Beasts and Monsters Page 3

  ‘An old hag, I’ll bet—’

  ‘No. She was young and quite pretty. She had fair hair like mine, only lighter. And her skin was very white. I assumed she must be married, because she was washing a man’s clothing.’

  ‘Her husband’s?’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Oscar took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, my horse needed water, so I dismounted and sat with her a while. The sun was shining and I was in no great hurry. I knew that I was only a few miles from here. For a time, neither of us spoke. The woman continued washing her clothes and I sat beside her.

  ‘But then she turned to me. “You’re on your way to battle!” she said.

  ‘I nodded. I imagined that she must have seen many soldiers going past. It would have been obvious that a battle was about to take place.

  ‘“Are you afraid?” she asked.

  ‘“I’m not afraid of anything,” I replied.

  ‘“Is that so?”

  ‘She was mocking me. I could hear it in her voice. And maybe that made me forget myself. “I have never yet come across a beast or a monster that could frighten me,” I told her.

  ‘“Oh yes? And what is the worst monster you have ever met?” she asked.’

  Oscar came to a halt. Dáire had listened to all this in silence. He could see that his friend was still deep in thought, so he tried to make light of it all. ‘You should have grabbed hold of the wench and pushed her into the ford, along with all her washing,’ he said. ‘That would have put an end to her insolence.’

  ‘Perhaps. But there was something about her question that made me think. I have come across many monsters in my life and I have vanquished them all, starting with the ugly giant with the deerskins.’

  ‘His head rolled down the hill!’ Dáire had often heard Oscar describe the incident, particularly when the two of them were drunk. It never failed to make them laugh.

  More than eight feet tall, the giant had been travelling up a hill in Western Ireland, carrying two piles of deerskins under his arms. The giant had a truly hideous face, with fat, deformed lips, swollen eyes and a nose that seemed to have been used as a punchbag.

  His skin was mottled and his hair, a nasty ginger colour, hung over his forehead like a mop. His shirt was stretched tight over his massive belly and his jacket hung loose as if it had been torn apart. The giant was going up the hill. Oscar was coming down. The path was narrow and there was mud on both sides. Inevitably, there had been an argument. Although Oscar was tiny in comparison with the giant – for he was only fifteen when this had happened – he had refused to step out of the way.

  ‘You step aside, Mr Giant, unless you want to feel the edge of my sword.’

  ‘You step aside, rude boy, unless you want to encounter my club.’ And dropping the deerskins, the giant had produced a club so huge it could have been cut from the trunk of a tree.

  ‘I’m warning you, giant—’

  ‘Be silent, boy . . .’

  The fight had been a brief one. The giant had swung his club. Oscar had ducked, then leaped up, swinging his sword. The slope of the hill had given him extra height, and the blade had found its target in the giant’s neck, severing his head. There was an explosion, a fountain of blood. The giant’s head had come clean off and, as Dáire had rightly said, it had rolled all the way down the hill and into a nearby convent, where the nuns had been about to have lunch. They were still in hysterics an hour later.

  ‘Was that the worst monster?’ Dáire asked. All around him the fianna were curling up for the night, covering themselves with their heavy cloaks. A few fires were still flickering and there were lights also, far away on the other side of the swamp, a reminder of the men, very similar to them, waiting for what the next day might bring.

  ‘It might have been,’ Oscar said. ‘But then again I could have chosen the wild boar at Ben Bulben.’

  ‘Another fine candidate.’ Dáire nodded.

  This was another famous story. Oscar had been in the forests near Sligo, hunting with his grandfather, the great hero Fionn mac Cumhaill,2 and some of the other fianna. Suddenly a huge boar came crashing out of the undergrowth. It was a dreadful creature, covered in iron-grey hair, with burning eyes, a wet, upturned snout, and tusks that curved out of its head like poisoned swords. Before anyone could do anything, it had charged at one of Fionn’s oldest friends – a man called Diarmaid – and slammed both tusks into his stomach. Diarmaid screamed in agony and fell to his knees, blood gushing into his lap. The animal seemed to screech in triumph, wheeling round and looking for the next person to attack.

  One of the younger hunters threw a spear at the beast, but it simply snapped in half, bouncing off the boar’s back. The creature was incredibly fast. It charged a second time and suddenly the young man was on the ground, crying out, with a broken leg. A third man threw himself at the boar, pulling out a knife. The boar wheeled round, throwing him off, then prepared to charge him too.

  There might have been more deaths and injuries that day if it hadn’t been for Oscar. He had whipped out his own knife and charged forward, placing himself between the animal and its intended victim. The boar had no choice. Letting out another high-pitched squeal, it lowered its head and charged at Oscar, the pointed tusks aiming straight for him.

  To everyone, including his grandfather, it looked as if Oscar was about to be cut in half. But at the last moment, he dived flat to the ground, disappearing between the boar’s legs. An instant later he twisted round so that he was now underneath the monster, with its soft underbelly above him. As quick as lightning, he lashed out. His knife slit the boar from neck to groin. The boar howled as all the insides fell out of it, covering Oscar with a tangled knot of steaming, bloody intestines. The beast took one final step and died.

  Diarmaid didn’t survive that day. But it was also the day that Oscar was confirmed as Fionn’s worthy grandson and a hero in his own right.

  ‘You told the washer about the boar?’ Dáire asked. It was growing late and he wondered where all this was going.

  ‘I told her about the boar,’ Oscar replied. ‘I told her about the giant. And for good measure I told her about some of the other kings and warriors I have fought against and about Cairbre Lifechair. I described the howling pack of man-eating wolves that once stalked me through the eternal forest near Lough Dreary, and the three-headed creature, the ellen, that came out of the Cave of Cruachan.

  ‘But the washer at the ford just laughed at me. Nothing I said to her seemed to make any impression. And finally, she looked up at me and she said, “There are worse monsters than all of these,” and even as she spoke the words, I noticed something. The clothes she was washing . . . Her hands were covered in blood.’

  ‘What?’ Dáire had been nodding off to sleep, lulled by the wine. But when he heard what Oscar had just said, he sat bolt upright and there was something in his face that none of the fianna would have seen for many a long day.

  He was afraid.

  ‘She was washing blood out of the clothes,’ Oscar said quietly. ‘And suddenly I understood. I suppose I should have seen it all along. Even so, I couldn’t stop myself asking, “Whose clothes are those?”

  ‘The woman looked straight at me and it was then that I saw it. She was not beautiful. She was cold and empty. Her eyes were as black and as unforgiving as a bottomless pool in the heart of winter. Her smile was the smile of a death’s head. “The clothes are yours, Oscar,” she said. And with that she was gone. She simply crumpled in front of me. The wind carried her away.’

  There was a long silence. The hillside around Oscar and Dáire was now strewn with sleeping figures. But they knew that neither of them would find any rest that night.

  ‘She was a banshee,’ Oscar said, and fell silent.

  Banshees were known to every child in the land. Meet a banshee and you would be dead within twenty-four hours. There could be no argument and no escape. A banshee was the herald of your death.

  And so it was to be. The Battle of Gabhra began
the next morning and very soon Oscar found himself in hand-to-hand combat with Cairbre Lifechair. He fought bravely and even managed to wound the king so badly that he would later die of his wounds. But he was also careless. For just a moment he lowered his guard and the king, though crippled and bleeding, thrust his spear through Oscar’s heart, killing him instantly. The day went badly for the rest of the fianna too. They lost the battle and that was the end of their power in the country of Ireland.

  Somehow Dáire survived. He made his way back to his home in County Kildare and spent the rest of his days a farmer. But he never forgot that last night and the story that his old friend had told him. The washer at the ford had asked Oscar to name the greatest monster. He hadn’t realized that he was talking to it all the time.

  There was once a king called Polydectes who ruled over a small but very attractive island called Seriphos. In fact, it must be said, one of the least attractive things on the island was the king himself. Like many rulers in Ancient Greece, he was cruel and thoughtless and took what he wanted without considering anyone else.

  And one of the things that he wanted was a woman who happened to live in his palace. Her name was Danaë, and as well as being very beautiful she was also very vulnerable as she was a foreigner who had come here quite by chance while he, of course, was the king. Danaë was in fact the victim of a shipwreck. She has been washed up on the island a few years before with no money and no one to support her apart from a young son, Perseus. The king had given Danaë a room in the palace and had forced Perseus to become a soldier in his army. That way he had them both where he wanted them.

  For Polydectes had fallen in love with Danaë and was determined to make her his wife. Unfortunately, Danaë didn’t quite have the same feelings about Polydectes. This was hardly surprising. The king was overweight. He had a foul temper. But worst of all, he had very bad breath. It was said that his breath could stop a Cyclops at ten paces – and don’t forget that for a Cyclops ten paces is a very long way indeed.

  Left to himself, Polydectes would have forced Danaë to marry him, but of course there was Perseus to consider. The boy was strong, afraid of nothing and very quicktempered . . . in short, just the sort to let fly with a sword if anyone laid a finger on his mother. Worse still, he was very popular on the island, and there would have been an uproar if something horrible had ‘accidentally’ happened to him.

  The king thought about it for a time and at last he came up with a plan. He announced his marriage, but pretended that he was going to marry the daughter of a friend of his. He then threw a great banquet and invited everyone in the neighbourhood.

  Of course, everybody brought gifts. And of course, the gifts (like so many wedding presents) were completely useless. He got no fewer than fifteen goblets and seven wine jugs, for example, and he already had more goblets and wine jugs than he knew what to do with.

  Nonetheless, there was no mistaking the value of the presents, which were all made of gold or silver or onyx or the finest marble. Everyone had done their best to show how loyal they were to the king and how much they valued his friendship. Everyone, that is, with one exception.

  Poor Perseus couldn’t possibly have afforded anything made of gold or silver, even if it had been very small. The soldier’s salary that he received barely paid for a pot of sword polish – and he was expected to keep his weapons bright and shiny whenever he went on parade. It was as much as he could do to dress up smartly for the occasion. Even a new robe and a decent pair of sandals took a great chunk out of his savings. Of course, Polydectes knew this. It was all part of his plan.

  ‘What, no wedding present?’ he shouted, when Perseus presented himself at the wedding feast.

  There were gasps of surprise around the banqueting tables.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Your Majesty . . .’ Perseus began.

  ‘Don’t you know that it is a tradition to bring your sovereign a present when he decides to get married?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any money.’

  ‘That’s no excuse. You could have borrowed money. You could have stolen money . . . from one of our enemies, of course. Coming here empty-handed is an outrage. It’s nothing short of treason!’

  ‘I really didn’t mean to insult you, sire. And you can have anything you want for your wedding present. You only have to name it.’

  ‘Anything?’ Polydectes asked, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Anything,’ Perseus said.

  ‘Anything?’ Polydectes insisted, raising the other eyebrow.

  ‘Anything in the world,’ said Perseus.

  This was exactly what the king had planned. He knew that putting Perseus on the spot in front of the other guests would fluster him and that he would make a promise he couldn’t keep. In other words, he had designed a noose and young Perseus had put his head right into it.

  ‘All right,’ he exclaimed, ‘Then what I would like for my wedding present is the Gorgon’s head. If you want to prove your loyalty to me, bring me the head of the Gorgon.’

  There was a stunned silence in the room. The wedding guests, stretched out at the tables (which was the way in Ancient Greek banquets), gasped. Nobody moved.

  ‘Very well, Your Majesty,’ Perseus said. ‘If the head of the Gorgon is what you want, the head of the Gorgon is what you shall have.’

  And with that, Perseus turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. The king waited until he was sure he had gone, then grabbed hold of his mother. ‘I want you to come to my wedding,’ he announced.

  ‘It’s my pleasure, Your Majesty,’ Danaë muttered.

  ‘Of course it’s your pleasure, darling. You’re the one I’m marrying!’

  The Three Gorgons

  Of all the beasts, giants, dragons and demigods in Ancient Greece, the Gorgons were perhaps the most terrifying. They petrified people – quite literally.

  There were three Gorgons. Stheno and Euryate and Medusa. The first two were immortal, meaning they would live forever. The third and most fearsome, Medusa, was not. She was the only one that Perseus had any chance of being able to kill.

  Strangely, the Gorgons had once been three very attractive young girls.

  Medusa, in particular, had been quite lovely, with fair hair, blue eyes and a gorgeous smile. Unfortunately, she had chosen to fall in love with Poseidon, the god of the sea, and as if this wasn’t bad enough (mortals were always unwise to get too close to the gods) she had slept with him in the temple of Athene, the Goddess of Wisdom. This had been hugely unwise. To punish her for behaving improperly in her temple, Athene had turned her – and her sisters with her – into the Gorgons. Gone were the white dresses, the daisies and the ponytails. A single wave of the hand and they were monsters.

  Hideous monsters. Instead of teeth they had sharp tusks like wild boars. Their hands were made of bronze and golden wings sprouted from their shoulders. But what was most remarkable about the horrors that they had become was their hair. It was made of living snakes, slimy green and silver, with hissing tongues and gleaming eyes. There were dozens of them, sprouting out of the Gorgons’ skulls, writhing over their foreheads, curling round their necks and twisting over their shoulders.

  If anyone ever had the misfortune to set eyes on a Gorgon . . . they did nothing. For this was the cruellest part of the trick that King Polydectes had played on Perseus. Everyone who saw the face of the Gorgon became so frightened that they instantly turned to stone, and he knew that Perseus would never get anywhere near them. Just one glance in their direction and he would be doomed.

  The Goddess of Wisdom

  Perseus had no idea that he had been tricked. Nor did he know what was happening to his poor mother while he was away. And he had been away for a long time. He had travelled far and searched for a long time but he had found no trace of either Medusa or her ugly sisters. Nobody seemed to know where they lived. Most of the travellers he had encountered seemed unwilling to talk about them at all.

  One night he found himself sitting under
a tree on the edge of a swamp in an unknown country. He had no money with him and so he was unable to stay in an inn or a hotel – even if he had stumbled on such a thing. His only food, as usual, was the fruit and the berries that he found along the way. He was cold and he was alone. For the first time he was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t been a bit hasty in agreeing to the king’s request.

  It was at that moment that a figure suddenly appeared, stepping out of the flames of the meagre bonfire he had built to keep himself warm. It was a woman, tall and imperious, with bright, purposeful eyes. Her head was covered by a silver helmet and she was carrying a spear and a gleaming shield. Perseus recognized her at once. Like every child, he had been taught about the gods and goddesses, although he had never expected to meet one. This woman had to be Athene. She was the Goddess of Wisdom.

  ‘Perseus,’ she said, standing in front of him, ‘I’ve come to help you. You have a good heart and I know that one day you will be a great hero, but you are also young and foolish and you have allowed King Polydectes to trick you.’

  ‘Thank you, great Athene,’ Perseus said. ‘I do need your help. You see, I’m looking for—’

  ‘I know who you’re looking for,’ Athene interrupted. ‘I am, after all, the Goddess of Wisdom. And it’s lucky you didn’t interrupt my father so rudely. He would have turned you into an acorn or a frog or something. But as I say, I’ve decided to help you and I’ll begin by saying that the only way to find the Gorgons is to ask their sisters – the Grey Ones.’

  ‘Where will I find them?’ Perseus asked.

  ‘By a happy coincidence, they live in the swamp, a few minutes from here. But listen to me, Perseus. You have to be very careful how you kill Medusa. Because anyone who sees her turns to stone.’