A Sea of Sorrow

by Libbie Hawker

  Hour by hour, my friends and I toiled over the cook-fires. We salted the meal with the sweat of our brows, hardly pausing to catch our breath or wet our throats with a sip of water. There was always more bread to pull from the oven, more onions to add to the ever-thinning broth, more dried fruits to forfeit to the bottomless hunger of the Ithacans. And always, the twilight echoed shouts for more wine, more bread, more food.

  Galene’s wine proved stronger than I had initially credited. By the time full night came, unfurling a banner of stars across our patch of sky, the men had taken to singing and dancing around the bonfire. I knelt beside the oven, my whole body protesting the never-ending work, and watched the Ithacans circling those tall, leaping flames. A few still lingered at the makeshift tables and benches we had created by laying half-rotted planks across upturned pots and barrels.

  “I don’t like it,” Demetria muttered, stooping to push another ashy loaf into the coals. “They’re too drunk.”

  I nodded. “They worry me, too. It has been years since any of us have seen a drunken man. I believe we’ve forgotten how to deal with them. Now here we find ourselves, with twenty-three drunkards stampeding around our clearing.”

  “It’s too much.”

  I groaned as I climbed to my feet. “Are you and the others all right?”

  Demetria took my meaning. “They aren’t so aggressive. Not yet, at any rate. They try to grope our breasts and our backsides when we go out to the tables, to bring more food, but we’re quick enough to dodge them. They’re still more interested in the food than in our bodies.”

  How long will that hold? I wondered. “It has been seven years since I’ve seen a man in his cups, but from what I recall, they should get sleepy soon.”

  “With any luck,” Demetria said, “they’ll fall asleep around the fire. It’s warm enough that it ought to lull them; they’ve burned up most of the firewood we gathered for the autumn and winter.”

  “Soon they’ll sleep, and in the morning, they’ll leave. As early as possible, I hope.”

  “With the dawn’s first light.”

  Then, I told myself with the fervent expectancy of a prayer, we could turn to the business of restoring order to our island, and planning how we might replace our depleted stores.

  Grasping the bronze handle with thick wool pads, Eumelia lifted a pot of stew from the fire tripod. She sighed heavily as she eased it to the ground, then braced her hands in the small of her back, stretching.

  “Let me serve it,” I said. “You look worn out, Eumelia.”

  “I am, but so are the lot of us.”

  “Have you had water?”

  She thought for a moment. “Not for an hour, at least.”

  “Then you should drink.” I took the wool pads. “I will take the stew out to the men.”

  “Drink,” Eumelia muttered. “I’d drink some of that blasted wine if those Ithacan dogs had left any. It might ease my headache.”

  “Seems more likely to make your headache worse.” Anthousa dumped a handful of ashes into a bowl of flour. “If you’re going out among the beasts, Circe, it’s best to take a weapon.” She found my spinning distaff—I had left it leaning against the brick oven—and tossed it to me. I surprised myself by catching it deftly. Perhaps I was not as tired as I’d thought. The gods would give me enough strength to make it through this night.

  Distaff tucked under my arm, I lugged the heavy pot of stew out among the men. Straight away, I understood Anthousa’s warning. Hands reached clumsily out of the firelight, seeking to grasp my work-stained chiton, my arms and hair, seeking to fondle my breasts and waist. So long as I kept up a brisk pace, I seemed to be in little danger. The men were in a festival mood, hooting and laughing, howling out their drunken songs. In their bleary eyes, I was a decoration, a pretty little symbol of their celebration, like the horns-of-plenty that adorned the tables at Colchian harvest feasts. They had no serious intent to molest me, nor to impede my work. Even so, I was glad of my sturdy staff; it would prove handy, should any man feel rather too festive.

  Five or six men slumped at one of the tables, speaking in that slow, slurred manner all drunkards share. I interrupted their inconsequential talk. “Something hot, my good men?”

  They pushed their bowls eagerly toward me, and I ladled out steaming portions of gull-and-onion stew. One of the Ithacans hiccupped loudly, but then said, as genteelly as he could manage, “I thank you, my beautiful, beautiful lady.”

  I headed for another table, but as I moved off, I heard another man mutter to the one who had thanked me. “You shouldn’t speak to her, you know.”

  “Why ever not?” the first man said.

  “She is the one we heard about—you know.”

  Another man added thickly, “The infamous witch of the isles.”

  I moved through the crowd more slowly, straining to hear the conversation over the din of celebration.

  “She’s never a witch,” the first man said. “She’s too pretty for it.”

  “She is. You see that stick she keeps with her? That…that staff?”

  A pause.

  “That’s her magical im…plement.” The drunken man struggled over the word. “The tool she uses to work her spells.”

  I rolled my eyes at the men’s ignorance and kept moving, lest any hand should grab me. Once the Ithacans were gone, I told myself, more respectful traders would come. Then I would never have to hear that word—witch—again.

  I headed for another makeshift table, but before I reached it, a loud thump and clatter sounded through the clearing. For the briefest moment, I thought the bonfire logs had collapsed, as they always do, sooner or later, sending up a column of sparks. But then I heard another, stranger sound—the rumble of many hooves on hard-packed ground, accented by the high-pitched squeals of our pigs. Instantly, I knew that the swine-yard fence had given way—the very last disaster I needed at that moment—and I hissed a curse. A few of the men laughed. Then they shouted incoherently. And then, with one great roar of confusion and needless fear, the whole clearing erupted in chaos.

  Pigs were everywhere, rushing in and out of the shadows, screaming as they leaped over buckets and planks that had once been benches, running in circles around the huge bonfire, which belched smoke and orange sparks as the Ithacans dodged away from the flames. “Demons!” one drunkard shouted, and another cried, “to arms! We’re under attack!” Someone pulled a blade from its sheath—I heard the bronze sing its cold, whispery verse, fearfully close by. I dropped the pot of stew. It shattered on the hard ground, and in seconds the pigs flocked around my feet, gobbling up onions and bits of stringy meat.

  As men and swine dodged past me, all I could think about was that drawn blade—the unsheathed sword, somewhere in the darkness—somewhere far too close for my comfort. I gripped my staff, the only weapon I had, and brandished it above my head as I turned about in a circle, trying to find the sword and its inebriated bearer in the whirl of sparks and shadows, squeals and shouts and staggering, blundering men.

  “Stop!” I cried, “don’t panic! It’s only our swine!” But the Ithacans could not hear me over their own great commotion.

  Most of the men now seemed to believe they were truly under attack—by whom, or what, I couldn’t say. They leaped over tables and dove beneath with agility I never would have credited to drunkards, if I hadn’t seen it for myself. They flattened themselves into shadows under benches and ran for the cover of the forest undergrowth. In moments, where men had sang and danced in revelry, only a milling herd of pigs remained. And there I stood among the swine, my chiton splattered with stew and wine, my spinning staff raised high above my trembling body.

  Once they’d lapped up the stew, the pigs seemed to lose interest in the goings-on at the bonfire. They grumbled and grunted as they dispersed in all directions, but the Ithacans remained under cover. All but Eurylochus, who picked himself up from the ground where he had sprawled. For a moment, he stared around the clearing, blinking in a stunned,
stupid manner. There was not an Ithacan in sight, but there were pigs in any number, trotting and capering around us both.

  In an instant, I understood what Eurylochus must think. I lowered my staff quickly. “Eurylochus, wait,” I said. “You mustn’t think—”

  But it was too late. The king’s second-in-command turned and fled from the clearing, stumbling and clumsy with wine and fear. He found the trail that led back to the cove where his king’s ship waited, grounded on our shore. The shadows of the forest swallowed him whole.

  Neither I nor any of my friends slept that night. Instead, we tidied our trampled clearing as best we could, clearing away the refuse the Ithacans and the pigs had left in their wake. We picked our way quietly around the snoring men—most of them had fallen asleep under tables and behind benches, wherever they had hidden from the menace of the swine. It was long work, and wearying to bodies and minds already worn threadbare from our trying ordeal.

  “Should we find the pigs?” Eumelia asked, stifling a yawn as the first pale-gray hint of dawn lightened the sky. “I might be able to fix the fence.”

  “There’s no use doing it tonight,” Galene said. “They’ve run all across the island by now.”

  “We’re better off leaving our pigs to the forest,” I agreed. “At least these Ithacans can’t take the animals if they’re scattered far and wide. We’ll track them down and return them to the swine-yard after our guests have gone.”

  Anthousa scowled across the clearing at the sprawled, snoring men. I could sense her rising desire to kick one or two of them as they slept. “Gods of heaven and earth, let them leave soon. I fear the wolves will kill all our pigs if we let them run in the forest too long.”

  That same fear had haunted me ever since the swine had escaped. We needed those animals now more than ever before; even with the mitigation of ash and dried gull meat, the Ithacans had eaten through at least a quarter of our paltry winter stores in a single night.

  “We’ll see to the pigs as soon as the Ithacans have gone—and after we’ve had a few hours of sleep,” I said.

  “You aren’t suggesting that we sleep with these ghastly men strewn all over our island,” Anthousa said.

  “I suppose we must keep a watch. But I’m worn out.”

  Anthousa nodded and drew herself up. She was just as tired as the rest of us, I knew, but she was determined to let us take our rest first. “I’ll take the first shift. After two hours, I’ll wake Agathe. We can take it in turns, two hours at a time. That way, we’ll all be rested enough to track the pigs and bring them home.”

  We crept into our stone-and-timber house, steps dragging, bones creaking with exhaustion. Each of us found our way to our small bed chambers, and I fell atop my thin, hard mattress, too weary to remove my chiton or even to crawl beneath the sheets. I fell at once into a heavy sleep—but that sweet deliverance didn’t last more than an hour at the most. I started awake to find Anthousa beside me, shaking my shoulder and whispering my name in a strained, urgent tone.

  I sat up, rubbing my eyes, which felt full of sand. “What is it?”

  “Someone is coming.”

  “Has that coward Eurylochus returned? I hope he’s come to collect his men.”

  “No, not he. You’d better come and see for yourself.”

  I followed Anthousa up the narrow stone staircase to the flat roof-top of our farmhouse. The blankets and chitons Eumelia had washed the day before lay stretched to dry across the hewn timbers of the roof, weighted down with stones—and forgotten in the chaos of the Ithacans’ arrival. Morning painted the treetops at the edge of our clearing with a soft light; the larches blazed golden in the sun, and the leaves of oak trees were already fading. All too soon, the cold days of autumn would arrive.

  A man strode across the clearing, coming from the direction of the Ithacan ship. As Anthousa had said, this was certainly not Eurylochus. Even at a distance, I could see that this man bore himself differently. An overabundance of pride—a presence of natural, gods-given power—was evident in his confident carriage, his straight posture, his unhurried stride, casually arrogant. He made directly for our house, as if he had called on us a hundred times before—as if he owned the place himself. This could only be Odysseus, king of Ithaca.

  “What should we do?” Anthousa’s fists tightened at her side. I could tell she wished for one of Agathe’s spears.

  Anger flushed my face. I was tired—exhausted by playing hostess to rude men, who had no more wit than gnats or fleas. “I’ll tell you what I won’t do,” I said. “I will not go out to greet their king, nor bow or simper to him.”

  “He might have better sense than his followers,” Anthousa said. “Being a king, he must be sensible, at the very least—mustn’t he?”

  My father had been a chieftain, and my husband a prince, albeit an exiled one. I had little faith in the mental fortitude of rulers. I only shrugged.

  “Perhaps he can be made to see reason,” she persisted, “though his men could not. We might convince him that it’s better to leave us in peace than to try to press us for more food.”

  “We might hope for that much,” I allowed, “though it is a slim hope. Still, I will not bow and scrape to him. I don’t care if he is a king. This is our island. He must show respect if he thinks to get anything from me, including directions to the peninsula.” I headed for the staircase. “Come; he’ll be at our door in another moment. Leave him to me. I’ll talk to him, and if the gods have any power or mercy, he’ll be off with his men before mid-day.”

  “You ought to let me stay with you,” Anthousa said. “He may be dangerous.”

  “He is only one man. So long as we speak here, inside the house, there is little to fear. His men are all outside, and still asleep. He cannot overpower me.”

  Exhaustion had stripped us both of our wits. If we’d been better rested, I never would have spoken such foolish words, and Anthousa never would have agreed. But she nodded, yawned, and departed gratefully for her bed chamber, eager for the rest she deserved.

  When Odysseus found me, I was alone, seated at the round oak table I usually shared with my friends. I had left my spinning distaff lying on the table the night before; I took it up as the king of Ithaca opened my door without seeking my leave, and strode into my house uninvited. The table was strewn with a few pots and pouches of my herbs—scattered there as I’d searched my collections for pungent flavors I could add to the bread, hiding the bone-dry taste of ash.

  How like a witch I must have seemed when Odysseus first beheld me, my staff cradled in the crook of my arm, the implements of sorcery all around me—and most of all, a forbidding scowl upon my face. But he did not balk at the sight. Instead he smirked, as if charmed by my marginal beauty. As if he assumed that whatever beauty he saw in the world was his to possess by rights—a due reward.

  The king of Ithaca took a stand across the table from where I sat, smiling easily. He was not tall, but his broad chest and shoulders gave him an undeniable presence. He was dark of hair and eye, with a short-trimmed beard, more neatly kept than those of his followers. He was not a young man, but neither was he old. His straight back and well-shaped arms spoke of great physical strength, even if the grandness of his appearance was somewhat marred by the same salty film that crusted the rest of his men. His red tunic and short cape had seen heavy use, but they hung well and neatly on his frame.

  I stared at him, unwilling to speak first. Let him petition me.

  After a moment, he chuckled. “I heard a beautiful, dark-haired witch has turned my men into swine.”

  “Is that what your fool of a second-in-command told you?”

  His smile deepened. “Eurylochus is often very foolish; that much is true. But he told a rather compelling story: you with some sort of magical staff raised above your head—” he glanced at the distaff, still without its telltale wool, held across my chest, “and a herd of frantic pigs, where moments before there had been men.”

  I returned Odysseus’s smile.
I hoped my own seemed cold, or at least enigmatic. “You saw your men sleeping in my clearing as you crossed it.”

  “It seems you’ve restored them to their proper forms.” The king’s eyes sparkled with humor.

  I did not feel like laughing. “I’ve given your men all the food I can spare. Meanwhile, you and yours have trampled on our xenia; you have made a mockery of our hospitality. I think you have done enough. Now be gone, king of Ithaca.”

  Odysseus folded his arms across his chest. His upper body disappeared into the folds of his short, salt-paled cloak, but his half-mocking smile said more than his posture ever could. “You have a spark, my lady. I appreciate brazenness in a woman, even if it sometimes leads her to offend.”

  “Offend?” I scoffed.

  “I am a king,” Odysseus said simply, as if that fact both explained and excused everything.

  I leaned forward on my stool, one fist white-knuckled upon my staff. “This is my island. It is you who offend by coming here, unasked and unwanted. King or no, you have no right, and you are not welcome.”

  Odysseus grinned openly now, as if I’d made a very fine jest. “I’ve never heard of a woman owning an island—or any land, for that matter.”

  “Now you have.”

  “This island isn’t yours, my lady. If it belongs to anyone, it must belong to a man—a king, a prince. A chieftain, at the very least. You are a—”

  “An exile.” Bitterness in my voice. I could hear it myself, taste it on my tongue.

  Odysseus made some slight movement—a shift of his feet, an arrogant lift of one shoulder. His cloak fell open. Something around his neck caught my eye—a twist of rough brown twine, hastily knotted as a loose necklace. Tied to one end, hanging against the king’s chest, was a sprig of moly-herb—slender stem, long, bright-green leaves, and a single white, nodding flower. I scoffed again, and my mouth fell open in an ironic, half-disbelieving smile. Moly was said to protect the wearer against evil sorcery. Odysseus may think his second-in-command was a fool, but nevertheless, the king feared the witch of Aeaea, feared my rumored power.