Quicksilver (9 page)

TWENTY-NINE

Achilles accepted Priam’s ransom and relinquished Hector, granting the Trojans eleven days to bury him. During that time, he decreed, the war would stop. So the old king brought his son home, and funeral preparations began. The Trojans cut down trees, consecrated the grave site—it was just outside the walls—and set to building the pyre. When the tall wooden platform was ready, they would assemble for the long, solemn rites. Once Hector’s bones were collected from the ashes and laid to rest, the truce would end.

Before it did, I paid a call on Apollo. He was exactly where I thought he’d be, in one of his forest camps below the Mount Olympus tree line. It was his favorite, very well hidden.

I found him lolling under a pine, polishing his silver bow, looking relaxed and fit. He jumped to his feet when I appeared. “Wayfinder! You found me!” he joked.

“Took me all day,” I claimed, to which he replied, “Ha.”

After he’d shown me his favorite hound’s new litter, five plump, grublike things with tiny, restless tails, I asked him about the dream he’d sent to Zeus.

“The truth is, I didn’t send one,” he said, picking up his bow again and rubbing the silver steadily.

“What? Why not?”

“Didn’t have to. He changed his mind on his own.” He glanced at me. “Between us, I think he’s tiring of the war. I know he’s tired of fighting with Hera about it. The rest of us aren’t getting along, either,” he added. “Artemis almost shot Ares the other day because he was saying such hateful things about the Trojans.”

She would have hit him, too,
I thought. Apollo’s twin was the best archer on Olympus.

“Only Ares and Eris watch the fighting anymore. The rest of us are sick of it.”

I felt a rush of joy. If I’d been alone, I would have jumped into the air and done a somersault, the way I used to when I first got my sandals. But I maintained my dignity. “I’m happy to hear that,” I said.

“Somehow I knew you would be.” He smiled. Then he asked, “What happened between Priam and Achilles? You did listen in, didn’t you?” Apollo knew about my penchant for eavesdropping. He didn’t approve, but he didn’t exactly disapprove, either. He almost never pressed me for gossip. I admired his forbearance—secretly, of course.

“Priam went right into the tent,” I said. “He knelt before Achilles, weeping. Then he grabbed Achilles’ hand and started kissing it.”

“The hand that killed his son.” Apollo’s eyebrows went up a hair.

“Yes. Then Achilles broke down, too, and they both cried and cried. They were alone in his tent in the dead of night—nobody saw.”

“Nobody would have believed it.”

I nodded. “Finally they stopped, and for a while they just looked at each other, like old friends who knew they’d never meet again. Then Achilles gave Priam the body.”

“He really kissed Achilles’ hand?” Apollo had never understood my affection for mortals. But from his voice, I knew that my account had moved him.

“One of the saddest things I’ve ever seen.”

“And you’ve seen a lot.” It was almost a question.

I shrugged, not wanting to complain to him. “Lots of dead, anyway. I’m Hermes Infernal now.”

He looked at his gleaming silver bow, a weapon that had killed hundreds of men, and sighed. “It will end soon, brother,” he said. “Take my word for it.”

“Really?”

“In no time they’ll be calling you Luck Bringer again.” It was my favorite title, and sadly out of use these days.

I got to my feet. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Least I could do,” he said.

The eleven days of peace flew by. Hector’s rites were performed with great ceremony before the people of Troy. Then his bones were laid to rest in a royal burial mound to the east of the palace and the Trojans retreated behind the city walls. The Greeks, who had grown increasingly restless, got ready to attack. More violence and suffering were on their way.

Before leaving Olympus and returning to my infernal post, I went to bid farewell to Zeus. He was on the western parapet, gazing down at the earth.

“Father,” I said, startling him. “I’ve come to say goodbye.”

“You’re going? Why? You just got here!”

“The war starts again tomorrow. I have to guide the dead. Hector is probably waiting for me already.”

“Ah,” he said, “of course. My son the Psychopomp.” Once I’d liked to hear him say it. Now I didn’t even smile.
What a stupid title!
I thought.
And I actually used to
be proud of it.

“You seem tired, son,” he said. “And we’ve hardly talked. Come sit with me for a while, won’t you?” He settled into his favorite chair, patting the one beside it invitingly.

I sat.

He leaned toward me the way he did when he was about to confide something. “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he said, “that you did a very good job with Priam. He’s been greatly comforted since you helped him.”

“And tomorrow, when he loses another son or two,” I retorted, “will he be comforted then?” The harsh words hung in the air, surprising us both. I’d never spoken to Zeus this way.

His head went back slightly and his eyes narrowed. But there was no anger in his voice. “Well. Well,” he said. “Probably not. But it’s war, son. People suffer and die. You have to accept that.”

“I can’t.”

“But—”

I stood. “It’s time for me to go.”

He, too, got to his feet. “Hermes, you’ve changed so much! You used to make me laugh all the time, and now you can’t even smile. What’s happened to you? I’m worried.”

In the past I would have welcomed his concern, even basked in it. Now it seemed to me that he was feigning ignorance, and I was disappointed with him.
You know what’s happened to me,
I thought.
I’ve been in
exile in Hell, hiding out from a war you encouraged. I’ve
been miserably unhappy, not that you noticed, and now
you’re chiding me because I’m not amusing you.

“I’ll be fine, Father,” I said evenly. “Just give me your blessing.”

He took my head between his hands, his palms warm on my temples, and I closed my eyes. As he chanted, I saw people, hundreds of them, rebuilding a smoldering, ruined city. It was Troy.

The vision eased my heart a little, and when the blessing was complete and Zeus’ big, solid hands were resting on my shoulders, I could look at him without rancor.

“I’ll be back when the war ends,” I said.

And then I left him.

PART FIVE

The Ocean’s Navel

THIRTY

I kept my word to Zeus. When the war ended and the dead no longer thronged to Hades, I returned to Olympus.

Now that the gods had stopped conniving, it was a far more tranquil place. Hera and Zeus renewed their marriage vows. Aphrodite gave Athena a tall jar of wrinkle-reducing face cream, and they buried the hatchet. Ares, despondent without his daily battles, retreated to his armory. Eris went away somewhere to sulk.

I recovered slowly. Playing my pipes helped, and so did dancing with the Graces, but nothing cheered me as much as reclaiming Pegasus. The dryads had cared for him in my absence, and, as forest spirits will, they’d adorned him with vines and wildflowers, tufts of moss, and a garland of bright red berries. None of it diminished his beauty.

On the day I came for him, he greeted me with a long, throaty, almost reproachful nicker. As we left the forest, I stroked his neck and told him he looked silly. Then we took to the heavens.

We wandered for days. I sang many songs to him about how much I’d missed him, and when I stopped, so had the hateful whispering in my head.

Some days later, on a sunny spring afternoon, Zeus summoned me. Finding the audience hall empty—it often was at this hour—I went out to the western terrace. Zeus had recently taken up gardening. Now he was on his knees, pruning an enormous climbing rose. After sending a vague gesture of greeting in my direction, he resumed his work, studying the thorny green branch before him as if it contained a hidden message. Then he made his cut, studied the branch again, and moved on to the next. His deep, tuneless humming was like the song of a giant bee.

I was perfectly content to idle in the garden, but after he’d pruned dozens of branches without saying a word or looking my way, I decided he’d forgotten me. At that very moment he said, “You seem happier these days.”

I told him I was.

“What would make you happier still?”

The question surprised me. Zeus often wanted to know what I thought, but only if I could help him solve a problem. Otherwise, he tended to command.

I phrased my answer carefully. “Not that I’m complaining,” I said, “but I’d rather bring luck to the living than comfort to the dead.”

“Hmm.” He got to his feet, wiped his hands on his robe, then drank thirstily from a silver goblet. His wide brow was sweaty and streaked with dirt, but it was smooth again; the deep lines and furrows of the war years had gone. He, too, was happier these days.

“I think I have the perfect mission for you,” he said. “Have you ever heard of the Ocean’s Navel?”

When I shook my head, he sank into a chair and motioned for me to join him.

“It’s an island called Ogygia,” he said, “in the very center of the ocean, which is how it got its nickname. The nymph Calypso lives there, with Odysseus.”

“The Greek captain?” Odysseus had planned, designed, and helped to build the Trojan Horse, a brilliant hoax that led directly to Troy’s downfall. I’d been curious about him for years. I’ve always liked wily mortals.

“The very same,” said Zeus. “He and his men were shipwrecked on their way home from Troy. Odysseus was the only survivor, because Calypso rescued him.”

“And he stayed with her?”

“She’s been keeping him there for years.”

“Keeping him? How?”

“Spells, good food, stunning physical beauty.”

None of that sounded half bad to me. “And the problem is . . .?” I asked.

“The problem is, he’s miserable. He yearns for his wife and son and for his homeland, Ithaca. Athena and Hera have been badgering me to help him, so I finally said I would.”

Aha,
I thought.

“Somebody’s got to talk to Calypso,” he continued, “persuade her to let him go. I know you have a lot to do . . .”

Not exactly,
I thought.

“. . . but I was thinking you might be interested.”

I faked a frown. “Let me make sure I understand you, Father. You’re asking me to visit a beautiful nymph on her own private island and bend her to my will?”

“Exactly. What do you say?”

I told him I would try to find the time.

So here I was, skimming across the vast ocean at dawn with a school of dolphins for company, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ogygia. Zeus had warned me that it was tiny, so every now and then I rose high into the air to get a bird’s-eye view. When I saw a perfectly round island and the lone man on its western beach looking out to sea, I knew I had reached my destination.

THIRTY-ONE

“You like to make men cry?” The moment I said it, Calypso flinched, and I cringed. We were in her cavern, a tall, rocky alcove where cooing seabirds nested in the upper ledges, and so far I had made nothing but mistakes.

I had barely stepped inside before blurting out Zeus’ decree. I had accepted her hospitality—nectar in shell cups, served at a pink coral table—with a gawky nod. Beneath her filmy gown, which changed from blue to green when she moved, her skin was pearly, her body sinuous. It was hard not to stare, so I stared.

And now I was insulting her.
Shouldn’t drink in the
morning,
I told myself, eyeing the translucent webbing between her fingers, the delicate filigree of scales around her wrists and ankles. They shone like silver.

Her eyes shone, too—with indignation.

“Of course not,” she said. “I love him. I want to make him happy!”

“Happy?” I echoed. “He’s out on the beach weeping, and the sun’s barely up! He’s miserable!” I’d gotten a good look at Odysseus on my way in. With his big shoulders hunched and tears sliding into his unkempt, grizzled beard, he was the picture of woe.

I saw that I had wounded Calypso again. She peered into her cup as if she might find consolation there, and her lovely mouth quivered. I waited, thinking she might reply, but she said nothing. In that brief silence I was able to muster my wits.

“Let him go, Calypso,” I said. “Zeus wishes it, and he himself sent me here to tell you. Obey him—you know you must.”

Her head dipped, acknowledging this, and I went on: “Besides, it’s the only way you’ll ever make Odysseus happy. Give him what he wants.”

She drained her cup. “I can’t bear to lose him,” she confessed. In an effort to stave off her tears, she swallowed, shook her head, and looked down again, but the tears came anyway.

I thought of the dead, their lives cut short, and of old Priam, kneeling before Achilles.
So much grief,
I thought.
And now here’s more.
I sighed, wondering if I could do anything to console her. “I know about loss, how painful it can be,” I said. “I’m sorry for yours.”

“Are you?” It was a whisper of resignation, hardly more than a sigh. I had the impulse to fold her in my arms and kiss her salty cheek. It wasn’t the nectar, either; my pity for her came directly from my sober heart.

“You’ll recover. In time.”

She collected herself, wiping her shining eyes, then clearing her throat. She blew her nose daintily on the hem of her gown before standing.

“You know,” I said, indicating my staff, Caduceus, “I can make you forget. After he goes, I mean.” Along with its other powers—inducing sleep, encouraging obedience, scratching an itchy back—Caduceus could erase bad memories. “Less pain that way,” I added.

She gleamed, even in the dim light of the cavern. “No,” she said. “I don’t want to forget.”

I’ll admit it: I was jealous of Odysseus for winning such love from her. And her resolve moved me. “I respect that,” I managed to say, while my heart flopped like a fish on a line.

She rewarded me with a fleeting smile. Then she walked outside to join Odysseus.

Why did I stay? Part of it was diligence. Hard worker that I am, I wanted to make sure that Calypso obeyed Zeus’ command. The rest was curiosity. How would Calypso tell Odysseus he was free to go, if indeed she told him? Would she mention me? What would she say? I had to know.

So, after taking to the air as if I were leaving, I donned my cap, wheeled around, and landed on the beach like an oversized gull, a stone’s throw from Odysseus.

He was exactly where I’d left him, on his haunches facing the ocean. Now that the sky was brighter, his weeping eyes were shut against the light, so he didn’t see Calypso when she approached. Or perhaps he didn’t want to.

She had to touch his shoulder before he looked up at her. “I have something to tell you,” she said. “I’ve kept you here long enough. I’ve decided to let you go.”

He froze, head cocked. “Don’t mock me, Calypso,” he said gruffly.

“I’m not.”

“How can I believe you?” he demanded. “I’ve begged and pleaded and wept like a child for years, yet you kept me here. And now, just like that”—he snapped his fingers—“you’ve changed your mind?” He shook his head. “You’re lying.”

“I’ll take an oath.”

He stood. He was a big man, solid and sun-darkened, his broad chest streaked with rosy battle scars. “Take it, then,” he said, folding his arms.

Calypso swore a ringing oath—by the earth, the sky, and the swirling waters of the River Styx—that she would help Odysseus leave. Standing tall, every lustrous inch of her a reproach to his ingratitude, she added, “May the gods strike me dead if I harbor even a single thought of bringing you back.”

We waited. Wave after wave rushed in and sped away. A crab tiptoed over my invisible foot. Calypso stayed alive.

“Oof, I’m sorry,” said Odysseus. His head dipped apologetically. “Forgive my harsh words?”

“I’ll try,” said Calypso. “Meanwhile, let’s build you a raft.”