Treasury of Greek Mythology Page 5

  TRICKSTER Tales

  Crafty Hermes plays naughty baby tricks. Lots of mythological tricksters have babyish or animal ways. The British story of Peter Pan is about a boy who never grows up and plays all day. Many Native American stories tell of Coyote, a magical figure who gets involved in funny stories, but also often death stories. These tricksters do what they want, without thinking about the effects on others. We laugh, but we also see what a mess life would be if we all did that.

  An illustration of Peter Pan

  He led away fifty cattle, magically reversing their hoofprints so one would think they’d traveled the other direction. In a wooded spot, Hermes rubbed sticks together and invented fire and set a tree ablaze. He slew two long-horned cows and roasted them and offered their meat to the gods. Then he went stealthily into his mother’s cave, moving like an autumn breeze. He climbed into his cradle and wrapped the swaddling cloth about his shoulders. But Maia awoke and sensed the trick immediately. She called him a knave. Hermes grinned. He vowed to steal whatever he wanted whenever he wanted.

  When an older farmer told Apollo who had plundered his cattle, the god stomped to the sweet-smelling cave. In the cradle, Hermes pretended to be asleep. But Apollo demanded to know where the cattle were.

  Hermes, all innocence, asked, “How could a newborn with feet soft as melted butter steal the cattle of the great Apollo? Imagine the public shame if it were true. But it’s not.”

  Apollo stared, then burst out in laughter. “Crafty little liar. Lead me to my cattle.”

  “I swear I stole nothing!”

  In a rage, Apollo picked up Hermes, who, as a baby will do, let out a trumpet blast from his bottom. Surprised, Apollo dropped him. But then he tucked him under an arm and carried him up Mount Olympus to demand a judgment from Zeus, the king of gods. Hermes still denied all. But Zeus saw through the deceit and told them, both his sons, to join forces and bring the cattle home.

  Furious, Apollo tied Hermes up so he could steal no more. But the invincible babe broke through the ropes. Still, the timbre of Apollo’s voice and the flash of his eyes finally convinced Hermes the problem wouldn’t disappear on its own. Besides, Apollo was awesome in his anger, and Hermes wanted all the gods, but especially Apollo, to love him. He took out his turtle-shell lyre and played so enchantingly flowers bent toward him. Then he gave the melody-dazed Apollo the lyre as a peace offering. Apollo played it so much better than Hermes that even rocks tumbled from precipices and rolled closer to the music.

  Hermes was born naughty, but also crafty. As a babe, he made the first lyre from a tortoise shell and sheep horn and guts. He played like a god.

  The two half brothers vowed loyalty to one another, and Apollo gave Hermes three winged maidens—the Thriae, who could foretell the future—as a token of his friendship. In approval Zeus declared Hermes lord over birds of omen, as well as dogs, sheep, grim-eyed lions, and gleaming-tusked boars. And he appointed him messenger to Hades; Hephaestus forged him a helmet to make him invisible, like that of Hades, and sandals with wings, to help in his travels. But everyone still admitted the new god was a rogue.

  A rogue. Spicy label. And it felt affectionate. The rogue smiled.

  At long last, the king of the gods, Zeus, and the queen of the gods, Hera, had a child together, a son they named Ares. This son should have been remarkable. After all, he was the first fully royal son. His parents put their hopes in him.

  Ares swiftly disappointed both. He was strong enough, exceedingly strong, in fact. And highly skilled at driving a chariot and throwing a spear. But he used his talents to ill effect. He was murderous and cowardly at the same time, inciting strife and hatred. A stain upon the world, and a bloody one at that. His parents abhorred him.

  But no one could deny he had a certain physical magnetism. He raced across the world with calves like iron, the swiftest of all the gods. His hands seemed capable of grabbing anything, anything at all, and holding tight. His squared-off jaw looked capable of crushing bone. His lips were full and peaked, and the thought of what they were capable of made goddesses tremble. His eyes dared others to meet them.

  GODS of War

  Ares seems just plain nasty. Other gods of war in ancient cultures were likewise awful. Tyr, the god of war in Norse mythology, was also the god of strife; he went around causing trouble. Sekhmet, an ancient Egyptian goddess of war, loved bloodshed. When a war ended, the people had to give her a big celebration in order to soothe her, otherwise she would have continued killing until everyone was dead. War gods seemed to have in common a frenzy for destruction.

  An ancient mural painting of the fierce Egyptian goddess, Sekhmet

  Aphrodite’s eyes took the dare. Why shouldn’t they? She was a goddess and a breathtaking beauty. The breathtaking beauty of the universe. And she was married to Hephaestus, a god certainly, but a blacksmith with a shriveled foot, who bent over a cauldron of molten metals all day long, coughing and wiping at his bleary, reddened eyes. He was ugly and growing uglier. She was willing to swear he limped more exaggeratedly each day. So it was her right to flirt with Ares.

  Which she did. She and Ares did whatever they wanted right there in Hephaestus’ home, while the old god was out at his forge. They figured he’d never know.

  But Helios, the sun god who was the child of Titans, saw them through the window. He liked Hephaestus; the two of them worked with fire and this gave them a special bond. He told.

  Hephaestus couldn’t claim surprise. He’d always known it would be hard to hold on to his glorious wife. But the open wound seared. He had to take action. In a duel of brawn, he’d lose. So it had to be a duel of brains.

  He set his great anvil upon its stand and hammered. He hammered all the rest of the day, all night long, all the next day, until the pile of thin metal loops stood taller than he was. Then he hammered them together into a metal net so fine it was as hard to see as a spiderweb, but it was strong—strong enough for the task. The following day, when Ares and Aphrodite were resting, Hephaestus spread a metal net over the two of them. When they woke, they found themselves ensnared.

  Hephaestus quickly called together all the gods to come view the pair. The goddesses didn’t come, but every male god did, jeering and laughing, ready to stand in judgment.

  Aphrodite betrayed her husband; Ares betrayed his brother. Hephaestus got the better of them: He trapped them in a metal net and held them up for public shame.

  Hephaestus had done it—the weaker god, the ugly god, he’d prevailed over mighty Ares. The gods were quick to congratulate him, quick to celebrate that right had won over evil.

  But then the gods looked at Aphrodite in all her stunning grace and felt instantly dizzy. Hermes turned to Apollo and asked what he wouldn’t give to be the one caught in that net with Aphrodite rather than Ares. It was a joke, but the arrow hit home. No one could blame Ares. And how could anyone place blame on that vision of loveliness, Aphrodite? Thus the two lovers went unpunished.

  Embarrassed, Aphrodite fled to Cyprus, where she let her nymphs comfort her with perfumes and warm baths.

  Ares felt more annoyance than anything else. In their time together, Aphrodite had borne him children, two of whom, Phobos and Deimos, accompanied him in his sackings and onslaughts. But who needed the trouble of her when she came with that madman of a husband? So he went on to other loves. And other hates. He was the god of war—what else is there to say?

  All the while that the ancestral line of the Titan Cronus was growing, the ancestral lines of the other Titans were also growing. Upon being freed from the hollows of their mother Gaia, the Titans had scattered widely across the waters and the lands. And two of them, Hyperion and Theia, had taken to the skies. Hyperion hovered above like a gauzy blanket of the clearest blue, and Theia pierced through him in points of startling light. She was the shining eyes of the universe, the brilliant jewels of the skies.

  It wasn’t long before they had three children: Helios, the sun; Selene, the moon; and then, their natural c
ompanion, Eos, the dawn.

  Helios was born tireless and good-natured. He rose each day without fail and put on his golden helmet and yoked together his mighty stallions to a golden chariot that the god Hephaestus had made just for him. He rode it high, so very high, across the skies. All anyone below could see of him was a ball of light so bright it dazzled, with streaks following behind—his streaming locks and fluttering garments. Strong rays beamed from him; they penetrated all but the most closed crevices of the Earth. Helios watched what happened to the other gods when he was present; they absorbed his heat, earth and water and air gods alike. They felt more expansive, more relaxed. They smiled more; they did small kindnesses for each other. Helios spread comfort. What a privilege! The realization made him stand taller.

  Daily he rose to the highest point of the heavens, lingered there, then continued on until he plunged into the waters in the far west and yielded the sky to his sister Selene. It took him all night to make his way quietly back to the east, then he began the long wjourney all over again. But never, not even for a moment, did it occur to him to take a break for a while. Others needed him simply to maintain their sanity. Helios was, beyond all else, reliable.

  LIFE-GIVING Sun

  In Greek mythology, humans appear at one point with no discussion of how they were created. But in later Roman myths, especially by Ovid, Prometheus creates humans. Today we know the sun was crucial to the creation of all life on Earth. For that reason, Helios was woven into the creation of humanity in this story. But the ancients may well have seen no connection between the sun and life on Earth.

  A photograph of the sun in space

  That’s what caught the attention of Prometheus, whose father was a Titan and whose mother was the daughter of a Titan: Helios was a constant. It got Prometheus thinking. One could count on a rhythm to the universe, a certain heat, a unifying force. He was digging in the clay and silt and sand by a briny river delta one day, noticing how he could smear the wet mixture on his arms and Helios would dry it so stiff that it became like a shell, but thin, a second skin—a second skin!—and the thought possessed him; an outrageous idea, really. He could form something from this clay, something in his own image, in the image of a god. Helios would bake it until it held together, and every day he’d bake it anew and keep it whole.

  And Helios agreed. Why not? Gods were superb, after all. What could be better than clay figures just like them? In fact, with just a little energy, these figures could come to life. They wouldn’t last forever, of course. But they’d be interesting toys, however briefly they breathed.

  Prometheus and Helios fashioned humans out of clay. But the idea of creating mortals in their own image delighted the gods, and more and more of them added what they could.

  And so Prometheus fashioned the new creatures and called them men. The other gods looked on with interest. Soon Hephaestus, the smithy god, joined in the endeavor and, encouraged by Zeus, fashioned women. Athena, the goddess who sprang from Zeus’ forehead, taught the women to weave. Aphrodite, the goddess who emerged from the sea foam, taught the women how to flirt. And Hermes, son of Zeus and Maia, taught the women to deceive.

  And all these men and women were held together, body and soul, by Helios. He liked these simple creatures. He set an oak tree on fire so they could take sticks and carry the fire with them wherever they wanted and warm themselves as they huddled together.

  Selene was the second child of the Titans Hyperion and Theia, and the sister to the sun god Helios and the dawn goddess Eos. Her brother was not a show-off, but he wasn’t retiring, either. He did the world a magnificent service, giving a regularity to life with his daily travel across the sky, and he accepted the deserved praise he received. He fathered many, all with radiant eyes. Eos, likewise, put herself forth, without being the least bit gaudy. She announced her brother’s arrival every day by stretching her rosy fingers to the eastern sky. The very sight of her gave hope, so she was easy to fall in love with. Astraios, the son of Titans, mingled with her and they produced the stars and the three winds: Zephyr, who came from the west and lightly cleared the skies; Boreas, who struck swiftly and chillingly from the north; and Notos, the storm-bringer from the south, who rumbled through in late summer and early autumn.

  STAR LIGHT Star Bright

  The ancient Greeks grouped star clusters into constellations named after humans, animals, and other things. Wandering “stars” had god or goddess names. Today we know that the stars in a constellation are not related in any particular way. Their apparent closeness is a line-of-sight effect. Further, wandering “stars” are planets, the sun (Helios), or the moon (Selene). Until modern times, many people relied on astrology—study of the celestial bodies—for omens when making decisions. The sun and the moon were considered the most important astrologically.

  A photograph of the moon

  But Selene differed from her siblings. Her shyness was painful. Sometimes her compulsion to close in upon herself was like a bear in winter. She couldn’t fight it. She hid completely. Then she’d hear the wails. She’d cover her ears, but they penetrated through her long-winged fingers, through her rich tresses. And she couldn’t deny the women—they needed her. They were calling her back so piteously. And she’d come, she’d reveal herself again, little by little, offering the comfort of a soft light that allowed them to make their way in merciful obscurity. Over two weeks she’d wax fuller and fuller, until, gibbous and magnificent, she gleamed over mountain peaks, glistened over waves. She bathed sweethearts with such tenderness they were never quite sure how it happened, but somehow, in some blessedly peaceful way, they realized they’d found the right person at last, their soul mate at long last. They found calm. All because of Selene.

  And then, so predictably, they’d sing to her, serenade her, make her flush with their hyperboles, their obviousness, until she had to pull back, shrink again, wane and wane and disappear. Only the most discerning could detect the filmy trace of her, the knife edge outline in the blackest sky.

  For a little while she felt safe. Then the wails began again. The cycle started anew. Helios brought a daily rhythm that all humans marched to, but Selene brought a monthly rhythm that pulsed inside women and gave them the power to be mothers. They wailed and wailed for this most transfixing of powers.

  One night Selene shone down on a man, a human, asleep in the open. She moved closer. He woke and looked her full in the face and said nothing for the longest time. Then he whispered, details of a heart she admired the more she learned of it. His quiet beauty dumbfounded her. Humans were mere toys to the other gods, but Selene saw substance; she touched this man’s spirit and realized she had found her own soul mate, at last.

  The revelation hurt. Endymion was mortal; he would age and die. Selene pushed the thought aside and let herself love and be loved. But the passing of time only made their love grow until the idea of ever being unable to look upon Endymion’s perfect face made Selene’s heart crumple. She begged Zeus to help her, to keep Endymion as he was, forever. Zeus responded by putting the man into an eternal sleep—a solution that gave Selene that undeniable sadness that poets have sung of ever since.

  Selene and Endymion had fifty daughters, called the Menae, who took turns accompanying their mother each night.

  Selene, silver sweet, and soft, and sad.

  Selene was the first deity to love a human. Mortal with immortal—a doomed love. But Zeus put Endymion in an endless sleep so he wouldn’t age and die. Sad solution.

  There she was again: Semele. Zeus’ mouth watered. But Semele was human. He followed, intoxicated by her beauty. Mortal mortal—did it matter?

  The moon goddess Selene’s love of the human Endymion had incited a spate of such unions. But Zeus was the king of gods. It would be humiliation to have a child that grew old and feeble, lost teeth, hair, sight, hearing.

  Still, that girl, that little snip of a mortal girl, ooh, he loved that girl. Ha! Zeus would simply make any child that came of this union immortal. Ha
ha! He instantly declared himself to her.

  Semele, daughter of King Cadmus of Thebes, was just as instantly enthralled.

  Bang! Zeus had another wife. And, against expectations, something about Semele got to him. The blueness of her veins, the dark circles that formed under her eyes when she’d missed a night’s sleep because of cavorting with him, the strange sour-sweet of her meat-eating breath. She wouldn’t last. The heart of the king was actually touched. He swore he’d grant her any wish.

  Boom! Hera went ballistic. She visited Semele, all sisterly and loving. “Isn’t Zeus astonishing? If only he’d let you see him in full splendor as Lord of the Thunderbolt. That would make you truly understand who he is.”

  Semele was sweet and pretty but far from bright; she asked Zeus to come to her in bursting glory.

  Zeus knew what the outcome would be. He begged Semele to change her mind, but she wouldn’t believe the danger. Alas, he had to honor his promise. Trapped in a melodrama, he granted her wish.

  Semele burst into flames.

  The distraught god snatched the baby inside her and nestled him in his own thigh until birth. Then Zeus traveled to the valley of Nysa, and there the nymphs raised his divine son, Dionysus.

  Dionysus taught farmers to grow vines, pick their grapes according to the autumn stars, hold them a fortnight for further ripening, then press them into wine stored in earthen jars. The wine flowed like a deep purple river, and the farmers drank gratefully, toasting the generosity of Dionysus.