Odysseus II

by Odysseus II- The Journey Through Hell (retail) (epub)

  “Just pop your tootsies in the suds,” she said.

  She didn’t know what a shock was in store.

  “I always say, there’s nothing a good scrubbing can’t put…” She never finished the sentence. At that moment her fingers touched a scar, a long, jagged scar which ran from his ankle to his knee. She gasped, the bowl slipped from her grasp and span and clattered across the floor. In a flash, Odysseus clasped his hand over her mouth – and looked around. No one had noticed. The servants were on their hands and knees scrubbing the filth from the floors, the Queen was gazing pensively at her tapestry.

  “Yes, it’s me,” whispered Odysseus. “I have returned. But you must remain silent and pretend not to know me. Speak only to my most trusted servants and tell them to meet me in the courtyard at midnight. Now, send my son to me.”

  The nurse didn’t say a word and her face gave nothing away. But her hand softly squeezed her master’s before she silently left the room.

  At midnight, Odysseus was standing alone in the Great Hall, when Telemachus burst in.

  “I’m sorry you’ve been treated so badly,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s the same for all of us and we’re simply not powerful enough to do anything about it. But one day, when my father returns, we’ll put things to rights. Just you wait. We’ll damn well…”

  Odysseus put his hands on the young man’s shoulders and gazed deep into his eyes.

  “Telemachus,” he said, lifting his hood and showing his face, “don’t you know who I am?”

  Telemachus stared at the old man, puzzled.

  Then he turned and looked at the tapestry his mother had made.

  Then back at the tramp.

  Then at the tapestry.

  Then at the tramp.

  “Father!” he whispered, and flung his arms around Odysseus. They hugged each other for a long time, then wiped the tears from each other’s eyes.

  “Now son,” said Odysseus, “we have work to do. Take the shields and javelins off the walls and lock them in the armoury. Tomorrow we take our revenge.”

  Chapter Seven

  7 – Showdown!

  Early next morning, the double doors burst open and one hundred suitors poured into the Great Hall, wild with excitement.

  But then they skidded to a halt and stared in amazement. In front of them was an axe, with its hilt buried deep in the floor; an axe with a handle the colour of ox-blood and a head of shining silver. And etched on to the head was a one-eyed Cyclops; only where its mouth should have been, there was a gaping hole. And through the hole could be seen another axe with a silver head, and on this one was a hideous gorgon with its mouth wide open, and behind that was another, and another, and another … In all, twelve silver axes, one behind the other, in a long line down the entire length of the banqueting hall; each one bearing the face of some hideous monster, and each monster with a yawning hole for a mouth.

  And beyond the furthest axe, holding a colossal hunting bow, stood Penelope. Slowly she walked towards the suitors, step by step past the long row of flashing blades. A hush fell on the room, broken only by the sound of her firm footsteps. She had no idea how the day would end, she only knew that her hatred for these men was total. Her eyes took in everything; the suitors slavering with anticipation, her son biting his nails in the corner, and in the shadow of the hearth the old tramp, barely visible under his hessian hood.

  When she reached the first axe, she stopped and spoke.

  “This bow belonged to my husband, Odysseus. No one, save he, has ever been able to put it to use. Whoever can fire a single arrow from it so that it passes through the holes in these twelve axes, that man I will marry.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then a whoop of laughter as the suitors raced towards her and ripped the bow from her hands. It was going to be a doddle and everyone wanted to go first.

  “Wait!” she ordered. “My son shall make the first attempt. If Telemachus succeeds, I will marry no one, but will remain a widow until the end of my days.”

  The suitors hissed as Telemachus stepped forward and took his father’s ancient weapon. He placed an arrow on the bowstring and pulled. But it wouldn’t budge an inch. It felt as though it had been made for a giant. Sweat burst out on his forehead, his muscles quivered with the strain, and then s l o w l y the bow began to bend, when… BEDUNG! It snapped back into place. Once more he tried and BEDUNG! once more he failed. The third time he took a deep breath and in his mind’s eye he visualized the arrow speeding towards its target. He knew he could do it! He closed one eye, he took aim, he began to pull the bowstring back… and at that moment the tramp gently shook his head. No one else noticed, but Telemachus knew what to do.

  BEDUNG! the bow snapped into place again.

  “It’s no good mother,” he sighed. “I’m not strong enough.”

  Penelope’s eyes darkened, but she said nothing.

  “My turn,” hissed the weaselly faced suitor and snatched the bow.

  He pulled.

  Nothing happened. Quite literally nothing. Although he pulled so hard his weasel face went bright purple and his eyes popped out like radishes, the bow didn’t move a hair’s breadth.

  The suitors hooted in derision.

  “Now me,” whined the pimply suitor.

  But once again, despite an effort that led to two burst blood vessels… complete failure.

  Then another suitor, so greedy that he kept a permanent, greasy napkin dangling from his neck, tried his luck.

  His clammy fingers wrapped themselves around the dark wood of the old bow and he started to yank and tug at it. Penelope watched his pathetic fumblings and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “Perhaps the string needs greasing,” yelled someone and threw a slimy lump of meat fat at him.

  “Or moistening,” suggested someone else, pouring a plate of soup over his head.

  The greedy slob gave one final heave, slipped on the soup and crashed into a table. Food, drink and suitors went flying. There were hysterical howls of laughter as more and more men waded through the mess, falling over each other as they attempted, fruitlessly, to get to the bow.

  Behind his hood, Odysseus said nothing. Only his eyes moved. His trusted servants were in position; there were no weapons on the walls; everything was ready.

  Meanwhile the suitors lay on the floor, kicking their legs and sniggering helplessly among the broken bottles. But their laughter suddenly died away.

  “Wait a minute,” said the pimply suitor. “Perhaps it isn’t possible to bend the bow at all. Perhaps its another trick to get rid of us.”

  “Yes,” hissed the weasel. “Perhaps we ought to make our own decision, now.”

  “Your Noble Highnesses, may I try?” asked Odysseus softly.

  “You? You’re just a tramp,” scoffed the weasel.

  “He’s as good a man as any here,” replied the Queen. “Old man, take the bow.”

  Odysseus turned it in his hands and felt its weight. Then he softly plucked the bowstring. A long, low note rang out and reverberated around the hall.

  “Please leave now, Mother,” said Telemachus quietly.

  Penelope looked at her son, puzzled.

  “Trust me,” he urged.

  She smiled, then turned and left. For the first time in his life, her son had spoken with the determination of a grown man.

  And now Odysseus rested his arrow against the bowstring and smiled. The secret wasn’t strength, of course. He was a trickster, not a great ape. He simply placed his foot on the base of the bow and with a flick of his wrists the bow was bent and at his shoulder. The suitors gasped, but he didn’t let it break his concentration. He thought back to his hunting days, to those countless arrows speeding towards their prey.

  “Always concentrate on your target,“ his grandfather had told him when he was a lad. “Anything nearer will look after itself.“

  So Odysseus fixed his eyes on the far wall, on a tiny dribble of wine just visible through the twelve holes in
the axes. He felt the arrow’s feathers against his cheek, he felt the taut bowstring aching to be released, he stared long and hard at the wine stain, then he let go the arrow and WHOOSH!

  Straight through the gaping hole in the Cyclops it flew.

  Through the gorgon.

  Through the harpy.

  Through the mouths of all twelve monsters, until VDUNG! It embedded itself deep in the wall. Right in the middle of that dribble of wine.

  The suitors stared, dumbstruck. But then there was the chink of coins as the weaselly one tossed a purse at Odysseus’ feet.

  “You were lucky,” he said. “Now go.”

  But Odysseus didn’t move. Instead he looked deep into the weasel’s eyes, and whispered – the loudest whisper they’d ever heard – the last whisper they’d ever hear. “Gentlemen – the hour has come.”

  Immediately BERDANG! The big, double doors slammed shut.

  BERDANG! BERDANG! The windows slammed shut too; and outside, the sound of a few, trusty servants could be heard, lashing them tight. No one could get in or out.

  Then CHUNK! Telemachus threw a quiver full of arrows to his father, and Odysseus scattered them on the floor in front of him.

  “We underestimated you,” said the pimply suitor, his voice edged with fear. “I drink your health.” He lifted his goblet, but he never drank. Odysseus’ arrow went through his throat like a hot knife through butter. He slumped on to the table, his dead head resting on a pig with an orange in its mouth.

  “Kill him!” yelled the suitors, and rushed to the wall for the weapons. But the shields and javelins which had always hung there had disappeared.

  Then a voice behind them froze them where they stood. “You terrorized my wife. You ruined my country. You plundered my house. You abused my servants. Now prepare to die.”

  Slowly, slowly, they turned to see who it was who had so confidently condemned them to death. At first they thought it was just the tramp, and their spirits rose an inch or two. But then the tramp tore off his hood, and their spirits sank a mile. Because in front of them stood Odysseus, King of Ithaca. He was home at last, after twenty years. And he was very angry.

  The colour drained from the suitors’ faces and the weaselly suitor dropped to his knees. “Odysseus,” he squealed, “we’ve behaved abominably. I’m truly, truly sorry. Gosh, I’m sorry. I mean, so incredibly sorry… really, really sorry. But, hey, welcome home.”

  Then he stood up, and stepped towards Odysseus, stretching forth a hand of friendship. Or at least, it would have been a hand of friendship, if it hadn’t contained a tiny knife he’d just cunningly taken from his boot as he knelt. Unluckily for him, it was the last cunning thing he’d ever try. Two seconds later, he had an arrow through his forehead. Odysseus wasn’t in the mood for shaking hands.

  ZZZIIINNGGG! A hundred swords suddenly shot from a hundred scabbards, and the rest of the suitors, knowing it was them or him, charged Odysseus. But the man they were charging had blinded the Cyclops, he had overcome the Sirens, he had braved the twin horrors of Scylla and Charybdis. They didn’t stand a chance. Slowly but surely Odysseus advanced until, in desperation, the suitors overturned the tables and dived for cover.

  But it wasn’t cover for long. Now Telemachus and a few trusty servants joined Odysseus, and one by one, the suitors breathed their last. They tried charging, but each time they were pushed back as arrow after arrow sent them off to Hell. What a day this would be for the Fat Batsman. A hundred new arrivals from his old home town! Odysseus was winning, and it looked as though nothing could stop him, until suddenly he realised he’d made one miscalculation. His arrows were running out.

  “Quick, son,” he ordered Telemachus. “Slip out to the armoury while I hold them off.”

  Telemachus edged round the side wall, over dead bodies and scared kitchen-maids and through a tiny door in the corner. Hoping that no one had followed him, he shot down the corridor and, taking a small gold key from his pocket, he opened the door to the armoury at the end of it. Seconds later he returned with an armful of arrows.

  “Well done,” said Odysseus. “These should do the trick.” But they didn’t. The suitors held on.

  “Somethings wrong,” said Odysseus. “Just take a look at the armoury again.”

  So once more, Telemachus crept out of the door in the corner and into the corridor. And he found the answer. There in front of him stood the butler Melanthius, his arms full of arrows for the suitors and a tiny gold key swinging from his key chain.

  “Oh, dear,” said Telemachus calmly.

  “Oh, no!” whined Melanthius pitifully, and sank to the floor as Telemachus’ knife entered his stomach.

  Back in the Great Hall the old nurse was passing out arrows to Odysseus and his men. “Collect all the loyal servants who aren’t fighters,” whispered Odysseus, “and lead them to safety.”

  Swiftly, the old woman moved around the hall touching first this servant and then that and then led them through the tiny door.

  Medon, the treacherous musician, tiptoed after them, till he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  “Where are you going?” asked Odysseus.

  “Oh, just along. I didn’t really do anything wrong you know,” laughed Medon nervously. “I’mjust an entertainer. All I ever wanted was to make people laugh.”

  “Unfortunately,” replied Odysseus, “even a clown must choose which side he’s on. And you chose wrong.”

  Medon giggled, slipped on a stupid false nose and began to sing a comic song. “Don’t tell me about my mother-in-law, she’s as ugly as a…”

  But no one ever discovered how ugly she was. Odysseus picked him up and hurled him back into the room. He died on the uplifted sword of an oncoming suitor.

  And now it was time for father and son to make the final charge. The final end to the shame that had hung like a dirty storm-cloud over Ithaca for ten years. They wrenched the twelve silver axes from the ground and, whirling them round their heads, flung them at the enemy. Twelve silver blades shot in twelve different directions, and twelve heads were cut from twelve bodies. Again and again the blades flashed until, at last, it was over. The cloud was gone.

  “Open the doors,” ordered Odysseus, the reinstated King of Ithaca, and in an instant the blinding sun burst into the banqueting hall.

  Smiling with relief, but gasping with exhaustion, the trusty servants leant on their weapons, listening to the silence broken only by the drip! drip! drip! of an overturned flask of wine. Odysseus himself staggered outside and fell on to a wooden bench. Above him he saw the sky, clear and blue, except for a solitary, white cloud. And for an instant he was sure he could see, deep within it, the smiling face of the Goddess – then she was gone for ever. Sitting up once more, he looked over the city and on up to the high hills of Ithaca. At last they felt like they were his again. This was the land he had fought for, and now there could be peace. After twenty years he could finally rest.

  Then a voice spoke from behind his shoulder.

  “Is it really you?”

  He turned and saw Penelope. And he nodded.

  But she did not move, and she didn’t smile.

  “How can I be sure? The Odysseus who left me twenty years ago was young and in his prime. The man I see now has grey hair.”

  “Those are tricks that time plays on the best of us,” said Odysseus quietly. “It is me.”

  But Penelope still hesitated. “Well, maybe. Give me time to think. Sleep out here tonight. I’ll bring your bed into the courtyard.”

  “How will you do that?” asked Odysseus, smiling. “Our bed is carved from a living olive tree. Will you pull it up by its roots?”

  That was all the proof she needed. In the quiet, calm of the evening a King and his Queen, both no longer young, clung tight to each other, like drowning sailors clinging to a rock. They’d survived.

  Later, Odysseus left the city and climbed up into the hills. Ahead of him was what had once been a stately old house, but now its roof had collapsed
and the door was off its hinges. He hid behind a battered fence and looked on in tears. Working in the garden was his father. The last time Odysseus had seen him, he was a noble king, but the suitors had stripped him of his riches and now he looked like an old scarecrow, with a battered hat, holes in his shoes, gloves without fingers and shaking hands.

  “Who’s there?” the old man demanded, squinting through the rickety fencing.

  “Good afternoon,” replied Odysseus smoothly. “I’m a travelling salesman from Lemnos. I’ve got an excellent range of javelins. Perhaps your son would like to sample one?”

  “Go away!” snapped his father. “I had a son, the finest in the land, but he’s dead.”

  “That’s what you think,” said Odysseus with a smile. “Father.”

  “You?” muttered the shaky old man and staggered towards him.

  But when he got closer, he stopped. “No! Never! You’re not Odysseus. The old Odysseus was bigger than you.”

  “Well, maybe, but I’ve still got the scar on my leg.”

  “You could have faked it. No, you’re too old.”

  Odysseus had forgotten how stubborn his father could be. “Look,” he said firmly, “do you see that blackberry bush?”

  “Yes,” answered his father grumpily.

  “Well, you planted that the day I was born, and those plum trees. And there were blackcurrants over there. What’s happened to them?”

  “They got leaf curl and died,” said his father. “Welcome home, son. Why are you selling javelins?”

  As the shadows lengthened, father and son looked across their kingdom – at the fishing villages, the white-washed cottages, the tiny boats, and the farmers going in for their tea. And Odysseus thought back to the Trojan War. All those wasted lives. And he thought back to his hellish journey home. All those wasted years. His life had passed by, his youth gone. The Greatest Hero of Them All, yes indeed. But, oh, at what a price.

  “Oh, come on, don’t get broody,” said his Dad. “It’s time for dinner. VVelcome home.”