The Hero With A Fairy Godmother

In the fairy tales you love, a prince who is the hero almost always has a fairy godmother to watch over him and help him succeed in his adventures. But Hercules the Great, the mightiest hero of ancient Greece, had two fairy godmothers. Of course, they were not called fairy godmothers back in the days of the myths, but two powerful goddesses guided Hercules' destiny. The strange thing was that nobody knew which of the two mattered more.

Hercules began life just like any other baby, except that his father was the mighty Jupiter. This made everyone expect great things from him. And just as in the old fairy tales, he had enemies because of his noble birth. One of these enemies was the goddess Juno.

One day, while Hercules was still too young to walk, he lay in his cradle and suddenly saw something that would have terrified anyone much older. On each side of the cradle appeared the green, hissing head of a huge serpent, their poisonous fangs thrust out to sting this child of the gods to death. Hercules' attendants ran away in terror, not daring to fight the vipers.

But he reached out his tiny hands, gripped a serpent in each by its throat, and strangled them.

After that, people began to look at Hercules with wonder. They watched him grow up, just like any other boy except that his limbs were stronger and his muscles harder than those of the average boy of Greece. Still, there were those who admired him and those who hated him, knowing that he was truly the son of a god. So his enemies put Hercules in the charge of a kind of tutor named Eurystheus, who was under orders to give him the most impossible tasks to perform.

"The lad will fail, and then we shall be well rid of him," said the goddess Juno, who particularly disliked Hercules.

Hercules grew up in a part of Greece known as the valley of Nemea. It was a place of olive orchards, fruit trees, and fields of grain, but the terror of the region was the Nemean lion, who lived nearby in the hills. No one had ever known a lion so huge, with such wide, bloodthirsty jaws. Eurystheus ordered Hercules to bring him the tawny hide of this monster.

"How shall I slay the Nemean lion?" Hercules asked.

"With your arrows and your club," Eurystheus replied carelessly. But he knew that no arrows in all Greece could pierce the lion's skin, and that Hercules' club, made from a stout young tree, would also be powerless against the beast.

"Hercules will never return," the people of the valley said to each other as they watched the young hero set out boldly for the hills.

But he returned the next day, as fresh and untroubled as when he had started, with the hide of the Nemean lion slung over his shoulder.

"Are your arrows magic, and is your club charmed as well?" the youths who were Hercules' friends asked, crowding around him.

"I killed the lion with my hands alone, grasping him about his throat," Hercules explained to them.

Eurystheus, listening at the edge of the crowd, frowned at these words. "I must plan a greater labor for him," he thought.

There was a rich and beautiful city of Greece named Argos, but a fearful monster called the Hydra infested a swamp just outside it. No one knew when it might descend upon the well that supplied the people with pure water. The Hydra had nine heads, and rumor said that one of them was immortal.

"Go to Argos and kill the Hydra," Eurystheus commanded Hercules.

Hercules was ready to dare this adventure. He set out again with no other weapons than he had carried before. When he came to the well of Argos, which kept the land from drought, he found the Hydra stationed there. Going up to it, Hercules struck off one of its heads with his club. But to his surprise, two heads grew in its place! He understood that destroying this creature would be a task, as he laid on with his club against the menacing heads that kept increasing. He struck right and left, giving telling blows with no pause. At last he struck off all of the Hydra's heads except the one that could not die. Finally, Hercules thought of a plan for destroying that one. He wrenched it off with his mighty hands and buried it deep underneath a rock.

"Hercules shall be put to a task he will not like so well as fighting wild beasts," Eurystheus decided then. "He shall clean the Augean stables. We will see if a son of the gods has the will to accomplish that labor."

This was indeed a labor with very little of the spirit of adventure in it. Old King Augeus of Elis in Greece had a herd of three thousand cattle, and their stalls in his many stables had not been cleaned for thirty years. The cattle, all of them of fine stock, were dying off because they were not properly cared for, and no hero of the king's retinue felt that the work of cleaning the stables was anything but menial.

Hercules had no such thought, however. He was ready to attempt the labor; his only idea was how to accomplish it thoroughly. At last he had a very novel idea.

By this time, scarcely any of the lesser gods of the outdoors had not felt the strength of Hercules. There had been the river god who took delight in leading the waters over their banks and flooding the farms in the spring when the fields had just been planted. Hercules had wrestled with this river god and had broken off one of his horns, because of which the god had to keep the streams between their banks. Hercules made up his mind to take advantage of his power over the river god in his present need.

So what did Hercules do but lead the courses of two streams, the Alpheus and the Peneus, right through the Augean stables, cleansing them thoroughly. When he finished this labor, the result was so fine that he had quite as much reason to be proud of it as he had over his other prowess. It was just as splendid to use one's strength in cleaning as in any other way, Hercules discovered.

He went on from one adventure to another as the years passed, always successful although everyone predicted that someday his strength would fail and he would have to give up. Eurystheus wanted a new yoke of oxen, and none would do except those that lived in the land of the setting sun, in the western part of Greece, and were guarded by a giant who had three bodies. Hercules set out for the place, and when he reached it he discovered that not only the giant, but a huge dog with two heads guarded the oxen. Hercules killed the giant and his dog and drove the oxen home to Eurystheus.

Victor over wild beasts and giants, and able to accomplish any work he attempted, what labor was left for this son of Mount Olympus? Eurystheus knew. He sent Hercules on what seemed like a wild goose chase. He commanded him to bring back to Greece the golden apples of the Hesperides, without telling him where they could be found.

These were very plump and beautiful apples made entirely of solid gold. Some say they were the first oranges the world had ever known. However that may be, the Greeks wanted them very much. Juno had received them as a wedding present from the goddess of Earth, and had hung some on a golden tree in the fair garden of the daughters of Hesperis, who kept a dragon to guard them. It would have been a task to pick them even if one had known where to go. But Hercules started out without route or chart, and it was the most difficult of all his adventures.

He met Antaeus, a son of the Earth, who was a mighty giant and wrestler. Hercules encountered this son of the Earth and threw him countless times, but each time the giant rose from the ground with renewed strength. It was like magic, but at last Hercules discovered the secret of Antaeus' strength, as you will soon see, and did battle with him. Then Hercules went on, for the Earth could no longer stop him. After a while he found himself at Mount Atlas in Africa.

The bent old giant, Atlas, stood on the top of the mountain, holding up the sky on his shoulders. He was as ancient as the mountain itself and doomed by the gods to stand there through the seasons and never go home to the garden of the Hesperides where his daughters lived.

"If you will but bring me the golden apples of the Hesperides, old Atlas, I will take your place on the mountain top for a while," Hercules said to the giant.

"The sky is heavier than you imagine, my son," Atlas replied. "I doubt if you can bear it."

"Let me but try," Hercules urged him.

So Atlas shifted the burden of the heavens from his shoulders to those of Hercules, and the hero held them securely. When Atlas returned, his arms full of the precious golden balls, Hercules still held the sky as if he scarcely felt its weight. Atlas wanted to have him hold it always, but Hercules was not of a mind to do that. He gave back his load to Atlas and took the apples of the Hesperides home to Greece.

Hercules had conquered the earth even in this last adventure, and it seemed as if there was no great deed left for this hero. But he continued using his mighty strength, even descending to Pluto's realm of darkness and bringing back the heroic Theseus, who was a prisoner there. At last even his enemies on Mount Olympus were forced to grant him a place of honor in their midst, and Jupiter wrapped him in a cloud and sent a four-horse chariot to bring him home along the road of the stars. When Hercules reached the Olympian Heights, it is said that old Atlas bent still lower with the weight on his shoulders, for this hero had added new strength to the heavens.

But you may ask about those two goddesses who presided like fairy godmothers over Hercules' destiny. The ancients asked that same question, and Hercules answered it just before Jupiter called him away from Greece. One of these goddesses was named Virtue, and the other Pleasure, but it was Virtue whom Hercules followed all his life.

Now, a great while ago, in the days of the myths, there lived an earth-born Giant named Antaeus, and a race of little earth-born people called Pygmies. This Giant and these Pygmies, being children of the same Mother Earth, lived together in a very friendly way far off in the middle of hot Africa.

It must have been very curious to behold the Pygmies' little cities, with streets two or three feet wide paved with the smallest pebbles and bordered by houses about as big as a squirrel's cage. If a Pygmy grew to the height of six or eight inches, he was considered a prodigiously tall man. So many sandy deserts and high mountains lay between them and the rest of mankind that nobody could catch a glimpse of them more often than once in a hundred years.

The king's palace was about as tall as a doll's house, and this and the rest of their buildings were made neither of stone nor wood. They were neatly plastered together by the Pygmy workmen, much like birds' nests, out of straw, feathers, eggshells, and other bits of small stuff, with stiff clay instead of mortar. When the sun had dried them, they were just as snug and comfortable as a Pygmy could desire.

Their giant friend, Antaeus, was so very tall that he carried a pine tree for a walking stick. It took a sharp-sighted Pygmy to see the top of his head on a cloudy day. But at noonday, when the sun shone brightly over him, Antaeus presented a very grand spectacle. There he would stand, a perfect mountain of a man, with his great countenance smiling down on his little brothers and his one eye, which was as big as a cart wheel and placed right in the center of his forehead, giving a friendly wink to the whole nation at once. In spite of the difference in their size, it seemed as if Antaeus needed the Pygmies for friends as much as they needed him for protection. No creature of his own size had ever talked with him. When he stood with his head among the clouds, he was utterly alone, and had been so for hundreds of years, and would be forever.

Even if he had met another Giant, Antaeus would have fancied the earth not large enough for them both and would have fought him. But with the Pygmies he was the most merry and sweet-tempered old Giant who ever washed his face in a cloud.

The Pygmies had but one trouble in the world: they were constantly at war with the cranes. From time to time, very terrible battles were fought, in which sometimes the little men were victorious and sometimes the cranes. When the two armies joined battle, the cranes would rush forward, flapping their wings, and might snatch up some of the Pygmies crosswise in their beaks. It was truly an awful spectacle to see the little men kicking and sprawling in the air and then disappearing down a crane's long, crooked throat, swallowed alive. If Antaeus saw that the battle was going hard with his little allies, he would run with mile-long strides to their rescue, flourishing his club and shouting at the cranes, who would quack and croak and retreat as fast as they could.

One day the mighty Antaeus was lolling at full length among his friends. His head lay in one part of the kingdom and his feet in another, and he was taking what comfort he could while the Pygmies scrambled over him and played in his hair. Sometimes, for a minute or two, the Giant dropped off to sleep and snored like the rush of a whirlwind.

During one of these naps, a Pygmy climbed upon his shoulder and took a view around the horizon as from the summit of a hill. Suddenly he saw something a long way off that made him rub his eyes and look sharper than before. At first he mistook it for a mountain, and then he saw the mountain move. As it came nearer, what should it turn out to be but a human shape—not so large as Antaeus, but an enormous figure compared with the Pygmies.

The Pygmy scampered as fast as his legs could carry him to the Giant's ear and, stooping over, shouted into it, "Brother Antaeus, get up this minute! Take your walking stick in your hand, for here comes another Giant to do battle with you!"

"Pooh, pooh!" grumbled Antaeus, only half awake. "None of your nonsense, my little fellow. Don't you see that I am sleepy? There is not another Giant on earth for whom I would take the trouble to get up."

But the Pygmy looked again and now saw that the stranger was coming straight toward the prostrate form of Antaeus. There he was, with the sun flaming on his golden helmet and flashing from his polished breastplate. He had a sword at his side, a lion's skin over his back, and on his right shoulder he carried a club that looked bulkier and heavier than the pine-tree walking stick of Antaeus.

By this time the whole nation of Pygmies had seen the new wonder, and a million of them set up a shout all together: "Get up, Antaeus! Bestir yourself, you lazy old Giant! Here comes another Giant, as strong as you are, to fight with you!"

"Nonsense," growled the sleepy Giant. "I'll have my nap out, come who may."

Still the stranger drew nearer, and now the Pygmies could plainly see that, if his height was less lofty than the Giant's, his shoulders were even broader. What a pair of shoulders they must have been, for they were later to uphold the sky! So the Pygmies kept shouting at Antaeus, and even went so far as to prick him with their swords. Antaeus sat up, gave a yawn that was several yards wide, and finally turned his stupid head in the direction the little people pointed.

No sooner did he set eye on the stranger than, leaping to his feet and seizing his walking stick, he strode a mile or two to meet him, all the while brandishing the sturdy pine tree so that it whistled through the air.

"Who are you?" thundered the Giant, "and what do you want in my domain? Speak, you vagabond, or I'll try the thickness of your skull with my walking stick!"

"You are a very discourteous Giant," answered the stranger quietly, "and I shall probably have to teach you a little civility before we part. As for my name, it is Hercules. I have come this way because it is my most convenient road to the garden of the Hesperides, where I am going to get some of the golden apples for King Eurystheus."

"Then you shall go no farther!" bellowed Antaeus, for he had heard of the mighty Hercules and hated him because he was said to be so strong. "I will hit you a slight rap with this pine tree, for I would be ashamed to kill such a puny dwarf as you appear. I will make a slave of you, and you shall likewise be the slave of my brothers here, the Pygmies. So throw down your club. As for that lion's skin you wear, I intend to have a pair of gloves made of it."

"Come and take it off my shoulders then," answered Hercules, lifting his club.

At that, Antaeus, scowling with rage, strode tower-like toward the stranger and gave a mighty blow at him with his pine tree, which Hercules caught upon his club. Being more skillful than the Giant, he paid him back such a rap that the poor man-mountain tumbled flat upon the ground. But no sooner was the Giant down than up he bounded, aiming another blow at Hercules. However, he was so blinded with wrath that he only hit his poor, innocent Mother Earth, who groaned and trembled at the stroke. His pine tree went so deep into the ground that before Antaeus could pull it out, Hercules brought his club down over his shoulders with a mighty whack that made the Giant let out a terrible roar. The sound echoed over mountains and valleys. As for the Pygmies, their capital city was laid in ruins by the vibration it made in the air.

But Antaeus scrambled to his feet again and succeeded in pulling his pine tree out of the earth. He ran at Hercules and brought down another blow. "This time, rascal!" he shouted, "you shall not escape me."

Once more Hercules warded off the stroke with his club, and the Giant's pine tree was shattered into a thousand splinters. Before Antaeus could get out of the way, Hercules struck again and gave him another knock-down blow. Then, watching his chance as the Giant rose, Hercules caught him around the middle with both hands, lifted him high into the air, and held him aloft.

The most wonderful thing was that, as soon as Antaeus was off the earth, he began to lose the vigor he had gained by touching it. Hercules soon noticed that his enemy was growing weaker, both because he kicked and struggled with less violence, and because the thunder of his big voice subsided into a grumble. The truth was that unless the Giant touched Mother Earth at least once every five minutes, not only his overgrown strength but the very breath of his life would leave him. Hercules had guessed this secret. It may be well for us all to remember it, in case we should ever have to fight with a fellow like Antaeus. For these earth-born Giants are not only difficult to conquer on their own ground but may be easily managed if we can contrive to lift them into a loftier and purer region.

When Antaeus' strength and breath were gone, Hercules gave his huge body a toss and flung it a mile off, where it lay heavily with no more motion than a sand hill. His ponderous form may be lying in the same spot to this day, and might be mistaken for the bones of an uncommonly large elephant.

What a wailing the poor little Pygmies set up when they saw their enormous brother treated in this terrible way! As soon as they saw Hercules preparing for a nap, they nodded their little heads at one another and winked their little eyes. And when he had closed his eyes, the whole Pygmy nation set out to destroy the hero.

A body of twenty thousand archers marched in front, with their little bows all ready and their arrows on the string. The same number were ordered to clamber onto Hercules, some with spades to dig his eyes out, and others with bundles of hay to plug up his mouth and nostrils. These last could not harm him at all, for as soon as he snored, he blew out the hay and sent the Pygmies flying before the hurricane of his breath. It was found necessary to hit upon some other way of carrying on the war.

After holding a council, the captains ordered their troops to collect sticks, straws, and dry weeds and heap them around the head of Hercules. The archers, meanwhile, were stationed within bow shot with orders to let fly at Hercules the instant that he stirred. Everything being in readiness, a torch was applied to the pile, which immediately burst into flames and soon grew hot enough to roast Hercules. A Pygmy, you know, though so very small, might set the world on fire just as easily as a Giant could.

But no sooner did Hercules begin to be scorched than up he started.

"What's all this?" he cried, staring about him as if he expected another Giant.

At that moment the twenty thousand archers twanged their bowstrings, and the arrows came whizzing like so many mosquitoes. Hercules gazed around, for he hardly felt the arrows. At last, looking narrowly at the ground, he espied the Pygmies at his feet. He stooped down and, taking up the nearest one between his thumb and finger, set him on the palm of his left hand and looked at him.

"Who in the world, my little fellow, are you?" Hercules asked.

"I am your enemy," answered the Pygmy. "You have slain the Giant Antaeus, our brother by our mother's side, and we are determined to put you to death."

Hercules was so amused by the Pygmy's big words and warlike gestures that he burst into laughter and almost dropped the poor little mite of a creature off his hand.

"Upon my word," he said, "I thought I had seen wonders before today—hydras with many heads, three-headed dogs, and giants with furnaces in their stomachs—but you outdo them all. Your body, my little friend, is about the size of an ordinary man's finger. Pray, how big may your soul be?"

"As big as your own," said the Pygmy.

Hercules was amazed at the little man's courage, and so he left the Pygmies, one and all, in their own country, building their little houses, waging their little warfare with the cranes, and doing their little business, whatever it might have been.