The Hero and Medusa

By Rosa Moore

He was not Perseus.

He carried Athena’s mirrored shield, it was true, and Hermes’ sword, and the gifts from the northern nymphs: winged sandals, cap of invisibility, and magic bag. He had tricked the eye away from the Gray Sisters. He had all the trappings and know-how of a hero.

But he wasn’t Perseus.

Nevertheless, he sought Medusa’s head; not to save his mother from a king's unwelcome clutches as Perseus would in years to come, but because he had been promised a healthy bounty if he brought the head back, wriggling with snakes. He was looking forward to the money, although it was the thought of becoming a legend that really appealed to him. He had heard tales of Theseus and Odysseus, Aeneas and Jason since he was a boy. He was a boy still, although the last one to admit it, but now he meant to join their ranks.

He clutched the shield close to his chest as he soared through the air on the winged sandals. He had felt like his feet were winged when he ran through the forest, letting the branches whip at his chest, before he had left home and traveled to the city to seek work. Then he had not even dreamed of actually flying, although he had been a boy who dreamed often. It was a heady experience. He felt as though he’d been drinking rather a lot of wine. In reality he’d never had more than a few cups, so green was he; but he ignored that fact and let himself think that if he did become drunk, his head would spin and his heart lift in this manner.

Suddenly he caught his breath. There–was it the gorgon’s isle? Yes, he could see the stone statues that had once been men littering its rocky shores. It did not look a hospitable place to live. The few trees were spindly and sickly. There was no sign of a home of any kind, only a large stone cave, its opening gaping out toward the sea. The statues grew thicker and more jumbled near the cave.

And there, standing knee-deep in the lapping ocean–Medusa.

Luckily the gorgon stood with the back of her writhing head to him, so he had the time to raise his shield and bring Hermes’ sword ringing out of its sheath before she turned and confronted him with her stare. He saw her in his shield as a vague blur with wriggling green hair; it was too far to reflect a good image of her.

Her voice rang out from below. “Another hero, come to conquer me?”

“Yes,” he called. “I will have your head, Medusa.”

Her laugh bounced off the collection of statues on the shore and echoed in his head. “I doubt that, my fool. None of the other callow youths have succeeded in claiming my collection of snakes.” She raised a hand to her head, stroking a snake rather like a girl would adjust a curl.

The hero was nearing the water where she stood. The sword’s hilt was slippery in his sweaty palm. He tightened his grip and stared into his mirrored shield. Medusa’s face was blurred by the motion of his flight; she was standing still, apparently waiting for him. His feet met the water and abruptly the image stilled.

The hero gasped softly and his sword slipped from suddenly slack fingers. Medusa was gorgeous.

He could not tear his eyes away from the face reflected in his shield. His sword had fallen into the waves, but he could not bring himself to bend and pick it up. It was said that Medusa’s gaze turned men to stone, and he felt as though it had; all he could do was stand and gape at her face, her lovely face.

Her eyes, though, were a smear in the surface of his shield. He could not tell their color. He had to know their color.

Her slim-fingered hand reached out and stroked the hair at the base of his neck. He swallowed. He could see his Adam’s apple bob in the shield. Medusa moved closer, brushing against his back. A snake slid over his cheek, its forked tongue tickling his ear. “Look into my eyes,” Medusa purred. “They are beautiful, I promise you. Look.”

He did not need her words to know that her eyes would be beautiful. They could be nothing but beautiful in a face such as hers. Even the nest of snakes crowning her head was beautiful. The snakes were a pure emerald color with shining gold scales scattered among the green; their eyes were gold and lidless. One wound around his neck. Its tongue darted against the underside of his chin. He raised a trembling hand and stroked its scaled back. It nestled against his collarbone.

“I . . . you are very beautiful,” he whispered.

“You do not know beauty until you look into my eyes,” Medusa hissed in his ear–or was it the snake hissing? “Turn, my hero. Look in my eyes and I will love you forever.”

He was supposed to kill her, not love her . . .
The snake crept slowly over his jugular.
He turned.
Her eyes were the shifting gray-green-blue-black of the ocean
the shade of the sky
the golden brown of the earth
the color of stone
the hue of light
they intoxicated like golden ale

and froze him motionless in her stone topiary, the image of her beauty burned in his retinas for eternity.

Medusa laughed softly and slid a hand over his stone cheek. “I’ve still got it.” She pulled the snake from around his neck and tucked it up among the others, then hiked up her skirts and waded out of the ocean to traipse among the collection of stone figures who had traded life for beauty.