Ithaca Page 4

  I’ll still get my ship—surely I will. Eumaeus didn’t doubt the vote for a second. But suddenly another voice rises above the hubbub, smooth, unctuous. Antinous is on his feet.

  “My friends, please . . .”

  In Greece, we show deference to guests, and that even extends to town meetings. Voices hush. People go back to their benches. Antinous is left standing, red cape flung over his shoulder, the kitten clutching his sleeve.

  “Here’s my reason,” he says, “why we should discourage Telemachus from this journey. Because we love him. Telemachus, we want you here, close to us. We don’t want to lose yet another of our sons. Telemachus . . .” His jeweled finger points straight at me. “Don’t go!”

  He’s got their attention now. He makes a joke; they laugh. His fingers pluck points out of the air. People in the back rows are nodding. Was this how my father used to do it? Steer a meeting as you’d steer a boat.

  “And there’s one more thing,” Antinous finishes, “for which we should thank Telemachus. Thank him, I mean, for calling this meeting.” His face becomes suddenly solemn. “He’s reminding us Ithaca’s been sixteen years without a chief. A long time. This town has managed its affairs well . . . but for sixteen years Ithaca has been lucky. No enemies, no invaders—that won’t last forever. And when trouble comes, this island will need a strong leader. Strong and experienced, a man who’s seen the world, who’s traveled, who knows how things work. I think what our boy is saying to us, what he’s really saying to us, isn’t about Odysseus. It’s this . . .” And Antinous’s voice drops to a whisper. “I need a father. Ithaca needs a chief.”

  I never saw this happening. How has Antinous twisted it around? I’m paralyzed. It’s Mentor who rescues the situation.

  “Vote!” he booms, standing up so abruptly that his stool clatters over behind him. “Vote!”

  Eumaeus takes up the chant. It’s a custom of town meetings that anyone with any kind of authority, or even just a strong murmur of encouragement behind them, can demand a vote at any time. So numbers are called, for and against. Hands are raised in the shade of the plane tree. There’s no longer any doubt about the result. A dozen votes, no more, for offering me a ship, and the rest of the meeting solidly against me. The tavern-keeper’s boys begin rolling wine barrels out into the square.

  I stay seated against the trunk of the tree. I can’t move. This time yesterday I was scared to leave Ithaca. Now, suddenly, it’s become my prison. I can’t leave. The sea is like a fortress wall—uncrossable, with my father beyond it.

  Mentor comes over to me with his sons behind him, and Eumaeus as well. We stand in silence, shocked, beaten.

  “Yer don’t need to leave,” Eumaeus says. “Yer dad’ll come anyway.”

  “No!” I’m startled by Mentor’s tone. To be honest, I’ve never much liked Mentor. He’s stiff, full of his own importance, and doesn’t have much sense of humor. But he crouches down next to me, and he’s literally trembling with emotion. “He must go.” He sounds passionate. I didn’t think he could be passionate about anything. “You must. You will. I’m not a rich man, but I have some money set aside. Enough for a ship.” His mouth twitches. “A small ship.”

  “But what about your sons? It’s their money.”

  “No! We’ll go to Pylos together . . .” He raises one hand, seeing I’m about to object again. “Odysseus was my friend, the best chief this island ever had. If he’s still alive . . .” And suddenly there are tears in his eyes. “. . . if he’s still alive, I want his son to bring him home.”

  So here I am, two days later, clutching the gunwale of Mentor’s ship, staring across fretful waves at the rocks of Pylos, Nestor’s territory, and wishing I were dead.

  You’d think Odysseus’s son would be a sailor. Perhaps I’m not his son. I used to think that: that it was all a mistake and there was some other kid somewhere—taller, braver, tougher—who was actually Odysseus’s boy. Anyway, Odysseus was famed for his travels across the seas, while I’m hanging over the rail, vomiting like a sick dog.

  The wind rose just a few hours ago—rose from nothing to a vicious storm that turned the Ionian Sea into our enemy. Waves batter the boat’s hull. On the farm, back home, I’ve seen cattle stampede through a gate, their black, humped backs jostling together in a frightening torrent. The waves remind me of those stampedes, only vaster. Their expanse seems incomprehensibly huge—a broken landscape stretching all the way to the horizon. The sailors are cursing at their oars—they dropped the sail when the wind rose. Mentor’s grimly clutching the steering oar. And I just want to die. My stomach’s heaving with each lurch of the boat. The wind’s shrieking in my ears, echoed by the gulls who glide past the mast, shrieking like demons. I’m soaked to the skin, and my bare feet are slipping in the mass of seawater and tangled rope that fills the bilges.

  To take my mind off it, I think of the frantic twelve hours before we left Ithaca. I did get some consolation from the townspeople as they left the meeting. Quite a few came up to wish me well.

  “If you’d asked five years ago, we’d all have joined, but we won’t find the men now.” That was typical. “Time to move on.”

  All of that made me feel a little better. But there was one encounter I still don’t know what to make of. The square was almost empty. Mentor was bargaining with sailors to make up a scratch crew, while the innkeeper dragged benches back indoors. I was just going to return to the big house when a girl came up to me.

  I knew who she was. She lives with her mother in a tiny cottage hidden behind a wall at the top of the town. There’s always been something strange about those two. No husband and father to bring back food, yet the cottage is freshly whitewashed and they both dress well—better than most of the townspeople, actually. They’ve always kept to themselves. The girl’s a bit older than me, but I’ve never seen her mix with the town children. As she came up to me, I was wondering if I’d ever actually spoken to her. All the same, there was something familiar about her face.

  “You’ll find him, won’t you?” She spoke before I could, and suddenly I saw she was crying. No sound, just noiseless tears pouring down her cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them away.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “You must.”

  Suddenly the girl reached into a fold of her dress, pulled something out, and pressed it into my hand. Before I could say anything, she was gone, walking across the square and disappearing into the alley that led to her home. When I opened my hand, I found a little carved wooden owl. A carved owl exactly like the offering Odysseus left on the altar the day he sailed for Troy.

  I still don’t understand. The girl, or the owl. Or maybe I don’t want to understand. I can feel the owl now, squeezed inside my belt.

  In any case, we were all too busy after the meeting to think of anything beyond barrels of water and wine, food for the sailors, gifts for Nestor. Mentor wasn’t much of an organizer, it turned out. We had a few surprises. Men who voted against me came forward anyway to offer themselves as crew. Eurymachus tracked me down to the storeroom, where Medon and I were pulling out jars of wine, and pressed a small leather bag into my hand. Only gold weighs that much.

  “For emergencies,” he said with a rueful smile and a clap on the shoulders. “Listen—I’ll do everything I can to protect your mother. I promise.”

  My mother was the last person I saw before leaving. I was dreading it—but when I went to her room, she was sitting at her loom, working as serenely as ever.

  “I’ve come to say good-bye.”

  A little frown creased Penelope’s brow, but she kept weaving.

  “I’m going away. I’m going to find out what happened to Odysseus. I’ll bring him home if I can.”

  She didn’t say anything. For a moment I hesitated. I could still see Antinous’s fat white fingers on her neck. How could I leave her? I shook her shoulders gently. “Do you understand?”

  “Good,” Penelope said. “Very good.”

  It was only when
I hugged her, clutching her tight, feeling how thin and frail my mother had become, that she began crying too. Her last words made sense. “Be careful.”

  We didn’t need to be careful for the first part of the journey. Mentor’s ship, the smallest and cheapest merchant vessel Ithaca owns, slipped out of the harbor with twelve oars caressing the sea. It was only just past dawn, and the rising sun colored the water as if it was pouring oil from a jar. All day the crew rowed. Not a breath of wind; the sail stayed furled on the yard. I took my turn on the oars and tried my hand at steering. Dolphins rose from the depths, sleek, muscled bodies breaking surface in a thrilling burst of speed, then diving again to swoop and turn beneath our bow. That night we slept on the beach—ships never sail in darkness if they can help it. We rowed on before day broke. It was only late this afternoon, with the mountains around Pylos already in sight, that the sea shivered, suddenly, turned black, and began to heave and roll as if swarming with serpents.

  I hear shouts and look up. There’s a bustle of panic around me, and when I gaze blearily toward land, I can see why. The cliffs are shockingly close. The waves must have been driving us toward the shore. A plume of spray bursts from a rock, and I can hear its detonation and the hissing sigh as water sluices down the rock’s glistening sides. I was scared before, and cold. Now I realize abruptly how close we are to death. Sudden death, unexpected and pointless. How could it find us so quickly, from a calm blue sea? I can feel the hull shuddering as each wave hits. It’s no longer rising bravely to the swell. When the sailor beside me slips and falls sideways, the ship lurches, and green water swills over the gunwales. I watch the peak of the mountain sway into sight above the masthead. There’s a goat watching from a ledge near the summit, watching us dispassionately: creatures about to die. It looks so easy to get to dry land, but between us and the land are jagged teeth of rocks. Water seethes past them, as if the cliff face is wetting its lips in anticipation. For some reason I think, Perhaps this is how my father died. I have a sudden vision of my own body lolling in waves, as his might have done. But Odysseus sailed the oceans, conquered Troy. His place in the stories was secure. What about me? Is this really all I can show for sixteen years? It mustn’t be. It mustn’t.

  I do my best to think. Mentor said Pylos is in a bay—he came here once before—but there’s no sign of a break in the hurling surf. We have to get away from the cliff face. The sailor next to me curses, struggling for a foothold as he heaves at his oar. Mentor is wrestling with the steering oar, desperately trying to turn the ship’s bow from the rocks. I’m scared. I’m sick. But my mind’s still working. I think, Why doesn’t the crew use the sail? The sailors are never going to be able to row against that current. The sail’s the only force strong enough to pull us clear, and the wind is backing off the rocks; it could drag us back out to sea.

  I shout and point, but the sailor next to me is too exhausted to understand. They’re too busy heaving blindly at the oars, too tired, too scared to think clearly. No one else is going to do anything about it, so I crawl to the foot of the mast. Ropes are knotted around the bench under it. I pull at the knots with frozen fingers, but the wet rope is jammed solid. One of the sailors watches, puzzled, then his face clears as he sees what I have in mind. He pulls a knife from his belt, saws through the rope, then turns and yells through the howl of the wind. Sailors drop their oars, struggling with ropes. There’s a clap of wet cloth above us; then it feels as if some massive hand has grabbed us underwater. We lurch; the mast swings; and suddenly we’re veering sideways with water sluicing over the gunwale. Someone screams. Mentor’s feet lift off the deck as he clings to the steering oar, which seems to be snared deep in some furrow in the sea. The sail’s dragging us away, though, the boat’s careering away from the rocks, barely under control. I grip the mast and retch, but when I look up, the mountain is gone. Mentor is pointing ahead to a gap at the base of the cliffs—the entrance to the inlet at last. As I watch, it opens to become a narrow passage. The sail claps, then billows out again as we turn. One last time a wave lifts us; then we’re gliding across the smooth waters of a long bay fringed by hills.

  The silence feels solid after the roar of the open sea. To my right, I can see the lights of a little fishing village. It’s nearly dark. The first stars are showing above the skyline, and a bright, low planet, maybe Aphrodite, is too. My lips are caked with salt. Suddenly I realize I’m trembling.

  Mentor comes toward me. One of the sailors has taken the steering oar. He grips my shoulder, squeezing so hard it hurts.

  I say, “I’m sorry.”

  He looks puzzled. “Sorry?”

  “I was sick.”

  To my surprise, Mentor reaches forward and hugs me. “You did well,” he says quietly.

  I’m not sure what he means. I was scared. I did the obvious thing—what was so good about that? Suddenly I’m blinking back tears of nervous exhaustion. I don’t want Mentor to see I’m crying like a child, so I stare out across the bow.

  That’s when I realize we aren’t heading for the town. Instead, the helmsman has turned us left, into the shadow of the mountain. Screened from the wind, the sail hangs slack. One by one the men pull out oars and begin to row the boat forward along the length of the bay. Ahead, low down on the waterline, I can see a point of orange light. It’s only when we get closer that I can make out what it is. A huge fire of driftwood is burning on the beach. There are people around it, black figures dancing across the flames. Closer in, I can hear chanting and the lowing of cattle. It seems to be some kind of festival. A branch on the fire flares up, suddenly, each leaf blazing distinctly. Then points of light appear at the water’s edge. The men stop rowing. We rock slowly forward as the lights drift away from the beach. When they come closer, I see that each is a little floating raft with a candle surrounded by a wreath of flowers. The rafts rock as they drift past and float silently on into the bay’s darkness. Looking behind, I can see candles spread across the water, as if it were a night sky garlanded with stars.

  “Look,” someone says.

  There’s a larger raft floating toward us, piled high with petals and tiers of lights. Their flames light up a wooden carving of a god, the height of a man.

  “Poseidon,” says a voice.

  We watch as the raft floats past with the god’s blank eyes staring out into the bay, drifting smoke and the smell of scorched flowers.

  “It was Poseidon who saved us from the storm,” someone says, and there’s a rumble of agreement from the crew.

  I don’t say anything. I watch the flaming statue of Poseidon disappear into the darkness behind us, then Mentor gives an order and oars dip into the water. Their festival over, the crowd on the beach is waiting for us, with the fire’s flames mirrored in the black water. As we draw closer, I can see the carcasses of slaughtered bulls lying next to a small altar. The sand is soaked dark with their blood. Priests stand to either side of an old man sitting on a litter. There are fighters there too, in polished armor, and musicians with curled brass horns I haven’t seen before.

  Mentor points at the old man and whispers, “Nestor.”

  Everyone has heard of Nestor, the oldest man on earth. He fought alongside Hercules and Jason—fighters from so long ago that these days they’re talked about like gods. The chief of Pylos is small and bald, with a large head surrounded by wisps of snow-white hair.

  Our ship crunches sand, but when I jump down onto the beach, my knees give way. The motion of the sea, fear, exhaustion—suddenly I don’t have any strength left. All I can do is cling to the ship’s prow with the warm, salty water tugging at my calves. I can feel the heat from the fire.

  All I can think is I’m alive.

  One of the priests calls out, “Who are you? Where are you from?”

  The old chief lifts one hand to silence him. When he speaks, his voice sounds too loud for his frail body.

  “Welcome to Pylos,” he says.

  I’m Telemachus of Ithaca.”

  I can see the
effect it has. Eyes widening, groups drawing together, and a whisper running all along the beach: “Odysseus’s son . . . Odysseus’s son . . .”

  I hear Mentor clamber down onto the sand beside me.

  “Odysseus’s son?” I step forward, and Nestor grips my hand with fingers as dry and light as twigs. Up close, his eyes are covered by a milky film. People say Nestor is a hundred years old, maybe even more. I feel a papery hand pass over my face as if a moth is brushing it in the night. “And is this my old friend Mentor? I see him now. Polycaste, bring a cup of wine for our guests from Ithaca.”

  A sulky-looking girl is standing behind him. She’s about my age, and looks bored. She takes cups of wine from a servant and passes them to us without a word or smile. She’s taller than me, with curling, golden hair, a round face, and strongly marked black brows.

  “My daughter,” Nestor explains. “My youngest daughter. I have many children, you know. All now scattered except for Polycaste, the comfort of my old age.” He turns back to me. “Odysseus’s son. Odysseus’s son. Do you bring news of your father?”

  It takes a moment for me to realize what the question means. “I came here for news.” I can’t keep the disappointment out of my voice.

  “For news of Odysseus? We have no news here. I am sorry—sorry, indeed. But still, if you are searching for him, then perhaps we can help. Odysseus’s son, here in Pylos! A great day, to be sure. We will talk of Odysseus later. Tomorrow. Perhaps. Tonight we must celebrate your arrival.” It feels like he’s getting into his stride. I can’t get a word in edgewise. “And Mentor, a pleasure to see you again! But look at you both, half dead with exhaustion. No easy journey today, I imagine. We have been celebrating the festival of Poseidon, an old tradition at Pylos begun by my father more than a hundred years ago. We like to keep up the old traditions, whatever the young think of them . . .” He glances at his daughter, who rolls her eyes. “But here you are, standing on the sand while the night grows cold. We must go back to my house and take care of you!”