EP 67: Strange & Obscure Tales (revised)

EP 67  — Strange & Obscure Tales

Four tales in one episode, all little known. Each focuses on the relationship between gods and men. One may well reveal the origin of werewolves.

Come play with Zeus, Demeter, Artemis and Hermes.

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Strange & Obscure Tales

Welcome to episode 67 of GARNER'S GREEK Mythology. We have listeners in more than 190 countries ... So welcome to everyone, wherever you are.

I'm your host, mythologist PATRICK GARNER … 

This episode is about four lesser known myths. Each, though less famous than many we’ve looked at, packs a punch — 

We’ll listen to tales of grotesque fates, divine pettiness, and human fragility. These four tales illuminate a world where gods reined mightily and mortals were flawed. 

Men were turned to werewolves and divinities held the power to punish as they alone saw fit.

The stories — all by Hesiod, Callimachus or Ovid — often carry moral weight. They are ancient warnings against hubris, greed, or betrayal. 

Although less epic than the Trojan War or the Twelve Labors of Heracles, they show the breadth of Greek storytelling, from the outrageous to the tender.

But before we delve into each tale … 

… 

Listeners should visit AMAZON to check out my books about the GREEK GODS in the contemporary world. 

The novels are part of THE NAXOS QUARTET, and include THE WINNOWING, CYCLADIC GIRLS, HOMO DIVINITAS and ALL THAT LASTS.

They have been Amazon best sellers. Importantly, book sales keep this podcast going.

The four are stand-alone novels, but I recommend you start with THE WINNOWING to enjoy the full story.... 

As an aside, HOMO DIVINITAS is also available on Amazon as an audio book. I’m the narrator.

For more information, visit PATRICK GARNER BOOKS DOT COM. The website is packed with background about the Greek gods, my books and these podcasts. 

Now, to the episode.

…

The Myth of King Erysichthon

The first of our four stories takes place in ancient Thessalia in central Greece. Thessalia was an area rich in history and once the homelands of the Centaurs, the half men-half horses that played a role in the life of Heracles.

There the local king, a bully named Erysichthon, decided to build a massive feast hall, that is, a building large enough to host all of his drinking buddies.

King Erysichthon’s story is one of dark descent into lunacy, and is described in works like Ovid’s Metamorphoses and Callimachus’s Hymn to Demeter. 

The king wasn’t revered by his subjects — he was arrogant and impious, traits the Greeks despised. He’d gotten away with his tyranny for years.

But his fatal mistake was felling a sacred grove in a place dedicated to the goddess Demeter. The building could have gone anywhere. 

Erysichthon didn’t care. He believed he was greater than even Demeter. Besides, what had she done for him? Nothing he could remember.

Callimachus wrote, “The Greeks made a fair grove abounding in trees; hardly would an arrow have passed through them. 

“Therein was pine, and therein were mighty elms, and therein were pear-trees, and therein were fair sweet-apples; 

“And from the ditches gushes up water as it were of amber. And the goddess Demeter loved the place to madness …”

Callimachus describes the centerpiece of the grove as being a towering oak, home to a sacred hamadryad. 

Hamadryands were, you may recall from other episodes, tree-bound nymphs. They lived their entire lives as caretakers of a single sacred tree. 

All the locals knew of the nymphs. The king’s subjects, upon his announcement about clearing the grove, pleaded with him not to cut the trees.

Erysichthon laughed, raised his axe overhead and struck the treasured, towering oak. The nymph inside cried out, pleading with him to stop. 

If he continued, she said, her tree — and her life — would be destroyed. 

But Erysichthon took delight in her outcries. Ovid writes that the king mocked her, imitating her pleas in a cruel falsetto.

As she showed herself, her face wet with tears, he swung at her with his axe, barely missing. His subjects, watching the blade descend, fled in fear.

Demeter heard the tree nymph’s cries. She was furious at the desecration. The goddess’s punishment was brutal. 

She summoned Limos, the personification of famine. Limos was a gaunt, skeletal figure who was used to punish entire regions for immorality or disbelief.

When Limos appeared, glowering at the sight of the fallen trees, Demeter commanded him to afflict King Erysichthon with insatiable hunger. 

Limos understood, and nodded to the goddess. As thin as a beggar, haggard and wrapped in filthy clothing, he sauntered over to the king and touched his arm with a boney finger. 

Erysichthon trembled and fell to the ground. The touch was like a sudden lightning strike. When, after long minutes, he was able to stand, he found himself ravenously hungry and left the grove in desperate search for food.

In an alternate version by Ovid, Limos is presented as an almost skeletal woman. She hears Demeter’s command and finds the king at night asleep in bed.

She wraps her spindly arms around him and breathes the curse of hunger into his lungs, arms and legs. Her deed done, she leaves without a sound.

But the king, now contaminated by her doomed breath, dreams restlessly of eating, gnashing his teeth and imagining himself at endless feasts.

Regardless of the version, the king was cursed. He abandoned cutting down the grove and instead greedily ate through his kingdom’s stores. 

There was never enough food. Desperate for even more, he sold his royal treasures to buy fish and game and grain and grapes.

Soon the treasury was empty. Then it occurred to him: He would sell his lovely daughter, Mestra.

She’d been granted shapeshifting as a gift from her lover, the sea god Poseidon, so Erysichthon could command that she turn into a lamb, then a goat, then an ox. The thought was ingenious as he could sell her over and over.

He’d sell her as whatever animal she chose to become. Once in the buyer’s clutches, she’d escape by turning into a bird. 

She’d then fly back to her father, only to shape-shift again and be sold like that repeatedly. She felt immense pity for his unrelenting hunger, but knew in her heart that she was being used.

Before long she tired of fooling buyers and escaping. In addition, rumors began to spread that no one should buy a thing from the king. Whatever was bought would disappear.

Finally, Mestra rebelled. One afternoon, having been sold as a dove to an unwary traveler, she flew away. This time she failed to return to her father and flew off to one of the Cycladic islands.

The game was over, yet Erysichthon’s hunger only grew greater by the day. One morning when he woke, he saw he was cornered.

With nothing left and the kingdom’s wealth exhausted, he groaned and gnawed at his own flesh. 

At first he was horrified by what he’d done. But he was repelled for only a moment. His hunger overcame his self-loathing.

Yet even this act failed to staunch his hunger. Demeter’s curse only became worse. The king’s servants watched in horror as he openly gnawed at his own limbs.

In a matter of mere days he died, crying out in his last breath for more food. It was a grotesque end.

Ovid opined that the king’s demise mirrored Greek fears of excess and should be seen as a warning not to disrespect the divine. 

Today we might say the gruesome story doubles as an ecological warning: No good comes from defying nature’s balance.

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Hermes the Cattle Thief

The god Apollo kept a vast collection of cattle. Hermes, a Greek god who was always considered a trickster, decided to steal a few for amusement. At the time he was a mere babe.

In order not to be discovered by the traces of his footprints, the toddler Hermes put on sandals and drove the stolen oxen to Pylos, where he killed two, and concealed the rest in a cave.

He somehow stretched the skins of the slaughtered animals on a rock, and ate part of their flesh, hiding the rest.

At the same time he offered sacrifices to the twelve gods. Because of this gesture, he is often called the inventor of divine worship and sacrifices. 

Then he returned to his home, where he found a tortoise at the entrance of his cave. He took the animal's shell, drew strings across it, and thus invented the lyre and plectrum. 

Apollo had in the meantime discovered the thief, and charged him with it before his mother Maia. 

She showed Apollo that Hermes lay in his cradle asleep, saying, “This child could not have stolen cattle. Look! He’s but a baby!”

“Baby?” Apollo knew better. He took the boy to Zeus, demanding his oxen back. Zeus agreed with Apollo, and insisted that Hermes return the cattle.

At first the child denied that he had stolen the cattle. As, however, he saw that Zeus and Apollo knew better, he conducted Apollo to Pylos, and showed him the oxen. 

Apollo considered punishing the child, but when he heard the sounds of the lyre, he was so charmed that he allowed Hermes to keep the animals.

…

That’s the conventional story that’s told about the baby Hermes. But there’s another altogether different tale about him. 

We’ll call this one Hermes and The Shepard Battos.

Here too baby Hermes steals Apollo’s oxen, but the story’s ending is completely different. Hesiod writes,

“Hermes stole the cattle of Apollo and brought them past Mainalos and past what are called the watch-posts of Battos. 

“Now this man named Battos used to live on the top of the rock, and when he heard the voice of the heifers as they were being driven past, he came out from his own place, and knew that the Apollo’s cattle had been stolen.”

Hesiod notes that Hermes spotted Battos and knew the game was up. Instead of fleeing, Hermes confronted the man. 

Battos saw an opportunity and tried a bit of blackmail. Hesiod writes,

“Battos asked for a reward to tell no one about what he’d seen. Hermes promised to give it him, and Battos swore to say nothing to anyone about the theft. 

“But when Hermes had hidden the oxen in the cliff by Koryphasion, and had driven them into a cave, he changed his appearance to that of a traveling merchant, and returned to Battos to test him.

“Would Battos be true to him as he had vowed? Hermes, offering him a beautiful robe as a reward, asked Battos whether he had noticed any stolen cattle being driven past the outpost. 

“Eyeing the handsome garment, Battos took the robe and found it fit perfectly. Cinching the tie, he told the traveler, ‘Yes, I saw the sneaky child Hermes stealing them.’

“Hermes was angry at the betrayal. Battos had failed to keep the secret. Furious, the god struck him with his staff and changed him into a rock."

Hesiod says no more except that the rock from then on was subject to rain and snow. Battos had been willing to break his word for a mere robe. 

In this tale, promises were promises, and Hermes metes out punishment, underscoring the consequences of double-dealing.

…

The Tale of Lycaon

Lycaon was a son of Pelasgus, the king of Arcadia and Meliboea, the daughter of Oceanus. 

Traditions about him hold Lycaon in very different regard, depending on the version of the story. Regardless, the majority highlight hubris, revenge and punishment.

According to some versions, Lycaon was a barbarous man who defied the gods, while others describe him as the first civilizer of Arcadia. 

In one way or another, all the stories revolve around wolves.

For instance, one account adds that he sacrificed a child on the altar of Zeus, and that during the sacrifice Lycaon was changed by Zeus into a wolf. 

Tying Lycaon to wolves makes sense as the ancient Greek term for wolf was Lýkos, which matches his name. 

Lýkos is also the root for “lycanthropy,” the formal term for werewolf transformation. If you’re out for a casual walk in the woods and are supernaturally turned into a wolf, an academic might say you’ve been subject to lycanthropy. The rest of us would simply say, “Stay away from me, you werewolf!”

But back to the king. Having multiple wives, Lycaon became the father of a large number of sons. Some sources say 50, and others 22. 

The many sons of Lycaon are said to have been notorious for their insolence and impiety. No doubt they took their cue from their father.

In addition to his many sons, the king also had a daughter named Kallisto, who — as we’ll hear in a moment — plays an unfortunate role in this tale.

Zeus, hearing about the impiety of the king’s sons, visited them in the disguise of a poor man, with a view to test them, and if necessary, punish the lot.

According to Ovid, Zeus was worshipped by the Arcadian people, but King Lycaon doubted his divinity.

The king and his sons invited Zeus to a dinner, and at the suggestion of Maenalus, one of the sons, they mixed the remains of a dead boy into the dishes they set before him. 

The men thought it a hilarious joke to test Zeus’ divinity with a pot of human flesh. If he were fooled, he would be the laughingstock of Arcadia.

However, Zeus knew better. He pushed over the grand table which bore the horrible food and stood in all his majesty, gathering thunderbolts into his hands.

The light around the mighty god became unbearable to watch. Lycaon and all his sons were killed by Zeus with a flash of lightning. 

That’s one version. Other accounts vary. In at least one alternate tale, Zeus in retribution changed the sons were into wolves.

Pausanias, a Greek traveler and writer from the 2nd century AD, mentions Lycaon in his Description of Greece.

In his travelogue Pausanias talks about a secret rite at Mount Lykaion where a human might become a wolf for a set time if they ate human flesh. 

Some scholars speculate that Pausanias’ tale is the origin of the earliest werewolf stories.

Before we get to wolves though, remember that Lycaon had a daughter named Kallisto.

Hesiod writes that she was seduced by Zeus. Apparently she was willingly led astray. The goddess Artemis was enraged at them both and changed the girl into a bear. 

As this forsaken beast the daughter gave birth to a son called Arkas. Several goat herders captured the child and gave it to King Lycaon.

Secretly infuriated at Zeus for his daughter’s disgrace, Lycaon — pretending not to know of the matter — entertained Zeus. 

Hesiod says that he sought revenge for Zeus’ deed, and cut up his daughter’s child, serving it to Zeus on the feast table, saying, “Here, enjoy this tasty dish.”

In this version of the story, Zeus again detects the deceit and is outraged. He instantly changes Lycaon into a mangy wolf, banishing him to a distant forest.

It’s a tragic ending. The lovely, fairly innocent Kallisto is transformed into a bear, and her father is made into a wolf. The tale has many versions, but divine retribution dominates all the narrations.

…

The Love of Cyparissus

Cyparissus’s tale, from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, is a quieter tragedy. Cyparissus was a beautiful young man from Keos, and was adored by Apollo, the god of music and healing. 

Apollo gave him a tame stag as a companion, adorned with a silver collar and jewels. The boy and stag were inseparable — Cyparissus led it to water every morning, and wove flower crowns for its antlers. 

One hot day, while the stag napped in the shade, Cyparissus, went hunting. He  carelessly hurled a javelin and pierced the stag. The stag’s instant death shattered him.

He begged Apollo to let him grieve forever, rejecting comfort. Apollo, moved but unable to undo the death, transformed the young man into a cypress tree. 

The tree was  tall, with its branches drooping like tears, and its sap a symbol of mourning. 

Cypress trees became staples in Greek cemeteries. Their evergreen nature was a bittersweet echo of eternal sorrow. 

This ancient tale is tender and personal, contrasting Apollo’s usual grandeur with a moment of helplessness. It shows how Greeks tied emotions to the natural world.

Once again, we rely on Ovid for detail. In Metamorphoses he writes, "In all the throng the cone-shaped cypress stood. 

“A tree now, it was changed from a dear youth loved by the god who strings the lyre and bow, into what you see.

“For there was at one time, a mighty stag held sacred by those nymphs who haunt the fields on the island of Keos. 

“His great antlers spread so wide, they gave an ample shade to his own head. Those antlers shone with gold.

“From his smooth throat a necklace, studded with a wealth of gems, hung down to his strong shoulders. 

“A silver collar, fastened with little thongs, played on his forehead, worn there from his birth; and pendants from both ears, of gleaming pearls, adorned his hollow temples. 

“Free of fear, and no longer shy, frequenting homes of men he knew, the stag offered his soft neck even to strangers for their petting hands. 

“But more than by all others, he was loved by Cyparissus, fairest youth of all the lads of Ceos. It was he who led the pet stag to fresh pasturage, and to the waters of the clearest spring. 

“Sometimes he wove bright garlands for his horns, and sometimes, like a horseman on his back, now here now there, guided his soft mouth with purple reins.

“It was upon a summer day, at high noon … that the pet stag was reclining on the grassy earth and, wearied of all action, found relief under the cool shade of the forest trees.

“As he lay there Cyparissus pierced him with a javelin: and although it was quite accidental, when the shocked youth saw his beloved stag dying from the cruel wound he could not bear it, and resolved to die. 

“What did Apollo say to comfort him? He cautioned him to hold his grief in check. But still the lad lamented, and with groans implored the Gods that he might mourn forever. 

“His life force exhausted by long weeping, now his limbs began to take a green tint, and his hair, which overhung his snow-white brow, turned up into a bristling crest; and he became a stiff tree with a slender top that pointed up to the starry heavens. 

“And the God, groaning with sorrow, said; ‘You shall be mourned sincerely by me, surely as you mourn for others, and forever you shall stand in grief, where others grieve.’”

And so Hesiod describes Apollo, in deep sympathy, turning the boy into a cypress tree, forever after to be seen throughout much of the world as a symbol of mourning.

…

AT THE END OF THESE EPISODES, I ALWAYS SAY, JOIN ME ... FOR ANOTHER EPISODE OF GARNER'S GREEK MYTHOLOGY. 

I ALSO SAY, IF YOU HAVE YOUNGSTERS IN YOUR LIFE, THERE'S A CHILDREN'S BOOK THAT SHOULD BE ON YOUR BOOKSHELF. IT'S CALLED READ-ALOUD STORIES FOR YOUNG LISTENERS, BY D.K. GARNER.

THESE CHARMING TALES HAVE THE SAME MAGICAL THINKING AS YOU FIND IN MY STORIES. As a bonus, HERE’S A SAMPLE READ BY LILY:

THIS IS THE STORY OF WINKY THE HORSE.

Nine-year-old Maddy would rather stay inside playing video games than go outside to play after school. Her parents were concerned about her lack of friends and her lack of exercise.

"Okay, fine,” she said one afternoon when her mother looked at her sadly. Maddy huffed out of the house. She walked and ran down the street. Soon she found herself in a new place.

“Where am I?”

She saw an old horse grazing in a paddock by the road and stopped to talk. Actually, she stopped to vent.

“My parents are always after me,” she told the horse. “They think I spend too much time on the computer, and they tell me I should be outside after school.”

She kicked a fence post. “I can’t do anything right,” she said. She also said she was lost.

The horse raised his head to look at her.

WHOOSH!

“Well,” he responded, ”they have a point.”

“Whh-a-t?” she said. “You can talk?”

“Of course,” he said.

“Okay, Horse, then tell me how to get home. I’m lost ...”

THIS IS YOUR NARRATOR AGAIN. OF COURSE, THE STORY GOES ON… BUT YOU’LL HAVE TO BUY THE BOOK TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT! 

LIKE MY BOOKS, IT’S AVAILABLE ON AMAZON. FOR MORE INFORMATION, GO TO PATRICK GARNER BOOKS DOT COM. AND thanks for listening ... 

THIS IS your host, Patrick Garner …