"Quite the Monster?" - Cacus & the Dustwine Birds

I always intended to use this blog for fictional as well as non-fictional writings, so here’s the first attempt at a little story-tale. For guidance, I asked Twitter to supply me with numbers to lead me to an entry in The Element Encyclopedia of Magical Creatures by John & Caitlin Matthews, which I have here on my desk. Grace Fletcher-Hackwood (@msgracefa) and Jo Howard (@joannuski) were the first to respond, selecting Cacus; a fearsome half-spider, half-human, three-headed beast from Greek mythology, and Adar Llwch Gwin; some mighty giant birds from Welsh mythology, whose name translates to 'Dustwine' (for some unexplained reason). The following tale is the result of this mythic mash-up. Big thanks to Grace and Jo!

 

Quite the Monster?

 

One head for talking, one for eating, and one for breathing fire. And so, if you cared or dared to look dearest Hercules, that means three entirely different throat structures and, I expect, three separate stomachs; one shriveled and meaningless, the second distended and over-worked, and the third a smouldering pit of magma. Beneath them, a sac of web silk and the glands for secretion, all packed up snug beside ten hip joints; two for these relatively stout human legs (not compared to yours, of course, but for a regular Joe like old Cacus here, they’ll pass), the rest for the spider legs. Of course, three human heads would equate to six eyes, but the arachnid gene always wriggles its way out of the cracks, so I have a third, central eye in the fores of each head to bring it all up to nine. This means my ocular cone is much extended. Which also means I can see you up there, dear Hero, waiting for your moment, even if you think I can’t.

Quite the complicated beast, am I not? Quite the freak, quite the monster? Hence the cave, of course, and the isolation. And yet, you’ve seen what I’ve done with the place – the formulae, the diagrams, the tracts - and perhaps that is why you hesitate. Unless, of course, you think these are mere meaningless doodles, or pictures left here by some previous occupant. But no. You see, dear Heracles (I mean, pick a name, man), three heads also equate to three brains, and I’ve had plenty of time for triple-thinking. And while I must insist upon the ascendancy of the one who does the talking, there are plenty of valid contributions from Hungry-chops and Hot-head, not least when it comes to survival and self-defence. Meanwhile, the abundance of legs and eyes lends a certain air of fearsomeness, and affords me a legend of terror with the locals. Hence, for the most part, I am left undisturbed and alone with my thoughts.

I have a legacy to leave. If you do read these words (if, indeed, you can read), all I ask is that you leave my cave sealed for others to find in a more enlightened future. Such a labour shouldn’t be beyond you, son of Zeus?

I’ve been monitoring your trials, old man. It’s all a little audacious, is it not? A little ostentatious? If you ask me - which no-one ever does, but still – is all this not much more than a spectacular parade of show-off heroics for the mums? Something for the lads to chant and cheer about down the wine halls? Out here in the sticks and stones there’s not much cause for exultation when we wrestle down a mighty boar, or tie down a few hydra heads while picking wild garlic. We have tools for that kind of thing, Oh Great One; I mean, of course we do. Humane tools that don’t result in so much bloody bloodshed.

Ah, I see you shifting about, tensing up, I fear my time is almost upon me. I shall, therefore, get to the point, as they say. There is a tale I would like to relay to you, son of Alcmene, a myth from a distant land. Far north there is an island. It is a place that rather enjoys bristling with itself as its people repeatedly fail to understand quite who they are. They have a hero, not unlike yourself; a man called Arthur, who will soon be king. This man was called to battle by another man (oh Hera-lad, it is always we men), by the name of Drudwas, who had taken a disliking to Arthur because of reasons.

Now, Drudwas was the proud owner of a flock of giant birds, whom he named the Dustwine. These exceptionally clever beasts were trained to obey every command given to them by their master, and Drudwas was a particularly commanding fellow. And so, on the day of his mighty fracas with Arthur, he brought his Dustwines out for all to see and told those glorious birds to attack the first man to enter the battle. Drudwas waited by. And waited by. And waited. But Arthur did not show. The battlefield remained empty. Frustrated, Drudwas strode across the field himself, drew his sword, and bellowed Arthur’s name, told him to come out from his hiding place. At which point, a rather flustered Arthur did show up, having been held back by a romantic dalliance with his favoured knight, Sir Lancelot (an altogether different story, but never mind about that).

Drudwas grinned, more than a little relieved, and ready himself for the avian slaughter. The Dustwine took to the skies, wheeled and screeched and cawed and screamed, then plummeted to their master and tore him limb from limb. He had, after all, been the first upon the battlefield.

Ah. I’ve seen that look before. Those glazed-over eyes, the tucking of your fringe curl back behind your ear. I shall conclude.

Think for thyself, Heracles-Hercules, son of Zeus-and-Alcmene. For those who give commands do so with their singular heads, where hungers, heats, and speeches jostle for space and do not always coordinate. Take it from a man-spider beast with three heads: the many are smarter than the one. Even if, on too many occasions, the many are made to feel weak and worthless.

Well, that is all I have to say. I do so dearly hope you heed these words, my friend, for we shall never leave our caves in harmony if all we choose to do is swing and scythe for those who demand and desire it. Having said that, I’m sure you won’t mind if I give Hot-head a final little fight? Just a little something for the legend-writers, a little flair of danger for the lads and the mums?

Yours, in considerations,

Cacus