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  DOVER CHILDREN’S THRIFT CLASSICS

  EDITOR OF THIS VOLUME: SUSAN L. RATTINER

  Dedication

  To my children, Max and Odette

  B. B.

  Copyright

  Copyright © 1997 by Dover Publications, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Bibliographical Note

  The Story of Hercules, first published by Dover Publications, Inc., in 1997, is a new adaptation, by Bob Blaisdell, of the legends of Hercules. The illustrations have also been prepared specially for the present edition.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Blaisdell, Robert.

  The story of Hercules / Bob Blaisdell ; illustrated by Thea Kliros.

  p. cm.—(Dover children’s thrift classics)

  Summary: An adaptation of the legend of Hercules, son of the god Zeus and a mortal woman and renowned for his great strength, who performs twelve “impossible” tasks.

  9780486146836

  1. Heracles (Greek mythology)—Juvenile literature. 2. Hercules (Roman mythology)—Juvenile literature. [1. Heracles (Greek mythology) 2. Hercules (Roman mythology) 3. Mythology, Greek. 4. Mythology, Roman.] I. Kliros, Thea, ill. II. Title. III. Series.

  BL820.H5B53 1997

  398.2’0938’02—dc21

  97-11715 CIP

  AC

  Manufactured In the United States by Courier Corporation

  29768302

  www.doverpublications.com

  Table of Contents

  DOVER CHILDREN’S CLASSICS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright Page

  1. My Birth, Childhood and Youth

  2. I Go into the World

  3. My First Labor: To Kill the Nemean Lion

  4. I Meet Iolaos, and Do Two Labors, but Get Credit for Only One

  5. The Centaurs and the Boar

  6. I Clean the Augean Stables

  7. The Birds and the Bull

  8. I Wrestle with Death and Meet the Man-eating Horses

  9. I Bring Back Hippolyte’s Belt and Fight Poseidon’s Dragon

  10. The Monster Geryon and His Beautiful Cattle

  11. The End of My Labors

  12. My Revenge on Troy and My Fight Alongside the Gods

  13. My Marriage, Death and Immortal Life

  She pleaded, her hands clasped in prayer, whispering, “Great Zeus, let my husband’s mission be fulfilled, and return him to me. ”

  1. My Birth, Childhood and Youth

  I AM the Greek hero Hercules, son of lord god Zeus and earth-dwelling mortal Alcmene. I earned the privilege to live with the gods on heavenly Mount Olympos through performing nearly impossible labors, tasks assigned to me because of jealous Hera, Zeus’s divine queen.

  Let me tell you the tale of my tremendous deeds, of my heroic accomplishments, of my terrible, overwhelming sorrows and stupid mistakes. For I, like all beings, was born with faults, the chief of which was a fiery temper.

  Before my birth, my mother and her husband, Amphitryon, left their native city of Tiryns in the Peloponnese and found a home in the kingdom of Thebes. Shortly after their arrival, however, Amphitryon set out on a dangerous expedition. When my mother entered Zeus’s temple to pray for Amphitryon’s safe return, Zeus observed her and fell in love, for he believed her the most beautiful mortal woman he had ever seen. She wore her hair with a black ribbon, tying it back from her lustrous forehead, and her large eyes were nearly as soft and gentle as those of a newborn deer. She pleaded, her hands clasped in prayer, whispering, “Great Zeus, let my husband’s mission be fulfilled, and return him to me, his loving bride.”

  Zeus answered her prayer, it is true, but not before he himself, that very night, came down from the heavens in a carriage borne by immortal winged horses. By taking on the resemblance of good Amphitryon he tricked my mother into accepting him into her arms. The result of their embraces, in nine months’ time, was myself.

  Not until the night after his visit did Zeus allow Amphitryon to return. My mother gave birth to Iphicles, my half-brother, a few minutes after my delivery. Amphitryon knew that I was Zeus’s son, not his own, but he loved me as well as any father could.

  Before my birth, however, great Zeus made the mistake of boasting of my conception. He declared before the other gods upon Olympos that the next-born descendant of Perseus, my great-grandfather, and one of Zeus’s earlier mortal sons, would become the king of Tiryns. Hera, resenting Zeus’s ambitions for me, called on the goddess of childbirth to delay my mother’s delivery and to bring on the early birth of Eurystheus, another descendant of noble Perseus.

  These acts of Hera’s enraged Zeus, but what could he
do? He himself had made his word law, and so Eurystheus inherited the throne, and I, as you shall soon hear, was eventually made his slave.

  Even as a baby I displayed fearlessness and strength, much to my mother’s pride. Even in her very old age, she enjoyed telling the story of a night when my half-brother Iphicles and I were eight months old, and she awoke, hearing a hissing sound from our room. She got up to check on us, and when she entered the doorway with a lighted candle, she gasped, then screamed out for Amphitryon. As she watched in horror, I sat up in my crib, my strong little hands gripping two fork-tongued snakes by the throat. She says I smiled at the sight of her, and that I laughed as I waved the limp bodies of the poisonous serpents I had strangled.

  When I was still a boy, Amphitryon taught me how to drive a chariot. We were on a plain, almost bare of trees, with fine roads. “Hold the reins just so,” he warned me, “and if you feel the horses pull too hard, hand the reins up to me, and I’ll take over.”

  As she watched in horror, I sat up in my crib, gripping two fork-tongued snakes by the throat.

  “I believe, good father” (he allowed me to call him so), “that these horses will do what I instruct them to do.”

  Thunder and Lightning were the names of the hot-tempered, almost untamed horses. Upon seeing their usual master hand over the reins to a little curly-haired boy, they snorted, as if insulted that Amphitryon believed I could possibly control them. They broke forward, jolting the chariot and sending Amphitryon head over heels and into the dust behind the chariot. I was alone in the hard-wheeled chariot as it bounced along, threatening to tip over.

  Believe it or not, I was enjoying my solo with the reins. Wicked Lightning, the more feisty horse, glanced over his shoulder to see what it was that was tugging at its reins, for he believed I had long since been bounced out of the chariot. In spite of having been thrown to the floor of the chariot, I had held on to the reins with my fists. Finally I pulled myself to my feet, and once I had done so the horses became aware of who was master. I reined them in, controlling their wild actions, and then as they snorted with rage and surprise and began running in step and straight ahead, I lashed them with the spare ends of the reins, shouting at them, “So it’s speed you want? Let’s see just how fast you can go!”

  Amphitryon had, by this time, picked himself up from the dust and saddled another horse, and was giving us chase. I saw him in the distance, and to prove my mastery to my teacher, I directed the horses in tighter and tighter loops.

  Amphitryon reined in his mare and watched in amazement as I circled closer and closer to him, till the horses staggered and came to an exhausted halt.

  “Hercules,” he called out, “you are more than a match for the finest horses in Thebes. If you were older, you could be charioteer for any general.”

  “Why not now?” I asked, laughing.

  “Because,” said Amphitryon, “there are other skills you should learn. I was sure I was starting you too young for this, but now I see you’ve long been ready to become a hero among men.”

  Modesty is not a trait that I value, and so I must mention my early achievements and successes. From Eurytos I quickly learned to shoot a bow; from the thief Autolycos, expert at cunning moves, I learned to wrestle; from marvelous Mudrikion to hurl the spear; from Castor to use a sword. I was a master of all the fighting arts while still a boy. Castor claimed that by the age of seventeen I was the best fighter who ever lived.

  What I lack in modesty, I hope to make up for in honesty, and so I shall have to tell of my failure in the art of music.

  My one disappointed teacher was Linus, brother of famous Orpheus, that creator of songs so powerful and affecting that even objects like trees and stones were moved to follow him, and wicked men with stony hearts were made to weep. Linus was nearly the equal of his brother, and he came to Thebes to see if I could be the prodigy in music I already was in warfare. Alas, no.

  Linus was not at all awed by my strength, poor man, and he treated me as if I were just any old student. When I played the lyre poorly, he scolded me.

  “Music requires feeling, not strength,” he said. Even then, as a lad of seventeen, I knew the truth of his words, but I hated the shame he brought to my reddened face when he pointed out my awkward fingerings on the strings, or when he said with disgust, “Music! Music! Not power!” But he forgot himself, or should I say he forgot who I was—even then the strongest man alive.

  He had seen how sensitively and accurately I could pluck the string of a bow to shoot an arrow when I saw an angry beast in the distance. He knew that I was more than just a young man of strength, that my power came to me through perception, wits and strategy. I admit, yes, my music skills were meager, but he need not have shamed me and made me so aware of my deficiencies. He should not have used my other skills to belittle me for the one that eluded me.

  One day as I plucked away at the childish tune he had painstakingly taught me, I became distracted. Outside the garden where Linus gave me lessons I observed a hare hopping in the meadow.

  Even today I remember the rude way the rabbit flashed its tail at me, as if it knew I was helpless to give it chase. Its black eye winked at me, and I longed to put away the lyre once and for all.

  Linus saw my distraction; more importantly he heard my fumbling fingers distort the simple melody. I did not see but suddenly felt the back of his hand slap me across the face. Believe me, he saw the shock and shame in my unbearded cheeks and innocent eyes. Even so, he was used to students who would put up with such indignities. I kept myself and my anger under control until he said, “That should help you, stupid boy, to keep your mind from wandering.”

  I jumped to my feet. Imagine a little dog yapping and nipping at a lion. Just so was it with Linus slapping at me. Though I meant to storm away, I saw his hand rise in preparation for another slap.

  I struck him with my lyre, knocking him to the ground. Then I continued on my way, out of the garden and across the meadow after that hare. I could not, however, seem to take any pleasure in the hunt, and after several minutes I returned to the palace, moping.

  My mother immediately noticed my dark mood and the damaged lyre that hung over my shoulder.

  “Poor Hercules,” she said.

  “I am very angry at Linus,” I said. “I refuse to continue my music lessons.” I was ashamed before her, because I had wished to be able to please her with my talent in music, to play gentle songs that would amuse her. I had failed.

  What is more, within the hour we received the news that Linus, that weak old man who had provoked my fierce temper, had died as a result of the blow I had given him! What a monster I seemed to myself! Yet neither my mother nor Amphitryon wholly blamed me when they heard of Linus’ treatment of me. Even so, Amphitryon advised me that my education at home was over, that I must set out into the world and there learn the hard lessons of experience.

  2. I Go into the World

  TO TRY to redeem myself in the eyes of my family and country, I set out in pursuit of the ravaging lion that was attacking the cattle of Amphitryon and our neighbor, King Thespios. This lion had a stronger taste for death than for food. If he found a herd of thirty, he killed them all, but ate only one or two. And the next day he looked for more herds. He enjoyed, it seemed, killing men, for he attacked shepherds and cowherds at any opportunity he found, undeterred by their spears or arrows. Even with paid hunters, Amphitryon and King Thespios could not capture it. At best they kept it at bay for a day or two.

  With my bow and arrows and spear, I bade farewell to my weeping mother, announcing at the same time my intention of killing the lion. Alcmene, my sweet mother, caressed my curly mop of hair and her eyes were shiny with tears. I admit that her tears almost brought on mine.

  “My dear son,” she said, “do not try anything so dangerous. Please go with your brother Iphicles and Amphitryon. No one doubts your courage or strength. But use reason and live a long life. Yours has had such a remarkable beginning!”

  I smile
d at her words, pleased with her love, but I answered, “Mother, you’ll soon see me, not laid out for a funeral, but decked in glory.”

  I hiked off to a rich green pasture, where Amphitryon kept the finest of his cattle. Their horns were plated with gold, their hides were lustrous, cared for by many servants. Their meat was reserved as gifts for kings and princes; their milk for our own family. These cattle, a herd of forty, I led out of the pasture, in spite of the objections of Jervinios, their chief caretaker.

  “Your father’s prize beefers! Please, good Hercules, do not expose them to danger! They are safe here!”

  “Jervinios, kindly, loyal friend, do not worry. You’ll see them all safe and sound tomorrow.”

  I made good on my word. The lion must have been proud of how he could elude trained hunters and trackers, but how could he resist attacking a lone boy and the finest, most tempting cattle in the land? I led the creatures into the open meadows beside the mountainside. From high above us the surprised lion roared with pleasure. No fool, when he arrived in the meadow he made a complete circle of us, looking for a trap. Seeing none, and overcome by intense longing, that evening he came crawling through the grass towards me at my fire. I pretended not to notice, even though the cattle, their fear overtaking them, fled to the far side of the meadow, where they lowed in dread.

  When I sensed the lion within striking distance, I stood up, only at that moment deciding to use my spear rather than bow. The lion rose to its feet and snarled. The next moment its roar deafened me, but I did not flinch. He took two bounds and then leapt with his claws out and fangs bared. I was about to pitch my spear at him when he knocked it from my hands, landing on me. His face fell toward mine, but I grabbed his chest and used my feet to propel him over my shoulders. He landed in a heap, stunned. I picked up my spear and cocked it for a fatal throw, but he bounded to his feet, and, like a cowardly dog, his tail between his legs, began to run away. I ran after and jumped upon him, tackling him by his back legs, and we wrestled.