Ithaca Page 22

  “It was a dream.”

  “He said . . . he said, ‘Why did you wait for me?’ I didn’t know how to answer. He was sick, I think. His poor face all scarred, and he had a limp. It was Odysseus, though. I know it was him, and I woke in a sweat.” She shivers, hugging herself. “Maybe he’s dead, that’s what the dream’s telling me. On an island somewhere. Or in Egypt.”

  “No!”

  She looks bitterly at me. “You were the one who told me he’s dead.”

  I say, “There’s something I must tell you. Odysseus isn’t dead. He’s here . . .”

  “No!” The violence in her voice startles me. She lifts one small hand and presses it hard against my mouth. “No!” And she goes on, spitting out each small, hard word separately. “I—don’t—want—to—hear.” Slowly she releases the pressure from my mouth.

  “Mother . . .”

  “People say these things. They’ll say anything. ‘I saw him in Crete.’ ‘He’s on a ship.’ And then you say, ‘He’s dead,’ and now, ‘He’s alive.’ I—don’t—want—to hear any more. It’s just stories, stories. Everyone uses his name for themselves. ‘I saw Odysseus. I want money.’ He isn’t here.” She shakes her head, her hair flying wildly. “I saw Odysseus leave. I know him. He hasn’t come back.”

  “Mother, please, you have to listen.”

  “No!” Penelope squeezes her hands over her ears and shuts her eyes tight, folding herself into a ball like a child frightened of the dark. I put one hand on her neck. I can feel it tense. With her eyes still closed, she says, “Today I’ll choose a man. A new husband. It’s time.”

  “No!” She doesn’t respond. I shake her arm. “You mustn’t. Please.”

  No answer. I plead with her, but she won’t speak again. It’s no use. For a moment Penelope saw the world as it was, but the shadows are pressing around her again. I leave her in the end, but before I go I stoop to kiss the top of her head. There are grey hairs among the black, I notice. My mother is growing old.

  Full of foreboding, I close the door and make my way down to the hall. It’s full. The young men have dressed for Odysseus’s funeral. Their hair is oiled. They wear brightly colored shirts, sashes bound around their waists, and leather cloaks with embroidered hems. Some have ornamental daggers thrust into their sashes, others, swords in richly-embroidered scabbards.

  I beckon to a servant. “You’ll find Eumaeus waiting by the main gate. Tell him to come in.”

  I nod to Eurymachus, who’s wearing a green silk shirt studded with bronze medallions. A moment later Eumaeus sidles into the hall and makes his way to the corner. There’s still no sign of Odysseus. Antinous, in crimson, is inspecting the jewels that encrust his fingers, with a knot of admiring men around him. Some are studying the table already set out for the feast, piled with wine jars and trays of bread. Others are slouched on the benches or leaning restlessly against the tables, drumming their fingers, playing with sleeves and tassels. Peacocks. Or prize-fighting cocks. Show birds dressed for display, strutting, preening, always eyeing one another for the fight. I’m thinking, It’s what Odysseus must have been once. It’s what I was born for. I see Odysseus come in at last, wearily pausing on the threshold to look at the brilliantly dressed young men assembled for his own funeral. His head is down. Slowly he makes his way around the walls to a column and settles beneath it, his beggar’s satchel on his knees. He doesn’t look up at me.

  My mouth’s dry, and I beckon over a servant with a pitcher of water. I remember how high, how young my voice sounded when I addressed the town meeting. That mustn’t happen.

  I swallow the cup of water gratefully and climb on a bench. “Guests!” It takes a moment to silence the hall, but at last I have their attention. “I would ask you to show respect for my father today.” Faces look up at me, skeptical, bored, a few assuming the solemn expression they think appropriate for a burial. “Today we will light a pyre in memory of Odysseus. You all know how hard this will be for my mother, Penelope, so I have decided there will be no grand procession down to the beach. We would rather divide the procession into small groups. Antinous, we would be grateful”—I stress the we—“if you would lead the first party down there. I will come later, with my mother and the remaining guests.”

  It sounds reasonable enough, doesn’t it? A couple of the men nod. But Antinous is frowning. “Why?” he says in a loud, harsh voice. “Odysseus was chief of Ithaca. He deserves a show. We should go together.”

  “This is as my mother wishes it.” My mouth is dry.

  Voices start to break out. I glance at my father, but Odysseus is staring at the ground like he’s in a trance.

  “Please!”

  I have to persuade them, I have to. This was the best plan we could come up with. If things go well, we have a chance of overcoming half of them before the others figure out something’s wrong. But already it’s coming unstuck.

  “No!” Antinous is snarling, in a rough bark quite unlike his usual voice. There’s something wrong with him. He’s pale, and his whole body is quivering. Does he suspect something? “We’ll stay together.” His small, sharp eyes dart around the hall.

  “Please . . .” I’m trying to speak above the hubbub, but another voice stills all of us.

  “No one’s going to the shore.”

  The silence is immediate. I look around. Penelope is standing on the stair landing. Is it her words that have hushed everyone, or her appearance? I expected her to come prepared for a funeral, wearing black, with her face whitened and ashes in her hair.

  Instead, Penelope is dressed as a bride.

  Her gown is white. There’s a twine of bay leaves in her hair. A thin gold chain hangs around her neck.

  “No one’s going to the shore,” she repeats, her voice clear and determined. Suddenly she points at the wall. I don’t know what she means, to start with. Then I realize she’s pointing at Odysseus’s great bow. “Bring that to me.”

  A servant unhooks it, and the bow is passed from hand to hand across the hall. As it reaches Penelope, the bright sunlight in the doorway shivers, and the square of sky above the hearth dims suddenly. Everyone feels the cold breath of air flowing into the hall. Servants hurry to light torches in the brackets around the wall.

  Penelope takes the bow, taller than she is, and turns it over in her hands. Its wood is dark, the ivory horns at either end yellowed with age and smoke. The string hangs loose between them.

  “Today,” she says, “I’ll choose the man I’ll live with.” Her hands caress the smooth wood of the bow. “I’ll marry the man who can string this bow.”

  A murmur of surprise and confusion fills the room. I look for Eumaeus but can’t see him. Penelope speaks above the commotion. “Odysseus could string this bow. I won’t take a lesser man than him. If no one can string it, I’ll die alone.” As she speaks the words, she looks straight at the tramp by the woodpile.

  And that’s when I realize she knows. She knows it’s Odysseus; she’s known all along. This is the ending Penelope needs. We made our plans, but it’s hers we’ll follow. The ending that will close sixteen years of pain.

  A test not for the others but for Odysseus.

  Give it to me.”

  Antinous strides across the hall, the other young men parting for him. No one questions his right to try the bow first. He seizes it from Penelope, his face set, and weighs it in his hand. Suddenly he gives an odd little giggle and rolls up his sleeves. He plants one foot firmly in front of him, sets the lower horn against it, and curls the fingers of his left hand around the grip.

  For a moment he stands, rocking on his toes. The torches around the walls flicker in the cold gusts that steal through the door. No one speaks. Delicately Antinous untwists the string with his right hand and, still holding it, sets his hand halfway up the bow’s haft. He lowers his face, rocking farther and more slowly, as if he’s trying to recruit strength from deep within his bulk. A growl emerges from somewhere inside him, rising in pitch until it becomes a high waili
ng, almost like a woman’s lament. Suddenly his body hardens and convulses. The bow whips and gives a great creak as he bends it back, hand drawing the string to the top of the shaft. I can hardly watch. He’s done it, I think. He’s strung the bow. Antinous’s face is purple. The tendons on his arm stand out like ropes. His fingers scrabble for the horn at the top of the bow, trying to hook the string over it. But there’s something despairing now in his shriek. His right foot stamps the floor, seeking a better purchase, and as it does, the bow gives a great kick. Like an animal wriggling from a hunter’s grasp, it leaps into the air. Antinous’s voice becomes a wail and dies. He staggers back against the wall as the bow clatters to the ground, unstrung.

  Before anyone can move, Antinous lunges forward again. His fingers scrabble at his belt. Suddenly he has an axe in his hands. He raises it high over his head, but just as he’s about to bring it down on the bow, Eurymachus grasps his wrist.

  “Stop.” His voice is cold and calm.

  Antinous glares at him. The two men’s faces are only a hand’s breadth apart.

  “Others can try this test.”

  A mutter of angry agreement runs around the hall. Slowly, still glaring at Eurymachus, Antinous relaxes, lowers his arms, takes a step back. Eurymachus picks up the bow. He keeps his eyes on Antinous as he takes up his stance, left foot braced against the lower horn. He bends the bow a couple of times before trying to string it, grimacing as he senses the hardness in the wood. Old wood, stiff as the tree from which it was cut, unyielding.

  The torches flicker again. A cold breath sweeps through the hall like the tongue of death. Penelope shivers. Some of the young men draw their cloaks around them as a few fat drops of rain fall into the hearth, making the fire hiss. But Eurymachus seems unaware of the sudden chill. He fixes his eyes somewhere in the distance, to the left of where Antinous still stands. A frown of concentration creases his handsome face. He dips his body to the right as he scoops up the string, as if he’s dancing with the bow, coaxing it, seducing it. There’s no preliminary posturing. Suddenly he tenses, and the string slips easily up the bow’s polished shaft. Eurymachus’s hips swivel as he brings it close to his face. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss the yellowed horn as the string drops into place.

  But the string stops dead two fingers short of the notch. It’s as if, having curved the bow so far to his will, Eurymachus has suddenly hit resistant metal beneath the pliant wood. He straightens his back, yielding nothing, and urges the string another finger’s breadth toward its goal. He’s muttering to himself now. His eyes are closed; his narrow shoulders begin to rise. Then suddenly, carelessly, he throws the bow aside and walks away. The crowd parts for him. Eurymachus goes to the door and stands with his back to the hall, looking out.

  No one speaks.

  After a moment another man steps forward. It’s Agelaus, the brute who was in a knife fight over Melantho the day Mentes arrived. I don’t know much about him except that he comes from one of the islands in the east of Greece and is said to be rich. A black beard covers the lower part of his face. His rounded shoulders curve into arms as thick as branches, ending in red, jointless hands that grip whole bones of lamb when he eats. I know he’s a wrestler. Once, when they were all wrestling on the beaten earth to the side of the house, I saw him take on all comers, one by one, and fight them to a standstill. He didn’t want to let the last man go but threw him again and again, expressionless, until the other man’s face was a mask of blood, one eye was gone, and his arm hung broken at his side.

  Jerkily, Agelaus unhooks his cloak and drops it on the floor. Wiry black hair covers his arms and shoulders. He picks up the bow and shakes it, like he’s punishing a puppy he wants to train, then wriggles his shoulders, sets the bow’s horn against his foot, and begins to heave. I catch the puzzled look in his face the moment he realizes the bow’s stronger than he is. Maybe he never fought anything stronger than himself. He strains. The bow gives nothing back. Instead of bending, it starts to bend Agelaus, sliding his fingers back down the haft until the bow rises straight and Agelaus bows before it, hands on his knees, panting and groaning with the effort.

  Penelope is still standing on the stair. Her back is straight, her expression calm.

  “Isn’t there anyone else?” she asks contemptuously.

  The young men are beginning to sidle back. None of them is stronger than Agelaus. None of them can string the bow if Antinous and Eurymachus have failed—and they know it.

  “What about the beggar?” Penelope asks. She’s looking straight at Odysseus.

  “He’s a tramp,” Antinous says thickly. They’re the first words he’s uttered since failing to string the bow.

  “He’s a man,” Penelope says.

  I don’t know what to do. Once, Odysseus could string that bow. But that was sixteen years ago—before Troy, before his journey, before fortune took him in its fingers, bowed his back and greyed his hair, crushed his strength, clouded his eyes.

  But there’s nothing I can do—nothing any of us can do. I watch Odysseus shuffle to his feet. Someone laughs.

  “Give him a chance,” Eurymachus says. He turns from the door. His voice has resumed its usual lighthearted tone, as if nothing bad has happened. “Go on. What harm can it do?”

  Grudgingly Antinous stands back as the tramp limps to the space under the landing. When he reaches it, though, he stands stupidly, staring at the bow on the ground without picking it up. He looks up at Penelope, then at me, his expression puzzled, as if he doesn’t even know who I am.

  Suddenly thunder rolls directly overhead. Some of the young men look up, muttering charms. There’s a tossing of branches outside, a hissing sound, and a clapping of canvas from the tents in the courtyard. Rain closes the doorway, as if drawn across by a grey curtain. It drums on the roof, darkens the sky, pours suddenly down onto the hearth, dousing the fire and filling the hall with the smell of wet ash. A trickle of dusty water, dark as blood, curls through the doorway, finding crevices in the beaten earth until it puddles at Odysseus’s feet.

  He stoops and picks up the bow. His face is bent so low I can’t see his expression anymore. I’m trying to focus on a plan. What happens next? When Odysseus has failed, do I call for the funeral to carry on? Or is that the end of my father’s homecoming? I just don’t know. My mind is slipping on the facts, failing to grip them. Numbly I watch Odysseus pluck at the string. His fingers seem too clumsy to hold it. As if he’s playing for time, he picks up the quiver in his free hand. It swings sideways on its strap, and arrows cascade out onto the floor. Everyone laughs as Odysseus goes down on his hands and knees, scrabbling to gather them up.

  “Get on with it,” Antinous snaps.

  Odysseus bobs his head, trying to collect arrows and hold the bow at the same time. When he stands up, the bow is dangling in his left hand, an arrow in his right.

  “Get on with it!”

  Odysseus sniffs, sets the bow against his foot, and grasps the string. The arrow is still dangling from the little fingers of his right hand. He bends suddenly, but it’s a false start. Like a horse shying at a hedge, he stands up again. I can see his legs trembling.

  “Maybe . . .” Eurymachus begins.

  But he never finishes the sentence. Suddenly Odysseus stoops. His hand grips the bow, crushing the hard wood. As his weight comes on it, the bow curves like a tree caught in a forest gale. It bows, uncomplaining, as Odysseus grasps the upper horn and twists it back. I hear Penelope gasp. In a single, smooth movement, Odysseus slips the string into the notch, swings his arrow to the string, and bends back the bow. It gives a deep creak, almost like the growl of an animal, then booms as he releases the string.

  His arrow catches Agelaus full in the throat. It drives through his neck, snapping his head back. Agelaus’s fingers claw wildly at a beard that’s suddenly saturated in flowing, thick blood. One of the servants screams. Odysseus is already reloading. His second arrow drives into Agelaus’s chest, its force tumbling him backward over a tab
le. Merciless, Odysseus fires again, hands finding the arrows without his even looking, eyes picking his next target as soon as each arrow is gone. I vault the balustrade to be at his side, but Odysseus pays no attention to me. The young men tumble backward to escape arrows that seem to have invaded the hall like a swarm of hornets. I see one man caught full in the back, a dark stain spreading around the shaft that has suddenly appeared, antlerlike, between his shoulder blades. I see another hit in the eye, hands clawing his face as he goes down, and another desperately trying to pluck a shaft from his trailing leg. Blood flows over the hearth, mingling with spilled wine on the floor. There’s a crash as the table of food goes over, smashing wine jars and plates against the wall.

  It can’t last. There are too many men, too few arrows. I sense the flow slacken. From the corner of my eye I see Antinous, still unharmed, pulling his dagger from his belt. Odysseus steps back. When I glance at him, my father is breathing hard, nostrils wide and forehead filmed with sweat despite the cold in the hall. The bow trails in his left hand. His right hand is empty. The arrows are finished.

  I’m thinking, We have to get to the woodpile, reach the weapons I hid last night. I pluck at my father’s sleeve, but Odysseus isn’t seeing me. An odd whimpering sound comes from deep in his chest. Giving up, I race over the hearth to the woodpile. As I reach it, I turn in time to see Antinous lunge at my father with his dagger held in both hands. Odysseus screams. Letting the bow fall, he scrambles desperately back over upturned tables and benches, shoving men aside. At the corner of the hall, he turns, at bay. Antinous is coming after him. From somewhere he’s swept up a short bronze spear, whose tip winks dully in the light from the torches. His face is cold, intent, murderous. There’s no time for me to do anything. Heart stopped, I watch Odysseus slide down the wall, hands pathetically trying to cover his face. From behind them he shoots me a desperate, pleading look. Our eyes lock.

  And in that moment I don’t see a hero or fighter. I don’t see the conqueror of Troy, the man I dreamed of all through my childhood. I see only one thing: fear.