"What?" The sphinx paused her advance.
Jerry desperately drew an "S" in the air.
"Anthropos!" yelled Lamont.
The sphinx covered its head with its wings. Stamped its paws in frustration. The great talons ripped the soil like so many plows.
Lamont breathed deeply, knowing that he was off the hook. But his mind was still racing. "Hey, Jerry! Offer it a new riddle for its help."
* * *
Jerry tried. But the sphinx was apparently not even listening. It seemed lost in melancholia, muttering to itself.
"Damned humans. They've got nothing to do all day but gossip, gossip, gossip. So now everyone knows my riddle. It's not fair! Even in remote spots virtually next to Cimmuria they've heard." It began flapping its huge wings, while it ran across the meadow in giant bounds. Just when achieving flight seemed utterly impossible—it did.
Jerry wiped his brow. "Phew. I thought we'd had it that time."
"Well, it looked close," said Liz, climbing from her tree. "What the hell went on there?"
Jerry and Lamont explained, as they walked back with McKenna to the kill.
Liz shook her head. "We're going to have to learn some Greek, and some mythology. Soon."
McKenna looked up, his eyes caught by motion in the sky. "I think we just left it too late. What the hell is that?" He took a firmer grip on his bayonet-spear. A device which, judging from the look on his face, he didn't think was going to do him a whole lot of good.
The scales of the two dragons shimmered like polished bronze in the late afternoon sun. The dragons were more like the tasseled Chinese version than the European version, but they were still plainly dragons, even if they moved through the air like plump snakes. The chariot they towed was winged, however. The dragons and the chariot turned in the sky above. They were going to land virtually on top of them.
"Hide!" hissed McKenna. "Get into those bushes!"
The bushes felt pitifully inadequate. And, of course, they were thorny.
* * *
Anibal Cruz watched from behind a tree on the far side of the glade. Those flying monsters must be thirty-five feet long! He'd seen the others go to ground. But there was no way he could signal to them.
The woman who had been handling the reins got down from the chariot. For a moment, Cruz was just plain dazzled. A beautiful, patrician-featured face was framed by a cascade of long, dark ringlets. Her lustrous skin was a pale olive, and her . . .
He stopped right there. Fantastic figure, true—and so what? Those pets of hers were dragons. And even without them, she didn't look like the sort of woman who would respond well to any of Cruz's bar-room opening lines. He began to ease backwards ever so slowly.
* * *
"That's Medea!" hissed Jerry.
"Who's she?" asked Liz in a whisper.
"The Sorceress of Colchis. She's one of the most evil, murderous and unpleasant characters in Greek myth. Chopped her brother up and tossed the pieces at her father to slow him down while he was pursuing her. Then, later, she murdered her husband's bride-to-be after Jason told her he was dumping her. Even killed her own two children to get revenge on him, before making her escape." He pointed a somewhat shaky finger. "In a chariot pulled by dragons."
The sorceress unharnessed the dragons. Someone stood up in the back of the chariot. It was a small boy of about six or seven.
"Mom? Are we at Aunt Circe's yet?" he asked, yawning and stretching.
"Not yet, dear," said Medea. "But the dragons need to eat."
The boy looked around curiously. "Can I get out and play?"
She smiled at him. "Just let the dragons check that it's safe first, Priones."
Another child stood up. A younger boy. "I need to wee, Mommy."
* * *
Among the things that Jerry could add to his growing zoological lore of the Mythworld was that mythological Greek dragons were very keen of nose and eye. It didn't take the dragons more than five seconds to spot Jerry and his companions as they tried to hide.
Very shortly thereafter, Jerry was able to add a few more items of information to his ever-expanding knowledge of mythology:
Greek dragons are very, very fast moving.
Their shimmering scales are diamond hard.
They were constrictor-like in their ability to hold prey. And . . .
They were toothless.
Which was something, Jerry realized as he gasped for breath inside a dragon's coils, that the dragon's mistress was not. Nor ever would be—even if you pulled out all of her even white teeth. The sleepy-looking young woman who had now also sat up in the back of the chariot was plainly gentler, if only in her demeanor. But they both looked more than a little angry. Far more.
* * *
"Skulkers. Waiting in ambush! I told you he was scum, Glauce! And they're his own children, too!" The last part was said with an angry sob.
"How ever did he find us?!" The other girl wrung her hands. "Make them talk, Medea."
"They'll talk all right. Come on, Hellenes. Spit it out! How did Jason know where we were going? You're all dinner for Bitar and Smitar . . . but I'll let you choose in which order."
There was an outraged hiss and an equally outraged sniff. "We're not eating thifs lot!" spittled the one dragon.
"You promifsed ufs fsomething tender!" protested the other.
"fSoft and juifsy, you fsaid." The red-tasseled one's eyes were reproachful and accusing.
"Yefs! Eafsy on the gumfs!" agreed its purple-tassled partner, with a display of sore-looking toothless gums. "Well cooked—you promifsed ufs! " The voice sounded bitter—betrayed.
"Digefstible, you fsaid!"
"Not thefse. They'll be too tough." The dragon with Jerry in its massive coils gave a squeeze that nearly cracked the mythographer's ribs.
"Far too tough, when we've got no teef," whined the other.
"I'm not a cook!" snapped Medea.
"You can fsay that again," hissed the red-tasseled one.
"Oh, shut up," said Medea irritably. She turned away from the argument. "Now—you Hellenes. Answer me!"
Jerry had trouble breathing. "We're not Hellenes," he managed to squeeze out. There wasn't even much spare breath for that.
Not speaking good classical Greek can sometimes be good for your health.
"Loosen up a little bit there, Smitar." Medea frowned. "Then why were you waiting in ambush for us?"
The fierce-looking woman's chuckle was as fierce as her visage. "Nice to hear someone speak Greek even worse than I do! But if you're not Hellenes, then who are you?"
She still sounded suspicious, but no longer quite as homicidal. The difference was marginal, however. Jerry got the feeling that, with this beautiful but frightening woman, things could go downhill fast if he said something like "Colchian."
"We are Americans. We were stranded here by Hellene treachery. And we weren't waiting to ambush anyone. We were just on the way to fetch our dinner."
"Dinner! Did fsomeone fsay `dinner'?" sprayed one of the dragons. "It'fs not maiden fstew by any off-chanfs?" asked the other.
Medea paid the dragons no mind. "A likely story! You just happened to be hiding in the bushes on the exact spot where we landed. Ha! Tell me another one."
Exasperation took hold of Jerry. It was not wise, but on the other hand he had faced Scylla and Charybdis, the clashing rocks, sirens, a boar, centaurs and even a couple of Greek gods, not adequately spaced by sleep or even by his idea of decent meals. "Don't be so stupid. How would we know where to hide and wait? You could have landed anywhere. Besides, did you think that I was going to attack dragons without even a weapon? We saw you coming and hid away because we thought you were going to attack us!"
The dragon who had Jerry in its coils was examining him with eager interest, apparently oblivious to the mythographer's outrageous disrespect for Medea. "fSo what are you having for dinner?"
"fSure it'fs not maiden fstew?" enquired the other dragon, rather hopefully.
&nb
sp; Suddenly, Medea emitted another chuckle. A much softer one than the first. "I like a man with a bit of fire," she admitted.
Oh great, thought Jerry. As if I wasn't in enough trouble. All I need now is this world's most murderous sorceress taking a fancy to me.
"If he'fs got a bit of fire can we cook them on it?" That seemed to be the dragon called Bitar, its voice plaintive.
"Oh, shut up!" snapped Medea. "Don't you two ever think of anything but your stomachs?"
The dragons stared at each other, wide-eyed.
"Not refsently," said Bitar.
"fShould we?" asked the other, wrinkling its scaly face.
Medea sighed. "I wish I hadn't given you the power of speech. Now what am I going do with this lot?"
"Mommy, I need to wee—now," whined the smallest boy, dancing from foot to foot.
Medea still seemed to be simmering a bit. She swiveled her head and glared at the child. "Be quiet! Or I'll expose you on a rock!"
The young woman in the chariot shook her head reproachfully. "Medea! That's not a nice thing to say, and you know it." Then, gently: "Just go around the back of the chariot, Neoptolmeus."
The dragons were more concerned with their captives' fate. "Braifse them fslowly with onionfs," mused the one.
"What about fsoup?" suggested the other.
"Yefs! fSoup!"
Medea paid no attention to the dragons. "Where is this America place? Is it a distant island? And why are you the only one who has spoken?"
"Because I'm the only one who speaks any Greek." By her expression, that was a good thing to say.
"Ah! I can solve that." She walked back to the chariot, took a small clay vessel out of it and walked up to Cruz.
"Jerry." Cruz was plainly struggling just to breathe. "Huh . . . what's huh . . . she going to do?"
"Don't worry," said Jerry in his best attempt at reassurance. With luck Cruz wouldn't know that this was one of the most notorious poisoners in legend and myth . . . especially as she was smearing stuff onto his lips. Then she began smearing the same salve on his ears, chanting softly as she did so.
"Tastes . . . huh . . . shit."
She slapped him. Very hard. "How dare you say something like that about one of my potions?"
Cruz's eyes, already bulging, nearly popped out of his head. "I huh . . . understand . . . huh . . . you!"
"You'd better! And you'd better mend your manners. What's this `Huh' you keep saying?"
"I can't, huh . . . breathe," gasped Cruz.
"Too bad," said Medea, shrugging. "Suffering may teach you some manners." She walked on to the others.
When she neared Liz, Medea's face darkened again with anger. "Smitar! This is a woman! Let her go at once! How dare you?"
The dragon uncoiled Liz. "You never fsaid," he muttered sulkily.
Liz was quick on the uptake. She volunteered her lips and ear. And vouched for the good character of her companions. And also said exactly the right thing. "No, I'm not married to any of them. And not going to be either. I've tried being married, but I left my husband."
"Why?" asked Medea, with obvious sympathy.
Liz shrugged. Then, thinking quickly, added an angry shake of her fist at the sky. "He started sniffing around a girl with lots of money. So I left him before he left me."
Medea hugged her. "Men!" she said. "What did I tell you, Glauce? They're all the same. Was he a Hellene?"
"Oh, Medea," said Glauce reprovingly. "Not all Hellenes are like Jason."
Liz shook her head. "No, he was Am—uh, Canadian," she lied hastily. "I really think these Americans are more honorable." She even managed to say it with a straight face. "Please, can you let them go? I swear they won't hurt anyone."
"You swear by all the gods? Not that I trust any of the gods but Hecuba and Helios. But I will admit that Hermes the giant killer said this was a good place to land."
Liz shot a glance at Jerry. "Yes. I swear."
"Very well. They can all go except that one who was rude about my potion. He can stay in the folds of Bitar for a while. The lout!"
Don't push it, thought Liz. "Well, can he at least have some air?"
Medea pursed her lips with thought. She considered Cruz. "I suppose so. He is going a bit purple."
"Hey! What'fs for our dinner then?" exclaimed Smitar angrily, apparently forgetting that he'd complained that they were too tough.
"Yefs! We need at leafst one each!" The dragons were definitely on the fringes of rebellion.
Lamont came to the rescue. "We'll cook you dinner."
"Ooh! What'fs on offer? Got any maiden fstew?"
Lamont shook his head regretfully. "The last batch of maidens we got were all, ah, broken. But we've got venison."
"Don't like venifson," said Bitar sulkily.
"Yefs. Too chewy," agreed Smitar.
"Uh. Fish?" Lamont's eyes were a bit wide, as if he were trying to picture one fish divided by two dragons . . .
"Mussel soup?" offered Jerry.
"fSoup!" Bitar said eagerly.
"fSoup ifs good when you haven't got any teef. Medea can't cook," Smitar informed them all, sententiously.
Smitar sniffed. "Neither can Glauce."
"Typical king'fs daughterfs, if you afsk me," said Bitar scathingly. "Ufsed to fservants doing everything for them."
Don't ask about the teeth, thought Liz. Just don't ask. Not yet. But whoever this woman is, she's okay. She's nice to her children.
She gave the beautiful sorceress a quick glance. Well . . . That really wasn't a nice thing to say to her kid. "Expose you on a rock!" Suddenly, Liz found herself suppressing a manic laugh. On the other hand, I bet those kids eat their vegetables without complaining!
* * *
In the twilight, the waves curled about the dark rocks like phosphorescent lace. A dragon belched. "I'm fstuffed! Befst meal we've had since Aeëtefs pulled our teeth for Jafson to fsow."
"Yefs," agreed the other. "Think I'm going to burfst."
And so they should, thought Jerry, sipping some of Medea's wine. The dragons must have eaten ten gallons of mussel soup each. Fortunately, Medea had that enormous cauldron, and the mussels and wild onions were plentiful. Herbs and some wine from a crater of stuff that Medea had said was barely fit to drink, and hey-presto—happy dragons. Personally, Jerry thought the soup could have used some cream, but the dragons had liked it. Well, they'd also sampled everything else going.
He shook his head. From a disastrous start, it had actually turned into a pleasant evening. All they needed now was to find a way to stop Lamont from fishing. For a man who claimed he'd never caught a fish in his life the guy was an embarrassment. Even when he dropped an empty hook into a rock pool, he somehow caught an eel. Heh. It was definitely getting on Liz's nerves. She kept muttering something about "beginner's luck." But Jerry suspected that the goddess of luck's blessing had a more long-lasting effect on Lamont than he would have supposed.
More than anything else, the good relationship had been fostered by the two children. They'd been both trusting and inclined to questions which adults might have shied from. "Why is your hair such a funny color, lady?" demanded the younger child.
"I dyed it," replied Liz.
"Why? Did you want to look like a nereid?" asked the older boy.
Liz shrugged. "Because I thought it might make me look prettier."
Both children fell about in helpless laughter.
And then—wonder of wonders—the stolid Cruz turned into the kind of guy who liked playing "horse" and "merry-go-round" for kids.
The other thing that had been fairly priceless was the reaction of Medea and Glauce to the men cooking for them and serving them with food. It was known that men could cook—well, char meat—when they had to. But as it turned out it was the men of this party who could really cook.
Cruz's contribution had been particularly valued. Red mullet briefly marinated in some of Medea's olive oil, chopped fennel, and a little wine, and then encased in wild vine leaves
and grilled. The sergeant seemed to be a cornucopia of surprises.
Also inspired had been Lamont's rosemary-twig-skewered venison liver. Pure chance had governed that one: "I want sticks that won't kill us and it's an herb, Jerry. It's got to be non-toxic." It had worked extremely well, especially basted with the hot sauce which McKenna had in his rucksack.
In each case, Jerry knew, it had been force of circumstance that had taught the men how to cook—but Medea seemed convinced that it was a general American trait.
"This island—America—where the men cook and wait on the women . . . is it the Land of the Giants?" she asked, peering up at the red-headed, six-foot-two paratrooper.
McKenna, very well oiled with wine by now, nodded eagerly. "And the Packers and the Jets and the Steelers and the—"
Cruz belched. "Oakland Raiders." Belch. "My team."
21
Pigging out with Circe.
Rosy-fingered dawn smeared the sky, outlining a solitary fisherman on rocks lapped by the full tide.
Jerry peered. "For Christ's sake, Lamont! Haven't you caught enough fish yet?"
Lamont shrugged. "Well, there's breakfast to provide for a fair number of people. And those dragons eat a lot."
"And you don't just like fishing?" Jerry grinned. "Don't expect me to swallow that line."
Lamont smiled back. "No, I don't like fishing. I like catching fish. I thought you'd have hooked onto that. Yesss! Another one!"
"It's only just dawn," grumbled Liz from the cave, "and you two are punning already. There ought to be a law against it."
Lamont looked at Jerry. "It's amazing how grumpy some people can be when they can't have any coffee first thing in the morning."
"Gah. Did you have to remind me?" Liz, tousle-haired and rumpled, emerged from behind the sleeping dragons. "I'll swear these things are twice as fat as they were yesterday. They look like little balloons. What are you up to?"
"I thought I'd get the fire ready for the great fisherma—"
The dragon-flatulent blast nearly shattered their eardrums. Cruz and McKenna appeared as if by magic—spears in hand, looking for a foe.
Liz waved a hand in front of her nose. "No naked lights or matches! Or it's your life!"
She moved hastily upwind. "Now I think I understand how they can fly. Talk about gasbags . . . "