Ithaca Read online

  “Perhaps you’re not much of a fighter, sir,” said Halius. Alcinous could just make out the words from the window where he stood watching.

  Halius didn’t mean it rudely, but his words appeared to strike a raw nerve. Rage seemed to froth up inside the stranger like water spouting up through a geyser. One moment he was lying in the chair; the next he ripped the spear from Halius’s hand, wound himself back, and hurled it. He threw it not at the wall but at the barrels at the farthest end of the courtyard. It hit the middle target dead center. The barrel exploded in a shower of splintered staves. Wine splattered the wall behind. In the bloodred stain that flowered across the whitewash, the spear stood quivering, not drooping but erect from the wall, haft buried deep in the plaster.

  There was a moment of shocked silence. No one on Phaeacia threw a spear like that. Then the stranger clutched his thigh and sank to the ground, groaning. A shriek sounded from the gallery upstairs. Nausicaa came running into the courtyard.

  “What have you done to him?” she shouted at Halius.

  Together she and her brothers helped their guest back into the chair, his eyes closed and his face sheened with sweat. Alcinous turned away from the window, deeply troubled.

  “Have we a ship ready?” he asked Prymneus, his steward.

  “The vessel that came back from Tyre last week.”

  “To depart immediately?”

  Prymneus pulled a face. “No food. No water. Repairs needed to the rigging and three oars missing.”

  “Get her ready,” Alcinous ordered. “As soon as you can. Start now. Gather a crew. She’ll be leaving within two days.”

  “Destination?”

  Alcinous sighed. “I wish I could tell you,” he said.

  The guests arrived as soon as was decent for the feast in the great hall that evening. News of the stranger’s presence had spread through town, along with the story that he had been seen riding back from the beach with Nausicaa and—a garbled account emanating from servants—that he had fought a duel with the chief’s son, who was now lying at death’s door. Halius’s presence in the hall, pale but unharmed, was greeted by most of the arriving guests with evident disappointment.

  As servants filled cups with wine and passed around trays of food, Alcinous sensed the excitement in the hall. The men kept turning to look at the stranger. The women shot covert glances to where he sat between Alcinous and Arete. The stranger ignored all of them. He ate greedily from the heaped trays the servants held out to him—lobsters and grilled fish, squid stuffed with bread and prawns in rich sauces of saffron and cream. But he barely spoke. When he wasn’t eating, he sat with his head sunk between his shoulders, staring at the food in front of him. From the other side of the table, Nausicaa tried to engage him in conversation, without success. When Alcinous asked polite questions about the wreck that had landed him on Phaeacia, and how long he had been at sea, he answered as curtly as possible.

  “Sixteen days.”

  “Where did you set out from?”

  “An island.”

  “Its name?”

  The stranger simply shrugged.

  “Did you have a crew?”

  “I was alone.”

  “Alone on a ship?”

  “On a raft.”

  “A raft?”

  The stranger looked down at his calloused, torn hands. “I built it,” he said. “I made it from driftwood.”

  “Where?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Who was the chief there?”

  “No chief.” The stranger frowned, then looked at Alcinous through sea-blue eyes that suddenly seemed clouded. “A woman. It was her island.”

  At last the food was finished. Alcinous stood up and clapped his hands for silence.

  “Tonight,” he announced, “Demodocus will tell us a story from the great war.” Demodocus was a new storyteller, recently arrived on Phaeacia. Alcinous reckoned that with a fighter present, and with so many rumors already swirling around town, he could hardly avoid one of the fighters’ tales his daughter loved so much. He beckoned Demodocus forward. “We will have the tale of Odysseus and the wooden horse,” he announced.

  There were gasps of satisfaction. Everyone loved the story of Odysseus. Benches were pushed back and cups replenished. Servants crowded the doorway from the kitchen. Children were hushed. Demodocus was a good storyteller. Taking up his place on the step of the hearth, he began to thrum his instrument, a low, unearthly drone to accompany his words. He began the story when the horse had already been drawn inside the citadel at Troy, and he told it well. He described the joy of the Trojans as they hauled the clumsy wooden statue to the temple steps—a tribute, they thought, from a vanquished enemy. He described the throwing open of the temple doors and the crowds thronging the square, the priests’ chanting and the lowing of cattle led forward for sacrifice, the gusts of perfumed smoke that rose from the altars on the steps. He described Helen and Paris leading the celebrations, women dancing, young men drinking themselves to a stupor. He described King Priam, in his palace, looking out over the roofs of the city he thought he had saved. And meanwhile Odysseus and his men crouched inside the horse’s wooden belly, clutching their weapons. As moonlight kissed the waves, the Greek ships returned to the beach and the fighters jumped down onto the silvery sand: Agamemnon and Diomedes, Ajax, Neoptolemus. In silence they marched across the dark Trojan plain, over the sites of so many battles, over the graves where they had buried their friends. He described Odysseus, the author of the stratagem, unlocking the trapdoor and peering down into the empty square, still littered with barrels and smashed cups.

  “For Odysseus,” Demodocus said, “was the cleverest of the Greeks, brave in war, skilled in debate. Odysseus who had sailed from faraway Ithaca, leaving his wife and unborn child, to fight alongside the armies of Agamemnon.”

  Alcinous looked around the great hall as Demodocus performed. Young men were listening with their mouths open, women with their hands to their faces, as if struck with horror. But Nausicaa, instead of watching Demodocus, had her eyes fixed on the stranger. Her heartbroken expression startled Alcinous. He looked across at the stranger.

  Tears were pouring down his cheeks. He made no sound, but his mouth was open, as if he’d been howling in pain. Shrunk in on himself, he no longer looked dangerous. He was more like a tired old man—tired and wounded.

  Alcinous stood up, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. The thrum of Demodocus’s instrument wavered and stopped. A kind of sigh ran through the hall as the story’s spell broke.

  “It seems,” Alcinous said, “that this story gives our guest no pleasure.” He looked down at the stranger’s curly grey hair and sunken shoulders. “Sir,” he said quietly. “I think you have your own story to tell. To start with, perhaps you should tell us who you are and where you come from.”

  There was silence in the hall. Everyone looked to the stranger, but for a moment he seemed unaware of it. Only slowly did he straighten himself and look up at the king with a dazed expression.

  “I come from Ithaca,” he said. “My name is Odysseus.”

  Alcinous cleared the hall before letting his guest continue. He looked too hurt, too ill to recount his story in public, and in no state to deal with the pandemonium that had broken out in the hall at his revelation. Odysseus, the conqueror of Troy, discovered right here on the island! The Phaeacians left in a hubbub of excited gossip, sweeping up children, scraping back benches until the hall was empty. The door to the kitchen closed. Nausicaa drew her chair next to Odysseus’s.

  Odysseus sagged sideways in his seat, as if he barely had the strength to hold himself upright. He had said nothing since revealing his name. Then he sighed, wiped the back of his hand across his tearstained face, and began again.

  “Eight years ago,” he said, “I left Troy.” He paused and repeated more softly, “Eight years.” Again there was a silence. Then he pulled himself upright in his seat and looked at Alcinous. “I thank you,” he sai
d in a more normal voice, “for your hospitality. All of you.” He glanced at Nausicaa, whose hands flew to her cheeks. “Without you, I would have died. Sixteen days I clung to a raft. My water was washed overboard, my food. The raft broke upon the rocks. All I ask of you now . . .” Suddenly his voice broke, as if he was about to weep again. “All I need is your help in returning home to Ithaca.” He stood up, suddenly, and dropped to his knees at Alcinous’s feet, clasping his ankles in the suppliant position.

  Alcinous stooped and placed one hand on Odysseus’s head, then helped him to his feet.

  “First,” he said, “you must tell us how you arrived here. And where you have been traveling for eight years. Then we will help you return home.” He glanced at his daughter. “It will be our pleasure.”

  A flood of tears silenced Odysseus. He fumbled his way back to his chair, reached for his cup of wine, and drained it. The wine seemed to give him strength. Alcinous motioned Halius to refill it. When Odysseus spoke again, his voice was louder.

  “We left Troy on a morning in summer,” he began. “Myself, ten ships, three hundred Ithacans—all who had survived the war. It was eight years since we had seen home . . . eight years of fighting. I had a son I had never seen, Telemachus. My wife, Penelope, was waiting for me. All I wanted was to be home.” He paused and drained his cup again. Alcinous glanced at Nausicaa, who was frowning.

  “Two days out we reached an island, Ismarus. My men landed there. We sacked it.” He said it without emotion. “But they regrouped and attacked us as we were loading booty onto the ships. They fought us on the sand, killed sixty of us, the rest were lucky to get away. Six oars short in each ship, and the ships laden with water and food, laden deep, then the wind rose. We were heading southwest for Cape Malea but the storm caught us, three days. Have you ever seen lightning strike a ship at sea? The mast scorched, the sails flaming in rags? Three days . . .”

  Odysseus paused. Despite himself, Alcinous found the words drawing him in. There was a kind of enchantment in Odysseus’s voice as he spoke, the words low and murmuring, tumbling over one another like water over pebbles.

  “When the storm ended, we didn’t know where we were. The sun was high and hot. There was no wind. We rowed over water as thick and sluggish as mud. It was two days before we sighted land, a tall island with a mountain and an islet offshore. Our water was almost gone by then, so we put into the islet, found a stream and a herd of sheep grazing between the rocks. That was the first good luck that had come our way since leaving Troy. Big, fine sheep . . . we slaughtered three and spitted them over fires of driftwood. Then a dozen of us decided to row over to the bigger island to see what we could find. Why?” Odysseus shook his head. His eyes were clouded. “Because it was there. How do I know why? Because we were men . . .” He sobbed suddenly, unexpectedly, but mastered himself and went on. “People lived there . . . I say ‘people.’ There were signs of life. A stone quay. A track. We followed the track through bushes to a cave. Farther up the hill we could see stacks of firewood and dry stone walls, more sheep grazing. It was what we found in the cave, though, that made us glad we’d come. Someone lived there. The food! Hams hanging from hooks driven into the rock, big wheels of cheese, barrels of curds. The place stank of cheese, a shepherd’s home. Piles of fleece as tall as I was, one of the men took a jump and landed on it. We were all laughing. I’d brought with me two skins of wine, the best we had on board, thinking we could exchange them for food, but there was no one there and the cave was full of all this wealth, so we stuffed our pockets with it, loaded up nets of cheese, sacks of bread we found in baskets.

  “Me, I was calculating. How far could one storm have blown us off course? We couldn’t be far from Cape Malea, with friends to help us on our way—Menelaus at Sparta, Nestor at Pylos. In a week, I thought, we could be home, and with all this food we need never stop on the way. One good wind, I thought, that’s all we need, one good wind. Then I heard someone coming.

  “The others heard it too and froze. I can still see them now, bread in their hands, sacks half full, no better than thieves. We just had time to dive to the back of the cave when he appeared in the door. A man.” Odysseus swallowed and raised one trembling hand. “I say a man. A giant, the size of three men. One eye . . .” He placed a hand over one of his own eyes. “Filthy. He squints around. I think, There’s no hiding, and we weren’t going to fight the brute with nothing but short hunting spears. So I step out. ‘Sir, I beg for hospitality. We’re sailors. We’re lost. We need food. Can you help us?’ He just looks at me through his one eye. ‘The gods love those who help strangers,’ I say. He’s looking at each of us in turn, counting. Then he moves—a big man, and he moves quick as a snake—grabs one of my men, and drags him away. The boy’s screaming, ‘Odysseus!’ We’re paralyzed . . . as if there was anything we could do against that brute. Drags him to a corner of the cave, sweeps up a stick on his way, and beats out my boy’s brains against the cave wall. The screams stop suddenly. When he turns around . . .” Odysseus gave a sob. “When he turns around, there’s blood on his mouth, he’s been eating . . .”

  Nausicaa gasped. The others listened in horror, without moving.

  “‘That’s all the hospitality you’ll get from me,’ he says. We were wondering if he knew how to speak. He takes a huge stone, rolls it in place to stop the cave’s mouth. ‘Now you’re my guests,’ he says, and sets to milking the sheep he’s herded in with him. Fine, fat sheep, glossy fleeces, a ram leading them—their bleating fills the cave.

  “My men don’t say a word, just stare at the corner where their friend’s lying dead, then look at me to see what to do. I’d gotten them out of scrapes before. ‘Don’t make him angry,’ that’s all I can think to say. So we crawl to the back of the cave and lie there not sleeping while the giant goes to sleep, his snores shaking the rock. One of the men tugs my sleeve. ‘We could kill him now,’ he whispers. I just point to the stone at the cave’s mouth. None of us could shift it. Kill the giant and that cave would have been our tomb.

  “The next morning he goes out with the sheep. ‘Be good,’ he says. ‘Don’t touch anything. I’ll know.’ When he’s gone, he rolls the stone back in front of the opening to trap us in. The men are at the stone at once, heaving together. Nothing. I had a plan, though. ‘Get a stake,’ I said, pointing. There was a stack of them piled against the cavern wall. Good olive stakes for fencing, as thick as your arm. I had them sharpen one end and heat it in the fire that was still smoldering. Heat it carefully, without burning, until the point was black and as hard as iron. Then we hid it behind some barrels.

  “That was a long day. We ate. Covered our friend’s body as best we could, with those teeth marks on his leg. Waited for the giant to come back. We heard him outside at last, then saw the stone move. In he comes, and his one eye’s looking around the cave, checking. ‘How are the thieves?’ he asks. ‘Travelers,’ I say. ‘Guests.’ And his arm shoots out, seizes another of the men. This time he doesn’t even drag him to a corner. Lifts him up in one hand and snaps his neck the way you’d wring the neck of a chicken—we hear the bones break. The giant laughs, lifts our friend’s body to his mouth, and bites into his arm, blood running down his chin. I can hear the men whimpering behind me. One of them heaves over and vomits, but I know our only chance is if I play unconcerned. ‘You’ll want something to wash that down with,’ I say. ‘Did you ever drink wine?’ He looks suspicious. ‘What’s that?’ he asks. ‘I’ve got some here,’ I say, and I bring out the first skin. He snatches it, rips out the stopper, and drinks.

  “That was strong wine,” Odysseus said. “And he’s never tasted wine before. Sucks out the first skin in one draft, and when he puts it down, his eye is already muddled. ‘More,’ he says, so I give him the other. He doesn’t know what’s happening. Sits down with a crash that shakes the cave, tries to steady himself with a hand on the wall. ‘That wine’s all right.’ But his voice is gone and he starts laughing. Then he throws up. Everything he’s eaten—wine,
milk, human flesh . . . I nearly lost it myself. The giant’s gone, though, flat out on the floor and snoring.

  “We get the stake and heat it in the fire ’til the point’s glowing. The giant’s lying on his back, and we drive it right into his eye. Drive it in and twist, with the eye hissing, the flesh burning around it, and black blood pouring all over us . . .”

  Nausicaa shrieked, but Odysseus ignored her. “The giant’s screaming, tries to sit up, flails with one hand, rips the stake from his eye, while we run for cover. He’s blundering about the cave, crashing into walls, howling. I would have felt sorry for him if it hadn’t been for our friends’ bodies still lying on the floor. He screams, ‘Where are you?’ but I gesture the men to stay quiet, and after a time the pain takes over and he forgets us. All night he’s screaming and groaning. In the morning the sheep start bleating to be milked and let out. He milks them by feel, letting the milk spurt on the floor. Then he pushes the stone back. ‘You’ll not escape,’ he says, looking ’round the cave with that awful, destroyed face, a bloody hole where the eye was. The sheep have to get out, though. He feels their backs, each one as it passes. But my men are clinging underneath, hanging on to the fleeces for dear life. They know what he’ll do if he finds them. I’m the last, and I take the ram. Nose full of sheep stink, hands slipping on the greasy wool. He stops it, doesn’t he? The ram, his favorite. ‘Why did they do this to me?’ he asks it. He’s still a little drunk, and dazed with pain. ‘I’ll get them back, though. I’ll do the same to them, one eye at a time.’ I can feel his thick fingers grip the animal’s fur. Then he slaps its rump and I’m outside.