamp. The King was in despair. He offered a reward to any man who would dare to enter the swamp. No one accepted it. Everyone was too afraid. People from the villages began to crowd into Argos and the city became full. Everyone stood on the streets and in the market place. They talked about the monster in the swamp. Then they talked about Heracles. They all agreed that he was the only man who could save them. But no one knew where he was. He had gone out into the world to fight monsters - never knowing that there was one on his own doorstep. Messengers were sent to find him. The people of Argos waited and prayed to the gods that Heracles would be found. Days passed. Then, at last, he came.

He was wearing a lion’s hide. The forelegs hung over his shoulders. The hind legs covered his own. The mane covered the back of his head and neck. The teeth protected his forehead. When the King asked where the lion hide had come from, Heracles told him the story.

He had travelled, he said, from Argos to Nemea. He had heard that the people of Nemea were being hunted by a giant lion. Heracles left Nemea and took the road that led into the mountains where the lion’s cave was. When Heracles arrived at the cave, he saw human bones around the opening. He gave a great war-cry and the lion came padding out. It was a giant. When it roared, Heracles felt the blast of its breath directly into his face. The breath stank of meat. The lion leapt and Heracles shot at it with his bow. But the arrow bounced harmlessly off the lion’s side. The lion kept coming forward, and so Heracles swerved out of its way. He pulled out his sword and struck the neck of the lion. The sword shattered into tiny fragments. The lion swiped at him with its claws. Heracles ducked while reaching for his club. He smashed it on to the lion’s head with no effect, so he threw the club away. He reached for the lion’s neck with his bare hands and pressed his fingers tight around its throat. The lion roared. Clinging to one another, Heracles and the lion rolled down the mountainside. Heracles continued to squeeze the lion’s throat. Tighter and tighter his fingers gripped. The lion began to choke. With one last spasm, its body finally fell still. Heracles rose to his feet. Then he realised the lion’s hide was stronger than any armour. He wanted it for himself, and so he tried to skin the carcass, but he couldn’t cut through the hide. In the end, he used the lion’s own claws to slice it off. After cleaning the hide, he had tied it over his shoulders.

That was the story, and everyone who heard it felt a sudden surge of relief. They all began to shout, begging Heracles to go to the swamps and kill whatever lay lurking there.

Heracles knew his duty and promised that he would go to the swamps at once. He set out on the road that led to them. As he left, the people of Argos watched him from the city walls. Only one of them dared to follow: a young boy named Iolus. He dreamed of being a hero, and he was ashamed that no one else in Argos was brave enough to accompany Heracles. Of course, when Heracles looked round and saw the young boy following him, he was angry. He ordered Iolus to return to his mother. Iolus refused. Instead, he scampered ahead of Heracles down a path that led to the swamps. There, by the side of the water, was a boat.

“Let me row you,” said Iolus. “How else will you be able to get into the swamp?”

Heracles stepped into the boat. “Give me the oars,” he said, “and go back to your mother.”

“I won’t,” said Iolus.

Heracles frowned. He reached for the oars. Iolus stepped backwards. At that moment, a wave hit the boat and Heracles and Iolus almost fell over. The wave washed them further into the bubbling waters of the swamp.

“Wha . . . what was that?” stammered Iolus.

Heracles held up a hand. “ssssshhhh.” He pointed. In the distance, something huge was slipping through the reeds. Then, with a splash, it vanished into a fresh expanse of water. A new wave came rushing towards the boat and rocked it so that Heracles and Iolus almost fell over again. The boat drifted further into the swamp.

“What was it?” asked Iolus again.

“Trouble,” said Heracles. He took an arrow from his quiver and placed it in his bow. Then he turned to Iolus and gestured with his head. There was no talk of sending Iolus back to his mother now. Iolus picked up the oars and began to row. The boat slipped through the water. The mist thickened. Not a sound could be heard except the splashing of the oars. Heracles crouched. His knuckles whitened around his bow. Iolus continued to row but it was becoming harder as the water seemed to thicken. He looked down at the swamp: it was green and purple and red. It bubbled with lazy plops. Then, suddenly, the oar hit something. He peered over the side and screamed. There, in the water, was a bobbing, half-eaten corpse. Iolus looked around. Corpses were everywhere. The swamp was a soup of melting corpses. Iolus screamed again.

At that moment, something monstrous loomed out of the mist.

At first there was only a single neck. It rose up high, like a snake’s. Its eyes were narrow with hunger. It had orange and scarlet frills around its neck. Its mouth snarled open. Its teeth were razor sharp. Drool dripped from them. When the drool landed in the water, it hissed. When it landed on mud or rushes, it burned them. The neck coiled and twisted. The head darted. The jaws were open wide. It spat poison at the boat. Iolus had to row frantically to avoid it. The boat rocked. Heracles stumbled. The water hissed and boiled where the monster’s poison splashed.

Heracles pulled back the string of his bow. He aimed. He fired. The arrow sang as it flew. It thudded into the open mouth of the monster, which bellowed in pain. Its blood was black. It spurted out in a thick flood from between the monster’s jaws. It splashed into the water. Again the water boiled.

“You killed it!” shouted Iolus. “You killed it!”

“No,” replied Heracles. “Look.” He pointed.

Iolus stared. Something seemed to be moving beneath the water. Coils, twisting and turning. “More snakes?” he yelled in terror.

Heracles shook his head. He strung another arrow and gritted his teeth. “A hydra,” he whispered. “It is a hydra. A hydra with a hundred necks.”

Suddenly a second head rose from the depths. Its neck arched high above the boat. It was followed by a third. Then a fourth, a fifth, a sixth. Heracles’s bow hummed. Arrow after arrow flew. But heads rose from the swamp faster than Heracles could shoot them; faster than Iolus could count them as well. Perhaps there were a hundred, he thought in terror. Perhaps more. The necks coiled and seethed and darted forwards and back. Arrows had hit many of them, but not all. And even those that Heracles had struck with an arrow continued to twitch and snap.

“Over there!” yelled Heracles. He pointed to an island covered with reeds. “Row me over there!”

Iolus obeyed. As the boat sped towards the island, the hydra followed. The water became more shallow. Iolus could see the monster’s body rising from the swamp. It was vast. Its scales glittered like garnets. Its heart was a loathsome, pounding, quivering thing. It heaved itself through the mud. Its necks coiled in pursuit of Heracles and Iolus. Its heads could smell blood. They were hungry for human flesh, driven mad by the craving for it.

The boat came to a halt among the reeds and mud flats. Heracles dropped his bow and reached for his sword. Two of the hydra’s heads came slavering down towards him. Heracles’s sword sliced twice, cutting through scales, flesh and bone. The two heads dropped like stones into the mud. Heracles jumped out of the boat and yelled at Iolus to row to safety. Iolus pulled on the oars and the boat drifted away from the island. Meanwhile, Heracles was stepping through the reeds. Another pair of jaws snapped at him. He turned. His sword cut through the air. A flash of bronze, then a spray of black blood. It spattered Heracles, but the poison could not burn through the lion’s skin. A third head dropped into the mud.

Heracles reached dry land and stood with his sword at the ready. The hydra attacked him again, necks coiling, jaws snapping. Heracles sliced at them. His arm moved so fast that Iolus could not see the sword as it did its work. Heads thudded to the ground all around Heracles as he fought. But the hydra did not withdraw. It pressed on with its attack. There seemed no limit to its number of heads. Iolus watched the battle from the boat and began to worry that Heracles would grow tired.

He rowed around to the far side of the island. The boat’s prow rested on a mud bank and Iolus lowered his oars. He caught his breath and looked again at the fight. This time he felt a surge of relief. Heracles was fighting as well as ever while the hydra was slowing. Heads were still spitting and snapping, but they were outnumbered now by stumps. Slice, slice, slice. More heads dropped among the reeds. Iolus counted those that were left: no more than twenty. Still Heracles fought. Fifteen heads left. Then ten.

Suddenly Iolus frowned. Something strange was happening. He rubbed his eyes. There seemed to be more heads than there had been a moment before. He counted them again.

Fifteen. Twenty. Iolus rose to his feet and stared at the hydra’s bleeding stumps. They were all twitching and growing before his eyes. The bleeding flesh of the stumps was healing. From one, a pair of eyes appeared. Then a set of jaws. The mouth opened. A hissing. A scarlet frill opened out behind the head. A slice of Heracles’s sword and it was sent flying, but in the meantime, more heads were reappearing. No matter how fast Heracles beheaded them, more grew back to take their place.

Iolus shouted out what he had seen. He heard Heracles swear loudly. The heads were growing back faster and faster. Heracles began to retreat. Iolus picked up the oars. As Heracles withdrew across the island, the hydra heaved itself on to the dry land. This slowed it down and Heracles took his chance. He turned and ran across the island. He jumped into the boat. “Pull away,” he yelled. “Get us out of this swamp!” He reached for his bow and shot arrows at the hydra, which cried out in pain. But it still kept following them. As Iolus rowed, he despaired. The hydra could not be beaten. Heracles had failed.

Or had he?

Jumping out of the boat as it reached dry land, Heracles did not seem like a beaten man. “Quick,” he ordered. “Find dry wood. Anything that will burn. Make a fire.”

Iolus wanted to ask why, but he knew there was no time. He did as Heracles had instructed. Minutes passed. From the swamp, Iolus heard the hissing of the hydra’s heads. He looked round. The monster was getting nearer. Iolus grabbed branches, pulled up bushes and gathered grass. He made a pile of the wood. Behind him, he heard the twang of Heracles’s bow. The hydra shrieked. Iolus looked round again. Heracles was firing arrows at the monster. For now, he was holding it at bay. But for how much longer? Iolus noticed that his hands were shaking. He picked up lighting flints and tried to strike a spark. Nothing. He swore. Still his hands shook. He breathed in deeply and tried again. This time, he had better luck. The spark lit the kindling. The day was hot and the wood was dry. Within a few minutes, the fire was blazing. Heracles glanced round and smiled. “Good lad!” he cried.

“Watch out!” screamed Iolus.

Heracles spun on his heel. The open jaws of three of the hydra’s heads were almost on him. With a single movement, Heracles drew his sword, then swung it through the air. The three heads went flying. As they did so, Heracles turned and ran. Not pausing, he reached for a tree trunk that was lying on the ground. Iolus had never even thought to try to move it. The trunk had looked too heavy. But Heracles picked it up easily. His muscles bulged. Sweat glistened on them. He was beside the fire now and shoved the trunk into the flames. As he did so, he looked over his shoulder. The hydra was drawing near. Heracles pulled the flaming tree trunk from the fire. He gripped it in his left hand. With his right, he lifted his sword. The hydra attacked and Heracles swung his sword. A head went flying. No sooner had it done so than Heracles was lifting the burning tree trunk. He laid the tip on the hydra’s stump. The hundred other heads all shook and screamed with the pain. A smell of scorched flesh made Iolus want to vomit. Heracles withdrew the burning tree trunk. The stump was still. No head grew back.

Now the battle grew truly terrible. The hydra knew for the first time that it was in a struggle to the death. Its necks coiled around Heracles’s legs, his body, his arms. But Heracles was too strong. He trampled the necks underfoot. He slashed and cut with his sword. Whenever he sent a head flying, he would burn the twitching stump. As ever more of its heads were lopped off, the hydra turned and tried to flee. But Heracles followed it. The hunter had become the hunted. Iolus ran in his master’s footsteps and jumped into the boat after Heracles. He pulled on the oars and rowed after the hydra, into the depths of the swamp. At last, in the black poison of its lair, the hydra stopped retreating. The battle began again. But the hydra was weakening fast now. Finally, there was only one head left. Heracles slashed at it. For a long time he kept the burning tree trunk pressed against the severed neck. At last he withdrew it. The neck jerked, then was still.

Heracles leaned on his sword and inhaled deeply. He pushed back the head of his lion’s skin. He wiped the sweat from his brow.

“You did it,” said Iolus. “You did it!”

Heracles smiled. “Of course. Did you ever doubt I would?”

Iolus blushed.

Heracles laughed, then paused and angled his head. “What is that?” he said.

Iolus listened and heard a pulsing, a throbbing. He frowned and looked at the hydra. The noise seemed to be coming from its corpse. Or was it a corpse? Iolus took a nervous step nearer to it and pointed. “Look,” he gasped. “the heart.”

It was still beating. Heracles stepped up to it and laid his hand on the quivering, jerking scales. He thought for a moment, then he turned. “Row back across the swamp,” he ordered. “Look for my arrows. Find as many as you can. Then bring them to me. I will be waiting here.”