While Ceyx, son of Lucifer, told this
amazing story of his brother’s fate,
Onetor, Peleus’ Phocian cowherd, dashed
into the palace, panting. “Peleus, Peleus,”
the cowherd cried, “I carry dreadful news!”
And Peleus urges him to tell in full,
whatever news he brings: so, too, the king
of Trachin, terrified, waits anxiously
for tidings from those trembling lips. Then he,
the cowherd, tells his story: “I was driving
the weary oxen to the curving beach.
Just then, along his course, the Sun had reached
his highest point, a point from which he saw
behind him just as much as lay ahead.
Some oxen stretched out on the yellow sands
and watched the ample surface of the sea;
and some roamed here and there—quite lazily;
and others swam, their necks above the water.
Close to the sea a shadowed temple stood;
it did not gleam with marble and bright gold;
it’s hidden by thick trunks, in ancient woods—
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a shrine for Nereus and his Nereids,
the god and goddesses who guard that sea
(a sailor was the one who told me this,
while, on the sandy shore, he dried his nets).
Nearby, backwaters of the sea had formed
a marsh enclosed by thickset willows’ shade.
And from that marsh a monstrous beast burst out,
a wolf who crashed ahead, who trampled, loud,
and filled with terror all the countryfolk;
his jaws were deadly, flecked with foam, blood-soaked;
his blazing eyes were fiery red. Though rage
and hunger spurred him on, rage was foremost.
Indeed, he did not stop to fill his maw,
to quell his savage hunger and devour
the cattle he had killed; but out of hate
he mangled all the herd—yet did not feast.
And some of us, in trying to defend
the herd, fell, too, beneath his fatal jaws.
The shore, the shallow water, and the swamp
were loud with bellowings and red with blood.
But now, do not delay! Don’t hesitate!
Before we have lost everything, let’s rush
to arms—to charge the monster—all of us!”
So said the countryman. But Peleus’ loss
seemed not to touch him deeply: what he brought
to mind was this—his crime, his having killed
the son of the sad Nereid: this wolf
was sent by Psamathe; the slaughtered herd
had served as sacrifice to Phocus’ Shade.
The king of Trachin now commands his men
to put on armor; all must take in hand
their deadly lances; he himself prepares
to hunt the wolf with them. But when his wife,
Alcyone, is roused by loud outcries,
she rushes from her room—her hair is still
uncombed and so accents her disarray;
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she throws herself upon his neck, she prays
with words and tears, imploring him to stay:
there is no need for him to join the rest;
it is enough for him to send out aid—
and doing so, he can be sure to save
himself and her: in sum, two lives in one.
And Peleus, hearing this, says: “Queen, your fears
move me; yes, they are seemly; but be sure,
they can be set to rest. You have my thanks
for offering your help; but I don’t wish
strange monsters to be met by weaponry.
There is, instead, a proper remedy:
I must pray to the goddess of the sea.”
Above the citadel a tall tower rose,
a tower at whose top there always blazed
a signal fire that offered welcome aid
to weary ships. This was the spot they reached.
From there, in sad dismay, they saw the beach
strewn with dead cattle, and the savage beast,
his muzzle and his shaggy hair blood-soaked;
hands stretched out to the shore and open sea,
the son of Aeacus prayed fervently
to Psamathe, the sea-blue nymph, that she
might set aside her wrath—might shower mercy.
But Peleus’ prayer did not stir Psamathe.
Instead, it was his wife, the goddess Thetis,
who, interceding for him, led the nymph
to pardon Peleus, son of Aeacus.
But though he had been ordered to retreat,
the wolf has found the taste of blood so sweet
that, frenzied, he persists—until the nymph,
as he held fast a heifer he had ripped,
changed him to marble. But his body kept
the shape and stance it had—in all respects,
except its color: just its stony hue
reveals that he’s no longer wolf but statue—
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that need be feared no more. And yet the fates
did not wish exiled Peleus to remain
in Trachin; so the nomad left—and came
at last into Magnesia, the land
of King Acastus, the Haemonian.
And it was there that Peleus, at the hands
of good Acastus, was completely cleansed
of his bloodguilt.