It is Heracles who insists I write it all down. He said he wants my tale to live on when I am gone, wants my story to stand alongside his own. He is so sure that his legend, which he solidifies each day with sweat and blood and tears, will be remembered one thousand years from now. I don't doubt him. Heracles is like that. What he wants, he will get, through his own power or others. And his power is great.
"A pupil should always give credit to the teacher," he told me. "A man is nothing without his teacher, not even a pupil." And then, in a smaller voice and averted eyes, "You deserve more than I can give you." And I know that he still feels guilty, that he will always hold himself accountable for everything that happened. No comforting words from me will take the blame from him; he took my life, but he will make sure that every young man knows that life.
The very beginning, then. I am unable to recall anything before Apollo found me. I was not more than a few decades old then, and everything I knew of my heritage I learned from Apollo. I was born to the then Almighty God Cronus the Titan, and Philyra, daughter of Oceanus. My father took the shape of a stallion when he and my mother mated, thus explained why I was born with a man's torso and a horse's body. I am the very first of the Centaurs, but even amongst them I am different.
There is only one piece of memory that I remember from my childhood. Like many of life's ironies, it is a memory that I would rather do without.
The setting was a rocky terrain, with miserable shrubs strewn messily about the ground. A yellowing tree limped close to the ground, its limbs withered and weary. The sky was heavy with dusty clouds. There is a woman; I think she is my mother. It always amuses me how with the infinite wisdom that everyone seems to think I possess, I can't remember my own mother. The woman is paler than milk, her arms were trembling. She placed me against the trunk of the bent tree. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but they did not fall.
I stared up at her, helpless in my young age. Long, dark curls flapped in the wind as she turned her back to me and stumbled away, tripping over her own feet as if she wanted to leave before everything caught up with her. She did not look back.
I tried to stand. My frail legs, still not fully-grown and dangerously delicate, wobbled weakly beneath me and collapsed after two meager steps. I hoisted myself up from the ground with my thin arms and looked up, drawing in a breath to shout after my mother, to wail, to do something to keep her from leaving me alone.
The breath froze in my throat. There was no trace of the white-clad figure.
What then? I was helplessly ignorant. I did not know how to find food, did not know that my energy was depended upon food. Did not know what my parched throat needed was the sweet moisture of water, not consistent shouting for help. Did not know that if I do not care for my wounds, they will grow worse. I did know one thing, however: The sight of me frightened people. I was the first Centaur; mankind had never before seen such a creature as me, and, like all things they haven't seen before, they were frightened. So frightened that they wanted me out of their sight, off their doorstep, away from their town. So frightened that they hurled spears and waved wooden clubs.
But, even through starvation and injuries, I could not die. I wasn't aware of it at the time, but immortal blood flows through my veins, keeping death at bay but not preventing the sharp bites of hunger and fatigue. The days soon melted into a blur of hunger, pain, exhaustion, and more hunger. It was the dead of winter and no life flourished. I tried everything in my path; brittle leaves, little blood-red berries, sand. I tried killing myself and hurled myself off the first canyon I found; I woke up at the bottom of the rocky pit, feeling as if every bone was shattered, only life remained intact.
Now that I look back on it all, I don't think it was death that I wished for. It was the need to not wake up hungry and cold. It was the need to have someone smile at me, to talk to me, to not skirt around me like I was nothing but a dirt puddle on the ground.
I don't remember how long I traveled, but it was summertime when I stumbled upon Mount Pelion, and collapsed underneath a large tree, temporarily sheltered from the sun's piercing rays. I was wrapped within the cool shade of the thick leaves; the grass was soft and a little wet. I closed my eyes.
I drifted in and out of consciousness, luxuriating in that languid peace unique to summer afternoons. Suddenly the comfortable darkness underneath my eyelids burst with light. My eyes shot open and immediately closed again against the golden brightness.
"Are you all right, little one?" The voice was soft and gentle, a little like music.
I tried opening my eyes again. At first all I saw was light. Oddly, it was not blinding now. Instead, it was a golden beam that enveloped me in its warmth, the most wonderful cocoon of comfort. I never thought of light as beautiful. As my vision focused little by little, I could make out a dark silhouette looming over me. It was man, and he was kneeling beside me.
I didn't try to speak, partly because I knew not what to say, and partly due to the fact that I haven't spoken a word for a long time now. So I studied this stranger.
He was not a man. No. He was something else entirely, even I could tell. His face, a living sculpture that was chiseled down to every harmonious detail with the greatest craftsmanship and care, was filled with concern. I realized that the brilliant golden light came from the reflection of the sun in his flaxen hair; a rich honey-gold that seemed to warm my very soul, which knew only coldness then.
Genuine worry glowed in the light blue depths of his eyes as the smooth voice sounded again. "You look half-dead, little one. Come, can you stand? That's it, good boy." I wobbled on my four legs and stumbled. I cringed and squeezed my eyes shut as the ground loomed close, preparing for the hard impact.
Strong arms caught me and held me steady until I could stand on my own. I opened my eyes and looked up at the handsome, smiling face. The blue eyes were dancing with mirth. "Do not worry, little one. I, Apollo, will ensure your safety and well-being. You are meant for great things. I shall unleash your potentials." Here he paused, thoughtful. The smile on his face grew wider. "You, Cheiron, the first of the Centaurs; you who will become the greatest teacher Greece has ever known."
Apollo gave me a home within a cave on Mount Pelion, and there taught me the skills of hunting, the arts of fighting with different types of weapons, in which I excelled in the maneuvering of bow and arrows. I learned how to play the lyre and the flute and various other instruments, and I was fascinated at the way I am able to produce beautiful melodies just by the touch of my fingers and altering my breathing. I learned how to fight, both with weapons and without, and knew how to turn everything—from rocks to clubs—available to my advantage, and how to use my body to their fullest extent.
Apollo is light in itself. He became my will to live, to impress him, to make him proud. His every movement is a dance, his every word a song. He comes and goes like a storm, with moods that are equally erratic. His wisdom is widespread, yet he hides it underneath mischievous acts and youthful energy. He understands that mortals and gods can hardly resist his beauty and he rejoices in it, teasing them into a game of hunt. Apollo is light in itself.
Later, as the number of Centaurs increased, I set out to gain my place among them. My people are drunken, uneducated brutes, but they respect my knowledge and my skills. It took little time for me to rise to the position of king. Royalties and commoners alike sent their sons to my cave to learn the skills of a hero, to endure hardships and become a man.
All my pupils possessed great potential; I just unleashed them. I unlock the doors that hold their talents within, allow their skills to grow and blossom. Heracles, Jason, Achilles, Asclepius—every single one of them I taught and raised with affection and care, like a gardener that tends to his plants and watches them grow with pride and dignity.
Among them, Heracles was the most prominent. His strength and wit blended adequately together to make him the most famous of heroes. Yet it was he who changed the course of my life—and saved it, from my point of view.
I knew of their presence before half of the Centaurs tottered one by one into my cave and crashed onto the ground in a tangled heap of arms and legs. One of the Centaurs got shakily to his feet and surveyed the cavern. When he noticed me, the fearful expression on his bearded face dissipated and grew to one of immense relief. "Cheiron, sire! You can't imagine how grateful we are that you're present."
"I suppose I can imagine it just a little, Elatus," I replied with a small smile.
He shook his head. "This is no time for chitchatting, my king! The man Heracles is arriving here as we speak!"
I frowned. "Why is he coming? And why are all of you so terrified?" The Centaurs had untangled themselves, and I watched them shift nervously about and look this way and that.
"He has come in seek of blood, my king," replied Imbraeus. The animal bones braided neatly in his hair clinked together as he spoke in his deep voice. "He has come to destroy us."
"Heracles? This can't be right." But my people did not lie to me..
"He has slain Oreus and Hylaeus!" Elatus shouted, his fists clenching in rage as he thought of his two closest friends. "He is a monster! Pholus, Centaur son of Silenus, hid Dionysus's valuable wine from us and, the disgrace, forbade us to have them. We tried to persuade him into serving it, for one doesn't come upon such a fine wine every century. Heracles, who was a guest at his cave at the time, defended Pholus and chased us away like a lion pursues a horde of deer!"
"Surely there is some mistake," I reasoned, my mind running at top speed. Heracles knew better than to fight with Centaurs; he has no reason to hurt them, even if it was done out of chivalry. Heracles may be reckless at times, but he was not an ignorant man.
Imbraeus took a step closer. "My kind, you will do something? We saw Oreus and Hylaeus—among many others of our people whom Heracles has delivered the blow of death—breathe their last in front of our eyes. You will accuse him of his offense?"
Elatus and the others scratched the ground nervously with their hooves, glancing from Imbraeus to me with unease.
"I will accuse only the one that deserves accusation, Imbraeus. As soon as I hear Heracles's part of the story."
"But my king, he has slaughtered—"
At that moment, the subject of discussion burst into the cave and stood, barely out of breath from his long chase. His expression was intense as he faced me.
"Dear teacher," he said, his tone solemn, "forgive my rudeness, but these people have offended a friend of mine, and they must be punished."
"Heracles," I said, "must this be the way? Come, tell me exactly what happened, so we can—" before I have a chance to finish, however, Elatus gave a mad roar and lunged for Heracles. The latter immediately raised his club, but dropped it when Imbraeus slammed into his side. But Heracles was faster. In a flash, he was back on his feet again and had his bow in his hands, an arrow in place.
"Heracles, don't—!" The arrow soared underneath Elatus's outstretched arm and pierced my left foreleg.
An agonizing yell tore through my throat and resonated within the small cave. I dropped to the ground, gritting my teeth against the pain and tearing the arrow out from the wound. I've had many experiences with arrow injuries before, but this time it was different. The pain was too harsh, too blinding for it to be ordinary. I turned the arrow and examined it. The steel tip was drenched with a foul, greenish blood.
Poisonous blood.
