"Demo, Listen!" Petulant anger was in her voice.
"He's chasing the chickens again! You really must do something
about that dog. Hurry, now, before he catches one." His mother's
usually calm mien had disappeared. She had raised a fine flock
of chickens and was proud of every one. To her chagrin, Rough
had acquired a taste for chickens.
"Rough, leave them be! Come here!"
The dog at first wagged its tail, then let it droop between its
legs as it noted the tone of voice. Slowly it approached, its
head hung low, expectant of punishment.
"Rough, I am the greatest hunter in the village. No, I am the
greatest hunter in the whole of Greece. None but I can draw this
bow. None but I can hit the mark, time after time. None can
shoot an arrow for such a distance!"
His mother smiled. Only 17, yet with the assurance of youth, he
boasted of his skill. Well might he do so. For years his bow and
arrows had fed them well. Today he would foray in search of
deer.
"And you! All you can hunt is chickens! Well, you are growing.
Soon I'll take you with me on the hunt. And we'll hunt deer, and
bear, and . . . Well, anyway, not chickens. You hear me, pup?"
Demo rubbed its head with both hands, patted the animal.
Rough licked his palm, followed him into the house, tail
wagging.
"Lucky for you, dog, that you didn't catch that rooster. He'd
of flogged you good with his beak and spurs. Now, Demo, you
watch him. I wont have my chickens killed by the likes of that
mutt." Demo's mother growled in fake anger while surreptitiously
feeding Rough some scraps.
A beautiful dog, with long light brown fur covering his body,
except for a breast of pure white, his looks belied his name. A
handsome head, intelligent eyes, and an attitude of careful
interest placated his master and mistress.
Rough lay down quietly, gazing from one to the other.
"Yes, you are a skilled hunter. I will make ready to cook
venison, for you never return empty-handed. You wont return
empty handed, right?" She smiled.
She stood, stepped to his side, and hugged him for a moment.
Her face mirrored pride as she felt his strong arms around her.
He had been a sickly child. But the Gods had been kind. With
the help of a skilled nursemaid, with good food and work and
play, he had recovered. Now a young man, tall and stalwart,
tanned by the sun he displayed none of the weaknesses of yore.
She was pleased.
His brown eyes, dark hair, and handsome visage were no less
pleasant to her. Soon he would be looking for a mate from the
village maidens. In her mind she had already made a selection.
She glanced at him, smiled.
Her thoughts pursued for a moment that theme. I must invite
Theresa to dine with us. Yes, they would make a handsome pair.
His face reddened at her compliment, and he laughed in
pleasure.
"You shall not be disappointed, Mother."
"No, nor would I ever be. Ah, were your Father Celeus still
living. How proud he would be!"
She filled his pouch with provender for the hunt. Cheese, and
fruit, and warm bread she had baked that day. The smell of the
warm bread and the sweet spread that coated it, the oranges,
made all look eagerly to the meal ahead.
As she tended his meal, frying venison, he took more warm
bread from the table, shared it with Rough, and grinned as his
mother turned to catch them.
"Demophoon! Shame! Without even asking! Do you like it? Is it
good?"
"Mother, your bread is better than another's cake. Isn't it
Rough?"
Rough barked with mention of his name.
Watching him with both amusement and pride as he stalked into
the bordering forest, his mother Metaneira noted the approaching
storm cloud. She frowned.
With all his strength and courage he was still but a boy.
Hopefully he will find a dry cave to shelter in. The rains will
be heavy, the winds strong.
Even in the best of weather she felt concern when he went on
his sojourns. Too many hunters had gone out, not to return. The
Gods of the Forest did not take kindly to wanderers. And they
protected their own.
A chill ran along her back, and she shivered.
"Rough, I shall be glad when you can go with him. He may well
need your aid one day."
She did not realize how prophetic were her words.
Leaving their home he strode rapidly through the open forest of
oak trees. Soon the land began to rise. He climbed the high
mountains, their peaks glistening in the sun. The oak trees
gradually thinned, and pines began to take their place. And at
the higher reaches even the pines gave way to scrubbrush and
weeds. Sunlight was beginning to disappear as he climbed, and he
noted the dark thunderclouds, forming in the north. There shall
be weather by nightfall, he thought.
"The deer will sense it. They will be searching for shelter.
And I know the grove where they will congregate, waiting for the
storm to pass." He voiced the words even as they came to mind.
It was a habit formed of living a lonely life. Since he had
none to talk to on his frequent excursions, he talked softly to
himself.
At times he argued with himself - now supporting a position;
now, opposing it. Such mental contests amused him, sharpened his
wits, or so he led himself to believe.
"They will drift down to the little valley on yonder hillside.
I can be there by set of sun, or perhaps travel under moonlight,
and our larder will be well-stocked tomorrow."
Today he didn't argue with himself. It was a good plan. He
began the climb to the mountain valley.
Few paths led into the mountains. Torturous and narrow they
quickly petered out into animal trails or ended abruptly without
cause. Man left the mountains to Gods of the forest. Only the
bravest hunters dared their heights.
It did not concern him. This was his world, and he climbed
steadily, finding passage where others might turn back.
The lower reaches of the foothills were rolling and the climb
was gradual. Here grew giant trees, broadleafed under the summer
sun, bare in the cold of winter. Nevertheless, here game was
rare, as man dwelled nigh.
As he passed the foothills the terrain became increasingly
rougher. From time to time a vertical wall of stone blocked his
way, and he detoured on twisting paths among boulders as tall as
himself. Sometimes, when no path existed for his progress, he
carefully and slowly climbed the rugged precipice.
"Ah, " he smiled, "would I could fly." He gazed upward, noted
dangerous routes, continued his climb. Panting from his efforts
he progressed ever upward, soon reaching levels where only the
evergreens grew. And as he went upward still, even these grew
more rarely, and more diminutive in form. A few, twisted and
gnarled, hung tenaciously to the near barren earth, their forms
bowed in submission to the power of the wind.
As he leaped from boulder to boulder one twisted beneath his
foot. The motion of the stone threw him to the side of the
trail, to the outer edge of the pathway. Loose dirt and gravels
rattled downward, bounced from jutting ledges, disappearing into
the fog that hid the rock-strewn surface at the cliff's base.
With the agility of youth he caught his balance, danced to a
more solid footing. For a moment he sat down, grinned at the
incident as he gazed over the edge of the precipice that might
have welcomed him. He picked up a pebble, tossed it over the
rim, watched and listened as it careened downward from ledge to
ledge. He shook his head.
"Could have been me."
He grinned, tossed another pebble. It rattled down the
surfaced, bounced outward.
"No, no way, not me."
He leaned back for a moment, relaxed in the warming rays of the
sun, filtered at times by the gathering clouds.
He rubbed his ankle, winced at the pain. "Well, not broken. I
think I'll cut a staff. Too bad. May slow me."
Even as he fashioned the staff his thoughts wandered. He
thought the deep, deep thoughts of youth. The concerns for
tomorrow. His search for a goal beyond the hunting and fishing
of his daily life. His companions had gone diverse ways. Some
were now merchants, others farmers, a few followed the sea. Some
very few had disappeared into the wilds, destined to join outlaw
bands. Perhaps he should become, as his Father, a farmer.
To plow the fields, plant, and watch the harvest grow. Marry
and raise a family.
"Mother would like that. She would favor Theresa. And I do like
her. "
He put his weight on the staff, walked back and forth. The
ankle was swollen, ached, but he would manage.
His thoughts once more returned to the future. Married, a home
of his own? It was not unappealing. Ah, but he could not forsake
the mountains, give up the hunt! Anyway, there was time enough.
"There is tomorrow, and many tomorrows to come. Time enough."
High above a flock of wild geese flew, their path southward
toward the sea. Clouds, winddriven, chased them across the
darkening sky. In the distance lightning flashed between dark
cumulus clouds. Quickly the rumble of thunder followed. He felt
the cool breeze ruffling his hair, heard its whisper in his ear.
Another burst of thunder. "Close, very close." he murmured.
"Best I be moving on. Still, the wind is shifting. Perhaps it
will pass by."
Above the whisper of windrustled leaves he heard a different
noise, the soft pad of footsteps approaching. He frowned. By the
sound he knew them to be human, and likely two people. But who
would be traveling here at this time, with the impending storm?
Rising, Demo slipped silently into the bordering underbrush,
moved to the meager shelter of a gnarled pine. He lay flat at
its base, obscured by its trunk from any curious eyes that might
gaze from the pathway.
Tales passed by word of mouth of robber bands, brigands who
made their home in the forests. Furtive, deadly, they survived
by waylaying unwary travelers. Perhaps exaggerated tales, but
few honest men dared the high mountains!
He waited, eyes wide, controlling breathe and movement.
"I tell you, I saw the boy. He was young, scampered up the
slopes like a mountain goat. And he carried a pouch. There could
be gold. At least he should have food, and our larder is nearly
empty."
The speaker and his comrade came into sight at the mouth of a
dark ravine.
"Maybe a kid out on a hunt. Or maybe a trick. He could be here
looking for us, with a band ready to follow. They were peaceful
enough in the village when we took only a few coins and needed
food. It's when you killed that tradesman all changed. Now they
are afraid, and they are hunting desperately for us."
"True. Anyway, it was dispatch him or be taken prisoner. And I
say we do the same with this one. I say we find this lad, open
his gullet, take his pouch and toss him off yonder crag. This is
our territory, and we want no trespassers!" He grinned, pleased
at the thought.
The speaker was medium height, burly, and his face wore an
angry scowl. His companion was taller. The shorter man was
plainly the leader, and the tall one listened more than talked.
"He had a bow."
"We come up behind him, end it quickly. His bow is of no
consequence."
"Say, look here. Something's happened here. Look at the stones,
and the footprints."
They knelt where Demo had nearly taken a fall, examined the
disturbed stones, and the surrounding ground.
"You're right, someone has been here. And it looks like they've
decided to stay - down there." The tall man pointed over the
brink of the escarpment toward the valley floor.
"The path ends here, and that's a fact. Well, if he went over
at this point he's a goner. Too bad. Wonder what he had in that
pouch?"
They glanced cautiously out over the edge of the precipice. The
short man suddenly gave the tall one a half shove.
"You idiot! What if I'd slipped. I'll rap you on that thick
skull if you do a fool thing like that again!"
The shorter one grinned. "Ah, it was just in fun. I'd not send
you over."
"No, not unless you were for taking all the coins for yourself.
Just keep your distance. Maybe you saw nothing at all, just
wanted to get me out here where it'd be easy. No, Rooster, I
trust you not at all."
The burly man pulled a dagger from his belt, still grinning.
"You think too much, friend Peter. Nevertheless, I like it! It
is an excellent idea!"
The blade darted out! Missed!
The Peter stepped back quickly, slipped, fell sideward, slid
toward the cliff!
He grabbed the ankle of his companion. The Rooster kicked his
face! Blood spurted from a broken nose, covered the sandled
foot! Rooster pulled and jerked, trying to free his leg, but
Peter held on doggedly.
"Damn you." Peter spat at his attacker. He grabbed a rock, rose
to his knees, still grasping Rooster's ankle. His opponent
pulled away, his eyes on the rock. Red blood flowed from Peter's
torn skin and swollen nose. Peter lashed out desperately with
the rock, crashing it against his companion's knee.
"Damn you, you've broken my leg!" Rooster cursed, slashed at
Peter's rock hand as both slid toward the waiting cliff.
Dropping the rock Peter, too, drew a knife, slashed at
Rooster's leg.
A boulder interrupted their slide. They both struggled to their
feet.
"I'll see you in hell," Rooster thrust once more with his
weapon.
The blade sliced through flesh, hit bone. Peter, wounded in the
left side, gasped, staggered backward.
With a grimace his burly assailant suddenly rushed forward,
slashing wildly.
Peter, leaping sideward, felt the stones rolling beneath his
feet.
Ground gave way, and he screamed. At the same moment he grabbed
the Rooster's arm, yanked him forward.
For a moment they staggered on the edge of the precipice.
It ended quickly!
Even as they fought the ground quivered beneath their feet!
Then, with a low rumbling, the ledge on which they fought began
to slide. White-faced they dropped their weapons, scrambled to
reach a firm foothold.
It was to no avail!
Their frightened screams mingled with the growing roar of the
falling boulders, lasted only seconds. Demo lay still, unable to
rise. The screams had ceased. Now nothing else was heard save
the rattle of falling stones. Dust rose from the cliffs edge,
quickly blew away by a vagrant breeze.
Demo lay still. It had happened so quickly!
They had stood on the trail, talking, friends it seemed. And in
moments they had turned on one another, fought! And now - they
were gone.
Dead!
He shuddered.
"Ah, how my heart is beating!" He stood up. "Dead, and in but a
few heartbeats of time!" He leaned on his staff, took a deep
breath. "And that's what they would have done to me!"
He moved gingerly from his retreat.
He listened carefully.
"There are no more of them . . . ?" He glanced fearfully toward
the ravine from which they had emerged.
There was only silence.
Slowly Demo edged up to the brink of the precipice, slowly
peered downward.
Nothing could be seen save a few scattered boulders and a few
dark patches lying ominously quiet.
He turned now downward, turned his back on the lonely
desolation of the higher peaks. His thoughts remained with the
scene that had just occurred.
Long he had heard of brigands and outlaws in the high
mountains. In appearance these had looked no different than his
neighbors in the valley. Yet they had destroyed each other in
acts of senseless violence.
"May the Gods keep me! What strange mad creatures we humans
are!" he whispered to himself. He paused, leaned against the
bole of a tree. He felt nauseated, weak. They were not old,
certainly younger than his Mother. And now, snuffed out, gone.
He sat down, his back against the tree.
It could have just as easily been me. He took a deep breath. It
was me they wanted. And they would have killed me just as
quickly. A shiver ran through his body.
"Is life so very cheap?" He looked at his hands, held them in
front of his face. "It can end so quickly. "
He had never thought about it. Never given death even a second
thought. But now it would not leave his mind. A quick slash with
a knife, a blow to the head, a fell from a crag. And it is over.
The only death he had ever know was that of his Father. And he
had been quite young. It had been lonesome without him, sad.
But he had not understood how very final it was. He had always
thought, in a childish way, that his Father would return.
Perhaps, strangely, even 'til now.
He hadn't thought of his Father for a long while. He knew not
why, but tears welled from his eyes. For a few moments he sat
beneath the tree, sobbing. Now I begin to understand. How
strange, after all these years. And yet he had always missed his
Father. But he had never cried before. He shook his head.
His Mother had cried. He remembered, at night, listening to her
sobs. He had walked to her bed, hugged her, and she kissed him.
But he had not really understood. Now he did. How very strange.
How insensitive we are, unknowingly.
Biting his lip he rose, glanced back toward the escarpment.
With an effort he brought his thoughts once more to the hunt.
Did the deer ever think of death? Was the buck fearful,
constantly watchful for the hunter? How very strange the world!
He began his descent, wide-eyed and watchful. There could be
others around any tree, any boulder!
His concern was not warranted, for he met neither brigands nor
wild beast. The mountain slopes were silent. As though the men
had never existed, had never disturbed the peace and calm of the
placid heights.
The valley he sought lay far below, tree encompassed. The
downward path would be easier. Even now he walked mid patches of
green grass and verdant bushes. Wild flowers bloomed, occasional
berry bushes provided sustenance, and he ate, then stopped.
Here he was eating, enjoying the mountains bounty! And they!
Lying dead, who had but moments before lived and breathed as did
he. How short the distance between survival and abundance. He
thought again of the scene he had watched.
The thought continued to shock him. His thoughts were more
often on material things, on stalking the deer, catching the
fish from the streams. He shook his head, driving away dismal
thoughts as he lengthened his stride toward the distant valley.
"Well, I must be careful. Mother was right. There are brigands
about. My, that ankle does ache. But I promised Mother venison."
He leaned on the staff to lessen the pain.
The high mountains beckoned with promise of game. Above the
domain of man the deer browsed. At times threatened by wolf or
the mountain lions, they flourished still. To the hunter who
dared these slopes a day without success was rare.
The storm clouds were nearing rapidly. The air preceding their
arrival was beginning to cool. The odor of rain wafted ahead of
the storm. And the odor of ozone, accompanying the frequent
lightning flashes. Drifting downward from the peaks, dark
thunderclouds forewarned of imminent danger. Long rumbles of
thunder followed the frequent flash of lightning. And the wind
blew continuously, a mournful sound at times steady, but more
frequently gusting in sudden fury. The trees swayed wildly under
the ministrations of Aeolus.
The deer, driven by the storm, drifted more rapidly toward the
valley for shelter. They were small, at times indistinguishable
because of the distance. Still could he make out, or so
imagined, antlered bucks among them. The best of these would
fall to his arrow. In spite of the weather he would indeed be
there by sundown. It would be a good hunt. In his mind he could
smell the cooking venison.
Ceres watched her world with happy smiles. Soft rains nurtured
the crops, and harvests would be bountiful. Bees from flower to
flower flew, humming as they went their industrious way. Grain
grew tall, and every tree limb bent low, weighted with its
fruit. Grapes were bounteous, green grapes and blue, others
purple and red.
Ceres watched with jealous heart. Every seed to her was sacred.
If but one failed to put forth its plant she fretted. If several
slept lazily under the fertile soil her lips tightened in
concern. A limb that bore no fruit, a plant that failed to
flower - all drew from her the like concern.
Yet she was happy, for though man must toil to reap, his
rewards were plentiful. The grapes, swollen purple, ready to
burst with sweetness, soon would go to press. Bacchus would
receive his devotees, frolicking, carousing, and celebrating
joyful times. For the people were thankful for the wealth of
food their land produced, and gave thanks through their
celebrations.
Ceres watched her daughter playing amidst the flowers of their
garden. Winsome and gay and ever active she darted among the
plants, now chasing a colored butterfly; now dancing with a
flirting breeze.
Soon her education must begin. The ways of the wind, of the
storm gods, and of Earth herself must she learn. The many
plants, their names and their fruit, were to be learned. When
and where to sow, how deep the seed to plant. Harvesting, and
storing the harvest, were skills she must have. Preparing the
foods to satisfy the taste and body - so many wonderful and
exciting secrets of the world!
But, for now, let her play. Her curiosity would teach her much.
Observant, Persephone noted each subtle change in plant and in
the land. Inquisitive, she asked of Ceres question after
question, probing to find how and why and what of each event,
each object.
Ceres watched with pride her lovely child.
And wondered at the dark sense of foreboding that would not
leave her mind.
Brooding, his eyes half closed, Pluto sat on his sumptuous
throne. Ornate with jewels - diamonds and rubies, sapphires and
amethyst, green jade and blue turquoise - it held the treasures
of the world. Decorated with filigree of silver and gold, it
dominated the room. Or would have, were it not for its occupant.
Zeus and Poseidon, his brothers, were heroic figures before man
and Gods. Strong, handsome, powerful - they were admired,
worshipped.
Not so, Pluto.
Face and form hideous to behold he ruled the nether world. Not
admiration, nor worship were his. Rather, fear!
His appearance aroused it. He stood huge over the poor
supplicants who pleaded for release from this, the eternal
prison. A skin of leathery hue, plated in metallic scales that
gleamed in light of candle. Misshapen form, twisted, broken. A
face of ghastly white, lined with deep marks that twisted with
his thoughts, pitted with pock marks. He projected fear and
evil. His kingdom reinforced it. The tales and rumors that
spread among men, and even on high Olympus, did little to
dissipate that fear.
Only his eyes, often hidden by lowered lids, belied his
appearance. For they reflected the pity and compassion in his
soul.
At his invitation the great castle filled with revelers. Yet,
in their presence or alone, Pluto had no feeling of belonging.
His was a lonely world, a world apart.
Companionship, friendship, understanding - these were denied
him.
And, also, love.
Pluto brooded.