Ajax came speeding around the final bend. He didn’t notice the cow or the steaming brown pyramid in his path. He was too busy dreaming ofthe cheering crowd and the victory laurel-wreath resting on his head. He turned, sneered, and waved contemptuously at Odysseus.
SLURP! His foot hit the dung.
SWISH! His legs shot up in the air.
ZOOM! He skidded along on his stomach.
And DONG! His jaw hit solid earth and he lay unconscious on the ground five metres away from the finishing line.
Meanwhile, Odysseus politely dodged the welcoming cow pat, raced round his rival, and crossed the finishing line first. What a man! And that was how Odysseus, the Greatest Hero of Them All, won himself the prize of a fortnight’s holiday on Mykonos.”
“Hurrah!” yelled the Pirates again – they loved that story. They couldn’t hear it enough times and, as the storyteller bowed, took his gold doubloon from the King and disappeared back into the crowd, all of them were doubled up with laughter. All of them except Odysseus. He’d laughed when it had happened, of course – split his sides at poor old browned-off Ajax. But not now. To him the men in the story were not just men in a story, heroes in a tale — they were real people, real friends. And now they were dead. The Trojan War hadn’t brought them glory – it had brought nothing but misery and death. Softly he began to cry.
“Quiet, you dogs,” hissed the Pirate Queen. “There’s a spy in our midst; a stranger who is not what she seems. Tinnia, the Ithacan noblewoman who can throw a discus further than a pirate, who weeps at tales of the Trojan War, who is wearing my hat and my paisley frock – seize her!”
And in an instant, all the pirates snarled, picked up their cutlasses, snapped on their wooden legs and charged at Odysseus. In a flash, he brushed away his tears, drew his sword and leapt on the table. Then he flung off his floppy hat, tore off his frock and roared in a voice they felt they knew…
“Yes, I am an imposter. I am Odysseus, King of Ithaca, and I shall die as I have lived – by the sword!”
“Odysseus!” hissed the Pirate Queen.
“Odysseus!” murmured the awed pirates.
“Odysseus!” roared the Pirate King. “Grandson of my old friend Autolycus the Sheep Stealer! Odysseus who killed the Cyclops! Odysseus of the Wooden Horse! Odysseus, the Greatest Trickster of Them All! Welcome!”
Then the pirates cheered, the Queen gave him a sloppy kiss and they all listened spellbound for hours as the greatest trickster in the world told them the story of his travels.
At last evening came, and a thousand jolly pirates carried him down to the waiting ship. The Queen Pirate gave him a final hug and a fresh set of clothes, and the King Pirate, with great ceremony, handed him the Wooden Leg of Honour, the highest compliment a pirate can ever receive, as well as the Freedom of the Waves – freedom to loot every ship he ever came across.
Then with a roar from a thousand toothless pirate mouths, the jolly Roger was raised and the Pirate ship set off for Ithaca. As it pulled away, Odysseus hurled something at Princess Nausicaa.
“Keep this to remember me by,” he shouted.
Nausicaa burst out laughing. It was a ball, a big, red, bouncy ball.
Soon Odysseus’ head began to nod. Past islands full of dragons they sailed, past gorgons, centaurs, griffins and harpies. The sky turned green, yellow, red, indigo, pink, and finally a clear bright blue, full of fluffy clouds.
For twenty years he’d been away, and at last, ahead, were the low hills of Ithaca. But Odysseus didn’t see them. He was fast asleep. And when they landed, the pirates gently lifted him off the ship, laid him down at the water’s edge and sailed away.
Odysseus lay gently snoring.
He was home.
And it was a good thing he was getting plenty of rest. He was going to need it.
Chapter Six
6 – Beggar in the Rubbish Heap
Odysseus woke in a panic. His legs were shaking and he was drenched in sweat. Where was he? How had he got there? He crawled forward and peered over the edge, but immediately pulled back in shock. He wasn’t on the ground at all, but hundreds of metres up in the air. He reached out to steady himself, but suddenly he realized something even more terrible. It wasn’t cold hard rock that he was clinging to. It was something warm and throbbing: a huge white pulsating mass, carrying him up, up, away from the earth.
The awful truth suddenly dawned on him. It was a hand – the hand of some enormous creature and it was lifting him higher by the second.
He looked up and then all was explained. Gazing back at him was an expressionless face so big that it filled the entire sky – it was the face of the White Goddess.
Then her giant lips began to move and her voice reverberated around his brain.
“Odysseus, grandson of Autolycus the Sheep Stealer, I have protected you for one last heroic task. You are dreaming now, but when you awake take care, for this is what you must do.” Then she lifted him up towards her lips, that were the size of two pink canoes, and she whispered her instructions in his ear.
And for the second time, Odysseus woke in a panic. But this time he was back in the real world. He shuddered with horror – what a terrible dream that had been. Could the tale the White Goddess had told him be true? He looked around to consult the pirates, but once again things were weird. What was he doing lying on the sand with his feet in a rock-pool? He should be on deck.
“Oh no! I’ve been stranded,” he groaned. “They were meant to take me home, but instead the pirates have dumped me on another God-forsaken island. What’s in store for me this time then – killer hippopotamuses? Twenty-headed giraffes? Giants with three noses who turn people into animals and then eat them with tomato sauce?”
He stood up, shook the water from his boots and surveyed the scene … He was ready for the worst.
But, surprisingly things seemed all right. In fact he rather liked the look of the place. There was a little rock, shaped like a mermaid, just like the one off which he’d learnt to dive when he was a boy. And there in front of him were fields just like the ones where he had learnt to plough. And behind them, were woods which reminded him of the woods where he had fought the wild boar and almost died. In fact, the whole place was suspiciously like…
Suddenly he gasped. For a full ten seconds he couldn’t breathe. Two tears trickled down his cheeks, because now he knew the truth and felt it in every bone in his body. He was home.
At last he was back; twenty years on he was back in Ithaca, his home, his kingdom. This was the land where he would live out the rest of this life in peace.
Or so he thought.
He looked inland. Far away he could see a town, and overlooking it he could just make out the outline of a palace – his palace.
*
A jug of wine hurtled through the air and smashed against the shields and javelins lining the wall of the palace banqueting hall. There was a roar of laughter as red wine dripped on to the floor, staining it the colour of blood.
“Clear up that mess, Telemachus!” someone shouted.
“Do it yourself,” replied a young man whose face was flushed with anger. He started to stride out of the room, but a leg shot out and sent him sprawling. There was jeering and cheering and a hundred drunken men chucked bread rolls in his direction.
There were two people, however, who didn’t cheer, who didn’t jeer. The first was an old nurse, dressed in black, who sat silently sewing. The second was Penelope herself, Odysseus’ Queen. Her head was bowed over a half finished tapestry, and her eyes… were full of hate.
For ten long years these drunken louts had occupied her palace. And every day they said the same thing – “Face the facts. The war finished years ago. Your husband’s dead. Marry one of us instead.”
And every day for ten years, Penelope had replied, “I’m not strong enough to force you to leave my house, but I won’t marry you.”
But last month had been the 21st birthday of her son, Telemachus, and everyone in Ithaca knew the promise
Penelope had made her husband on the fateful day he left for Troy. She had promised him – If he hadn’t returned by the time Telemachus was a man, she must marry again.
And that, she told the suitors, was what she was going to do; although first … she just wanted to finish the tapestry she was working on. And that didn’t make them very happy, because on the tapestry a massive face was taking shape. And it was the face of her husband. Odysseus, King of Ithaca.
But what Penelope did not know, was that the man in the tapestry was, at that very moment, walking along the dusty road towards the palace. Only it wasn’t the same Odysseus who’d set off for Troy twenty years previously. He was older, his hair was grey and his face was wrinkled – and also, for now, he was in disguise.
The Goddess had told him that his wife was a prisoner in their own home, and that his son was in danger from suitors who were plotting to take over his kingdom. So he’d thrown his new boots away, torn his clothes, coated his arms and legs with mud and wrapped an old hessian sack round his head so that only his eyes could be seen. No one would recognize this dirty, old tramp as Odysseus, the King of Ithaca.
So, as a stranger he returned to his own land.
When he got to the town, he bent his legs, rounded his shoulders and shuffled along. From behind his disguise, he looked at the city he had missed so much. But it was not the city he remembered. Its streets were piled with rubbish. There was no music, no laughter, just tired, grey faces with fear in their eyes. The suitors had sucked Ithaca dry.
Then, suddenly, there was singing. But it was not like the singing of old – light and happy, or sad and full of truth. It was lewd, raucous singing, out of tune and out of time, and mainly about rugby … And it was coming from the palace. So that’s where Odysseus headed. But when he reached it and looked through the big iron gates of his old home, it was not a happy sight. The paint was peeling, the windows were smashed and there was graffiti on the walls and a rubbish tip where the garden had once been. He was starting to get angry when…
“On your way!” bawled a beefy, red-faced man in a uniform. “No loitering.” A snort of contempt issued from his bulbous, purple nose as he grabbed Odysseus by the scruff of the neck. “Move on filthbag, or I’ll tie you up and sell you as a slave!” he shouted, and flung Odysseus into a heap of garbage. Then he broke wind in the tramp’s general direction, and stumped off, chuckling to himself.
Now Odysseus was really angry. He lay there, his face and body covered in filth, and rage coursed through him like a swelling bruise. He knew that man. It was Melanthius, the palace butler. Years ago, when he was just a young boy, Odysseus had taught him that every visitor, no matter how humble, must be treated with courtesy. He had clearly forgotten the lesson. Was this really how they treated visitors in Ithaca now? Odysseus hung his head in shame.
But not for long, because at that moment, something licked his face. It was a dog, an old, blind dog with stale breath.
“Clear off” Odysseus shouted, wiping the spittle from his cheek. But the dog didn’t move. It just stood there, panting. Then it drew a rattling, wheezy breath and barked. Odysseus recognized the sound immediately. The old, broken hound in front of him was Argos, the puppy he’d left behind twenty years previously: Argos, the best young hunting dog he’d ever had, who’d saved his life when the wild boar had gashed and scarred his leg the day the whole adventure began.
With tears in his eyes, Odysseus patted and petted the toothless old dog, and threw his arms around its scrawny body. Argos whimpered, wagged his tail, then slowly collapsed into his master’s lap and lay still. He was dead. And even though Odysseus’ enemies were violating his house, even though his whole being yearned for revenge, he took time to dig a small grave and lay his old friend to rest.
Then slowly Odysseus walked up the overgrown path, pushed open the great, bronze, double doors, and entered his palace.
The Great Hall was crammed full of tables, piled high with food looted from the Ithacan countryside. Carcasses of cows and sheep and pigs, roast duck, roast chicken and roast swan were piled almost to the ceiling; and around the tables, on long wooden benches, were the hundred suitors. Odysseus had seen some horrendous sights in his life, but he’d never seen anything quite as disgusting as this bunch of louts. They were stuffing handfuls of meat into their greedy mouths, snatching chicken legs from each other’s grasp, and carelessly overturning vast bowls of steaming vegetables which spread into pools on the table-tops before dripping into great puddles of discarded food on the floor. And between the tables Odysseus’ servants waded through the mess, doing the best they could to mop up the slopped food and refill the goblets with wine. But what was the point… One suitor picked up a tureen full of soup and poured it over the head of a shivering kitchen-maid. Another pushed a herald’s face into a mound of mashed potato and held him there kicking and struggling.
At the door stood Odysseus; his eyes narrowed into slits as he watched the men who were polluting his house. He remembered them all. The two throwing knives at a painting of his mother – he’d been at school with them. The one being sick behind the curtains – that was his second cousin. Oh, they were going to pay for this, they were really going to regret this. But for now…
He shuffled around the hall with an old bowl, begging for food, remembering each one of the evil faces which surrounded him. A weaselly one spat in his begging bowl and laughed; a greasy one threw in a chicken bone; one with spots the size of saucers, kicked the bowl from his hand and sent it spinning across the floor. Then a hand grabbed his shoulder and a voice barked “Out!” It was Melanthius, the palace butler, again. “Move!” he shouted, and hit Odysseus across the kidneys with a stubby, black stick. Then, before his victim had time to move away, “Move!” he shouted once more, and hit him across the back of his neck.
But this time, Odysseus did not try to move away. Instead, he turned, and smiled, and then snatched the stick from the butler and snapped it in two.
“Oh, look! The old man’s angry!” someone giggled.
Then, “Let’s make ’em fight!” crowed the weaselly-faced suitor.
“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!” went up the cry and the suitors clustered round in a circle. They were like savages, waiting for a cockfight.
Bets were placed. Money changed hands.
“Two to one he breaks the old man’s arms.”
“Three to one he tears his eyes out.”
“Seven to two he kills him.”
No one bet on Odysseus. No one bet on the Greatest Hero of Them All.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” said Melanthius, rolling up his sleeves. “I’m going to tear you limb from limb.” And he lumbered towards Odysseus, grinning.
A slow handclap started, getting faster and faster. The suitors’ eyes glittered in anticipation.
BANG! Suddenly Melanthius wasn’t grinning any more. He was lying on his back. His nose was bleeding, one eye was closed, he didn’t seem to have any teeth and the tramp was standing over him rubbing his knuckles.
The suitors howled with laughter. “The tramp’s the champ!” they chanted and lifted him on their shoulders. Someone tore out a paper crown and crammed it on his head. Someone else started patting him on the back. “But we mustn’t let him get too big-headed, must we?” said the slimy, weaselly-faced suitor; and patted him even harder. Then the others joined in, until their pats turned to fists and Odysseus fell to the floor under a heap of punching, giggling, drunken suitors.
“Enough!” A woman’s voice stopped them in their tracks.
Penelope strode into the hall, her voice quivering with fury.
“How dare you treat a guest like this! In my house, visitors are treated with respect and courtesy,” and although she was a Queen, she took the tramp’s hand and drew him to his feet.
“I apologize old man,” she said gently. “Please go to my kitchens and eat.”
For a moment it seemed as though the old man was going to say something, but then he turned an
d shuffled out. Then a weaselly voice stopped the Queen in her tracks.
“Penelope, you’ve been cheating us.”
Once more she faced her enemies, like a snowy owl surrounded by stoats.
“You said you’d marry when you finished your tapestry, but it’s been over a month now and it’s still not done,” continued Prince Weasel.
“I’m a slow worker,” replied the Queen.
“No, you’re not,” retorted Prince Spotty. “Every night you creep downstairs and unpick the previous day’s work. Don’t try to deny it. Medon the musician spied on you and told us.”
Penelope flashed a look at the man who had betrayed her.
“Thank you, Medon,” she said coldly, then drew a long, despairing breath. “Very well, I see I can delay no longer. Tomorrow I shall hold a contest. Whoever wins I will marry.”
There was silence. Greed and desire filled the faces of the suitors.
“Now go!” she said, and one after another they left the room.
The last to go was Medon. Penelope stopped him at the door.
“How long have you been in the service of this house?” she asked. “Thirty years, isn’t it? And yet you could betray me like this.”
“I don’t get involved, your ladyship,” replied the cowardly wretch. “I’m just an entertainer,” and he gave an exaggerated, low bow and scampered off after his paymasters.
Penelope sighed a sigh as deep as the sea, then looked up as the tramp shuffled back in from the kitchens.
“We’re two of a kind, old man,” she said. “They treat me with the same contempt they treat you. Come on, sit down. Your feet are cut and bleeding; the nurse will wash them.”
She gestured towards a massive, ruby-studded throne, which sparkled in the flickering torchlight. The tramp moved towards it, but couldn’t bring himself to sit down.
“Oh, don’t be scared,” said Penelope, and drifted away. But it wasn’t fear Odysseus was feeling as he once more mounted the ivory step and sat on the throne that had been his and his father’s before him. It was a feeling so complicated he didn’t have time to sort it out before the old nurse started bustling around his feet with her towel and bowl of water.
Odysseus II Page 6