Ithaca (6 page)

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!”

No news of Odysseus. The disappointment leaves me numb. I'm tired. We've just escaped drowning. Ithaca feels a long way away. For a moment I wish I'd never left home. Even the olive groves smell strange in this new land. The priests' robes are different from the robes on Ithaca. There's an odd perfume coming from the fire, some kind of incense, and the line of
mountains above us is nothing like Mount Nirito at home. Everyone looks threatening. One of the fighters is missing an arm. Another has a scar where his left eye should have been. Feeling lost and scared, I watch the group by the fire break up as mules are led forward. The altar is packed into a wooden crate. Four soldiers lift Nestor's litter on poles. Polycaste mounts her mule, waving aside the soldier who steps forward to help. I find myself heaved onto a saddle and clutch the wooden pommel.

Servants raise torches of flaming pinewood to light the way, and slowly the procession moves off into the olive groves behind the beach. My mule rocks from side to side, brushing trees as it climbs the narrow path. Ahead of us, chains of torches lead up the hillside. I'm so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open. Two or three times I doze off and wake clutching at the saddle. Branches loom out of the darkness, framing a star-studded sky that might have been cut from purple velvet. Bats flicker across it. I hear the gentle hoot of an owl out in the olive groves. Cicadas shrill around us. In front, Nestor's litter sways on brightly painted poles. I drift in and out of sleep. Sometimes I think I'm still on the swooping deck of Mentor's ship, then wake to the mule beneath me.