Bellerophon and the Chimera: An Oral History

The Horse

I thought we could do anything. Or rather, that’s what I think now, looking back--at the time, I doubt I was thinking at all. Just exhilarating in the moment, the soul-cresting rush of it, when the wind in my wings was more seduction that a thousand sea-wet nymphs.

I knew the boy was trouble, but I knew he would never be dull. You wonder why a majestic beast like me would submit so meekly to a mere mortal, but oh--the joy of handing the reins to someone else, let them make all the hard decisions, and allow yourself to be carried along for the ride. Or ridden along for it, as the case may be.

In our heads perhaps we are all the heroes, but in life there’s a lot to be said for playing a bit part in life. We’re so rarely the ones carried from the stage at the end of Act Three. Half the risk, all the fun.

And that’s what lies beneath all heroism, the fun, escaping the bonds of routine and gravity, common sense and expectation. The quest for a once-in-a-lifetime experience, fueled by the foreknowledge and fear that every single moment in our lifetimes happens only once.

“Watch yourself,” said Athena, but she’s ageless and immortal and has never felt the stultifying drabness of being, the grassy monotony of life’s flats or the burrowing worm underneath the skin that asks, ‘Is this all there is?’

The fields were blue-green and hushed as the fields of Elysium. The sun was in his eyes that morning, Athena’s bridle in his hands, a confident smile on his lips. He walked barefoot across the glade, dew-wet, gleaming and trembling. Each footfall echoed like the beating of a heart. And in that beat between his steps, maybe, I thought, this wasn’t all there was, maybe there was more.

I stood my ground and allowed him to approach. “Watch yourself,” whispered the goddess, but I had eyes only for him.

He said, want to see something unbelievable?

And I did, I did. I wanted my form immortalized in bronze, no, spelled out in starlight, worshipped like a goddess. I wanted to run where no hoof had ever fallen, hold in the orb of my eye sights never seen before, drink clear, cold running waters from secret springs with a taste like ambrosia, memories frozen in ice and captured for eternity. To touch the vault of heaven, and make it ring beneath my hooves.

He said, want to do something unforgettable?

And I did. I did.

He said, listen.

He said, you and me, together, only we two can do this thing.

He said, there was danger, he said, he was unafraid, he said we would be unhurt. All I had to do was follow.

This was an old game and one he had learned to play through one foster family after another, through the threat of death hanging over him at every moment. A cunning, clever boy with a fine name and finer features, he learned the rules did not apply to him. He learned the words that kept that death from him, never dreaming the game might change, that words might not be enough.

His touch upon my neck, the brush of his fingers, was lingering and lightning. Confidence and competence are different things, yet feel the same upon the skin. Like all good liars, he believed his own lies.

He said, trust me.

And he smiled, and winked, and I was fool enough to think that meant he knew what he was doing.

 

The Monster

Welcome, welcome.

I get so few visitors down here. So nice of you to come. Sit down, hang up your sandals, take the weight off. Make yourself comfortable. The trip was pleasant, I take it? All downhill, of course. Never mind the dog, his barks are worse than his bites. You’d think he was the only one with three heads around here. Hmph. I’d offer you a drink, but then you’d forget everything and we’d have to go through the whole story again.

It’s not so bad down here, once you accept your situation.

In my day, I was the most feared creature in existence. So cruel and savage and strange that none dared stand before me. Behold my fiery breath, which reaped armies like sheaves of wheat. Flee before the lashing of my serpent-headed tail, the very touch of which is deadly poison. Tremble at my fearsome lion’s visage, and gibber in madness at the second, goat’s head which arises from my back (don’t try to talk to him—deaf as a post and marginally less intelligent).

These griffons, manticores and hippogriffs, hah, mere imitators, pale shadows. No minotaur was I, hiding in a labyrinth cravenly begging for tribute. No sphinx either, to shelter behind soft riddles and twisting wordplay—pure brute power and strength I was, more harbinger of doom than mere physical presence. And yet, it is I, not they, who became a stand-in for all things illusory and unachievable.

Let that be a lesson to you, mortal: do not rely on the memories of men for your legacy.

Winged, snake-footed Typhon was my sire, who contested the rule of the cosmos with Olympian Zeus himself. While my major accomplishment was terrorizing a couple of seaside villages in Anatolia. But then I console myself with the thought: What did Achilles, the greatest of heroes, achieve but the death of his closest and dearest friend, and of his noblest adversary? What did Odysseus, with all his wiles and cunning, accomplish but to sail endlessly about the sea? We begin life with such ambitions, do we not, but with age and wisdom come more modest goals.

Even for the son of a king, even for the favored of the gods, some trophies are beyond even the farthest grasp. That isn’t negativity, you know, but realism. Had you set yourself against me I would have blasted you into dust faster than one of Zeus’ thunderbolts.

Bellerophon came on a winged horse, and I ask you, is that sporting? Is that fair? A hero? Hah. A bit cowardly, isn’t it, striking at an enemy that can’t hit you back? They all had something: invulnerable but for the heel, a goddess in their pocket, serpent’s teeth, a ball of string, a lion’s skin. A pack of cheats, the lot of them.

And he had the temerity to think this was all something deserved, as if he had won the winged steed on merit. Idiot boy was accused of sleeping with another man’s wife, got sent on a suicide mission and then fell asleep in a temple. The living embodiment of failing upwards, until of course he very suddenly and quite definitely wasn’t. Don’t think I’m too proud to take pleasure in that.

The next time you see someone lauded as a hero, a champion, a strong man, remember Bellerophon. Remember how he had everything handed to him, literal gifts from the gods, and remember what came of all of it in the end.

He said, I have come to slay you, ravager of Lycia. The noon time sun reflected of the helm perched on his head, and that horse of his pawed the air in anticipation. He said I was a blight, a pestilence, that he would scourge me from the land and make it whole again.

Trying to talk himself into it, I suppose. All this braggadocio and bluster serving just to show how thin his young and brittle courage was. I said, come down from your high horse and let’s talk about that.

He said, I am the son of Glaucus, beloved of Athena, tamer of Pegasus.

I said, that’s neat. I said, the bones of dead heroes lie knee-deep on the plains of Lycia and Caria. They were all someone’s sons, they were all beloved. You will learn how little these things matter in the circle of the world, should you live that long. I too, have a father, one that promised me the world. I was not afraid.

He said, silence beast! He said, I will listen to no more of your lies! And he pulled his iron war-helm down over his eyes, spurred his steed into the skies and nocked a goose-feathered arrow against his chest.

It was not a glorious battle, I’m afraid, but rather a decidedly one-sided affair. He flew high above, his arrows stinging like thorns, but my hide was too strong, his arrows too weak, and he could do me no harm. But always he flew out of reach of claw and tail and tooth. A stalemate, as dignified as a cow trying to swat a gnat with its tail. Until, in my frustration, I opened wide my maw and let loose with a jet of flame.

Well. We all know how well that went.

He had a spear with a plug of lead, and thrust it down my open throat, where it ran red and melted into my gut. Do you have any idea what molten metal feels like, burning you form the inside? Suppose not, otherwise you’d be a resident here, not a visitor. It is. Unpleasant.

And then I awoke, if that’s the term, and found myself here. A fitting end for a monster, you say, as if your end will be any different.

 

The Fly

Well, that’s that then. It’s done.

Well.

Well, well, well.

That’s that.

I should feel blessed, I suppose. So few get to know their mission in life, their reason for being. Now admittedly, stinging a flying horse’s arse might not seem like a terribly inspirational life goal, but how many gadflies have accomplished as much? Brought low a hero, you know, a prince, a dragon-slayer, whatsface. Perseus? Sorry, brain the size of a speck of dust, you know, no head for memories.

I spoke with a god, an actual god. A god! Not just any god, mind you, but THE God, Zeus himself. Olympian Zeus, the king of the gods, the Thunderer, the warlike, the keeper of oaths. I’ll never match that moment, never, not if I live to be 100 days.

There I was, just me and a few thousand of my sisters, thickening the early evening air with our panegyric dances, swirling black embers in the tangerine light. And then everything stopped, my sisters frozen in place, and all of creation narrowed to just the two of us, to Olympian Zeus and me. Me, the gadfly! His great presence filling the sky, regarding me with His wise and knowing gaze.

He spoke, and the words echoed through creation. He said, gadfly, little gadfly, least of all creatures, are you happy?

Not the question I was expecting, let me assure you. I’m not sure what my expectations were, frankly, but solicitude would rank pretty far down the list. Took me a bit to recover my wits—yes, both of them, ha ha—before replying.

Well that’s a funny question, O Mighty Zeus, I said. Can’t say that I am, really, I said. Droning around in circles all day, trying to avoid getting swatted, you know. It’s all a bit, I don’t know. You know?

I haven’t much time left, I said. Already these wings grow stiff, the vision in my hundred eyes grow faint, all six legs ache in the rain. I haven’t much time, or rather, I feel I’ve missed my time, my chance to make a mark.

He said, I see such potential in you.

It’s funny you should say that, I said. But I still have potential, I really believe that. I do.

He said, you could do great things.

Well not to boast, but if I just got a break, I think I could, I said.

He said, I shall give you a task to prove this. Look.

And there he was, shining Bellerophon himself, all gilded in armor and helmeted, golden locks streaming like a banner out behind him, astride that great ungainly horse of his. Like a statue of poured molten gold rather than anything living. Oh, how the people must have adored him, I thought, must have drooled over him like a fresh bit of carrion, so unlike me. Not small and mean like a gadfly, but tall and clean and true.

I see him, O Warlike Zeus.

He said, he flies to heaven, though he does not have wings. This boy, homeless, wandering, this least of men, has been gifted with everything you have earned and struggled for. The gift of flight, the kingdom of the airs, all these and more. He mocks you, he usurps your position.

Indeed, this seemed impertinent to me. We gadflies have little, were are the lowliest and least of creatures, but the skies are our birthright. How like a man to steal from us even such simple pleasures, to invade even what tiny territory of existence we still might call our own. Why should he be granted what we labored and suffered for?

I resented that. I despised this man.

I said, what would you have of your servant, O Noble Zeus? And he told me.

Like one of Zeus’s thunderbolts, I fell. The wind howled about in righteous if microscopic fury. These old wings had never beaten so fast, these eyes had never seen so keenly, this stinger had never struck so true. A sting, a pinprick, a stab of righteous punishment, a blow to lay low all such arrogant upstarts.

The horse, the Pegasus, instinctively bucked, its tail lashing and rear legs striking out. The man on the back was first thrown forward against the neck, hands clutching at the mane, then as she reared, his fingers slid and he lost his grip entirely, and went tumbling, whirling from the back.

Thus are you repaid for your jealousy and avarice! I cried. I must confess, I did rub by forelimbs together in glee, to see his misfortune.

The boy cried once, before he fell too far. He said, what did I ever do to you?

Hah. Feigning innocence. He knew.

So.

Nothing to do but watch the man, this hero, hah, this brash boy fall and fall and fall, until he was as small as I, and growing smaller.

And it was done. The deed was done.

So.

Now what?

 

The Bush

Hold still, my friend, this might sting. Well, definitely will. Anyway, rest a while, save your energy. You’ve had quite a fall there. Three miles if it was an inch, I reckon. You’re lucky to be alive, so hush, less weeping and cursing and struggling, more appreciation of the fact that I just saved your life.

The thorns might seem cruel to you—yes, yes, I am sorry about your eyes—but spare a thought for me, who took root and grew in a place where thorns are needed. Look around you—ah, sorry, that was insensitive.

Ahem.

Take this plain: Aleion, “The Wandering” they call it. Rain falls about as often as monster-killing heroes out here. I grow thorns not out of spite, but out of necessity, armoring myself against the trials of this world. There are half a hundred creatures that would love to crack me open and drink the moisture I hold inside. That may not seem like heroism to you, but it takes a different kind of courage to survive. Life is not life out here, but rather a resource, something to be harvested and expended when one is in need.

We are not so different now, you and I, O Mighty Hero. What use is it to fight, when one is sightless, senseless, rooted in place? Now there is only surrender to the inevitable. Your life until now has been about struggle, but now you must learn to accept. Endurance and patience, rather than strength and anger. Welcome the cool night air—you might as well, it comes regardless.

A hero eh, the son of a king, favored of Athena. My word, my wonder. The nettles sting all the same though, don’t they?

Here’s a truth for you lad, a gritty, grainy truth from down here at the bottom of the world, coarse and rough like this plain, and that truth is your story was always going to end this way.

A hero might do so much, more than a thousand other men, yet still be but a pebble in the desert, a drop of rain on this arid plain, soon evaporated, leaving no mark behind. A king, a killer, a hero, a husband, it matters not. It never mattered how much you achieved, it would always be wiped away in a moment. Your flight from persecution, your rise to fame, your fall from grace, all orchestrated by powers barely aware of your existence, your life as dependent as the lowliest bush on the Olympian skies to bring you life-giving rains.

You haven’t lain here more than 10 minutes, but already your fame begins to fade. Bellerophon? Who is he? They might name a ship for you, a small one. A minor statue in a minor town.

There is no returning to kingship now, so put that from your mind. You’ve ridden your last winged steed ever, slain your last monster, said goodbye to your wife for the last time. I would say cherish the memories, but Chronos and the Fates are pitiless things, and will not leave you even that.

You will grow thorns, great hero, and become and prickly as I. The skin will harden over your heart and hurts, and the memories will fade as surely as the scars.