Ithaca Read online

  “We should just have run and gone, but something made me stop. The thought of my dead men, the way he’d brained one and wrung the other’s neck. So I turn and shout, ‘You’ll never catch us!’ A stupid boast. He comes running out at once, hands flailing, and his face turning everywhere except where I’m standing. Then I really do start to run.

  “I’d played a trick on him,” Odysseus said. “When I was in the cave. On the first night he asked me, ‘What’s your name?’ I thought fast and said, ‘Nobody, my name’s Nobody.’ So now, when we’re running, the giant howling outside his cave, his friends come out, each from a cave like ants from an anthill, a hundred of them. They’re standing on the mountainside, men like you’ve never seen, thighs like tree trunks. There are dogs barking, an alarm sounding, one of them blowing a conch shell. Someone shouts, ‘Who’s attacking?’ Our giant howls back, ‘Nobody!’ ‘Who is it?’ they say. ‘Who’s attacking?’ ‘Nobody!’ he shrieks. ‘So why are you bothering us?’ they shout, and one of them heaves a rock at him. Rough men. It gives us just enough time to reach the ship, find our friends. They’d almost given up on us. ‘Where are the others?’ ‘Dead . . . No time to explain.’ He’s coming after us by now, fumbling across the mountainside, hands in the gorse, blood on the rocks. He hears our oars, tears a rock from the ground. Not a loose stone, a rock. Hurls it wide. The giants still shouting, ‘Who’s hurt you?’ ‘Nobody!’ he howls.”

  Nausicaa giggled. “He must have been stupid,” she said.

  Odysseus drew breath. “We made it. One rock he threw smashed oars on one side, but we made it. They had no boats. Shepherds, not fishermen. We tugged on the oars until our wrists cracked. I turn at the steering oar, he’s standing on the beach, knee-deep in water with the blood dripping in the sea. ‘I’m no Nobody,’ I shout. ‘My name’s Odysseus, don’t forget it.’”

  He drew breath again. “So we rowed back into the cove, butchered two sheep and cooked them. Talked about our dead companions. We lit a fire and prayed before we sailed on. I still remember the moment that island dropped below the horizon . . .”

  Odysseus paused and took a sip of wine. “After that we had three days at sea. Plenty of dolphin, a line over the stern, but we caught no fish. Then we see land to the east and make for it. A cove, one small village—colonists, I suppose. The man who ran it was called Aeolus. A magician, he could conjure winds. We found him on a rocky hill behind his house with a staff of olive wood as high as he was. He points it west and a west wind blows up, we can feel raindrops. Swings it to the south and the grass rustles, blows on my left ear. Suddenly I can smell hot desert, blown across the sea, palm trees, spices. All the way around he turns, points it to the north and we’re shivering, smelling ice from the glaciers, pulling our cloaks around us to cut out the hail.

  “He’s heard of me. ‘I’ll help you,’ he says. That night, dining in his hall, he brings in a leather bag. It looks like a sack you tie up cats to drown in, it’s bulging all over. But when you touch it—nothing, it’s empty. ‘I’ve caught the winds in this bag,’ says Aeolus, ‘all except the southwest wind to blow you home to Ithaca.’”

  Alcinous pursed his lips. It looked as though he was about to say something, but Odysseus went on.

  “There’s a twist of silver wire at the top, to hold it closed. ‘Watch out for your crew, though,’ Aeolus says. He was right. Six days on a warm sea, the southwester filling our sails, but I haven’t slept a minute, steering the ship toward Ithaca. When we raise Kephalonia at dawn, the first familiar land since we left Troy, there are tears running down my cheeks, I can’t help it. Then there it is—Nirito, the mountaintop of Ithaca, like a jewel on the horizon, the rock you’d put on a girl’s finger, and suddenly I’m remembering the day I left—Penelope on the jetty, women hanging out of the windows around the harbor. Someone had hung a banner over the street. As I sailed through those waters then—the Ionian, deepest sea in the world, so blue it’s almost black—as I sailed past Asteris then, I thought, ‘When will I be back?’ And here I was.

  “That was when I nodded off at the oar. Six nights without sleep! When I woke up, it was chaos. The winds roaring, waves rearing higher than our mast. There are men clinging to the gunwales, the oars gone, sheets gone, sail flapping in shreds from the masthead as if it had turned into a bird and wanted to fly away. I found out what happened afterward. They’d been gossiping since the day I brought that leather sack on board. ‘What’s in it?’ ‘The chief has some treasure he doesn’t want to share with us.’ The moment my eyes are closed they’re at it, untwisting the silver wire. Every wind in the world, unleashed and furious, escaping from the bag at once. The sea whipped to frenzy, the sky gone mad . . .” He shook his head, dazed by the memory. “I don’t know how we survived. The storm blew us back to Aeolus’s island, but he wouldn’t help us again. ‘You had your chance,’ he says, won’t even let us land, he has the colonists drive us off with arrows. We could have fought them, but why? Who knows what other magic Aeolus had in that staff?”

  Alcinous gave a little cough. He was still frowning.

  “So we sailed on again. This time keeping the ships close. Water enough in our barrels, but our food’s running low. When we see an island on the horizon, we make for it. Tall crags, big waves rising and crashing against them. When we sail around, though, there’s an opening, and beyond it you can see a pool of black water. Not even a ripple to disturb the surface—a natural harbor. I watch the other ships run in one by one. I don’t know what stopped me following them. Instinct? A god’s voice whispering in my ear? ‘There’s no room for all of us,’ I shout. ‘I’ll anchor outside!’ And we tie my ship to the rocks outside the harbor mouth. Inside the harbor the ships lie as quiet as babies sleeping. Trees growing down the cliff face. Smoke from a farm somewhere inland. Colonists again, those islands are full of them. They sail west, find somewhere deserted and scratch out a farm. A peaceful life.” Odysseus closed his eyes. “Peaceful, we thought. I sent a party off to find the farm whose smoke we can see. The rest of us lay down on the rocks to doze. Hot sun, it was noon. No danger. The first I know something’s wrong, I hear a shout. Two of our men scrambling down the cliffs as if they had lions behind them. While we watch, men appear on the cliff edge, throwing spears, hurling rocks. One of our men, I see a rock crush his head, his face flowers blood, he’s falling. They catch another as he tries to climb down. Cut his throat without even asking his name. All we’re thinking now is Get back to the ships. The men start rowing out, swimming out. It’s chaos. Some are dropping sails, others hoisting anchors before their friends are on board. Orders screamed and no one listening. Then the arrows start to fly. The pursuers have reached the shore, hundreds of them. Me, I’ve led my own crew out to the harbor mouth where our ship is moored. When I look back from there, I can see what happens.” Odysseus gave a strangled sob. “A bloodbath. How could nine ships maneuver out of that harbor? It was a trap, like the hole you’d dig to catch a boar. One ship drifts ashore, they’re on it like dogs, men butchered, the sea red. I watch them all slaughtered—my friends, nine ships, two hundred and more men who’ve been through everything with me. They survived the war at Troy . . .” He shook his head. “Survived that just to die in a bloody little bay on an island no one’s heard of. And why?” Odysseus put both hands to his temples. “Gold. As the islanders take each ship, the bodies still on board, we can see them picking over it like flies on a carcass. Each man’s treasure pulled from under his rowing bench. Treasures we won at Troy, you can see them glinting in the sun. Nothing but thieves.

  “We only just made it to our own ship, moored off the mouth of the harbor. Dove off the cliffs and swam on board. I cut the anchor rope—no time to hoist it—and the wind took us away as the first arrows splashed the water behind us.”

  There was a pause. “Pirates,” said Alcinous. “Our ships have orders only to land in ports with whom we have treaties.”

  Odysseus looked at him. “Very sensible,” he said ironically, then s
hook his head and snorted. “But there was no such luxury for us. Sea beggars, that’s what we were. I had one ship left, of all the ships and all the men who sailed from Ithaca. One ship left, my own.

  “So by ourselves we plowed across the sea. It had never seemed so empty. No sailors shouting jokes from ship to ship. No friendly sails emerging from the darkness at dawn. Nothing but the sea and our one ship, alone in that vast plain of salt.

  “God knows where we were. The stars were the only familiar sight. I sailed south ’til we saw a group of islands. We made for the biggest, saw a house on the hill, a beach with ships drawn up on it, but no one in sight. A bit odd, I thought.” He looked at Alcinous. “Hardly a treaty port, but what else could we do? So we put in, ran our ship up the sand like the others, and sent a party up to the house to see. Ten of them. One came back running, Eurylochus. Arms flapping like wings, eyes staring, and his mouth wide open, screaming. We grab him, all he can say is, ‘Pigs. Witch.’ We throw him down on the sand, four men holding him, throw water in his face, he keeps moaning, ‘Pigs. Witch.’ At last I get the story, kneeling on the sand, my ear close to his mouth to hear.” Odysseus drew a deep breath.

  “They had followed the path up to the house, broad, well kept. There’s a verandah around the house, no one in sight, but music from inside, or a wind chime. They’re about to go in when four men run up. Men? They’re frothing at the mouth, walking on all fours like dogs. One, when he sees them, puts his head back and howls. Wolf-men. My boys have their weapons out by this time, fight them off and the wolf-men run off into the trees. ‘Into the house,’ says one. ‘I’m not going in there,’ says Eurylochus. ‘All right,’ they say. ‘You stay out here and keep watch.’ ‘I’m not staying out here either,’ Eurylochus says, but they make him stay anyway, and go in. Nothing happens. Eurylochus waits, watches, keeps listening for the wolves. He’s shaking already. ‘Creepy,’ he tells me, ‘the place is creepy.’ Then he hears this shriek inside the house, but not a human shriek. Squealing, grunts, cacophony, and then his friends are running out of the house, but not like people, they’re down on all fours, squealing, biting the earth, they’re pigs. ‘This witch,’ he says, ‘she’s turned them into pigs.’ He took off and ran, I don’t blame him, all the way down to the beach, mouth open and screaming. It took us an hour to quiet him down.

  “I put on my armor, sword, breastplate, shield. I hadn’t worn full armor since we sacked Ismarus. I had the men turn the ship around, stern to the beach and a gangplank, men at the oars. ‘If I’m not back in an hour,’ I said, ‘just go.’ ‘Go where?’ they said. ‘Ithaca.’ ‘Which way?’ they said, and I turned on them. ‘How do I know?’ I said, and walked off. Up the path, no one in sight. I saw the house ahead of me, no wolves. Then I hear a noise to the left, look around, and there’s a farmyard, my men in it.” Odysseus paused, recalling the sight. “It was as Eurylochus said. Like pigs, rutting and fighting. Faces smeared black where they’d been rooting in the ground, some had torn off their clothes.” He shook his head. “I took out my sword and went into the house. A low place, built of wood, shutters all around. There’s a smell of perfumed smoke, rugs on the floor, and a girl sitting on a low couch. I say girl . . .” Odysseus put his head on one side. “She was older than she looked. Gods, she was lovely, though. Wearing a white dress so thin you could see right through it. A child of nature, barefoot, hair wild. ‘Drink this,’ she said, and pushed a bowl toward me, cut from the bottom of a gourd. There’s a gummy white liquid in it. I’ve seen that kind of thing before, traveling in Africa with Mentes. We came to a village, there was a witch doctor there made people drink this liquor he cut from a tree. They danced, screamed, howled. He could make them do what he wanted—the men laugh like women, the girls fight like men. I drank some and he had me on a branch, hooting like an owl. I pushed it back. ‘You drink it,’ I said. ‘What have you done to my men? You’ve turned them into pigs.’ ‘Men are pigs,’ she said. There’s howling from the front. ‘Or wolves,’ she said. I put the tip of my sword between her breasts. She’s interested now. She looks up at me. Her eyes . . . gods, how do I describe her eyes? ‘Or lions,’ she says, takes my hand, and leads me toward the couch . . .”

  Nausicaa’s cheeks were pink. Her father gave a meaningful cough.

  “I stayed there a year,” Odysseus went on. “My men, the drug soon wore off. The others, the wolves, she let them go. The ships on the beach were theirs. My crew rigged tents in the field behind the house. They were happy enough. There was good fishing in the sea, orchards, a farm. Circe, her name was. I don’t know how a whole year passed. I told her about Troy and our travels. She told me about herself. Her husband had founded the colony, built the house, then died. There was a village the other side of the mountain, but we didn’t go there much, she didn’t want us to. A whole year . . .”

  “Did you tell her about your wife and son?” Arete asked drily.

  Odysseus looked at her. “I thought about them. More and more. Lay in a hammock on the verandah and thought about Ithaca. She knew something was wrong. The men were getting restless too. Nothing for them to do. They built her a new barn, did chores. One of my boys, Elpenor, broke his neck fixing the roof, drunk. She knew I wouldn’t stay forever. Circe wasn’t the type to cling, maybe she was bored of me too. ‘Go, then,’ she says. ‘What are you waiting for?’ I told her, ‘I don’t know where to go. I don’t know if I’ll ever see Ithaca again, hold my wife, see my boy. There was a man in Troy,’ I said, ‘Laocoon, he could see the future. I could have asked him, “Will I ever reach home?” He’d have told me. If I’d taken him captive, I’d have him here now to ask. Instead he was killed.’ ‘You want to talk to Laocoon?’ she says. I just look at her. ‘He’s dead,’ I say. ‘Anyone wants to talk to Laocoon has to cross the river Styx and go to hell.’ She looks straight back. ‘I can do that,’ she says. And she goes into her room, the room where she makes the incense sticks, pounds bark, fixes potions, all the things her husband taught her . . .”

  Odysseus closed his eyes and rocked forward in his chair. When he looked up at them, he was hunched, as if in pain. He looked into each of their faces, very slowly, one by one. “What I’m going to tell you now,” he said hoarsely, “you won’t believe. No one could believe it. But I swear to you it’s true. I swear on my boy’s life.”

  No one said anything. After a moment Odysseus went on. “She came back with a bowl. I knew that bowl. ‘Drink this,’ she says. I’d never touched one of her potions before, but I look her in the eye, take the bowl, and drink.” He touched his lips with his tongue and screwed up his face, as if he was tasting the bitter potion again. “It felt . . . I can’t describe it. Like when you’re sick and your head spins. Dizzy. I knew I was sweating, I could feel her hand behind my head. I thought, ‘Gods, what has she done to me?’ I was lying down. My sight had gone. Then I was on the deck of my ship, standing. I don’t know how it happened. My crew pulling at the oars. We were on a grey sea, no wind, the sail furled. Mist on the water, drifting in clumps past my steering oar. No birds. We rowed on like that for what seemed like hours, as if we could have rowed forever through the same mist. Then we see a rock and everyone stops rowing. Just a black rock, shining in the sea, a gull on top of it, but it’s the first thing we’ve seen. Slowly we drift past. When it’s almost out of sight, there’s a hiss of water on shingle and suddenly we stop, we’re aground. I go up to the bow, you can’t see anything, there’s mist all around, but I jump down anyway. I’m in water up to my thighs. One by one, the crew jumps down after me. We drag the ship onto a beach. It’s shingle and mud, flat, bleak. No sign of a tide. We walk up the beach and there’s some wiry grass, no color in it, and more mist.

  “There’s driftwood on the beach, so the crew gathers it and lights a fire.” He shivered. “The first that was ever lit on that shore. It doesn’t warm us. The mist gets in your clothes, freezes your bones. We’re all shivering. We get a goat from the ship, from where we keep the livestock trussed in the bows. Sl
aughter it, catch the blood in a bowl as a sacrifice. Cook the meat, but no one wants to eat. Then someone says, ‘There’s a man.’

  “There’s more than one. Walking out of the mist, but not together. One by one, separated. We’re all on our feet. I say, ‘Draw swords, but wait ’til I speak.’ Then I see it’s Elpenor? The boy who fell off the roof? We all see it at once. Someone behind me gasps. His face white, black blood on his neck. ‘Elpenor?’ I say. He’s holding out his hands. ‘Bury me,’ he says, his voice thin as the mist. ‘If you love the gods, bury me, and tell my parents where I lie.’

  “My mouth was so dry I could hardly speak. ‘Where are we?’ I ask. ‘Where do you think?’ he replies, ‘on the shores of the underworld, where the dead go.’ ‘And all these people?’ ‘The dead.’ That’s enough for the men, I hear them scrambling back on the ship, but I just stand there. Somehow I’m remembering why I’m here. Laocoon, the prophet. I look around. Elpenor has slipped away into the mist. Who else is here? I’m thinking. Everyone who ever died, everyone who ever lived—how many is that? How far did that plain stretch? Mist and mud and dead souls, forever. But there’s a stir in them now. The word has gotten around there are living people on the shores of hell. You can feel it like an eddy in the mist, a drift toward us, grey faces turning, one by one, people trudging toward us across the plain like starlings wheeling in the sky.

  “Laocoon is with them. The last time I saw him was on Troy’s last night. His eyes were locked on mine when I cut his throat, now he’s looking at me again. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It was war.’ He doesn’t say a word, just gestures to the bowl of goat’s blood by the fire. ‘You want this?’ He lifts it to his lips and drinks. Black goat’s blood running down his white ghost’s chin. It’s as if his eyes focus then, and he sees me properly. ‘Odysseus,’ and he nods. I tell him what I want. Will I ever see Ithaca again? My wife, Penelope, the boy. I’m asking the questions and tears are running down my cheeks, hot and wet. ‘You’ll see Ithaca again,’ he says, and then they’re tears of joy. I drop down on my knees, squelching the mud, and try to grip his hand—except there’s nothing there. I’m going to reach home!