one or two, but that’s all. And to use sword or knife I’d have to bring them close enough for them to use their terrible beaks on me. Nevertheless, I do have to get them close.”
He thought some more. At last he decided that the best way to fight the birds was to put on his lion-skin armor—which even those iron beaks couldn’t pierce—and to stand there on the shore, letting the birds dive down at him. They would blunt their beaks against the lion hide, and he would be able to finish them off with sword or knife.
He put on the lion-skin armor, the lion-head helmet, and the great gauntlets of lion hide. He took up two of the fallen shields and clanged them together, making a hideous clattering noise. The startled birds rose in a great cloud and hovered over the marsh. Hercules danced up and down, shouting at them, beckoning to them, trying to make them attack, then stood there, sword in hand, waiting.
One of them swooped low and came at him. He took a deep breath and waited. Down, down, it came, so close that he could see its snake face and the sun flashing off its iron beak. It came closer, closer, as he crouched, waiting. The bird swerved, swooped upward. He felt the draft of air from its mighty wings, but its beak never touched him, nor did it come within reach of his hands. He watched it as it climbed away.
Another bird dived. He waited. It came closer, very close. Then the same thing happened. When it was close enough for him to see the light splintering off its beak, it swooped up, sailed away, and joined the flock.
This happened several times. Then Hercules saw the flock coasting down. He watched the birds as they settled in the marsh again and began to feed.
“I know what it is,” he said to himself. “They smell the lion skin and think I’m the lion. They’ve flown over Mount Nemea, these birds; it’s not far from here. And a lot of them probably got killed by the lion before they learned to keep their distance. And now they won’t come near me as long as I’m wearing the lion skin. But do I dare meet them uncovered? Those iron beaks will make a sieve of my body. I don’t know. I have to get them close, and I can’t wear the hide, so I’ll have to risk it.”
He cast away the lion skin, lifted the shields, clanged them again, and stood there bare-chested as the birds rose from the marsh and darkened the sky. Half-naked he stood there, watching them hover. Again he called to them and danced and beckoned. And watched a bird peel off and dive.
Hercules’ breastbone was like a curved piece of brass. His own bronzed skin was tougher than leather. Between bone and skin was a great sheathing of muscle. The Spear-bird came diving so fast that Hercules had no time to swing his sword before the bird was on him, driving its beak into his chest. The beak stuck, couldn’t go through.
Hercules felt a sickening pain, but the pain did not make him lose strength. His hand grasped the Spear-bird’s neck and twisted the life out. The bird went limp. But another bird was on its way and drove its beak into his chest. He chopped with the edge of his hand, breaking that bird’s neck. Now two iron beaks stuck in his chest, two dead birds dangling from them. He plucked them out of his body and flung them away. Blood poured from his chest.
And the birds were coming.
One by one, they swooped down at him, stabbing with their iron beaks. The beaks bent on his massive chest, but tore the skin until the white bone showed. As they dived and stabbed, they fell into his hands, and he broke their necks. His shoulder muscles stood out in great ridges, his back muscles in great clumps, as he twisted those necks that were tougher than bull whips.
His arms were so tired now that he could hardly lift them. Dead birds were heaped about him, but there still seemed to be as many as ever hovering above. They kept diving. He was covered with blood. He knew that he had lost too much blood. He felt himself tottering. Felt his
He thought some more. At last he decided that the best way to fight the birds was to put on his lion-skin armor—which even those iron beaks couldn’t pierce—and to stand there on the shore, letting the birds dive down at him. They would blunt their beaks against the lion hide, and he would be able to finish them off with sword or knife.
He put on the lion-skin armor, the lion-head helmet, and the great gauntlets of lion hide. He took up two of the fallen shields and clanged them together, making a hideous clattering noise. The startled birds rose in a great cloud and hovered over the marsh. Hercules danced up and down, shouting at them, beckoning to them, trying to make them attack, then stood there, sword in hand, waiting.
One of them swooped low and came at him. He took a deep breath and waited. Down, down, it came, so close that he could see its snake face and the sun flashing off its iron beak. It came closer, closer, as he crouched, waiting. The bird swerved, swooped upward. He felt the draft of air from its mighty wings, but its beak never touched him, nor did it come within reach of his hands. He watched it as it climbed away.
Another bird dived. He waited. It came closer, very close. Then the same thing happened. When it was close enough for him to see the light splintering off its beak, it swooped up, sailed away, and joined the flock.
This happened several times. Then Hercules saw the flock coasting down. He watched the birds as they settled in the marsh again and began to feed.
“I know what it is,” he said to himself. “They smell the lion skin and think I’m the lion. They’ve flown over Mount Nemea, these birds; it’s not far from here. And a lot of them probably got killed by the lion before they learned to keep their distance. And now they won’t come near me as long as I’m wearing the lion skin. But do I dare meet them uncovered? Those iron beaks will make a sieve of my body. I don’t know. I have to get them close, and I can’t wear the hide, so I’ll have to risk it.”
He cast away the lion skin, lifted the shields, clanged them again, and stood there bare-chested as the birds rose from the marsh and darkened the sky. Half-naked he stood there, watching them hover. Again he called to them and danced and beckoned. And watched a bird peel off and dive.
Hercules’ breastbone was like a curved piece of brass. His own bronzed skin was tougher than leather. Between bone and skin was a great sheathing of muscle. The Spear-bird came diving so fast that Hercules had no time to swing his sword before the bird was on him, driving its beak into his chest. The beak stuck, couldn’t go through.
Hercules felt a sickening pain, but the pain did not make him lose strength. His hand grasped the Spear-bird’s neck and twisted the life out. The bird went limp. But another bird was on its way and drove its beak into his chest. He chopped with the edge of his hand, breaking that bird’s neck. Now two iron beaks stuck in his chest, two dead birds dangling from them. He plucked them out of his body and flung them away. Blood poured from his chest.
And the birds were coming.
One by one, they swooped down at him, stabbing with their iron beaks. The beaks bent on his massive chest, but tore the skin until the white bone showed. As they dived and stabbed, they fell into his hands, and he broke their necks. His shoulder muscles stood out in great ridges, his back muscles in great clumps, as he twisted those necks that were tougher than bull whips.
His arms were so tired now that he could hardly lift them. Dead birds were heaped about him, but there still seemed to be as many as ever hovering above. They kept diving. He was covered with blood. He knew that he had lost too much blood. He felt himself tottering. Felt his
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