I suppose you don’t really need to know about them, beyond that they were who Athene chose to protect the basket. Cecrops was a king of Athens （with three daughters） and Athene likes Athens, which is probably why she went there and gave them the child. But if I’m honest I’m only giving you these details because I like you to know I know them. It doesn’t make much difference to what happened next, except it does now I think about it.
Because the daughters of Cecrops are named Herse, Pandrosus and Aglaurus. Three daughters chosen by one goddess to guard one basket. She gave them an order before she left, which was that they were on no account to open the basket and find out what was inside. In case you’re doubting my story and wondering how I know so much, I was hiding in an elm tree nearby and I saw the whole thing with my own eyes. And I heard every word too. Athene told them it was a secret and she trusted them to keep it safe.
And two of them did. You see, this is the part where I think maybe it does matter that she picked the daughters of Cecrops. If she’d picked someone with only two daughters, things might have turned out very differently. But she chose these, and Herse and Pandrosus did exactly as she’d asked. They hid the basket, ignored it and then forgot about it. Exactly what Athene was hoping for.
Wait – you look upset. Are you worried that the baby will die? Suffocate or starve or something? The offspring of the gods and the earth itself is not as fragile as a mortal child. Remember how difficult it was to kill the giants? Gaia’s offspring are not made lightly. So don’t concern yourself with the child’s wellbeing, because in a moment you’ll understand that you’re worrying about quite the wrong person in this story.
Aglaurus wanted to know what was inside the basket and she wouldn’t leave it alone. She went back, over and over, to look at it and turn it about and wonder what was inside. She couldn’t understand how her sisters were so accepting of Athene’s orders. She couldn’t bear not knowing everything. She peered at the basket and held it up to the light, tried to push the reeds aside so she could just make out something of the contents. She told herself as she did this that once she had slaked her curiosity she would leave it alone.
But Athene doesn’t weave in such a way that a woman can just peer through the gaps. She doesn’t leave gaps. Kra kra! So Aglaurus couldn’t see a thing. And you might think this would be enough to warn her of the danger she was in. If the goddess had meant for someone to see inside the basket, she would have allowed it. But – foolish girl – her curiosity only intensified. So she found the end of one of the reeds and she worked it loose. Just gently, pushing it and pulling until one little strand stood proud. She worked it a bit more, now she could grip it more easily. It was loose anyway, she told herself. She might as well undo it. But because she didn’t dampen it first, the reed snapped between her fingers. A crow could have told her how to do that better: she should have asked me for advice. But she could always replace it, she decided, so she kept going. She unwove one reed and then another and then another. But even that wasn’t enough for her to be able to see. Telling herself that she was the brave one and her sisters were cowards, she undid more and more of the basket, until the top looked like an abandoned bird’s nest. Now it was open and she could finally see what was inside.
She screamed and dropped the basket to the ground. Her sisters came running, but it was too late. The snake slithered out and bit Aglaurus on the foot. Herse and Pandrosus ran to their sister who was grasping her ankle and crying out in agony. Their thumping feet angered the snake so much that it bit each of them as well, before disappearing into the undergrowth.
I took the news to Athene myself. She has always loved crows: she likes us because we’re clever and she likes us because we know everything. But this time she wasn’t pleased at all. She was angry with the messenger because she was angry with the message, I suppose. Kra. So she said that from now on, crows would never be as welcome to her as owls. Owls! Not just her owl, the one Zeus gave her. All owls. Even though they aren’t half as bright as crows and don’t see a quarter of the things we see because they sleep during the day. But she has made her mind up and crows must be punished for the crime of the daughters of Cecrops. So now I don’t take any news to her. I bring it to you instead. Kra kra!
Stone
This one is small and I’m not sure you would want it. It has been perfectly caught as it runs along, its jointed legs seemingly frozen in time. It is not poised to attack, its sting is not raised. The sculptor wants us to think, I suppose, that it was caught unawares. If the sculptor thinks about his audience at all, of course. Perhaps these statues were not meant to be displayed, perhaps they were made just for the sheer pleasure of creating them. Perhaps they were not even supposed to look as realistic as they do: perhaps his skill surprised even him. But if you saw this one unexpectedly, you would fear for your life.
Gorgoneion
I’m wondering if you still think of her as a monster. I suppose it depends on what you think that word means. Monsters are, what? Ugly? Terrifying? Gorgons are both these things, certainly, although Medusa wasn’t always. Can a monster be beautiful if it is still terrifying? Perhaps it depends on how you experience fear and judge beauty.
And is a monster always evil? Is there ever such a thing as a good monster? Because what happens when a good person becomes a monster? I feel confident saying that Medusa was a good mortal: has that all disappeared now? Did it fall out with her hair? Because I think you already know why the snakes were so anxious that she cover her eyes when they heard her sister approaching. （That’s another question for another day, I suppose: do snakes have emotions? Are they capable of anxiety? But let’s focus on the question in hand.） They knew before Medusa knew that her gaze was now lethal.
She found out a day or two later, when she tried again to remove the bindings from her eyes. She turned her gaze on something she could see moving across the ground in front of her. A quick dark streak on the golden sand. It stopped, mid-run. She reached out and picked it up, dropped it straightaway when she realized she was holding a scorpion. Picked it up again when she understood that it was dead.
It took her a moment to work out what was wrong. It was the wrong texture for a scorpion. She had – perhaps this shouldn’t need saying, but just in case – never held a scorpion in her hands before. She knew their sting could be fatal. But she also knew how shiny they were, how slick their shells appeared. And this was rougher to the touch than a scorpion could be. And surely it was also too heavy, given its size? She took it and kept it and puzzled over it.
But she doubted her own eyes: who could blame her after they had sustained such an insult? She wondered if she hadn’t seen it move, if it was a tiny statue of a scorpion that had washed up on the shore. Or perhaps one of her sisters had found it in a human settlement nearby and brought it to show her, and then forgotten to tell her about it. None of these explanations seemed to her to be less plausible than the truth, that she had looked at the scorpion and it had turned to stone.
It would take two more days and two dead birds – a cormorant, a bee-eater – before she understood the truth.
Part Four