Sing, O Muse by Wade R. DeYoung
The Old Man drove home from the engine repair shop and wondered which story he should tell the kids tonight. He parked the red pickup in the driveway and unlocked the front door. His wife, Betty, had left for work. He’d already told the kids so many stories, and he knew how seriously his two youngest children could be about injustice. Downright volatile, he thought. He washed the ropy engine grease from his hands, showered, and put on a tee shirt and denim shorts. He went to work on the flower garden beside the red-brick front porch. He yanked the weeds among the marigolds and tulips until his hands bled. Then he watered and fertilized the lilac and hibiscus trees. Betty approved of the flowers, but she told him the garden was his hubris, his Achilles heel. He supposed she was right. Well, my daddy told my brothers and me stories at night and so did his daddy, he thought. The tradition must endure!
The Old Man rinsed his hands and, bottle of red wine in hand, sat astride his rocking chair. His three children roared up the front yard, hollering, and little Ruthie skipped. “How was school today?” he asked. “And don’t tell me ‘fine,’” he admonished. “School year’s almost over.”
Noah’s head slumped. “You know calculus is killing me, Pop.”
“And I don’t get my history class, Dad,” said Joey.
Ruthie said with a brilliant smile, “No problems, Daddy. Seventh grade’s a cinch.” Her smile broadened. “In a pinch.”
“Go on inside and do your homework. I’m afraid I can’t help you with calculus, Noah. But I might be of some assistance with history, Joe. When you’re done, maybe I’ll tell you a story.”
“Which one?” asked Noah.
“I haven’t decided yet. Now scoot. Oh, your momma made some food before she went to work. It’s in the fridge. Help yourselves and bring it on out to your daddy.”
Joey ran out carrying the tray of finger food. He set it on the porch table. The Old Man devoured one of the small sandwiches. “Ham salad! Mm-mmm. My favorite,” he said.
“There’s egg salad and chicken salad too, Daddy,” said Ruthie.
“Thanks, baby,” he said, as he took a swig of wine to wash down the sandwich. “Ahhh. Now, homework time!”
The children inched into the house. As the ethereal tones of crickets signaled the dusk, the kids filtered back onto the porch and took their seats.
“What story today, Pop?” asked Noah. “Something new?”
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The twelve gods and goddesses reclined in a circle around Zeus in his effulgent throne. He sipped nectar, which sizzled as it plummeted down his esophagus, and peered through miles of clouds and gray sky until he spied the Old Man.
“What story is it to be today, Husband?” asked Hera.
“Meleagros,” he replied.
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“Only the third-most important fight in Greek mythology—” said the Old Man.
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Zeus scoffed, whispering “mythology” under his breath.
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“—the story of Meleager,” finished the Old Man. “The story of Meleager begins with the Calydonian Boar—big as an elephant, but twice as fierce. It had razor-sharp tusks and a bottomless appetite. The monster rooted up the forests and fields around Calydon. Ate the wildlife so the hunters couldn’t hunt, ate the crops so the farmers couldn’t farm, and ate the cattle so the cattlemen couldn’t…uh…cattle.”
The children and the immortals snickered.
“And if the boar happened on a person, why he’d gobble him up too.”
“But did it breathe fire like the Chimera?” asked Ruthie.
“Or spit poison like the Hydra?” asked Joey.
Noah jeered, “Let him tell the story, guys.”
“Nah,” said the Old Man. “That boar didn’t need those extravagances. You might wonder why the boar chose Calydon for his terrorism. Well, a wild animal’s gonna go where it wants to go,” said the Old Man. “But in this particular case, it seems the King and Queen forgot to honor one of the Olympians in their ceremonies and sacrifices. Namely, Artemis. She sent that boar to avenge herself on the monarchs.”
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Zeus said, “Now, that wasn’t at all nice, was it, dear Daughter?”
“You’re one to talk, Father,” Artemis quipped.
Just then, the empyrean chimes rang.
“Enter!” boomed Zeus.
In walked a god with green skin, mummy-wrapped legs, and a crown with stylized peacock feathers. Accompanying him was a goddess with long, raven hair, tightly restrained in a bun. She wore an ivory kimono decorated with pink cherry blossoms. Sakura.
“Osiris,” said Zeus smiling brightly, “Amaterasu! What brings you here?” He diminished his halo in deference to his fellow pantheons-in-chief.
“Just wanted to see what the Olympians were up to this evening,” said Osiris as he bowed.
“Well, pull up a seat. Nectar? Ambrosia?” Zeus asked.
“Sake for me please,” said Amaterasu.
Zeus drew his finger along an ear, and the food and drinks appeared in a shimmer.
Athene leaned forward. “Osiris,” she said with a toothy smirk, “who told you it was story night?”
“A little pixy told me,” he said, his eyes agleam.
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“Ouch!” cried the Old Man. He swatted his legs and arms. “Baby, please run inside and get the Off.”
Ruthie complied, and they all slathered themselves with insect repellent.
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Hera asked, “Why did you create those winged vampires, Dear?”
“I didn’t,” Zeus rejoined. “Our grandmother did, Dear.”
Osiris objected, “Ra created them.”
“I beg to differ,” Amaterasu interjected. “I created mosquitoes.”
“Well,” said Zeus, his arms spread expansively, “they exist. So, someone had to have created them.”
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The Old Man continued, “I forgot to mention that Calydon was wine country.” He took a long draft from his bottle, which was almost empty. “And that old boar, he tore up all the vineyards and wrecked Calydon’s economy. What’s worse, the people didn’t have no wine to drink. So, King Oeneus and Queen Althaea, they sent messengers all over Greece requesting warriors to kill this critter. And this was renowned as the Calydonian Boar Hunt.”
“How many warriors came?” asked Joey, running his fingers through his curly black hair.
“No one knows for sure, Joe, but it was at least 50 of the mightiest Greek soldiers.”
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Artemis said, “More like 30, and most weren’t that mighty.”
“I should think you’d like to pad the numbers, Sister,” said Athene, “since they did butcher your boar. Or did you have a conflict of interest in this hunt?”
Artemis was silent.
Amaterasu raised a hand. “Please. I don’t know this story.”
“I remember when my father told me stories,” said Zeus, slapping his knee. “No, wait. He didn’t. He tried to eat me.”
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“Noah,” said the Old Man, “would you please grab your daddy another bottle?” After the young man returned, the Old Man continued, “The most famous heroes who came—and you guys should know some of these—were Jason—”
“Leader of the Argonauts,” said Ruthie.
Joey added, “Quest for the Golden Fleece.”
The Old Man loved to quiz his children. Showed they were paying attention.
“Theseus…”
“The Labyrinth and the Minotaur,” said Ruthie with glee.
Noah said, “Son of King Aegeus after whom the Aegean Sea is named.”
“That’s right, my boy, but some say Theseus was the son of Poseidon.”
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Running his fingers through his sea-green hair, Poseidon said, “That’s my boy.”
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“Castor and Pollux,” continued the Old Man.
“Oh,” said Joey, almost raising his hand as if he were in school. “Sons of Zeus and Leda. Also brothers of Helen. Zeus disguised himself as a swan to trick Leda.”
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Hera elbowed Zeus in the ribs. “Aren’t you the clever one, my Love?”
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“Dad,” said Noah, “this has always confused me. If Castor and Pollux were young men when they were Argonauts, then how could Helen be a young woman during the Trojan War?”
“Musn’t question the mythology, Son. It has its own logic,” said the Old Man. He laughed to himself. They really did pay attention and see the inconsistencies.
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“Nonsense,” said Zeus. “The girl had my genes.”
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The Old Man went on, “Peleus and Telemon.”
“Achilles’ father,” said Joey.
“Yep. And Telemon was Peleus’ brother and father of Ajax. You remember the story of the marriage of Peleus and Thetis, right?”
“Yes, Dad,” the three said in unison.
Ruthie added, “To the fairest.”
“And someday you might just get that golden apple, Ruthie dear,” he said pinching her cheek. She giggled, and the Old Man continued, “Also Asclepius, Nestor, Iolaus, Iphicles, Laertes, and a slew of others who don’t really matter.”
“Wow,” said Joey, “with Apollo’s son on the team, they shouldn’t have had any casualties.”
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Apollo nodded.
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“Well, not exactly, Joe,” said the Old Man. “And, of course, Meleager was there. Though Theseus and Jason were skilled and powerful warriors, Meleager likely was the strongest of the band. His arms were as wide as a strong man’s legs. He was King Oeneus’ and Queen Althaea’s son, Prince of Calydon. But some say he was the son of Ares.”
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Ares grinned.
Aphrodite’s face flushed with anger. “What are you smiling about?”
“Why are you perturbed with Ares’ dalliances, my Wife?” said Hephaistos.
“I am not, Husband. I simply think it unseemly to take pride in one’s transgressions.”
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The Old Man continued, “Meleager’s two uncles joined the league and so did Atalanta, the most proficient woman hunter in Greece. Now, Meleager was struck dumb when he caught sight of Atalanta. Her face looked like a marble bust, her violet eyes wideset, her nose slender, her lips full. Every feature entranced Meleager—her auburn hair, her creamy, muscular thighs, the curves of her bosom visible—”
Ruthie slapped her father’s thigh. “Daaaaad…”
“I’m tellin’ the truth, sugar plum. That’s how Meleager saw her. Don’t confuse the narrator with the author. Anyway, Atalanta was the daughter of Iasus and Clymene. Iasus wanted a son, so he abandoned Atalanta on Mount Parthenion when she was a baby.” The Old Man began to doubt the wisdom of telling this story. But, after all, Ruthie was 13. She’d had sex ed. Betty and she had had “the talk.” Naw, he thought. It’ll be fine.
“Like the Spartans,” observed Noah.
“Exactly so. But…a she-bear found her, nursed her, and mentored her. And some say that bear was Artemis herself.”
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Athene shot Artemis a knowing look.
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“Now,” continued the Old Man, “some of the assemblage reacted differently to a woman’s presence among them. Five or six of them gathered and mumbled. Then Kepheus, acting as spokesman, spoke.
“‘Prince Meleager, we feel it highly inappropriate for a woman to participate in a man’s hunt.’
“‘And why is that, good Kepheus?’ asked Meleager.
“Oh, that Kepheus, he stammered and stuttered and finally said, ‘Morality. Tradition.’
“‘I see,’ said Meleager, ‘and how do you propose we redress this breech of morality and tradition?’
“‘Exclude her from the hunt!’
“‘And if I refuse?’ Meleager countered.
“Kepheus said, ‘Then we will withdraw.’
“‘I see,’ said Meleager. ‘Might I suggest, gentlemen,’ he said eyeing the group, which included both of his uncles, ‘could it be that, having heard of Atalanta’s fame as a warrior, you would be embarrassed were she to win the day?’ Meleager paused as they thought. ‘Gentlemen, we are 50 strong! Only by chance, will one of us kill the hog. Would your masculinity be crippled if you lost at a game of dice? And would it not further embarrass you to relinquish this opportunity due to pride?’ Meleager paused to let that sink in. ‘I cannot bar Atalanta from this contest. She is a freewoman and can hunt where she pleases.’
“The dissenters conferred again,” said the Old Man. “Meleager’s uncle, Toxeus, said, ‘I think the lad has an ulterior motive for keeping the girl in, but I say let us agree to his proposal.’”
“So, they were sexist, huh, Daddy,” said Ruthie.
“That they were, Ruthie dear.
“Then, Theseus stepped forward and said, ‘Let’s discuss strategy. I slew the Crommyonian Sow, probably this boar’s mother, and I know how to engage monstrous swine. Granted the Sow was much smaller, but we have greater numbers. We must flank it on both sides, attacking with spears and bows.’
“‘You might find flanking the boar tricky, Theseus. It’s quite clever, but let’s give it a shot.’ They heard a din in the forest. ‘That’s the pig. To arms!’ Meleager cried.”
The Old Man regarded his children. “Just think of all the beautiful flowers that hog destroyed…”
He shook his head and continued, “Anyway, the warriors scattered off through the woods. Ancaeus found himself in front of the swine. He screamed as the boar trampled him. Hippalamus heard a branch break, turned, and saw one of the pig’s ebony haunches. He brought his spear level to his eye, steadied himself, and flung the javelin. The projectile flew wide, and the hog skewered the man from intestines to lungs. The boar scampered off, its tusks dripping gore. Atalanta spotted one of the creature’s pointed ears through the brush. She trotted alongside it to get a clear shot, and her leather boots betrayed no sound. At a widening, Atalanta fired, and the arrow ripped into the boar’s dusky hide, puncturing a lung. The swine’s crimson nostrils flared. It let out a hideous squeal and bolted away.”
“Wait, Dad,” said Joey. “So those other two guys—Ancaeus and whatever—died?”
“Hippalamus. Yes, they died, Son.”
“Then why was Asclepius even there? He was a healer, not a fighter.”
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Apollo’s head hung low.
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“That happens in combat all the time, Joe. The medics can’t always get there in time, and even if they do, the injuries are sometimes too extreme to be mended.” The Old Man paused. “The boar slowed. It was wheezing and coughing blood. It knew it was gonna die, and that’s when critters get their plumb orneriest. The monster came upon Pelagon, who’d stopped to drink from his waterskin, and the hog sliced him up. Theseus saw the pig lumbering along, and the sinews in his arm stood out like ropes as he aimed. He cast the spear, which crashed into the boar’s right eye but stopped short of the brain. The hog’s frenzied bucking induced Theseus’ precipitous retreat. Poor Hyleus wasn’t so lucky. He let his spear fly, but it missed by a hair’s breadth. That pig bit the man in half in a fountain of blood. Creature didn’t even bother to eat him. Just discarded the two halves on the dirt. Now, Peleus had the hog in sight, but it was out of range. So, Peleus sprinted toward the monster, but he tripped on a tree root, and the spear slipped from his hands. The javelin impaled Eurytion.”
“God, Pop,” said Noah, “does this story have a happy ending?”
“Does any war story, my boy? At last, came Meleager’s turn. He spotted the boar and hurled his spear, which struck the beast squarely in the throat. The arterial blood spurted and sprayed, nourishing the plants it’d trampled. Enraged, the dying boar whirled toward Meleager and trapped him between its hooves. Beneath the weight of the hog, Meleager struggled to reach his scabbard. The veins in his throbbing temples protruded like ripe grapes. The thews in his arms distended as he strained. At last, he reached the hilt and drew his short sword. He shoved the sword plumb into the monster’s heart. The pig collapsed with an earth-shattering squeal, and the Calydonian Boar was no more. After intense pushing and pulling and wiggling, Meleager extricated himself from the hog’s corpse.
“The heroes gathered round Meleager and clapped him on the back. Meleager proclaimed, ‘Atalanta drew first blood. She shall be awarded the pig’s skin.’
“‘Outrage!’ cried Meleager’s uncles simultaneously. ‘You slew the boar; you should get the spoils.’
“Meleager replied, ‘With an arrow in its lung, it would have died eventually. I’m sorry, Uncles, my decision is final. You may take it up with the King.’
“‘I’ve got a better idea,’ said Toxeus, ‘let’s take it up with your wench.’ The two hemmed Atalanta in, Toxeus in front and Plexippus behind. ‘Let’s see what’s under this armor, girlie, that drives the lad crazy.’ Toxeus tried sliding his hands beneath her garments, but Atalanta dealt him a mighty buffet to the forehead, which sent him reeling. Plexippus struck a bone-wrenching blow to the back of her head with the flat of his sword. This sent Atalanta’s brain bouncing from one side of her skull to the other. She crashed to the earth. The other warriors surreptitiously left the scene.
“Meleager pounced on Toxeus, who was still dizzy. Meleager caught Toxeus round the throat in an armlock tight as a vise. Then Meleager thrust his sword into his uncle’s back. Plexippus was on top of the unconscious woman now and ripped her armor off, piece by piece. Meleager seized him from behind and choked him. Then Meleager wrenched Plexippus’ neck, which yielded with a sickening crack.”
Eyes moist, Ruthie asked, “Daddy, why do men treat women like that?”
“First, my child,” replied the Old Man, “not all men do. Second, I think that most men have a part of their soul that tells them they are strong all the time, but some men lack that part, and they only feel strong by making other people feel weak.” Ruthie was already emotional. The Old Man contemplated whether he should finish.
“Atalanta and Meleager wandered hand-in-hand until they found a barn suitable for love-making. Well, what they did in that barn wasn’t quite making love. It was transactional—Meleager wanted a son who’d combine his qualities with Atalanta’s, and Atalanta wanted to reward Meleager for defending her. And nine months later Atalanta did give birth to a son she named Parthenopeus, but some say he was Ares’ son.”
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Aphrodite leapt from her seat, her blonde hair bouncing about her cheeks and gown of gossamer swirling about her knees. She slapped Ares, who sat next to her. “I knew it! I knew you screwed that whore Atalanta.” While the smack echoed off the marble walls, the other 10 gods and goddesses seated in thrones watched in amusement as she raged out of the hall.
After Aphrodite thundered off, Amaterasu took Osiris’ hand and rose. “Milord Zeus, we must depart. Matters of state.”
Zeus rose and bowed, saying, “You’re welcome here any time.”
Osiris and Amaterasu flew from the temple, and before they veered off to their respective pantheons, the goddess chided, “So distasteful to air private family matters in front of strangers.”
“Well,” offered Osiris, “that’s what the Olympians do. Goodnight, Milady.”
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“Meleager won. Is the story over, Pop?” Noah asked.
The Old Man thought again. He saw the creases of fatigue around his children’s eyes. Should I say, “They all lived happily ever after,” and send them to bed? No, they must know that life can be cruel.
“Not quite. I didn’t tell you the beginning, and I have to do that before I tell the end. When Meleager was a week old, his momma, Althaea, nursed him by the smoldering palace hearth. The three Fates paid a call and peered at the mother and son from a neighboring room.
“‘What a fine and vibrant thread you’ve spun for the lad, Sister,’ whispered Lachesis, the measurer, to Clotho, the spinner. ‘Surely, his days on Earth will be long and filled with glory.’
“‘Not so, Sister,’ said Atropos, the cutter. ‘I’ll snip the boy’s thread when that log on the hearth is burnt to cinders.’
“Now, Althaea, she had a keen ear, and she doused that piece of wood as soon as the Fates departed. She locked it a strong box good and tight and hid it.”
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“The Fates don’t operate that way,” chuckled Zeus.
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The Old Man went on, “After Meleager and Atalanta finished their tryst and parted ways, Meleager walked to the palace. Suddenly, searing pain raged through his body, and he fell to the ground dead. The Queen flew into a mad fury when she heard Meleager had killed her brothers, and she burnt that log to ash.”
“What!” snarled Ruthie. Her face contorted into a mask of feral rage. Her lips pursed into white lines, revealing her teeth, and her eyes drew to slits. “That’s not fair! He saved Atalanta and killed the boar.” She shouted, pounded on the bricks, waved her arms, and tore around the porch and into the flower bed.
Aghast, the Old Man screamed, “Ruthie, stop!”
Joey chased her, shouting, “Stop being a little brat. Meleager got what he deserved.” And together they destroyed the flower garden.
Fists clenched, eyes watering, the Old Man got on his knees and pleaded, “Enough! Get to bed all of you!”
One-by-one, the children went to their rooms. Noah said, “I’m real sorry, Pop.”
“Not your fault, Son. It was mine.”
After the kids had been asleep for hours, Betty came home. She asked, “What happened to the flowers?”
The Old Man told her the story. “I should’ve stopped.”
Betty laughed softly. “Honey, you can’t protect them from the world.” She kissed his cheek. “And what’s more important—your flower garden or your children? You can always grow more flowers, but you’ve only got three kids.”
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“That was the best tale he’s told,” said Zeus. “I think we should follow their example and find repose.” He turned to Demeter and said with a smile, “Sister, please fix the Old Man’s flower bed.”
* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Wade R. DeYoung 2026
Image Source: Evan Wise from Unsplash.com