Okay, so say that you think so far so good. You’re tired of boys anyway. Who needs them? They never call when they say they will, and when they actually do call they only want to talk about really boring things, and you don’t like any of their meathead friends, and sometimes you’re not sure if you even like them. Especially when they don’t cut their hair for a while or wear that same T-shirt at least three times a week. Besides, your best friends (who needless to say are all girls) happen to understand you, really understand everything you’re going through, sometimes without you even having to explain it all. So no need to stress over that part of the deal.
But consider that this contract is pretty absolute. When Artemis says no males, she really means it. This includes your father, your brothers, your male cousins and friends. No more father-daughter dances or the two of you making pancakes while the rest of your family is sleeping. No more watching TV with your brothers and fighting, in a playful way, over the remote control. No more kicking around a soccer ball in the park with your male friends. (For the record, I have never kicked around a soccer ball in a park or anywhere else, but should I ever choose to do so, it might be fun to kick the ball to a male friend or two.) Instead, you have to leave your family and begin a shiny brand-new life with your adopted sisters, your fellow Hunters.
Not so easy now, right? Remember in Rick Riordan’s The Titan’s Curse, the character Bianca is offered this choice. True, Artemis does mention that Bianca may see her brother occasionally, but she also quite clearly states that if Bianca swears the oath, she will have a new family starting then and there. And Bianca does end up swearing the oath and becoming one of Artemis’s maidens. But her choice has some unexpected consequences that come back to haunt her.
Who cares, you say. You still want in. Your father’s too strict anyway and your brothers (if you have them) are so annoying and probably wouldn’t even notice if you were gone. Fine, but let’s examine Artemis a little more closely to see just what you’d be getting into if you signed up for eternal youth. Artemis as portrayed in The Titan’s Curse is a stern but fair task-mistress, willing to go to great lengths to protect her maidens. Moreover, she is a woman of extreme strength and conviction, as shown when she shoulders Atlas’s burden and bears it admirably. And Riordan’s rendering of her does align with the more traditional Artemis of Greek myths and legends.
Yet while Riordan’s Artemis seems like the very best possible older sister a girl could ask for—daring, brave, full of vitality—the Artemis of Greek myths had a harsher side. In fact, the Artemis of Greek myths often possessed a contradictory and cruelly unforgiving nature. Although she was generally known as the protector of innocents, there are several disturbing myths that showcase her terrifying capacity for swift and brutal revenge.
One such myth concerns Niobe, the Queen of Thebes. Niobe gave birth to seven sons and seven daughters, and in a moment of hubris she bragged about her fertility at a ceremony honoring the goddess Leto. Huge mistake. Leto just happened to be the mother of none other than Artemis and Apollo. Also, she was often considered the goddess of fertility, which apparently Niobe found too much of an irony to resist. Niobe decided that she was superior to Leto, having had fourteen children to Leto’s mere two.
It’s generally never a good idea to compare yourself favorably to a goddess, especially at a ceremony in her honor. Furthermore, Leto was the daughter of Titans, who aren’t exactly known for their easy-going nature. As to be expected, Leto didn’t take the insult well and sent in her royal children Artemis and Apollo to exact revenge. While Apollo killed Niobe’s seven sons, Artemis, an expert huntress, shot and killed the seven daughters with her deadly arrows.
In some versions, Niobe is said to have cradled her youngest daughter in her arms, begging the goddess to spare the child’s life; unfortunately, Artemis’s arrow had already left the bow. Niobe’s husband, Amphion, was said to have either committed suicide when learning of his children’s deaths or been murdered by Apollo. Niobe fled in despair to Mount Sipylus (located somewhere in Asia Minor), where she wept so much that she was eventually turned into stone (in some versions by Artemis herself).
You might ask, what was Niobe thinking to insult Leto, a goddess, a lover of Zeus, and the mother of such powerful children? It’s true that back then there were very specific rules concerning honor and the right to take revenge once said honor was insulted. So let’s put Niobe aside for the moment and look instead at Iphigenia, Agamemnon’s unfortunate daughter. After killing a deer in one of Artemis’s sacred groves (and in some versions also boasting that he was the better hunter), Agamemnon, King of Argos or Mycenae (depending on whom you’re talking to), draws the wrath of Artemis down upon his head. Things really heat up when Agamemnon wants to sail to Troy with his army. Artemis refuses to allow the wind to fill Agamemnon’s sails . . . until he sacrifices his youngest daughter Iphigenia as payback for killing one of her deer (and nominating himself as the better hunter). In some accounts Agamemnon completes the sacrifice and Iphigenia is killed, while in others Artemis relents at the last moment. In these latter versions, Artemis spirits the girl away to the island of Crimea, where she becomes a priestess of Artemis’s temple. This may seem like a kinder fate, but the temple routinely indulges in the human sacrifice of strangers to the island. Not exactly the kind of career you aspire to.
Still unconvinced that Artemis might not be the most stable and considerate of bosses? What about the fate of one of Artemis’s most famous nymphs, Callisto? Much like Riordan’s Zoë Nightshade, Callisto was one of Artemis’s favorite nymphs, who upheld her vow of chastity and hunted with the goddess frequently. Unfortunately, she caught the eye of Zeus, Artemis’s own father, and once Zeus’ interest is piqued there often isn’t anything a girl can do. Greek mythology is full of tales of Zeus’ philandering ways and the incredible lengths he goes to in order to seduce the object of his interest.
Although a few legends tell of Callisto welcoming Zeus with open arms, most of the versions have Zeus resorting to trickery. In these versions, knowing that Callisto was completely devoted to both Artemis and her vow of chastity, Zeus appeared to the nymph as the goddess Artemis herself while Callisto lay resting under a tree. Once Callisto’s guard was down, Zeus abandoned his disguise and used force against her. To make matters worse, Callisto ended up pregnant from the encounter. Fearing Artemis’s legendary wrath, Callisto tried to conceal her condition, but finally was no longer able to one morning when all the nymphs bathed together in a forest glade. Furious that Callisto betrayed her vow (even though by most accounts Callisto hadn’t done so willingly), Artemis turned her into a bear, which she then hunted down and killed. In other versions, Callisto was still allowed to give birth to her son Arcas, who in turn encountered his mother in her bear form and killed her. In yet other versions, Artemis was on the verge of killing Callisto when Zeus interfered and placed her in the sky where she can be seen as Ursa Major. (Interestingly enough, Riordan’s Artemis takes credit for placing Callisto in the sky herself.)
Callisto is not an exception to the rule, by the way. Maera, daughter of Proetus, was another of Artemis’s nymphs who had the misfortune to attract Zeus’ roving eye. Whether Maera was willing or not (and my guess is not), Zeus seduced her. Enraged that her nymph had “broken” her vow, Artemis killed her.
So maybe this option of eternal youth and freedom isn’t looking all that attractive anymore. But what if you were a girl living in Ancient Greece, the original stomping grounds of the gods? Females in Ancient Greece, as to be expected, had very different outlooks, expectations of, and rules in their lives. Society (read: men) believed women were weak creatures who needed to be shielded from themselves as well as from the rest of the world. Traditionally, women were appointed a male guardian, usually a father or brother, though in some cases another male relative. This male guardian or kyrios’ duty was to marry off his female charge, usually when she was in her early teens. The guardian supplied the dowry and the match; the girls had
very little or no say in the matter. Love or even liking was not a factor in the marriage.
Once married, a wife’s main function was to reproduce. And reproduce and reproduce. Oh, and she was also supposed to spin and cook and clean. In short, she had to manage the household. But that’s where her sphere of influence began and ended. A Greek wife was rarely allowed out of her own house, except to attend festivals and funerals, where a woman’s presence was permitted, and even then she was never to go unattended (i.e., with a male, for her own protection). A popular belief at the time was that a good wife was an invisible wife. The less said about a married woman, the more honorable she was considered. And this extended even inside her own home. If a husband brought guests home to entertain, a wife had to make herself scarce.
And the possibilities for women who weren’t destined to be wives in Ancient Greek society were even bleaker. Women who weren’t marriageable were often forced to become slaves. If they were slightly more fortunate, they became courtesans or concubines. A concubine was the mistress of her own home, but, like a courtesan, her main function was to entertain men. Their lives and livelihoods depended on how well they could manage this. In fact, all of these occupations—wife, slave, courtesan, or concubine—involved a level of dependence on the good will of men that is unheard of for young women living in today’s democratic societies. Given the hazardous situation of women in Ancient Greece, Artemis’s proposition suddenly seems more appealing. Perhaps most out of all the goddesses, she represents all that traditional Greek women were not allowed to be: free and untamed. In fact, Artemis is a bit of a paradox. On the one hand, her commitment to purity must have been greatly admired by Ancient Greeks; yet she is also untamable and answers to no man. She is truly the eternal wild child who never has to grow up and shoulder the responsibilities that adulthood brings. She never has to compromise herself or conform to any of society’s standards. No wonder she is associated with the moon—completely untouchable, forever unattainable. If offered the option of becoming one of Artemis’s immortal maidens, freed forever from the shackles of marriage or slavery, I think many Ancient Greek women would have jumped on that bandwagon as it careened past them.
Ancient Greek women would have had no concept of the freedoms that are enjoyed, even taken for granted, today. Think about it: When was the last time you questioned your right, your ability really, to walk down the street in broad daylight either by yourself or with friends? Can you even imagine a world where you weren’t free to choose your own friends or what subjects to study in school or whether or not you wanted to play soccer or try out for the swim team or the community theater production? There are myriad choices on our plates today and each one presents an array of exciting opportunities and possibilities.
Both Riordan’s Artemis and the Artemis of Greek myth represent the ideals of freedom and independence, of glorious strength and bravery. And all of these qualities are admirable ones, ones to cultivate in our own lives. We should live by the principles of Artemis and all that she espoused. (Well, we should live by most of those principles. Maybe skip the human sacrifice bit.)
If I were given the choice of eternal freedom, I think I would have to pass. Not because I have a burning desire to kick that soccer ball around the field with a male friend or two, but because the vow’s requirements are just a little too extreme for me. And even though those signs of aging are a long way off, I advise you to follow my lead, and when your time comes, put your faith in Oil of Olay, Lancôme, and Revlon.
They cost a lot less.
Carolyn MacCullough’s three novels for young adults are Falling Through Darkness, Stealing Henry, and Drawing the Ocean. Her fourth novel for young adults, Once a Witch, will be released Fall 2009 by Clarion Books. She lives in New York City, where she teaches creative writing at The New School and Gotham Writers, Inc. More information about her and her books can be found at www.carolynmaccullough.com.
Dionysus: Who Let Him Run a Summer Camp?
Ellen Steiber
Could there be a more bizarre choice for director of Camp Half-Blood than Dionysus?
Rick Riordan has a gift for playing with the Greek myths. He delights in taking the gods and their stories and giving them just enough of a twist to make them completely believable in our world while still retaining the essence of the ancient beliefs. His Dionysus, more safely referred to as Mr. D (names are, after all, powerful things), takes the image of the Greek god of wine and revelry and twists it into a believable contemporary portrait: If you spent most of your time drinking and partying like Mr. D, there’s a good chance that by the time you reached middle age, you too would be overweight, badly dressed, and not care a fig about anything except when you could get your next drink. You certainly wouldn’t be thrilled by having a bunch of “brats” foisted on you. And there’s a good chance you wouldn’t be the most responsible guardian.
Certainly this is Percy Jackson’s take on Mr. D when Percy first arrives at Camp Half-Blood. But first and even fifth impressions don’t tell the whole story when dealing with the Greek gods, who are complex deities. Most of them are multitaskers. Dionysus is not only god of wine and the vine, but the god of fertility, who rules all growing things. (You see this side of Mr. D in Camp Half-Blood’s strawberry fields, which grow so effortlessly and fruitfully that the camp is able to pay all its bills by selling its strawberries to New York restaurants.) He’s also the god of madness, revelry, and theater, as well as the god of joy and divine ecstasy. In the first four books Riordan describes some of these facets and hints at others. How much of Mr. D, I found myself wondering, was actually part of what the Greeks believed about Dionysus? And what do the stories featuring Dionysus tell us not only about Mr. D but about Camp Half-Blood?
Percy is not impressed when he’s first introduced to the camp director. Mr. D is short, pudgy, and tends to dress in either loud Hawaiian shirts or tacky running suits featuring tiger or leopard prints. Thanks to Smelly Gabe, his mother’s repulsive husband, Percy immediately knows that Mr. D has a serious acquaintance with alcohol. He looks like a middle-aged drunk going rapidly to seed. What Percy doesn’t immediately pick up on is that he’s facing a god. He doesn’t understand why Grover seems so frightened of Mr. D—until Mr. D allows him a glimpse of his true nature: He turned to look at me straight on, and I saw a kind of purplish fire in his eyes. . . . I saw visions of grape vines [sic] choking unbelievers to death, drunken warriors insane with battle lust, sailors screaming as their hands turned to flippers, their faces elongating into dolphin snouts. I knew that if I pushed him . . . [he] would plant a disease in my brain that would leave me wearing a straitjacket in a rubber room for the rest of my life.
This is a very accurate description of some of Dionysus’ favorite methods for punishing those who’ve angered him. These include trapping the poor mortals with suddenly sprouting grape and ivy vines, turning them into animals, and driving them completely mad. The Greek stories of Dionysus often depict a frighteningly cruel, vengeful god, yet the images of him almost always show either a beautiful youth surrounded by grapevines or a handsome man with curling, black hair and a luxurious beard. In fact, this image is so consistent that Dionysus is remarkably easy to identify on the vases and urns that have survived from Ancient Greece. The classic Dionysus looks nothing like Riordan’s pudgy, bleary Mr. D. I think there may be a couple of reasons that Riordan’s version of Dionysus is so unattractive. The first goes back to the myths. Like his father Zeus, Dionysus was a master of disguise and often appeared to mortals in other forms. He was known to show up as a ram, a lion, or even a young girl; he was easy to underestimate. I also suspect his incarnation as Mr. D is a warning of sorts on Riordan’s part; no one meeting that unappealing little man could possibly imagine that drinking is a good idea.
You might think that the god of joy and revels would at least guarantee a good time at camp. But no. Beyond his slovenly appearance, Mr. D’s also got an attitude problem. He’s snarky and sullen and contemptuous of bo
th humans and half-bloods. Though he obviously knows the campers’ true names, he makes a point of pretending he can’t remember them. One of the running jokes of the series is Mr. D referring to Percy as Peter Johnson. Chiron explains that Mr. D is unhappy because he “hates his job.” Zeus, it turns out, is the one who ordered Dionysus to run Camp Half-Blood, as a punishment for chasing an off-limits nymph. Not only is Dionysus essentially grounded on Earth for a hundred years, but he’s forbidden to drink his beloved wine. His mission is to keep the young heroes safe. And he’s not happy about any of it.
On the surface, choosing Mr. D to run the camp is so ridiculous, it’s comic. It may even be Riordan’s sly acknowledgment of the fact that sometimes the adults who are put in charge of kids are the most inappropriate for the job. Nearly everyone has had teachers who range from inept to damaging to occasionally downright scary. Mr. D seems to be all of those rolled into one.
Percy takes an instant dislike to the whiny camp director, and you can hardly blame him. Even though Mr. D is supposed to be keeping the half-gods safe, he doesn’t seem to care about any of them and he certainly doesn’t bother to help or train them. All of that boring detail he leaves to the centaur Chiron. In the third book, The Titan’s Curse, Mr. D even confesses that he doesn’t like heroes. He married Ariadne after the hero Theseus abandoned her, and he’s held a grudge against heroes ever since. He considers heroes selfish ingrates who use and betray others. To Percy (and yours truly), Mr. D’s description of the heroes sounds more like a description of most of the gods. What Riordan doesn’t tell us, though, is that Dionysus also had a bit of history with the original Perseus, the hero who defeated the Gorgons and Medusa. According to Robert Graves’s The Greek Myths, Perseus fought Dionysus when the wine god came to Argos, killing many of his followers. Dionysus retaliated by driving the women of Argos mad, to the point that they began to eat their own children. Perseus finally had the good sense to appease the god by building him a great temple. So in addition to not liking heroes, Dionysus might simply dislike Percy because of his name.