Challenge Review: Mythos

My #dymocks52challenge book 23/38, for week 37.

Title: Mythos: The Greek Myths Retold
Author: Stephen Fry
Published: 2/11/17
First appearance in 101: 2018 (#84)
Years in 101: 2
2019 101 ranking: #98
Rating: 3 stars

Why I chose this book:
You might have guessed from the name of my blog that I have an interest in myths and legends, so when this book popped up on the Top 101 list it was an easy add. I'm absolutely fascinated by myths and was looking forward to reading about them from the very beginning.


Thoughts:
I love the stories themselves, but the delivery missed the mark with me. I've never been a big fan of British humour and with a subject so close to my heart it seemed a little crass. But I enjoyed the myths - particularly the lesser-known ones I'd not yet encountered - so it wasn't a total drag to read.

You can read my full review on Goodreads here.


Verdict: Was it worthy?

The myths themselves, yes, but I'm sure there are better deliveries out there. I've yet to read Ovid's Metamorphoses (it's waiting eagerly on my bookshelf) but I suspect that will tell many of these stories in greater depth and with the traditional prose that one would expect for such old stories. This sassy retelling is a great introduction for the uninitiated, but doesn't quite do justice to the great legends of Greek mythology.

The Pebble

There was only Darkness.

A great, all-encompassing Darkness that filled every corner of the world with a blackness that tainted and devoured. An endless motley shade of midnight and grey, indigo and deep purple, it raged like a mad beast; frenzied and terrifying. Its undulating movement pummelled like the waves of a ferocious storm called forth by the old sea gods—had they still existed within this Darkness that left no question of life beyond itself.

It seemed to have no purpose other than to spread fear and pain, and seep into every vulnerable crack. Whether it was barraging abandoned shores or poisoning the air, it searched for everything that could be destroyed. Nothing was permitted to survive.

Yet there was a survivor: a tiny white pebble completely at the mercy of the Darkness yet resilient. Swept up in the storm, it was battered and tossed around; or sometimes still—surrounded by a menacing calm as the Darkness lay in wait. With the Darkness enveloping everything, it was inevitable that the pebble would be struck repeatedly; so insignificant that it seemed likely the pebble would be destroyed alongside everything else. Yet still the pebble remained whole, somehow unable to be completely destroyed by the Darkness. The Darkness only became more enraged, and concentrated its efforts. Eternally trembling from repeated blows, the pebble felt the Darkness consume and rage, each blow leaving its mark yet still failing to destroy. The tides of the Darkness carried the little pebble along in its madness, and the battle between the monstrous Darkness and the tiny pebble became its own legend.

After three years of submitting to the tide of Darkness, the battered pebble washed up unexpectedly on a new shore. Although the rage of the Darkness had simmered somewhat, it still hung poisonous in the air. Yet the shore the pebble was now part of seemed less affected; the Darkness was broken by patches of light, which exposed a beach full of fine sand, and dust and  ̶  more pebbles. As the pebble lay in the momentary calm of this new reality, the matter around it drifted closer. Some combination of light and untainted water allowed the various fragments to become fused together, so that the first pebble was unexpectedly strengthened against the Darkness’s inevitable forthcoming attacks. When the Darkness renewed its raging, throwing the pebble back and forth sporadically, the pebble was hardier, and every time it rolled into the light a little more sand and pebble dust stuck to it so that it became increasingly bigger with each hit it took.

Almost as though in response, the Darkness became less. It was no less menacing, but its presence became smaller; its attacks, fewer. It took on a more solid shape; grew smaller.

Transformed.

By the time the seven year mark came around, the Darkness had become a three-headed Demon with six eyes firmly focused on the pebble. It had three ugly faces, long claws and sharp teeth and was constantly gnawing on the pebble with each of its mouths.

The rest of the world was left to rebuild, regrow. It began to flourish with this new opportunity for life, and colour crept back into the world. It used the newfound peace to develop and spread light wherever it could, determined to counteract the destruction caused by The Darkness. The new world was stronger for what it had suffered, and peace reigned.

The legendary battle between the Darkness and the pebble continued, but now it was a discreet, personal battle. The Demon knew it was losing—the sandstone shell now encasing the pebble had hardened, and though there were weaknesses these were few. Truth was, with all of the extra layers the pebble had accumulated over the past four years, it had now become almost a boulder, and its size was much bigger than that of the Darkness Demon.

The persistent Demon leapt around the pebble, lunging in to attack and then withdrawing to disappear into an inky cloud, only to attempt again from a different angle. It was merciless.

Yet each time the Demon attacked, the pebble withstood the blows a little better. The weight of the sand and pebbles that made up its skin now anchored it, keeping it stable in the chaos of the Darkness Demon’s attacks. The Demon diminished. The demon became small.

Despite its less frequent successes, the demon was not to be underestimated. When it did manage to take a bite with its sharp teeth, or slice the pebble with its claws, something of a scream issued forth from the pebble. But the pebbles and sand that made up the hardened new layers were strong. Each blow was absorbed by many, and thus weakened. The demon became less.

The final blow was a realisation, and it was this:

The shrinking of the darkness was no mere coincidence. It was no inevitable decline caused by time. The Darkness, darkness, demon—in every form it shared one thing.

Does the darkness …?

Seven years of madness and raging and hate and bitterness.

Maybe?

Seven years of storms and poison and pain.

Just maybe?

Seven years attempting to destroy that which refuses to be destroyed.

Fear the Pebble?

Thus the demon was vanquished, and light was restored.

And the Pebble was free.

The Witch

Once upon a time there was a witch, who lived in a dark forest on a beautiful island.

She was not mean nor ugly, she did not cast spells or brew things in cauldrons. She didn't even have a cat. But because she lived in the forest, everyone assumed she was a witch, and so a witch she was.

One day, a stranger came to the island. He went walking in the forest, and he happened upon the witch.

'How do you do?' He asked.

The witch stared at him.

'Why do you not run away, or try to hurt me? I am a witch, after all!'

He looked embarrassed. 'Oh, I'm terribly sorry, but you don't seem a witch to me. Do you cast magic spells?'

The witch shook her head.

'Do you cackle a lot?'

The witch shook her head again.

'You must own a black cat then, at least?'

When the witch shook her head yet again, the stranger was quite exasperated.

'Then you do not really sound like a witch at all!' He exclaimed.

The witch felt a warmth spread through her chest, and she realised that it was a good feeling for this stranger to tell her she wasn't a witch. She really did not like being a witch at all!

She and the stranger talked for a long time, becoming fast friends. It was so lovely to talk to someone who did not see her as a witch!

And so, when the stranger left the forest, and then the beautiful island, the not-a-witch went with him.

They returned to the stranger's city, and she became a doctor who was loved by all her patients. And the stranger was no longer a stranger, but her very best friend, and she was always grateful that he had shown her she could be whatever she chose to be.

The end.

Just (Part 3)

He was not like the other boys.

Instead of running around kicking balls at lunchtime, he much preferred to sit in a corner and read.

That was okay.

His closest friend was a girl—some of the other boys teased him for that, but she liked all the same things he did, and they had a lot of fun together. The other boys just didn’t understand their friendship.

That was okay, too.

He enjoyed school; he loved learning new things, and always did well when he enjoyed the subject. Sometimes his mind drifted off and he was distracted by little things—a fly on the wall, a cobweb in the corner; that single spot on the whiteboard that the teacher had failed to erase. Sometimes the teachers noticed his distraction, and sometimes they didn’t. He liked the kind ones, who coaxed him back to the real world gently. Some of them made fun of him having ‘drifted off to outer space’ again; that was okay. He let the words wash over him. He was just someone who disappeared inside of his head, instead of whispering to his peers. That was all.

He talked plenty to his best friend, though. He told her about how he liked to imagine a better world, where everyone knew it was okay to be different. That sometimes he felt sad about how mean people were to one another because, really, they actually weren’t so different after all.

In turn, she confided in him: she felt sad sometimes for no reason at all. She would just be sitting at her desk, trying to learn about the anatomical properties of Hydrogen or the population of China and suddenly she’d be overcome by how meaningless everything was. She confessed that some days she didn’t even want to get out of bed. She was certain there was something wrong with her, and threw out words like ‘freak’ and ‘psycho’.

He understood, though. An idea formed in his mind.

A man soon came to their school to give a talk on depression—this man was the boy’s father. He was a psychologist who helped people with mental illnesses.

He spoke about what it felt like to be sad all the time, and how depression leaked into daily life unexpectedly. How it made you feel like you were different to everyone else, like that was a bad thing. But it wasn’t really – the world was full of different people, and that was just as it should be. Not only that, depression was actually pretty common: for every eight boys in the room, one would experience it. One in six, for the girls.

The boy saw his friend’s eyes glimmer with tears, and he grasped her hand and whispered, ‘it’s okay. You’re going to be okay.’ His father, at the front, continued to speak.

He began to tell them a story.

Once, there had been a man with a deep sadness in his heart.

He had a job he loved, a wife he adored; even a dog.

Still, he was sad.

As the man spoke, the boy felt his own tears prickle, and his heart swelled with pride. He’d heard this story many times. It was a story of sadness, and a man too afraid of being different to realise that he needed help. It was a story of tragedy, of fear, and of darkness.

But it was also a story of light, and freedom.

At the end, the man rolled up his sleeves to bare his arms. They all saw the thick scars traced there, so at odds with the smile on the man’s face. Was it truly possible this was the same man from the story?

The boy looked at his friend again, whose tears now coursed freely down her cheeks, and he repeated his words with a knowing smile.

‘You’re going to be okay.’

FIN

Just (Part 2)

She had so many regrets.

The decline was subtle, certainly, but as his wife she should have seen it.

Perhaps she had, only her naivety had persuaded her that if her joy overflowed enough it would penetrate the shell that had begun to surround him. She would balance his darkness with her light.

What an idiot she’d been.

Every effort she’d made to understand him had failed—how could she possibly comprehend his pain when she knew nothing of it herself?

She’d thought their love for one another was strong enough to sustain them through the gloom; that if she stayed by his side, nurturing him throughout the long days spent in bed, holding him when he cried, reassuring him that she thought no less of him because of his tears—that all of that would be enough to help him step forward into the sunshine.

Just sadness, indeed.

Sadness had utterly consumed him, and he was so afraid of being judged that he’d kept it to himself, refusing to discuss it with anyone, refusing to admit that he needed more than her eternal sunshine to help rekindle his light.

You proud old fool, she thought miserably.

The same friends who had once offered advice now offered condolences, but they rang hollow in her ears. She wanted to rage at them for their lack of comprehension, and beat them with her fists screaming, ‘You did this!’ because that was the truth, after all, wasn’t it? That it was their misunderstanding and judgement that he had feared so greatly that had driven him to desperate measures?

That wasn’t fair though, she knew, and her rage at his oblivious friends was a mask for the guilt she felt over not realising how badly he was hurting.

She should have noticed. She should have spent more time with him. She should have sought help on his behalf. So many things she blamed herself for; so many things she wished she’d done differently.

She wished she’d told him.

Now she stroked her rounding stomach and wondered. If he’d known before, would it have made a difference? The child would carry his name, she decided. Sure, they hadn’t planned to have children so soon, but when she got the results back she’d been overjoyed; thought perhaps this was divine intervention.

Fate had intervened before she could share the news, however.

Every time she closed her eyes she saw again the blood; so much of it, pooling around him as he slumped against the bathtub, a razor in his limp hands. His eyes still open, gazing down at the destruction he’d caused.

‘I just wanted to cut out the darkness,’ he’d whispered in delirium as she’d frantically pressed a towel to his wounds with one hand and fumbled for her phone with the other, ‘I think I cut too deep.’

***

Just (Part 1)

A deep sadness filled his heart.

There was no warning, no precursor, no trigger.

No impending doom, or premonition of things going wrong.

He had friends, a loving family; even a dog who grinned stupidly every time he came home.

The job was one he loved—carving things from raw wood, shaping them into everyday functional items: chairs, tables, cabinets. He loved crafting things with his calloused hands, injecting them with their own spirit, wondering what sort of life lay in store for these products of his love. He found great pleasure in simply running his hands along smoothed wood, caressing the grain as tender as any lover. Applying the final coat of varnish with long, careful strokes. His work was his pride and joy; his workshop a haven.

Still, a deep sadness filled his heart.

He was blessed to have a loving wife—his true soulmate. It was a cliché, but she completed him. A source of constant positivity and joy, she encouraged his art and it had been thanks to her unyielding support that he had been able to make a career from his passion. She was kind, compassionate, fun and daring. She coaxed him constantly from his shell, and he loved her infinitely for it.

Nevertheless, a deep sadness filled his heart.

There were no children yet, but he was thankful. Three years was too short a time to properly languish in one another’s company, and he knew his wife felt the same. They were so caught up in loving one another that there really was no room to spare in his heart for children.

And yet …

This hollow feeling, this emptiness, this darkness that reared its ugly head constantly was reminder enough that his heart was divided. After all, how could he be so consumed by love for his wife and still feel this ever-present sadness?

He’d seen a doctor, of course. Back when he’d first spent a week in bed, unwilling to find the motivation to get up, let alone go to work. It had frightened him, this invasion of an emotion so ridiculous, so unexplained, so ruthless. What did he have to feel sad about? Why did it leach from his heart to consume his entire body so thoroughly? Why should he be unable to feel anything but this unjustified sadness?

The doctor told him to exercise more, and eat right. To call a certain number ‘if things get really bad’. He threw the phone number away and decided he’d have more luck cheering himself up if he just thought it through logically.

No matter how he worked through the problem in his mind, though, trying to explain this unfounded emotion, he could find no solution. Ultimately, it seemed to be just a hiccup in his otherwise perfect life: sometimes he was sad.

Once, he’d tried to explain it to a friend. The way it permeated his entire being, until he was paralysed into inactivity, his thoughts consumed by a sadness that had no foundation. His friend had appeared puzzled.

‘Why don’t you just do something that makes you happy then? Or think about something good?’

His friend, he realised belatedly, could never comprehend the magnitude of what he was feeling, until that friend had experienced it himself.

After that, he never bothered trying to explain it to anyone. He moulded his face into an expression of contentment, and henceforward he alternated between his two faces: the one he wore in public, and the one which revealed his true anguish only when he was alone.

There were pills he could take, of course, and home remedies suggested by insightful friends that meant well. Therapy was always an option, but how would talking about things help when no one truly understood the depth of his ailment?

After all, it was just sadness, wasn’t it?

His mind suggested alternatives, too: ropes, pills, high buildings and veins that could be emptied of the darkness coursing through him. His reaction to these perverted thoughts was twofold: a thrill at the idea of being free, then an immediate revulsion that he might so easily be swayed.

He’d heard stories, of course. You’d have to be living under a rock to not know the word depression, and understand it was the reason people blew their brains out or took a dive over the rail. Maybe he thought about those things from time to time, but he wasn’t like those others. He wasn’t mentally ill. 

He was just sad. He intended to live, which meant he was not the same as those others that people felt sorry for, and spoke about in hushed tones.

He was perfectly normal.

A deep sadness just filled his heart sometimes. That was all.

***