Hercules (7 page)

“Truly,” thought Hercules, “the prophecy was right. Some god or demon is shielding him from harm. He cannot be overcome by force. And yet, vanquish him I must, for I shall not be able to take his herd while he is alive.”

Hercules went back into the depths of the wood. He had a lot of thinking to do. He thought and thought.

“Prophecies always have a trick in them somewhere,” he said to himself. “Chiron taught me that. What does it say? ‘Geryon can be killed by no one else.’ No one else … What does
else
mean? It means another creature. He cannot be killed by any other creature, then. But there are three of him. Perhaps there’s an idea there. Yes, I’ll test my idea. And if it doesn’t work, then I’ll have put myself into Geryon’s power, into the reach of those six awful hands. But I’ve got to take the risk.”

Hercules went hunting. He was disappointed in not being able to fight Geryon, and he needed violent action. He chased a wild goat, chased it up into the highest crags, leaping from rock to rock, finally seizing it in mid-leap and bearing it, kicking and butting, halfway down the mountain, where he tied it by the horns to a pine tree. Then he went down off the mountain, into the woods, and hunted a wild boar. At that time, of all the animals that hunters pursued, the wild boar was the most savage. It was built low; it was very heavy and very fast, with razor-sharp tusks. Hercules used no weapon. All he donned were his lion-skin gauntlets that no blade could cut. He chased the boar until it turned, for a boar will run until it is cornered, then it will charge.

He cornered the boar between a rock and a fallen tree, stood off a bit, and waited. The boar charged. Hercules knelt, and as the giant pig came toward him, slashing with its razor tusks, he shot out his hands, covered by the gauntlets. He caught a tusk in each hand, stood up, lifting the boar clear off the ground, then slammed it to earth again, knocking its wind out. He slung the boar over his shoulder and carried it back halfway up the mountain to where he had tied the wild goat. Now he bound the boar to another tree, using a chain this time, because a boar can use its tusks to slash through the strongest rope.

The sheep was easy. Sheep are tame. But they are also heavy. And it was hard work carrying the woolly animal up the mountain road on his third trip. But he did, and tied the sheep to another tree.

Now the goat was tethered to one tree, the boar to another, the sheep to a third.

“That’s the easy part,” said Hercules to himself. “The rest is going to be tricky.”

It was noon now and very hot, and he needed a rest. Besides, he knew that Geryon ate at noon, and he wanted to do what he had to do just before it was time for the monster’s next meal. So he took a brief nap. Then he woke up and went down to the pasture where the red bulls were cropping grass. Without hesitation, he stepped out from behind a tree into the open space. The three bulldogs bowled down at him. He ran to meet them and slapped them to the ground. They couldn’t bite through the lion-hide gauntlets, but his legs were bleeding by the time he had tied their tails together. But tie them together he did. They ran howling in circles, trying to pull themselves apart. He strolled off, lifted a bull to his shoulders, and trotted out of the pasture.

He trotted all the way to Geryon’s tower and came walking to the great table, bearing the bull on his shoulders, just as the three cooks were coming out of the tower with their heaping trays of roast pork, roast mutton, and barbecued goat. Geryon saw a stranger coming toward him bearing one of his precious bulls. With a triple bellow, he leaped up and barged through the line of cooks, upsetting the trays of food, and charged toward Hercules, who immediately turned and fled.

Now, it has been told that Geryon was as speedy as he was powerful, that running on six legs he could outrace the fastest horse. And it was true. Nevertheless, Hercules kept ahead of him. The young man had reached his full size now; he was eight feet tall. His legs were as long as a deer’s but cabled with muscle. Even carrying a bull on his shoulders, he kept easily ahead of the scuttling Geryon, keeping always the same distance ahead, never running out of sight because he wanted the monster to keep following him. Sometimes he would lag a little, so that Geryon would think he was tiring and would keep chasing him.

Indeed, there was no chance that Geryon would stop chasing him. The three-bodied giant was running in a red mist of rage, and his rage was growing and growing, not only because his bull was being stolen, but because he had been running for two hours now. He had missed one meal and was about to miss a second, and hunger was clawing his belly.

Hercules ran him around the island twice more, then decided he’d better start his final lap. For he himself was getting tired. He was sweating. The bull was growing heavier and heavier; it was struggling and was getting very hard to hold. He tried to put on more speed, but he didn’t have enough left; the bull was too heavy. He looked behind and saw that Geryon was gaining on him. He almost stumbled, but caught himself. He knew that if he once fell within reach of those terrible hands it would be the end of him.

There was only one thing to do. He lifted the bull and let it fall, doing it carefully so that the animal landed on its legs and was able to gallop off. He knew that Geryon was so enraged that he would keep chasing him anyway. And he was right. Geryon ignored the bull and plowed on after Hercules, who, relieved of the bull’s weight, was able to regain the ground he had lost. Nevertheless, he knew he couldn’t run much longer.

He headed up the mountain path. Up, up he ran. Far ahead, he heard the bleating of the sheep and the snorting of the angry boar. He put on a burst of speed and reached the trees where the animals were tethered. He broke the chains of the boar and snapped the ropes binding goat and sheep. He slung the boar to the right, the goat to the left, and hurled the sheep straight ahead up the mountain path.

The three bodies of Geryon, coming up the road, saw their favorite food fleeing before them. These bodies were famished; they had never gone more than two hours without eating in their entire triple life, and, by now, they had missed three meals. And each one saw the meal it craved running away from him and was maddened by hunger. The left-hand body tried to swerve to the left after the goat; the right-hand body turned right after the pork; while the middle body tried to forge ahead after the bounding sheep.

Of course, trying to go in three different directions, they went nowhere. They stopped. They tried to run again. The more violently they moved, the less they could go. Enraged, the bodies fell upon each other. The six legs began to kick at each other’s bodies. The six hands closed into fists and began to pound at the next face. The three mouths tried to fasten their fangs in each other’s necks.

And, as Hercules watched from behind a tree, the three bodies of the single giant, ravaged by hunger, confused by wrath, fought savagely with themselves, and did Geryon the harm that no enemy could do. They battered faces to a pulp, kicked ribs in, and strangled themselves to death.

Geryon fell like a squashed spider and twitched in the dust.

“That was the joker in the prophecy,” said Hercules. “He could be killed by no one else, as some god or demon had promised for some reason we’ll never know. But split by wrath, each self hating the next self, he could be torn by a terrible inner war, and destroy himself. And I’m very happy to have thought of a way to make it happen. Now, all I have to do is swim a herd of bulls ten miles across the sea to the mainland and drive them a hundred miles to Mycenae. But that will seem easy after the work I did this afternoon … and I’m about ready for a swim.”

O
F ALL THE THINGS
with wings in the world of long ago, the Spear-birds of the Marsh were the most dangerous. There were those who said that dragons—which also have wings—were worse, but these people were mistaken, because dragons always hunted alone, while the Spear-birds did their killing in flocks.

They were very big birds, larger than eagles, with stiltlike legs and an enormous wingspread. Their long sharp iron beaks could break rock or pierce the strongest shield. They were always hungry and ate everything that moved. But their favorite food was a nice juicy human being.

To get rid of these deadly creatures was Hercules’ next task. What made it even harder was that the Spear-birds lived in a marsh that sucked like quicksand. Its mud swallowed everything that touched it; not even a crocodile could live there. In fact, the only creatures that could dwell in the marsh were water snakes and the Spear-birds themselves, who fed on the water snakes. Their stilt legs held them safely above the sucking mud, and their powerful wings could lift them clear when they wanted to fly away.

When Hercules came near the marsh he knew he was approaching a place of death. The edge of the swamp was littered with bones: shoulder bones and leg bones, spools of spine, rib cages, and skulls. So many kinds of skulls. Cow skulls, sheep skulls, and many human skulls with their terrible smiles. Skeleton hands held rusty shields.

Hercules studied everything very carefully. The Spear-birds were feeding. He watched them drive their long beaks deep into the mud and come out with long wriggling water snakes, which they killed by snapping them in the air like whips. He watched a bird toss the limp body in the air, catch it as it came down, and swallow it whole. He tossed a stick into the marsh to test the sucking power of the mud, and the mud swallowed the stick just as the bird had swallowed the snake.

“I can’t go in there after them,” he thought. “I’ll have to make them come to me. But how shall I fight them? What weapons shall I use? The best way would be to make them rise in a flock and shoot my poison arrows into their midst. Yes, that’s how I could kill the most of them with least danger to myself. But I would be endangering others. I would be threatening the whole countryside, for the dead birds would fall back into the marsh and their bodies, poisoned by my arrows, would poison the marsh. This huge marsh feeds a whole river system by underground streams, and the rivers would be poisoned. Cattle drinking out of these rivers would sicken and die, and people, too. No, I will not use my poison arrows, even though it would be convenient. I must think of another way. But what? If I fling a lance among them, I might hit one or two, but that’s all. And to use sword or knife I’d have to bring them close enough for them to use their terrible beaks on me. Nevertheless, I do have to get them close.”

He thought some more. At last he decided that the best way to fight the birds was to put on his lion-skin armor—which even those iron beaks couldn’t pierce—and to stand there on the shore, letting the birds dive down at him. They would blunt their beaks against the lion hide, and he would be able to finish them off with sword or knife.

He put on the lion-skin armor, the lion-head helmet, and the great gauntlets of lion hide. He took up two of the fallen shields and clanged them together, making a hideous clattering noise. The startled birds rose in a great cloud and hovered over the marsh. Hercules danced up and down, shouting at them, beckoning to them, trying to make them attack, then stood there, sword in hand, waiting.

One of them swooped low and came at him. He took a deep breath and waited. Down, down, it came, so close that he could see its snake face and the sun flashing off its iron beak. It came closer, closer, as he crouched, waiting. The bird swerved, swooped upward. He felt the draft of air from its mighty wings, but its beak never touched him, nor did it come within reach of his hands. He watched it as it climbed away.

Another bird dived. He waited. It came closer, very close. Then the same thing happened. When it was close enough for him to see the light splintering off its beak, it swooped up, sailed away, and joined the flock.

This happened several times. Then Hercules saw the flock coasting down. He watched the birds as they settled in the marsh again and began to feed.

“I know what it is,” he said to himself. “They smell the lion skin and think I’m the lion. They’ve flown over Mount Nemea, these birds; it’s not far from here. And a lot of them probably got killed by the lion before they learned to keep their distance. And now they won’t come near me as long as I’m wearing the lion skin. But do I dare meet them uncovered? Those iron beaks will make a sieve of my body. I don’t know. I have to get them close, and I can’t wear the hide, so I’ll have to risk it.”

He cast away the lion skin, lifted the shields, clanged them again, and stood there bare-chested as the birds rose from the marsh and darkened the sky. Half-naked he stood there, watching them hover. Again he called to them and danced and beckoned. And watched a bird peel off and dive.

Hercules’ breastbone was like a curved piece of brass. His own bronzed skin was tougher than leather. Between bone and skin was a great sheathing of muscle. The Spear-bird came diving so fast that Hercules had no time to swing his sword before the bird was on him, driving its beak into his chest. The beak stuck, couldn’t go through.

Hercules felt a sickening pain, but the pain did not make him lose strength. His hand grasped the Spear-bird’s neck and twisted the life out. The bird went limp. But another bird was on its way and drove its beak into his chest. He chopped with the edge of his hand, breaking that bird’s neck. Now two iron beaks stuck in his chest, two dead birds dangling from them. He plucked them out of his body and flung them away. Blood poured from his chest.

And the birds were coming.

One by one, they swooped down at him, stabbing with their iron beaks. The beaks bent on his massive chest, but tore the skin until the white bone showed. As they dived and stabbed, they fell into his hands, and he broke their necks. His shoulder muscles stood out in great ridges, his back muscles in great clumps, as he twisted those necks that were tougher than bull whips.

His arms were so tired now that he could hardly lift them. Dead birds were heaped about him, but there still seemed to be as many as ever hovering above. They kept diving. He was covered with blood. He knew that he had lost too much blood. He felt himself tottering. Felt his head swarm with dizziness. He knew he couldn’t keep it up.