Melanthos

In the dawn of a new day, where the birds had welcomed the sun with their sundry melodies that filled the new sky. A start of a new day had already forced Melanthos, the man of the house, to open his eyes. As his eyes unveiled, he unleashed a tremendous yawn, followed by some tender grunts. Glancing at the window with a juvenile sky, Melanthos tilted his head and felt a sense of famish. He used his fingers, brushing through his gums and teeth, in hopes he could find some particles of food that still clung from the day before. He sighed. Disappointed once more that he had to fulfil his necessity of looking for something to eat, he felt no choice but to rise.

His feet planted on the bed, he walked upstairs to the quarters where his wife, Antigone, would be sleeping. He arrived, leaning into the entrance of his wife’s chamber, inspecting as if he had never seen a human in his entire life. Particularly that of an unclothed human. He slid his fingers through her vast locks of curly hair. He presumed that there must be something that he could find in her hair. With his forefinger and middle finger, he lifted a portion of her hair, taking a sniff to see what could rouse him. He hoped to find some insect that would crawl through the locks of Antigone, only to find nothing. Alas, he grunted in disconsolation as he extended his arms to the floor and heaved himself to leave. In all this time, Antigone, as she was savouring the remaining slumber, was unaware of her husband’s novel perplexity.

Even the way how Melanthos had walked around their house was strange, as he moved around in a crouching position. As Melanthos went around, he used his left arm for support and, with an occasion, scratched his crown or beat his breast with his right hand. He continued to grunt in excitement for his morning meal as he walked around. For Melanthos, he could have sworn this was just a normal day for him. Every opportunity in which the sun had risen, be it on the shivers of the winter or the heat of the summer—Melanthos would always look for something to eat.

But tell me Muses, does this man not recognize what state he’s in? How fortunate he has been that not a single man had not risen and stumbled upon the atavistic behaviour of Melanthos. We should, however, see that the new Melanthos would stumble upon his first encounter that had woken up.

Melanthos continued to walk in this peculiar way into the living room. He stumbled upon his favourite hunting dog, Tyro, whose head rose with an eagerness to greet her master. However, Melanthos interpreted his dog as a threat to his territory and, as the dog got closer to Melanthos, he grew hostile. First Melanthos walked on all fours and began to beat his chest just as how the Illyrians pounded their drums for battle. His grunts became even more ferocious than those of a territorial boar. But what a poor dog! Here she could not detect what was going on, thinking to herself that her master was playing with her. However, when she gave a cordial bark, wagging her slender tail, Melanthos grew further enraged and pounded his chest once more, and with an unforeseen velocity, Melanthos chased his beloved dog away as he waved his arms spasmodically, ejecting his primitive shrieks. Alas for that poor dog, she retreated with a whimper and affrighted at her master’s strangeness.

With the living room all to himself, Melanthos sat on the floor, crossing his legs and scratching his head to observe what he could find. In a corner, next to a window, which was opened to show the branches of a fig tree, Melanthos took an inquisitive notice of a large vase with a lid. Finally food, he thought to himself, and pacing himself closely to the vase. He paused before the vase, sitting with his buttocks on the ground and his legs wide open. He just couldn’t help to admire all the black figures that were painted—figures that seemed to be a pose of running. With his right forefinger tapping on each of them, he could see that there were three figures in this position. His curiosity never ceased. With that same forefinger, he traced around the figures, marvelling at the creativity of men. He pulled the left handle of the vase closer towards himself so that he could observe all the intricacy and design that this vase had.

Tell me Muses, has a man such as Melanthos degraded to such a state of a barbarian that he could not determine what he was looking at was an object of a civilized man? Surely we would know that others: Egyptians, Persians, Lydians, Celts, and Phoenicians, as barbarian as they may be—are in full consciousness and appreciation of Hellenic art. But a man as in the likes of Melanthos, it was as if he had never stumbled upon such an object, often cooing himself with animalistic noises that symbolized his fanciness of this vase that he seemed to worship its presence.

He held both sides of the handle and removed the lid of the large vase. Melanthos took a whiff of what was inside. He could sense that whatever was in the vase was rather sweet smelling. Wishing to inspect further, Melanthos titled the vase in a gingerly manner, holding the vase as if he treated it as a divine object. From there he could see that the vase was storing some liquid in a purple colour. Melanthos felt perplexed. He had never seen such a strange liquid, and he was surely affirmed that whatever he was looking at was not water. He dipped one of his fingers to try this concoction and found the taste to be pleasing. If this was what humans have in the morning, then it was the best thing that they would ever be consuming.

As he was helping himself to consume the purple liquid, the maid of the house walked in, going about her business. She had paused and raised her eyebrow to see the sight of her master’s behaviour.

“Master, what are you doing? Why are you drinking wine this early? Let me help you get some bread for you to eat, instead of having wine,” the maid said. 

At such words, Melanthos couldn’t care less, for he was enjoying the purple liquid, instead of hearing whatever blabbering was coming from his maid.

The maid went to the kitchen and returned with a loaf of bread tucked in her arm. She could still see that Melanthos was still taking the occasional sips of the wine. The sight of her master drinking at this early period made her contempt and thus she walked right over to where the master was still sitting and drinking.

“Alright, that’s enough, master! In the name of Zeus, you must stop!” cried the maid, “You have given me no choice but to take this wine from you where I will store it in your wife’s quarters, for I know she’s a virtuous lady and not some drinker like you.”

With all her feminine might, she snatched away the vase from the hands of Melanthos and tossed him the loaf of bread that was tucked in her arm.

“Get up and eat the bread, master!” she instructed him. “While I am it, I should retrieve your tunic, since you are naked and it is not appropriate for you to be in this house like this.”

The thieving of the wine made Melanthos the most irascible creature he had ever been. How dare this woman steal away such divine nectar—it was the most magnificent thing he had ever tasted! He would not tolerate the audacity of his maid any further and thus, in his fury, he bellowed and beat his chest, demanding that the vase must be given back to him.

Hearing this maid continued, “What’s the matter, master? Why are you not speaking at all? I don’t understand your intention—have this bread and get on about your daily business.”

He resumed his bellowing and grunting and beating his chest, and no longer able to deal with this impertinent maid, he picked up the bread and it tossed right at her torso. Moving with his crouched legs, he fought with his maid for the vase. With all his might, he endeavoured to win back the vase. It was a fight in which both the maid and Melanthos struggled and when their fingers slipped concurrently; the vase dropped to the ground; the figures that were depicted shattered as the pool of wine had spread out on the floor.

“In the name of Zeus! You have gotten mad, master!” cried the maid, as she pulled her hair in horror. “I must inform my mistress about this!”

She ran away without wishing to deal with Melanthos any further, and headed to Antigone, whom at this time had risen and was certainly not pleased about the delay of her maid. The maid knew she should help her mistress prepare for the morning instead of confronting with the bedlam Melanthos.

You can see, dear Muses, how devastated Melanthos was to see the shattered vase that contained the beloved wine. He sat down once more with his buttocks planted on the ground, looking down in lamentation, as he picked up a piece which only had the head of one of the figures. In disbelief and feeling the effects of the wine, he had sat there in his distress, producing a wheezing cry with his face scrunched up. But there was nothing that he could do. Perhaps he thought it was the Furies that had decided that enough was enough and that Melanthos would be content with his morning’s wine. He knew this well and thought to himself that there would be another time when he would go once more to find another wine.

Turning his forlorn into merriment, Melanthos put his fist down on the ground and walked away from the living room. His lack of awareness, however, caused him to ache in pain as he had not realized that his knuckles had stepped into the broken pieces of the vase, unleashing an excruciating howl. He knew that if he stepped any further, the pain would be unbearable and thus he looked around to see what could be done about clearing the passage. He took a look at the bread that had lay on the ground, walked towards it and sat once more to observe what purpose the bread could be used.

Holding the bread, an ingenious idea came to him. He could simply use the bread to sweep all the pieces of the broken vase and grant himself a safe passage. For as much as he was under the influence of the wine, he was well impressed with himself that he could use the bread as a broom. Sufficed with his cleaning, he got up once more, and on his fours (with his fist on the ground) he walked outside of his own house.

Even though he had enjoyed the wine, Melanthos felt that the wine did not satiate him and that he needed another breakfast. He recalled that there was a fig tree nearby, whereupon he arrived with anticipation. This tree was a fairly difficult tree to climb. That was how Melanthos had always remembered it, often using his stick to strike a branch, hoping a fruit would drop. This time, as if he had done so a thousand times since he came into existence, Melanthos gracefully climbed up the trunk of the tree as if it was second nature to him. He would navigate himself through the thick boughs and all the wedges of the tree, helping himself to eat the fruit without the etiquette manner of peeling the skin off.

Indulging himself with fifteen figs and from the continuous effects of the wine, Melanthos laid on his back upon the thick bough. The morning was still up and yet Melanthos was one lackadaisical beast, at this time he would well be out in the field with his herd of goats, instead, Melanthos decided it was better to spend his time on this tree, making circles around his chest and observing the visiting birds. He had wanted to take his nap, but the loud chirping of the cicadas proved this to be a burdening task, and thus it was better for him to just pass the time upon this bough until he once more had the desire to eat.

In succeeding time, well into the late morning, as Melanthos feigned to rest, he had snapped when he had suddenly heard a distinct shouting. He turned his head and saw the company of both his wife and their maid. The latter pointed out to Melanthos directly, as if she was imploring Antigone to take sight of her mad husband.

“So that’s where you are! By the name of Hera, cover yourself, Melanthos! Have you no shame! You have a young son and this is how you represent yourself?!” cried Antigone as she stood akimbo, watching her husband getting up from the bough.

Not even to his wife would his human voice emit, instead in his beast-like communication, he expressed his retorts with harsher grunts; upset that his wife was disturbing his rest.

“Speak properly, Melanthos! For I cannot understand what you mean when you talk to me with your ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’,” said Antigone as she got closer to watch her husband.

“I’m telling you, my dearest mistress, that your husband has lost his mind,” commented the maid.

“Well, you don’t have to be so obvious,” snarled Antigone, “and while you are at it, fetch the doctor from the village so he can find what he can do to cure the malady of my husband.”

Obeying her mistress’s orders, the maid quickly made haste for the doctor.

Thinking to himself that his wife was just a cordial visitor instead of his own spouse, Melanthos grabbed a young green fig and tossed it before the sandals of Antigone. He waited patiently, scratching all around his face, giving off a smile. A smile that was fairly hideous in which the fleshy gums of Melanthos appeared more visibly with his rigid teeth protruding. He began once more to throw another fig before Antigone, with his more cheerful grunts.

Out of all the beings he had encountered, Melanthos had seemed gentle with Antigone and he had been so since the beginning of the moment he had first woke up. Perhaps in his soul, who was trapped in the bestial mind of Melanthos, wrung out in sorrow, finding a way to speak to his beloved Antigone. His wife, anxious to wait for the doctor, struggled to interpret why her husband could not speak. She watched as her husband walked towards the thinner branch and reached for a slender upper branch, whereupon in his excitement, he bounced up and down. Once more, he could produce more grunts that could be best described as urging Antigone to eat the figs he threw for her as offerings.

Rather than being flattered, his wife was, however, appalled by her deteriorated husband, who continued with his strange behaviour. In the brisk of the moment, without being aware of his surroundings, the thin branch had snapped, resulting in Melanthos plunging to the ground.

When Melanthos opened his eyes, he looked at his surroundings and saw that he was in his chamber. He looked around and saw that it was an early morning. Melanthos got up, in a fashion of a man, and he took his first walking, reaching for his folded tunic. Unable to believe what had just happened, he swore that he was someone different, and when he noticed that he was walking with just his two feet; he paused to reflect on something.

You see, Muses, it appears that Melanthos had realized that what he was experiencing was just a dream. A dream that could be best acquitted as a dream which invites him to live through another being; a being that is far below a barbarian.

He looked upon the sun, and with a hysterical laughter, he said to himself:

 “Oh Nyx, how your children play with the minds of men—conjuring these bizarre dreams, in which they swear what they felt was the fabric of reality.”

It was a dream that he would never forget—a dream that would be the golden coin in all of his conversations. He was relieved that this was only temporary, that it was all just something that put him in another cosmos. Here, in this moment, as he woke up, he was most fortunate that he could walk and talk and dress like a man. Though why he was chosen to experience this dream, he may never know—I would leave this answer to you, Muses, who provide all the tales that mankind has been blessed by.

With his tunic on, he left his chamber to find the first person whose ears were willingly capable of listening to the dream that he had.