A Sea of Sorrow

by Libbie Hawker

  Penelope pressed a hand against her stomach as if she could physically push away the idea of being betrayed and forsaken for a strange woman. Lying with camp whores while at war was one thing, but this…no. It just couldn’t be true.

  “I believe them,” Danae said, taking the queen’s hand. “A fair number of the slave women from trading ships corroborate it. They weren’t even sure what port they’d stopped at so they had no incentive to lie or exaggerate.”

  Penelope snatched her hand away. “Lies. They have to be! The war ended ten years ago.” Odysseus had been gone for a total of twenty years. Twenty. “If he were alive,” she insisted, “he would have come home to me, to us…to his only son!”

  Another thought made her gasp. What if Telemachus wasn’t his only son?

  “The missing king of Ithaca is the only one who can account for his absence,” Danae said, frowning. “But there’s more.”

  Penelope stared at her friend with wide eyes.

  “There are rumors that he left the island where he’d been hiding and is on his way back to Ithaca,” Danae said.

  “He’s coming home?” Penelope said dumbly.

  “That is the rumor. But my queen, my friend, you must plan for the possibility because if he does return, it would be catastrophic!”

  Penelope blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “Odysseus would most certainly misinterpret all the men in your hall. He would see them as a terrible slight to your honor and to his—and attack. The families would be rightfully outraged and demand blood vengeance, and everything you have done to strengthen and stabilize Ithaca would disappear in a breath.”

  Penelope stood and paced in her small chamber. She had never intended, nor had been trained, to rule a kingdom on her own. She’d done it because she’d had to—because her husband had disappeared and her father-in-law had slunk away in shame. The idea of suddenly having the king back by her side, of not being the only one in charge was so appealing—she imagined it as such a relief—she nearly groaned in desire.

  But just as quickly, she imagined being pushed back into the background and then silenced. Of being dismissed as powerless after all she had done for his people and his kingdom.

  Goddess!

  Penelope shook her head as if to clear it. “But…but if all this were true, why would he come home now?”

  “Perhaps he didn’t choose to leave,” Danae said with disdain. “Perhaps his whore on Whore Island grew tired of his lies and kicked him out.”

  The queen stared wide-eyed at her friend, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

  Danae’s face flushed. “I’m…I’m sorry, Penelope. I shouldn’t have spoken so crudely.”

  “By the gods, what do we do?” Penelope asked. “How can I discover what is true? And what I can do—or should I do—about any of it?”

  “Perhaps it’s time to seek guidance from the Goddess,” Danae said. “Only the Great Mother can help us now.”

  And so, two days later, the queen, Danae and two maidens set out, barefoot and with hair unbound, on the ancient path up craggy Mount Neriton to confer with the Goddess in her secret cave.

  The youngest girl steadied a basket filled with loaves of fresh barley bread on her head using her right hand. With her left, she palmed a small earthenware bowl of glowing hearth embers that the queen would use to light the sacred fire.

  Danae and the other girl each carried baskets of figs and olives, along with skins of wine and jars of milk and honey. Penelope held to her chest the most important offering of all, the living sacrifice napping within its warm container, covered by her most ornate finely woven cloth, created by the queen’s own hand.

  She patted the cloth-covered basket as if it were the plump bottom of a sleeping babe. Had her life gone differently—had the great Mother chosen a different path for her—Penelope might have been cradling her own late-life baby or even one of her many children’s newborns to her breast instead.

  A deep longing washed over her, for a different life. For a house full of children. A hall echoing with the sound of her husband’s laughter. For bodies entwined and spent from lovemaking.

  But this was the path the Mother of All had chosen for her—to live alone and rule alone. To have but one male child. To protect the people of this rocky isle, abandoned and battered by the male pursuit of selfish glory.

  She thought she had made peace with it all—with the loneliness, with the grief, with the weight and pressures of being responsible for the well-being of her husband’s people. Of her people. Why then, would the Goddess change everything now?

  As the trail wound around an old mountain goat pass, Penelope looked over her shoulder at Danae, who was bringing up the rear of their small train. As if feeling her gaze, Danae raised her head, gave Penelope a sweet, crinkly-eyed smile of encouragement, and winked. The queen returned the smile.

  Odysseus used to wink at her like that. Funny how she’d almost forgotten. Memories flooded in. She was only fourteen the summer all the suitors had come clamoring for the hand of her beautiful cousin Helen, including one brash young man who would change her life.

  She hadn’t even noticed the short-legged, barrel-chested princeling with the surprisingly deep voice. But that had changed quickly enough, thanks to one of Odysseus’s standard tricks.

  She’d grown bored of the loud games and contests in the front hall and had wandered away to one of the back kitchens.

  The warm, bricked space smelled of rosemary and garlic, but before she could ask the old woman kneading bread on the wooden table for a treat, a knock made her jump.

  “Just a beggar,” the old woman said, painfully pushing back her stool to stand.

  “Stay,” Penelope instructed. “I’ll get it.”

  The woman gave her a toothless grin in thanks and pointed with her head toward a heel of bread at the end of the table. “That will do for the like,” she’d said.

  When she opened the door to extend the bread, there stood a bent old man in rags, head covered in shame.

  “A great many thanks,” the old man mumbled in a tremor-filled voice.

  Something about the poor old thing made her pause in the doorway. “Your accent is not familiar to me, grandfather. Have you come from afar?”

  “From Crete,” the man wheezed. “I am Castor, son of Hylax, O great lady. The Gods sent tragedies of war and betrayal on my house and I have wandered as a stranger in foreign lands ever since.”

  “I like a good story, old man,” Penelope had said, sitting on the stoop. “Tell me yours.”

  The man nodded, his face still shadowed by the cowl. In his strange accent, he began a confusing tale of lost ships, creatures half-man, half-fish, and cattle that traveled down beams of the sun like beasts disembarking a trader’s ships. His stories were silly and amusing. “Tell me another,” she said when he paused. “Perhaps I shall invite you to the feasting tonight to do battle with the king’s bard.”

  He mumbled something that sounded like, “I shall be there anyway.” But since that made no sense, Penelope leaned forward and asked him to repeat himself.

  In a flash, the man threw off his cloak and before she could respond, pressed his mouth to hers. Penelope had recoiled and pushed him away, outraged.

  “How dare you?” she’d said, ready to scream for help, but stopped at the sight before her. For there was no old beggar there, but a young man transformed. One of Helen’s suitors. At the time, she still did not know the young king’s name.

  “Oh, my Lady, to see your face,” he laughed, slapping his knee. “A king’s ransom I would pay to see that again…”

  Wiping her mouth with her sleeve, Penelope’s hand twitched for a baking stone to slam across his face. Yet she couldn’t move. She had been transfixed by the sight of him. How had he fooled her?

  He had so clearly been an old man just moments before. But now, with his head thrown back in laughter, with his brilliant white teeth, twinkling eyes, and flushed, clear face, he was mesmerizing. He
was not handsome in the ways of the beautiful Diomedes, the golden one she’d admired, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him. And that laugh—it was so infectious, so big and booming and goodhearted—she found it irresistible and laughed too, despite herself.

  “Who are you?” she’d finally asked.

  “My name is Odysseus, King of Ithaca,” he said with a grand bow.

  “One of the suitors for my cousin’s hand.”

  He shook his head, sun lighting his dark curls. “Oh no. I have set my sights on the daughter of Icarius, for she is the beauty I want.”

  She’d been charmed of course. Then again, how could she not? She’d been fourteen.

  In those days of courtship, even his riddles had been charming. Penelope closed her eyes for a moment at the memory of how, under the shade of an almond tree, he had whispered, “What is this? Eros is at its core, while a ring is its symbol. Though it can be seen as sacred, it is often sealed by contact.”

  Penelope had guessed but wouldn’t say.

  “Marriage,” he’d whispered. “You are the only woman I’d walk mountains and cross oceans for. Will you marry me?”

  It had been a formality, of course. She had no say in the matter, but she’d appreciated him acting as if she had. Penelope remembered looking at her shaking fingers as she tore a broad almond leaf into tiny, fragrant pieces. She’d answered him with a riddle of her own: “What is mine but only you can have?”

  His brilliant smile was etched forever in her memory as he guessed the answer.

  “My heart,” she’d murmured before kissing him chastely on the cheek and racing back to her nurse.

  In subsequent stolen conversations, young Odysseus had also waxed poetic about the beauty and richness of his land. His mountains “scraped the sky”, his seas teemed with the “fattest fish and tastiest octopi” in all the realms, the fleece from his sheep were “dusted with gold”, and on and on.

  She’d learned very quickly that her husband’s talents for storytelling far exceed the realities of living in poor, rocky Ithaca. But somehow, it hadn’t mattered. They had been young and in love. And it had been such a wonder to see him delight in not just her body but in her wit and intelligence as well. A smile came to her face as she remembered their laughter. And the way they tried to out-trick each other.

  After he told her a tale about a sea monster with a dog’s head who tried to swallow him whole as he sailed home, she told him a tale of her own. To trick him, she left feathers for him to find in their bed every morning. When he asked about them, she’d said she had dreamed of flying. One night, after paying one of his men, she learned where he had sailed and described the location at length.

  “You passed the gray rock with the sunning seal on the left,” she’d said dreamily, their bodies wrapped loosely around each other. “And then a great eagle screamed past the sun when you changed the sail.”

  He’d sat up, naked and wide-eyed. “What? How did you know?”

  “I took a nap and flew over your boat,” she said sleepily. “You didn’t know that I could sprout wings and fly? It often happens while I dream.”

  Hours later she awoke to find him sitting up and staring at her. “What are you doing?” she’d asked.

  “Waiting for you to turn,” he’d said. “I’m not going to sleep until I see you do it.”

  She’d told him the truth then and showed him where she’d been hiding the feathers. His face had broken open with laughter. Moons later, when she was sure she was with child, she’d asked him to put his hands out. Carefully, she filled his palms with the down of baby feathers. He stared at the fluff trying to puzzle out its meaning, until all at once he understood and his eyes filled with wonder and then tears of joy.

  And then so soon after Telemachus’s birth, he had left her for Troy.

  * * *

  TELEMACHUS

  * * *

  Telemachus marched to the women’s quarters, teeth gritted, feet pounding on the stone floor. Was the rumor true? That his mother had left with three of her ladies to the cave of Mount Neriton, even after he’d ordered her not to go?

  How could he earn the respect from anyone in his house if his own mother did not obey?

  “Eurycleia,” he barked. “Come here now!”

  The old woman shuffled out of a back room, her face beaming with joy at the sight of him. Gods dammit, why didn’t she cower at his tone? If his father had called for her with such anger in his voice, he was sure, she would likely be groveling at his feet. Why could he not command such a reaction? Why did he have to be so weak?

  “Yes, my sweet prince?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, his lips thinning. “Do not call me that,” he commanded. “I am not ‘your’ prince.”

  “Of course you are,” the old woman said, reaching up to brush the curls off his forehead, as she always did. He slapped her hand away, and not very lightly either. But the old woman just giggled, her hand covering her mouth to hide the sight of her missing front teeth.

  “Oh you were always such an ungrateful boy,” she said. “Even when I nursed you at my breast, you would nip me just because you could.”

  By the gods, must she bring up the fact that she suckled me in every damned conversation?

  “Where is my mother?” he asked.

  She waved her hand, as if to say, “Oh, you know…around.”

  His scowl deepened. “Where. Is. My. Mother. Precisely.”

  A shadow passed over Eurycleia’s wrinkled, sagging face. He suppressed a growl. “Some of the servant girls are claiming they saw her leave with Danae and two others for Mount Neriton,” he added. “Is that true?”

  Eurycleia’s eyes widened but she shrugged her shoulders as if she wasn’t sure. Telemachus raised his arm as if to slap her down and the old woman flinched.

  There. Finally. Respect.

  “The truth old woman!”

  “Y…yes,” she said. “The queen left to seek the Mother in her Sacred Cave.”

  He brought his upraised hand down hard on his thigh. “I told her not to,” he cried. “I told her the Goddess has no power in my House. We pray to the strong gods of sky, sea and victory. She undermines my authority by disobeying!”

  “She does it for you,” Eurycleia said. “Even if you do not bow down to her.”

  “I bow down to the gods of warriors and kings, not women and girls,” he spat.

  The old woman sighed and Telemachus clenched his fists. Why did one disapproving look from her or his mother leave him feeling like a misbehaving little boy? When would that change? As he had countless times before, he wished he had his father at his side. A father would’ve shown him how to be strong, how to command respect.

  He was weak because he lived in a house controlled by women. Even his own grandfather, Laertes, had abandoned him to the women, preferring to tend to his orchards rather than guide Telemachus to manhood.

  “Tell her to come see me as soon as she’s home,” he ordered before turning on his heel and marching back to the main hall. He snatched his cloak off the bench and stalked out of the palace.

  The hall, as usual, was empty at that early hour. The other “princes”—gods how he hated it when they called themselves that!—were either passed out drunk or still sleeping it off. He wished the spins upon them all in their borrowed beds.

  Assholes. Drunkards.

  In the beginning, when his hall had swelled with boys his age or a little older, he had gloried in the change. Finally—friends! Playmates. Older boys to look up to.

  But instead of friends, they had turned into monsters, mocking and belittling him in his own home. Then the ultimate insult—they thought themselves so far above him, they imagined they could marry his mother. They actually thought they might become his stepfather and take over the kingdom. His kingdom. As if he wasn’t the true prince, the one and only future king of Ithaca.

  The insult to his honor—to his manhood—was unforgiveable.

  He would find a way to pay th
em back. He’d banish them and they would be forced to slink away, tails between their legs, back to their long neglected homes. He smiled, imagining the scene—him, helmeted, holding up his sword and his father’s shield as they cowered, thinking, I underestimated the son of Odysseus! I should have honored him!

  The morning breeze from the ocean was cool and thick with moisture. The young prince wrapped his heavy cloak tighter around his shoulders and brought up the cowl to cover his head. He’d warm up as soon as the road turned inland toward the home of the one person he could always count on: Mentes. It was far enough inland to allow him time to master himself. He did not want to be raging, or too out of sorts in his presence.

  Telemachus rolled his shoulders inside his purple cloak—which wasn’t quite purple of course. But near enough. Still, the softer color irritated him. As a true royal, he should be wearing strong, Tyrian purple. But, of course, they could not afford it—and so he was forced to wear the color made popular by his own mother, the one favored by those who only wished they had royal blood. The grasping nobles of Achaea, still flush with all that Trojan gold ten years after the great city fell, paid handsomely for Penelope’s handiwork.

  But it shamed him. Gods, how it shamed him! Kings earned riches for their people through raiding and war, not through women’s work!

  Telemachus’s mouth filled with sourness, the wine from the previous night gurgling up like old vinegar. He hawked and spit loudly onto the side of the road. If his father had made it home, he wouldn’t have allowed his people to grow soft on Trojan gold like so many of his neighbors. He wouldn’t have allowed them to spend their riches on frivolities like fake purple cloaks or pretty weavings. Instead, he would’ve built bigger and better war boats, made stronger weapons, and trained ever-greater warriors.

  But of course, Ithaca never got any of that Trojan gold. It lay at the bottom of the sea somewhere, along with the bones of his father.

  Telemachus straightened his back and lifted his chin, imagining that his father could see him through the shimmering veil separating him from the land of the dead. He imagined Odysseus smiling and nodding at him, blessing his efforts to protect his royal house. He’d been a newborn when his father had left so he had no memories of Odysseus, but his old nurse had described him often enough—his stout strength and god-like shoulders. In his imagination, Odysseus had taken on the countenance of a fierce young Poseidon, his hair and beard stiff from the salt of the sea as he led his men to victory at Troy.