In
Pursuit of the Polyphemus
Daniel
G. Snethen
I arrived at the mountain
village of Bludgeon,
upon my blue draft-horse at the dead hour of midnight.
The gore was prevalent—impossible
to ignore.
The cranberry snow, acrid with the smell of freshly spilled blood, glowed
ominously, almost phosphorescent beneath the Christmas moon. The lamp post had
been uprooted and covered in oily blood, crushed bone and brain matter from
several bashed-in villagers' heads.
The crazy old lady kept
muttering, "The
Odyssey, the Odyssey."
I tried questioning her
further, but her mental
faculties seemed to have deserted her entirely. All she could do was sit in a
pile of rubble—incessantly rubbing the center of her forehead, while manically
cackling, "The Odyssey, the Odyssey." She was obviously of no use to
me and frankly I found her caterwauling quite grating—so I had the constable
lock her up for surveillance and my own personal peace of mind.
None of the witnesses could
clearly explain
what had happened. Confusion was contagious. The most coherent villager was a
diminutive redheaded lass of about eleven. In very proper English, she
articulated, "The unshorn behemoth and its Devil-eye reigned judgement and
destruction down upon us from its fiendish heart, interrupting our Yuletide
celebration. It stank, its hide resembled that of a mangy cur's and it frothed from
its foam-flecked fetid jowls like a hydrophobic wolf." Then she iterated
that Master Ralph's arm had been bitten and subsequently amputated by the
apothecary, mere minutes after the attack, lest the rapidly spreading infection
reach the poor Master's heart. Even during incineration the arm seemed to be
quivering, almost growing—regenerating, before imploding upon itself, becoming
a pile of hot smoking ash.
The Bludgeon villagers insisted
on my taking a
breeding pair of ebony-coated Groenedaels for my own personal protection and to
assist me in my endeavor to track down the monstrous killer. I named the male,
Black Jack. His coat was long and had been well kept by the family that gave
him to me. It had an almost iridescent sheen to it, not unlike that of the
black feathers of the magpie, and in certain light he appeared almost
blue-green in color.
His bitch, which I named
Midnight, was easily
five kilograms lighter than he. She had the most intense eyes I have ever
witnessed. They looked like cold sapphire ice and burned to the soul's core
when stared into. She was friendly and gentle with me, but I feared her just
the same and knew, though I may be able to overcome the heavier more muscular
Black Jack in an unlikely battle between man and dog, that it was inconceivable
I would ever be able to keep her from harming or even killing me if she were,
for some reason, inclined to do so.
Shortly after a meal of
venison and parsnip
pie—washed down with hard cider, I mounted my roan Percheron and followed my
newly acquired canines as they started tracking our nebulous slayer through the
newly fallen Saint Crispin Eve's snow.
Judging from the villagers’
accounts and the
distance between footprints, I calculated the evil denizen we followed to be a
minimum of two and a half meters in height and more probably closer to three.
Based upon how deeply its tracks were compacted, I doubted it had a mass of
less than two-hundred kilograms. It was a massive and dangerous quarry that we
sought, and I had considerable doubt I'd ever return to my family and country
cottage, but such was my vocation in life, and it kept my family clothed and
fed.
Groenedaels aren't normally
prone to baying,
when in pursuit of quarry, but as we approached closer to our fleeing fiend,
they became exponentially more agitated and began baying relentlessly. We
crowned a snow-covered bluff and confronted the beast which easily stood a
dozen hands taller than my blue roan Percheron. Greenish slobber gurgled from
its gaping mouth. Momentarily, it stood there in all of its stench and hideous
countenance, before making its attack. I could not help but be entranced by its
single large rectangular eye located just off center on the forehead above its
mucous-draining nostrils. "My God," I recalled, "that old lady
was referencing Homer!"
The hideous monster bared
its yellowed fangs,
attacking my blue mount, dislodged and tumbling me headfirst into a drift of
snow. I barely heard the ghoulish growl of the one-eyed monster over the
cacophony of my baying hounds and the distressed neighing of my wounded steed
as I scrambled to my feet. But I did hear them and I wish I hadn't, because
they haunt my every sleeping moment. Blood spurted out, in streams of liquid crimson,
from the Percheron's jugular with each beat of its dying heart.
Bathed in equine blood the
monstrosity, before
me, eerily glowed beneath the moonlight shimmering off a palate of red snow. Its
growls echoed through the mountains and off it lumbered through a cascade of
avalanching snow.
And once again the chase
was on. Only this
time, I was afoot. Midnight took the charge, Black Jack followed closely and I
did my best to keep within hearing range of the baying Groendales as they
tracked our quarry up the dangerous escarpment of granite before us.
As we approached the summit
of the escarpment,
I noticed a stark difference in topography and temperature. At 6000 plus meters
above sea level we should have felt the effects of the frigid mountain air but
instead my clothes were soaked in sweat and the cloying air was filled with
vaporized steam which made seeing our enemy near impossible. There was no sign
of ice or snow and the cobble strewn plain at the summit was covered with
verdant mosses and lichens of myriad species.
From the sound of their
frantic howling, I
could tell that my dogs were quickly closing in upon the one-eyed Cyclopean
menace. It was difficult to see more than ten paces ahead of me because of the
hot humid steam geysering from out the many geological vents surrounding me. The
atmosphere smelled and tasted of sulfur and breathing under these conditions
was taxing and seemed an impossibility. I stopped to catch my breath and then I
heard the most blood-curdling combination of growls and grunts and howls my
ears had ever heard before. I rounded a massive moss-covered boulder only to find
the distorted figure of the Polyphemus, with its gigantic calloused hands,
literally tearing the head off Black Jack, whose mouth was still clenched ever
so closely to the jugular vein of the grotesquery before me.
As I took aim with my blunderbuss,
the hideous
thing turned quickly and hurled the decapitated corpse of his vanquished foe,
full on into the face of Midnight, knocking her down to the ground mid-jump. He
then picked up her steam and sweat-drenched body, and hurled her nearly
twenty-five yards into a large granite rock. You could hear her body thud and
the high-pitched crisp sound of ribs snapping upon impact with the monolith.
And then it charged me.
Standing in the path of
that awkward freakish
locomotion of nature, unnerved me, nearly causing me to turn, tuck tail and run
like the coward I felt inside. But instead, I stood transfixed and focused,
waiting for it to close in upon me. Thirty, twenty-five, twenty, fifteen rods
before me, his rancid smell offensively permeating my nostrils stronger even than
that of the geysering sulfur inundating me, and then I touched the powder off.
The force struck the giant dead center in the chest and spun the monster
around, but just like that of ancient Mariner's, his body dropped not down.
And once again, this one-eyed
thing fled, and
once again I trailed it, but this time I was encumbered by the weight of
Midnight whose bruised body lay draped across my shoulders. The terrain grew
ever increasingly hot and spongy. The atmosphere entirely vaporized. I could
see no farther than a meter or two in front of me but followed the laboring
breath and rancid stench and ghoulish gibbering of this Homerian nightmare I
swore to kill.
The earth beneath my feet
shifted softly at
first. Then, it started to shake with increasing intensity and soon the
geysering was full-fledged. Plumes of pressurized steam, as high as a hundred
meters, shot off in rapid sequential fire encircling me. The extreme temperature,
caused by the scalding vapor, had become intolerable. It occurred to me that
perhaps I had unwittingly stumbled upon the brink of hell and that this evil
place was lair to the hell-spawn I hunted.
A rather small but deep
caldera lay before me.
I saw no spewing geysers within its bowl, but steam, from geothermic activity, seemed
to rise from everywhere—creating low-lying ground fog, if you will. The monster
was half-way down the ancient volcanic dish and with renewed strength I closed
in.
And once again the gargantuan
gargoyle-like
grotesquery whirled around more quickly than before and transfixed my gaze as
its oddly-shaped eye mesmerized me into a near narcoleptic state of hypnotic comatosis,
whilst I gazed into that blood-shot ocular upon its forehead.
Midnight struggled free
of my weakened state
and limping, attacked the Polyphemus with a veracity not unlike that of the African
hyena. But, she was too weak and quickly her reinvigorated strength waned and
she was soon caught mid-jump, midair and squeezed so hard, by those Solomon
Grundy-like arms, that the sound of her bones cracking, reverberated off the
volcanic walls of the collapsed caldera.
And still I stood frozen
in my tracks.
The wicked grin of my victor
showcased its chartreuse
mucous covered dentition. Slowly it approached me with its lidless eye which,
though frightful looking, I could not keep from staring at. This thing, this
hideous creature, this Cyclopean nightmare, this ghoulish living gargoyle, this
Polyphemus held me completely entranced by its wicked eye. I knew I was about
to die. And still I stared deep into that squarish orb.
The colossus was almost
upon me when the stony
earth began trembling and quaking with phenomenal intensity. And just before
his apish arms encircled me, the ground we stood on shook with such great
force, we both fell down all juxtaposed akimbo. My state of hypnosis broken, I
scrambled to my feet and engaged in a wrestling grapple with the hideous
creature.
All the while, with each
passing moment, the
earth quaked more violently. The volcanic eruption, mere meters to our north,
knocked both of us down. Smoke, fire, pressurized vapor and magma spewed
skyward from the volcanic opening. A river of living fire, of lava formed where
nothing flowed before and created its own river-channel as it coursed and
meandered its way to the opposite rim of the caldera.
Again, I followed my foe
with intent of extreme
prejudice. It was fleeter than I, but not by much, and then I had it quartered,
trapped against the river of fire, the proverbial river of Styx and there I
held this nightmare at bay with my blunderbuss. I took aim, triggering the
flintlock, but the powder did not ignite. Obviously, it had been compromised by
exposure to the one hundred percent humidity engulfing me.
One final time this wicked
creature unleashed
all its fury upon me. I bludgeoned it with all my might, striking with the butt
of my blunderbuss into its face. Several times the beast nearly ripped my
weapon from my hands but most doggedly I held on, continuing to strike at its
horrible eye. Instinct, not reason, told me this was my only chance to survive.
And I struck, and struck, and I struck again and again, and if I struck ten
times, I struck a hundred times. Finally, a blow must have glanced off the front
of its cranium catching the corner of his wretched eye. The Polyphemus let out a
bellow which sounded like a thousand banshees screaming in unison. The Cyclops rocked
backwards, stumbling over its clumsy feet.
The
monster reeled and tripped into the molten
lava, disappearing entirely—entirely that is, except for its rectangular eye—which
neither sank nor burned but rather floated: suspended in the stream of boiling
viscous lava. Amazingly, the lidless unblinking eye did not melt or succumb to
the extreme heat of the liquid fire, rather it seemed to metamorphosize into a
living sentient being all its own. And as I retreated backwards from the heat
and steam of melting stone, the creature, albeit only its diabolical eye,
seemed to menacingly glare at me—still bent on mesmerizing me, before floating
out of view, as it coursed along the smoking meandering river of liquid volcanic
rock to sanctuary on the other side of the mountain.
