A Sea of Sorrow

by Libbie Hawker

  And a Siren too, to be his bride. To sing in his own halls, if he would only save her from the rocks. Aglaope would use her voice to please men and gods, both, and bring travelers from far abroad to enrich his coffers further, just for the chance of hearing her song. And oh, how she longed for a home on fertile earth, to see greenness all around, and trade the pounding surf of the sea for the joyful sounds of fresh running water at a river’s bank. To live beside the beauty of her father’s strength.

  She sang of it all, the whole morning through, until the ship had neared enough that she could see—with her own sharp, desperate eyes—the man strapped and straining against the mast, bound by heavy ropes and shouting, screaming, weeping and pleading for his men to slow.

  * * *

  VII

  “Akheloios,” her mother rasped, so startled she had lost the song. “It is Akheloios strapped down, as you described him to the life. And his men – they pay him no heed at all, but to tie him all the tighter.”

  Aglaope’s vision blurred, tears offering a blessed blindness from the sight of the god she knew—the god she loved. Her father, caught and trapped upon the mast. Oh, Akheloios—no, oh no. Gods above, set him free!

  “This is Circe’s doing,” her mother said. “Circe’s final insult, her last offense. To hold a god against his will! Surely she must suffer!”

  She caught her mother’s hand and squeezed, remembering Anthousa’s own words. How Circe would stop their ears with wax if she must, to be sure that they sailed through. Surely even wax would not be enough, could not be enough, to thwart Odysseus-Akheloios, born of Hermes’s blood, that Giant-Killer and friend of travelers and thieves. So Aglaope raised her voice all the louder, feeling the strain in her throat, knowing she would make herself hoarse.

  But what did that matter now? If this ship passed, if Akheloios was kept from reaching them, what difference would it make if she could sing or not? She would die with or without it, and even if she did not, even if by some blessing, some gift of the fickle deathless gods above, she lived on, she would be the last of her line. And if she would be the last, then this—this would be her final song, that she might know she had done all she could do. Given all that was within her power to give.

  Akheloios, come!

  Ligeia understood her mind, and raised her voice, too, again. And they sang to Odysseus-Akheloios alone, of all the men. They sang their love, their thanks for all that he had given. Daughters and mothers, and his own sweet, fresh water, brought to them each winter that they might survive.

  “No!” Akheloios cried, near enough at last that they could hear his words even through their song. “No, you don’t understand,” he said, frantic now. “I must reach them. We must reach them! We must thread our way through!”

  But his men ignored him, just as they ignored their Siren’s song, working the oars without the slightest hitch, and only the barest glances up. Aglaope could not even imagine what they saw—what they thought. Two desperate, clinging women, mouths opening and closing, gaping silently like fish upon their high rock.

  “No!” Akheloios called again, tears streaming from his eyes. “Do you not see? Circe’s woman lied! Anthousa lied, and without us they will die!”

  Aglaope wanted to weep, wanted to tear at her clothes and her breast with grief as she watched the ship sail on. But she sang—sang and sang and sang with all she had—holding Akheloios’s gaze as he passed.

  “Please!” he cried still. “Please, we must stop. Do you not hear them? Do you not hear their song? We are all the hope they have left!”

  Her mother’s voice died again when the ship did not slow, when the men bent over their oars only to work them harder, and the sail filled to speed them on, Odysseus’s shouts carried off by the wind.

  “It will not serve,” she said, when Aglaope did not stop her song. “We have lost, my dear one. We have lost. Circe and her women have conquered us, at last. Conquered even Akheloios, himself. You must save your voice, now. Save your song.”

  For what?

  What purpose would it serve to save her voice? If Akheloios himself could not reach them, no other man could. They would survive this day only to starve, and Aglaope did not intend to carve the flesh from her mother’s bones as she had her grandmother’s. She did not mean to watch her mother die for her sake—that she might live a half life for a few months longer, always hungry, forever on her own.

  But her voice broke, all the same, a sob thickening her throat and choking her song. She strangled it and tried to sing on, to put all her desperation, all her strength into her voice, to turn the ship around. To slow them, at the least.

  “Oh, Aglaope,” her mother said, drawing her in and holding her close. “My sweet one, my dearest girl. There is no use. No purpose in singing to men who cannot hear. You only torture Akheloios, now, making him thrash all the harder against the ropes. It is cruel—too cruel, to keep on.”

  Aglaope’s song became a wail, despair tightening around her heart just as the ropes tightened around Odysseus-Akheloios. And she wept. She wept and wailed until she heaved, her breath lost, her lungs broken and sore. It did not take long, for she had exhausted herself already with her song. Ligeia stroked her hair, murmuring soft words of comfort, nonsense words that meant nothing at all, for there was no comfort to be had, no reassurance to be offered.

  “I’ll fetch water for you,” her mother said, smoothing the tears from her cheeks when she lifted her head. “And you must rest, my love, or your voice will be a ruin come tomorrow.”

  Aglaope had not the strength to argue against the preservation of her voice, against the use of singing ever again. She turned her face back to the sea and the ship, not so distant that she could not still see Odysseus-Akheloios, his expression filled with grief, but without her singing to drive him, no longer struggling against his bonds. Just limp and drained, broken as he stared back.

  Ligeia squawked, a sharp awful sound, causing Aglaope to spin, something dark and fast teasing at the edge of her vision. Her mother had slipped in her climb, her arms and legs too frail, too weak, and she hung by just one hand now, then just two fingers. Aglaope threw herself across the nest reaching down, stretching out her hand, the stone digging sharply into her waist, tempting her to fall herself.

  “My love,” her mother said, her eyes wide and flickering as her fingers lost their grip. “Do not waste my life.”

  Aglaope stared, frozen, at Ligeia’s broken form, tortured and bent by the rocks below. She stared, half-hanging from the nest, her arm still stretched, a cry of shock and desperate fear still echoing in her ears.

  The waves crashed against the rocks, filling the silence that followed—the emptiness that she was not certain how to fight. The waves, dull and roaring, and something else, as even and steady and strong. The splash of oars, still not so far gone.

  Slowly, Aglaope rose, careful of the lip of the spire and mindful of the steep drop. She closed her eyes when she had found the center of the nest again, but it did nothing to block the sight of her mother, fingers slipping over and over again in the darkness behind Aglaope’s eyes.

  “Siren!”

  She turned her head, and there was hateful Anthousa again, floating cheerfully upon the water. It was only then that she saw the shadow of the falcon, soaring high above. Aglaope lifted her gaze, watching it dip and dive, its sleek curved wings spread wide. And she knew.

  She knew.

  Ligeia had not only slipped from weakness or exhaustion. She had not only fallen. Circe had not been content to let them slowly starve. She had not been satisfied by tying Akheloios to his mast and stopping the men’s ears with wax.

  “What will you do now, Siren? Now that you are truly alone—and no ship, no hero to save you? For I promise you, every crew that passes will be the same. No ship will hear your song again.”

  Aglaope took a breath, steadying herself, and rose to her feet. The swift, black ship had not gone so far that she could not still see it clearly—hear Akheloios�
��s moans, his pleading when the wind shifted, snapping the sail. And had not Butes-Akheloios swum to them across the sea?

  “You will die, Siren! And slowly! Even if you live upon your mother’s corpse, you will still starve. There was not much meat left upon those old bones.”

  She did not look at Anthousa. Did not care what words she threw, sharp as knives and cutting. The water would burn the blood away, the sea would soothe her pain. And Akheloios—he would give her strength.

  One step, two, and she threw herself into the leap. The wind pressed against her body, pulled at the edges of her ragged gown, and for that briefest moment—the longest breath—she was soaring.

  Soaring as she did in her dreams, but when her wings would have swept against the sky, buoying her up, she arced her arms and her body forward, slipping clean and fast into the water below. Cold and shocking, for all she had braced herself against it all. She kicked down, desperate to get beneath the waves, and put all her will, all her being into swimming.

  Akheloios, I am coming.

  The water beat against her, even as deep as she had dove. It pummeled her, and she struggled, her chest burning for air. And still, she forced herself to take another stroke. Another kick of her legs, aiming for the light, for the sky above it.

  I am coming.

  Too far. Too far, and her lungs were bursting, her arms and legs just so much gold, dragging her down. She fought against the need to gasp, to draw breath where there was no air. And part of her knew, then—part of her had always known, from even before she leapt—that even if she reached the surface, it would not be enough. One woman’s arms would never match thirty oars for speed, not even in the smoothest seas.

  I am.

  Water filled her nose, her throat, her lungs, and around the edges of her vision, the water had turned black. It was not a waste. It was not a waste to take her fate into her own hands. And for that breath, for that endless breath, she had truly flown.

  I...

  She was nothing.

  Calypso’s Vow

  David Blixt

  I am so tired. Tired of the sea. Of the relentless sky. Of forcing breath in and out. So tired...

  I do not remember a time when I was not tired. When I slept well. When I wasn’t hungry, or angry, or empty. Is this age? The result of a life worn thin? Zeus, when was the last time I laughed?

  Perhaps before I had broken every vow to gods and man.

  I am tired of being sad. Tired of being tired. Tired of myself…

  A storm on the horizon. The sky never tires. Nor the sea. I float here, trapped between them, hammer and anvil, trying not to think of the wreckage behind me so I may prevent a wreck before me. My wreck of a life.

  There is a storm on the horizon, and I am so tired, Penelope. So very tired...

  Let it be in the hands of the gods.

  —Odysseus

  The climb was narrow and winding, but that was not why it was dangerous. The danger was its beauty. Ascending this natural stair, I inhaled the scent of cypress trees, felt the flutter of brown moths in search of sweet nectar, heard the crash of waves against the rocks below. And, at that moment, my eyes were blinded by the clash of setting sun battling its own reflection on the sea. A glowing shield against a rippling sword. No wonder the sky was red.

  My feet knew each turn, each bend in these stairs. I had come this way since I could walk unaided, a divine child on an isle ruled by my blood. Never before now had I been in danger of pitching down onto those rocks far below. I was distracted, and fearful, and had to trust my feet to walk the path by instinct.

  Gazing half-blind at the sea, my eyes fell on the Azure Gate. The portal of life and death, they called it. On one side paradise, on the other strife. Standing free in the waters, the stone archway symbolized so much on Ogygia. Entry and life. Exit and abandonment.

  Abandonment…

  Buckling on a loose stone, my foot faltered. For a moment I peered over the edge, looking down at the craggy rocks hundreds of feet below. For that moment I imagined the fall, and wondered if I could enjoy the rush before the landing. Probably not. Though I tried, I always saw the horizon, not the patch of land beneath my feet.

  Catching myself, after a startled moment I laughed. Why does your heart race, your majesty? You are in no danger. Even to my own ears, the laugh rang hollow. A slip on this path meant more than age or fatigue.

  I gazed at the stone that had caught my foot. It was rectangular, and bore a winged helmet and a phallus.

  A herma.

  As a goddess, I was raised to recognize signs. Portents come in all shapes and sizes, from the humble bee to the great tempest of years past. That storm that had rocked my island, knocked down walls and pillars, wrecked every ship of note. I did not know then that the portent was not of disaster, but of an upheaval of a completely different sort.

  This, however small, was just as potent a sign. The hermai were boundary markers, and signs of good luck. Both lay within the province of Hermes. That my foot had stumbled on a herma was telling. I had reached a limit. I was testing my luck.

  Kneeling down, I replanted the square stone, murmuring the appropriate prayer. But in my mind, I was rebelling. Do not, God of Omens, tell me what to do!

  Then I continued my climb.

  Cresting the top of the path, I emerged through the vines into the grove that bore my name. Thick alders, black poplars, pungent cypress, where owls and hawks roosted—more signs to be read, more gods to interpret. A spring welled here, forming four natural pools in a row, each with its own nymph to placate and plead with. Beyond the spring, this well of natural stairs led down to the palace, and to the sea.

  The grove was altered now, and startling. I had been mortified to uproot any of the trees planted by my grandmother’s grandmother. It smacked of sacrilege. But he had convinced me. His words could call the clouds from the sky to dew his hands.

  After pleading forgiveness of the dryads, the trees nearest the sea had been moved, roots and all. The dryads must have approved, for somehow they had survived. A miracle, one the mover took no little pride in. “Preserving life,” he’d said, “is a welcome change.”

  In their place stood a statue hewn of limestone. Rising as tall as three grown women, it depicted a woman, her back to the sea, her arms bent at the elbows, palms forward in offering. Or in prayer.

  Her face was my own. Her stone hair lay in the ornate braids I wore. He had fashioned her in my likeness. A huge conceit. I should have been angry. I was meant to be touched. Instead I was desperately sad.

  He was there, mounted upon the left arm of a massive statue, shaping its breast with hands all too familiar with the fleshly model. The setting sun made his skin glisten, night challenging fire. There were threads of silver now, more than had been there when he had first arrived. But his body was whole, and his mind so focused he did not notice me. His labors were all-consuming, and he took his time. As if time meant nothing, when it surely did.

  His attention to detail was astonishing. As was seeing myself through his eyes. I had never particularly noticed the mole on my cheek, or the bump in my long nose. Were my lips truly that full? My eyes that wide?

  I waited for the hand bearing the pumice-stone to rise before speaking. “Come down, my Odd Zeus. That is enough for this day.”

  Turning, I could see at once his eyes were red. But his blank face broke into a smile. Always for me, a smile. “It is never enough, your majesty, until it is complete.”

  “What is it you say? ‘An artist’s work is never complete, only displayed.’”

  “Or abandoned,” he said, dropping from my arm into my arms.

  After a passing kiss, I drew back, nodding towards the statue. “You mean to replace me.”

  He swung my hands in his. “With yourself? Hardly.”

  “What is the story you tell, of a statue depicting a lion defeated by a man?”

  He laughed. “‘It proves nothing, for it was man who made the statue.’ Fair enough. Then se
e in her all my ideals of you.”

  I gazed up at her proud chin, her wide eyes. “She grows more lifelike each day. Yet her youth is preserved.”

  His smile was impervious to my insecurities. “What can I say? Your eternal spirit inspires me daily.”

  To inspire is to breathe. He breathes me. I fill his lungs, and his chest swells.

  Then he exhales again. I fill his chest. But not his heart.

  Reading me as if I were one of his books, he kissed me. Not lightly, a passing kiss of acknowledgement, but a fierce kiss of passion, devotion, even ownership.

  I responded in kind. I had come without servants or sons, and he worked alone, so there were no eyes to watch as his lips moved down my throat. None but those stone eyes high above, judging me, my weakness, my selfishness.

  I did not care. My insisting arms pressed his head deeper into my beating pulse. He bit me, and I gasped. His hands dislodged my careful braids, and my hair came cascading down to drape him. In moments we were kneeling, then rolling, his artificial desperation striving to match my very real one. My lips touched his face, and I could taste the salt from tears he never let me see.

  There, in a field starred by violets and redolent with parsley, in the Grove of Calypso, beneath my own supplicating hands, we made love for the last time. The last, I vowed.

  I had been making that vow nightly for seven years.

  The tempest which brought him had threatened to shake the island’s very bones. At the palace the western wall had fallen in, and in the fields the oxen were white-eyed in panic. In all the confusion, it was chance that he was even found. I had sent my son Nausithous to pray at the Grove, telling him to seek signs from the gods, and also meaning to remove him from danger. He was there when a strike of Zeus’s fury illumined the sea and a figure on the water. The waves had brought the castaway to the Azure Window, and there he clung in darkness and storm, his body caught on the doorway to Ogygia. A portent in itself.