Homer's Excellent Adventure

by P. J. Hoover

  “Where are we?” Dory asked, and I made the genius assumption that she wasn’t talking to me. Her voice also sounded like her face wasn’t looking my way.

  “Scherie, rhymes with cheery,” the guy said. “Island of the Phaeacians. And you got your timing down right if you just got here. It’s Pentathlon time.”

  “What’s Pentathlon?” I asked with a mouth full of falafel. I didn’t point out that Scherie also rhymed with dreary.

  “What’s Pentathlon?” The guy laughed. “You two really are strangers. It’s only the biggest competition in the entire world. Athletes and all sorts of people come from all over to compete. And it’s only once every five years, so you hit it lucky.”

  Lucky. Nothing we’d hit so far was lucky. But I decided against arguing with the guy. He did give us free falafels after all.

  “Come on,” Dory said once we’d finished our falafels. She grabbed at my hand and dragged me off the stool. “Let’s go check out the games.”

  Since I couldn’t see, I wasn’t going to be doing much checking out of anything, but I let her drag me away. And I’ll give Dory this: the entire time we wandered around, she gave me a running account of everything.

  According to Dory, there were musicians—yeah, I could hear these—circus performers, like jugglers and magicians, athletes, and all sorts of stuff. We made our way to a stadium where she said all the sports competitions were going on. And even though I couldn’t see, she gave me a second by second narration of who was ahead, who was behind, when someone overtook someone else. She even used funny nicknames for all the people she saw, just like back on the boat. Things like Donut, who she said was a ginormous wrestler, and Zippy, who she said was the fastest sprinter in the world. It made me miss the guys on the ship even more.

  “Do you see Odysseus?” I asked. I wanted to make sure she didn’t forget that we were looking for him. I still hadn’t given up on the scroll. If I could find it, then everything would be almost better.

  “Not yet,” Dory said. “But the discus throw is starting.”

  The crowd started chanting out some guy’s name, maybe their local champion. “Chopper. Chopper.”

  I half wanted to join in the chanting, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  And then Dory said, “Oh! Did you see that?” She cringed and dug her fingernails into my arm.

  “Of course, I didn’t see it,” I said. “I can’t see anything.”

  “Ugh. Homer. Chopper just went to throw the discus, and his arm seriously snapped in half. Snapped in half. Like it was hanging there, wobbling back and forth.”

  From the way she described it, I was kind of happy I hadn’t seen it. Someone within hearing distance threw up, so it must’ve been pretty gnarly.

  “Are there any replacement discus throwers?” the announcer called up through the crowd. “Can anyone take Chopper’s place?”

  The already restless crowd began to buzz, and then Dory said, “Oh my gods! There’s Odysseus. He’s taking Chopper’s place!”

  “You’re sure it’s him?” I asked, cursing the gods that I couldn’t see for myself.

  “Yes! It’s him. I’ve spent the last ten years with the guy. I think I recognize him.”

  “And he’s competing?”

  “Yes, Homer! The crowd is dragging him forward now. Oh, and that’s weird.”

  “What’s weird?” I asked.

  “A bunch of the ladies are squeezing his arm muscles. And he’s actually smiling about it and waving to the crowd.”

  Yep. That was our Odysseus. Strong. Buff. A huge fan of the ladies.

  Dory started back then on her commentary, using all sorts of measurements to describe to me how far people were throwing the discus. A hippikon. A stadion. A plethron. A milion. I’d heard of all the measurements before, back in school, but they all kind of ran together into way longer than I’d ever be able to throw anything.

  And then she smacked me in the arm. Again.

  “You need to stop doing that,” I said.

  “But it’s his turn. Homer. And the guy before him threw really far. There’s no way Odysseus can win.”

  At that I laughed. “You do remember this is Odysseus we’re talking about, right?”

  “Hmmm … good point,” she said.

  Then we waited. And held our breath. And finally, after what felt like forever, Dory jumped up to her feet and started cheering, yanking me along next to her.

  “He won!” she screamed. “He threw it farther! I can’t believe it. He won!”

  But I could believe it. This was Odysseus, the hero of my story. Or at least of the story I had been writing. Now I wasn’t writing anything. I couldn’t see, and I’d lost the scroll. If Odysseus didn’t have it, my fate was sealed.

  The crowd cheered for a solid ten minutes. Everyone wanted to know who the new mystery discus champion was.

  “Can you still see him?” I asked Dory.

  “Kind of,” she said. “But a bunch of people are pulling him away.”

  “Don’t let him out of your sight,” I said.

  “I’m not, Homer.” Dory grabbed my hand and dragged me from my seat.

  I felt myself being yanked into a crowd of people, with everyone shoving along and yammering on about the games, how amazing they were, how they couldn’t wait until next time.

  “You still see him?” I said.

  When Dory didn’t say anything, I knew the answer.

  “You lost him?” I said.

  “People are everywhere, Homer,” she said. “But it looks like …”

  “Like what?”

  “Like everyone’s going to the same place.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer. Only stopped. And I felt the crowd rushing past us.

  “No way, Homer,” Dory said.

  “No way what?” I said. “Can we please remember that I can’t see a thing here?” My vision was completely white. There was no sign it was ever going to get better.

  “The palace,” Dory said. “Everyone’s going to the palace. And you wouldn’t believe this place.”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  So, Dory did. She told me how the walls were made of bronze so shiny, they were brighter than the golden cattle of Helios. And how the gate was made of solid gold. And how sitting out front were two giant dogs, bigger than Cerberus, that were crafted of gold and silver that everyone was claiming had been constructed by the god Hephaestus himself. And the rumor was that they came alive at night and protected the place. And as she led me through the gates, she told me about the garden inside which was lined with golden statues holding torches and filled with all sorts of fruit trees.

  “I don’t believe you,” I said, even though I did.

  “Wait a second,” Dory said, and about ten seconds later, she handed me a piece of fruit.

  I bit into it and let the juice run down my face. It tasted like liquid gold on a sunny day. I grinned despite the fact that my life was over. My plan had worked perfectly.

  “Okay, what else?” I asked.

  “It looks like we’re heading toward some sort of amphitheater,” Dory said. And she led me onward.

  The party was well started. Along with music, some guy was telling a story about the god Ares and the goddess Aphrodite that had way more naughty parts than anything Mom would ever let me hear. But Mom wasn’t around to say anything about it. Mom was back in Ionia, hours away from losing everything. The thought brought back my bad mood.

  “They say his name is Demodocus,” Dory whispered. “Everyone thinks he’s amazing.”

  “Amazing,” I said. “I could do way better.” Demodocus was trying to use some sort of hexameter but he kept missing or adding beats, making it some mashed up version of pentameter.

  At the end of the story, everyone clapped except me. But I guess he didn’t need my applause because he burst into a new story. I swallowed hard when I heard what it was about.

  “You hear that, Homer?” Dory said, smacking
me on the arm.

  “Enough on the smacking me,” I said.

  “But do you hear the story?”

  “I’m not deaf,” I said, rubbing my arm. Demodocus had launched into a story about of all things, a huge fight between Odysseus and Achilles during the Trojan War. Except when he talked about them, they may as well have been cut out of papyrus because the characters were so flat. He had Odysseus totally wrong, describing him as some weenie wimp while he made Achilles out to be the bravest, strongest guy in the world.

  “OMG Homer,” Dory said. “Odysseus is here. He’s crying.”

  “Crying? Maybe because the story is so bad.”

  But the crowd didn’t think it was bad at all, and there was a standing ovation once Demodocus was done. And then, once the applause died down, I felt Dory stand up next to me.

  “My friend has a story!” she yelled at the top of her lungs.

  I yanked at her hand, but she pulled away. She couldn’t be serious. No way was I going to get up in front of everyone. No. Way.

  But Dory would not shut up. And then a bunch of hands grabbed me and dragged me down a flight of steps, and I knew, with a horrible sick feeling in my stomach, that I was now on the stage in front of everyone.

  Soft lyre music started up to my right. I stood there, with no clue what to say. I couldn’t do this. Not in front of everyone. Not now, once everything was already lost. Except then I heard Dory’s voice somewhere off to the left, nearly inaudible.

  “You got this, Homer.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I believe in you. Believe in yourself.”

  Don’t stop believing.

  I’d written it in the margin of the scroll. Maybe I’d written it for myself, because I didn’t want to stop believing. I didn’t want to lose faith. Not in myself. Not in the world. Not now. Not ever.

  And so, I took a deep breath, and I started. I started with the horse. And I crafted the tale of our journey in perfect Dactylic Hexameter. I told of the gloomy island of Ismaros, where the guys got all greedy and raided the place, and how that started our curse from the gods. And then I told about the cyclops. The crowd erupted with laughter at the part where Odysseus told him his name was No One. They also bellowed in frustration that Odysseus would tell the cyclops his real name, so close to our escape. And then I told of Aeolus, the Keeper of the Winds. And of the Laestrygonians. Tears ran down my cheeks as I told of our ships being destroyed. Of so many of the guys dying.

  And then I got to the part about Circe and the pigs, and of our visit to the Underworld. And the Sirens and Scylla and Charybdis. And the island of Thrinacia, where the golden cattle were kept. And I told of Polites, making sure everyone knew what a hero he was, and of Eurylochus, making sure if anyone remembered his name, they would know what a rat he’d been. I told of our wrecking on the island of Calypso. Of staying there for seven long years. And how we’d then set out, full of hope, only for our journey to end here. Still not home.

  Still not home.

  My final words hung in the air.

  Silence filled the amphitheater.

  And then the crowd erupted with cheers so loud, it sounded like an earthquake. Applause I wouldn’t have thought possible. The floor of the stage shook under me.

  My throat was so dry, it felt like I’d swallowed sand, and I still couldn’t see a thing, but I let some sort of happiness wash over me in that moment. Some semblance of peace.

  “But he never got home!” someone from the crowd called once the applause settled down. “Odysseus never completed his journey. You need to finish the story.”

  I slowly shook my head. “I’m sorry. That’s all there is to the story. That’s the end.”

  But the crowd started stomping. And demanding Odysseus get home. And then from amid the chanting cheers, another voice called out. A voice I’d heard every single day for the last ten years.

  “I’m Odysseus.”

  And that’s when the crowd took over. They recognized him as the mysterious discus throwing champion, which only added to their fervor. The king of this place, Alcinous was his name, declared that the Phaeacians would carry Odysseus back to Ithaca in a ship of their own. That they were the most skilled mariners in the entire world. And as they planned the entire thing, Dory pulled me off the stage and somewhere away from the crowd.

  She shoved something into my hand.

  “I wrote it all down, Homer.”

  “Wrote what all down?” I asked.

  “Your story. Every single word. I wrote it all down. And yes, before you say it, I know that this isn’t your precious scroll, but it’s still the story. And when we get back to Ionia, you can make sure that’s good enough.”

  My story.

  Back to Ionia.

  My future.

  Without thinking, I grabbed Dory in a giant hug. “You are the best friend in the entire world. You know that, right?”

  “You’re crushing me, Homer,” she said.

  “I don’t care. Did you hear me? There has never been anyone who’s been a better friend than you.”

  “Okay. Okay. You’re welcome,” she said. “Now, let me go.”

  So, I did, but not before giving her one final hug. Dory was the best part of this entire journey.

  “We’re going to get home, Homer,” Dory said.

  I squeezed her hand. “Yep. We’re going to get home.”

  A FAREWELL TO KINGS

  THE PHAEACIANS WEREN’T KIDDING ABOUT HAVING a thing for boats. According the Dory, the harbor they took us to was filled with at least one hundred ships of all sizes, colors, and shapes. She even claimed there was one shaped like a giant hippopotamus, though I’m not sure I believed her. She could’ve just been trying to make me smile. But I didn’t need a hippopotamus boat to make me smile. We were actually going to get home.

  “How much time is left in the hourglass?” I asked. I hated this not seeing anything stuff. I had to ask about everything.

  “Maybe a day,” she said.

  “Not to worry, Bard,” Odysseus said. “When we reach my homeland of Ithaca, I’ll be welcomed with open arms. My countrymen will take you by ship to your home of Ionia.”

  I didn’t want to go anywhere in a ship with anyone that had even the smallest bit to do with Odysseus, but I smiled and nodded like it was a perfect plan.

  “Aboard!” someone said.

  “That’s the captain,” Dory whispered to me.

  We trundled aboard, Dory leading me.

  “Where are the oars?” Odysseus said.

  “No oars,” the captain said. He was a hulking guy with a shaved head, a bare chest, and enough muscles to give Odysseus a run for his money.

  “What kind of lunacy is that?” Odysseus said. “By the gods. We’ll get nowhere on a ship like this.”

  He didn’t sound angry. Just discouraged. Like once again, we were so close, only to fail one more time.

  “The lunacy of magic,” the captain said. “Our ships don’t need oars. They sail by the—”

  “If you say by the power of the gods, I am out of here,” Odysseus said.

  The captain laughed, a deep, hearty sound that boomed around in his chest. “Not by the power of the gods. By pure and simple thought.”

  “Thought?” I said, trying to commit the conversation to memory. I could recite it to Dory later, and hopefully she’d agree to keep writing it down.

  “Thought,” the captain said. “Dream of your homeland. Dream of it, and the ship will take us there.”

  Odysseus made a couple garbled noises in his throat, but then we continued aboard. And the next thing I knew, he was snoring louder than I’d ever heard him snore before. Or maybe my hearing was getting better since I couldn’t see. But no sooner did his snores fill the air around us, the ship leapt forward.

  “Have you thought of a title?” Dory asked next to me.

  “A title for what?” I said.

  “Duh, Homer. Your story,” Dory said. “You need a title.”
/>   A title couldn’t hurt. Maybe it would even get me extra credit. So, I spent the better part of the next hour, tossing possibilities around in my mind.

  “I got it,” I finally said.

  “Got what?” Dory asked, yawning. We were both having a pretty hard time staying awake.

  “The title,” I said.

  “Oh. What is it?”

  “Homer’s Immortal Index of Opus Deities.” I said it with confidence since it was such a masterful achievement. Alliteration. Cleverness. An homage to the gods. My title had it all.

  “Homer’s … Immortal … Index …”

  “Of Opus Deities,” I finished for her. It wasn’t that hard to remember once you got the hang of it.

  “It’s a little long,” Dory said.

  “It’s epic.”

  “And long,” Dory said. “You need something shorter.”

  “Like what? Homer?” Which wasn’t such a bad idea. Naming a story after myself, as the author, felt kind of awesome.

  “How about The Odyssey?” Dory said.

  “The Odyssey?”

  “Sure. It’s short. Sweet. Easy to remember.”

  “It’s boring.” I tried to consider her words and open my mind to possibilities. Maybe my title was too long. Maybe I should listen to feedback more often. “How about Homer’s Excellent Adventure?” I finally said.

  Dory opened her mouth like she was sounding it out. I was sure she was trying to find a flaw with it. But instead she said, “Homer’s Excellent Adventure. It’s perfect.”

  And so, I had a title.

  I guess I fell asleep after that, because brainstorming was really hard work, and the ship had gone quiet. The next thing I knew, Dory was shaking me awake.

  “We’re here,” she said.

  I rubbed my eyes, but I couldn’t see even the brightness of the day.

  “I can’t see the sun,” I said.

  “It’s nighttime,” Dory said. “And we made it to Ithaca. I see the same crest from the sails on the flags here. And everything’s really rocky, just like Odysseus said. But there’s this path that leads from the shore.”