Penelope's Web

by Christopher Rush

  asleep again, and dream eternally.

  Sailors, all things invite you: stay

  away forever from the weary sea,

  the drift of change, accept instead

  the hour of ease, the purple noon,

  the lotus fruit that leads you idly

  to Elysium. Why feel the weight of sorrow,

  why work an hour longer, why work

  at all? Stay here with us in our yellow

  lotus fields, our isle of dreams.

  Seduced thus by the lotus and the lilting voices, the mariners urged their captain to let them stay. Odysseus alone was adamant against it and alone refused to eat the lotus and succumb to the power of the drug. But one of his own crew, a man called Eurylochus, spoke eloquently and at length in favour of the alternative life.

  ‘Let there be an end to it, Odysseus,’ he said. ‘We’ve all had enough of it, the sea, the sky, the toil and trouble. What is life but war and work and words, and in a little while our deeds are ash and our lips are dumb. Why go back to it, to any of it, the diurnal drudge, the shifting sea, the armed struggle, the cruel world, our hearts war-weary and our eyes gone dim with staring at the pilot-stars? Let’s stay on here and live for peace, not war, ringed not by enemies but by friends, the mild-eyed melancholy lotus-eaters, mindless with ecstasy, a lifetime’s ripening easing us into death, dropping like apples sweetly into our graves.

  ‘What better life could be? What better than these yellow dreams? With half-shut eyes and ears of stone to hear the distant rivers, the gurgling streams, to watch the crisping ripples come and go, the curving lines of tide advance, recede, futile as strife, absurd as time. Where are those we knew? Faces of infancy, friends in the firelight, where are they now? They lie beneath the land they tilled, sleepers in earth, no weary limbs resting at last on beds of asphodel, each one we loved shut up forever in an urn of brass, far from the Elysian Fields, two fistfuls of white dust, a sigh in the grass, no more.

  ‘And nothing endures. Why strive to keep what dies? Let’s live instead this never-ending hour, banish the memory of our wedded lives, the hot tears grown cold on chimney-stones. Our sons are in our places, our wives warm-bedded now with other men, thinking us all long dead. We’d come like ghosts on smokeless hearths to trouble them – a tale of Troy, no more, a song, a story, stopped in men’s mouths. No, lads, we’ll not go home where home’s no more, we’ll stay and rest and sleep and swoon, and see the long bright rivers stitched on the yellow fields, the purple hills, and never change our sky, and we’ll study war no more.’

  Odysseus heard out this speech in gracious silence and even applauded the speaker at the end. ‘Well delivered, Eurylochus. I never knew you were such a poet. You should have accompanied yourself on the lyre. Not that it would have made any difference. You could have said all that in two sentences. I appreciate your point of view, but it’s secondhand and it’s lotus lingo. I still speak the language of the real world, and in that language, we’re leaving. That’s a reality; that’s a fact. More to the point, it’s an order.’

  Even so, it proved hard for Odysseus to assemble the crews and ensure that all twelve ships were ready to cast off. In the end he used what force was necessary in the face of mutinous indolence. He made fires, burning the lotus baskets on the beach, forbidding the natives with drawn sword to bring more, and hurling the sailors into the sobering cold white breakers. Some he even had to tie up under the benches, releasing them only when they were well clear of the island. Many had sworn they would jump ship the moment they were loosened and swim straight back to the land of the lotus to live like gods again, they said, careless of mankind, untroubled in the mind, free from the cares and sorrows of their kind. But Odysseus had given orders that not a man was to be untied until the effects of the drug had worn off and the lotus had left them – with their minds restored. And so the resourceful Odysseus succeeded in taming his rebellious men. And leaving the land of the lotus-eaters, they once more put to sea, heading north in the direction of Crete.

  FORTY-ONE

  We whitened the wine-dark sea with our oars and headed north. But we’d sailed for less than half a day when a bastard of a gale got up, a northwester, and kicked us south again, and east. Down it came, the starless blackness, and it was one of those nights when nothing exists except the inkiness overhead and the roaring white sea beneath, and the whole time the hurricane howling in your ears and tearing your hair. The sails were shredded again, the oars impossible. The dope-heads I’d brought by force screamed at me that I’d dragged them out of the good life to plunge them into hell with the sea in their skulls and the quick glinting fish nibbling their ribs – that’s not quite the language they used, but however it’s put, it was true enough at the time and I couldn’t deny it.

  Then the sea shifted under us, as it does, and we could feel ourselves being ushered in somewhere by long white rollers, and suddenly we were safely aground. We tumbled over the gunwales – here we go again – and slumped down and slept, curtained off by a clinging night mist.

  Dawn slit open the east. Rubbing our eyes, we glimpsed hills in the distance, shimmering in the pink morning mist. Closer to shore the land was level and looked to be deep-soiled and fertile, except that there wasn’t a sign of cultivation, only wild wheat and barley, and wild vines growing thickly but untended, ripened by rains. Then we saw the thin, slow columns of smoke starting up from the mountains. Hill tribes? Always bad news, barbarians, the savage sort who can’t be arsed to till their own fields. Thunder seemed to be coming out of the mountains, which was weird with good weather on the go. And now we heard the bleatings of sheep and goats. Shepherds, then? The men cheered up, picturing cuts of mutton roasting on the spits.

  ‘I wouldn’t count on any wine to wash it down,’ I said, ‘looking at the state of those vines. Whoever lives here does fuck all. They rely on earth and sky to do the work.’

  When the mist burned off we saw that we were on a small wooded island at the mouth of a mainland bay, and with a natural harbour, a beauty of a nook where you could lie a ship without rope or anchor. The strange thing was, there wasn’t a ship in sight, not as much as a small boat, not even a coracle. Who were these bastards? Not a trace of trade, and no buildings either, not a civilising finger pointed anywhere. But the wild goats were plentiful, and we were famished, so I said we’d stay here for the day and eat and then scout out the mainland the next morning. We brought down over a hundred goats for our twelve ships. We’d drawn off as many jars of wine as we could carry when we sacked the Cicones, so we ate our fill of roast goat and washed it all down with the red stuff till sunset.

  Another dawn. I ordered the fleet to wait by the island while I took my own crew over to the mainland to reconnoitre: this was a place that could be worth colonising one day. As usual, the crews bitched about wanting to get home, but I told them I would see if there were any rich pickings to be had before we moved out.

  We soon found a sizeable cave close to the shore. It was overhung with laurels and fronted by a sort of courtyard fenced in with boulders and timber, pretty basic. I took my twelve best men inside, leaving the rest to guard the ship. As an afterthought I took along a goatskin of Maron’s wine, the special one, as a possible gift for anyone showing us hospitality. We weren’t holding our breaths for it.

  But there were encouraging signs – folds of lambs and kids which the absent owner had kept penned inside the cave, and there were brimming milk-pails and baskets crammed with big cheeses. No sign of bread or wine, though. What was the matter with these people?

  ‘Let’s grab as many of these cheeses as we can carry and fuck off while we can.’

  Eurynomous was always the first to beat a retreat. I told him that since we’d come this far we were going to find out who lived here. My curiosity was aroused.

  ‘Your curiosity will fucking kill us all!’

  But he got stuck into the cheeses like the rest of us. Later we killed a couple of the kids and made up a fire for roasting.
By evening we were stuffed.

  ‘I don’t suppose he’ll mind,’ I said. ‘Hospitality to hungry strangers is the first law of life.’

  And the second law of life is that you don’t nod off in a strange place with your weapons stacked by the door. We woke to find our fire gone out, light fading fast, and a big black shape filling the mouth of the cave. We shrank back into the shadows. He hadn’t seen us yet – if it was a ‘he’. The shambling manner suggested some sort of beast. But he was human all right, a mountain of a man, and a shaggy bastard too. He crashed a bundle of faggots to the floor, ready to make a fire for supper, then he stopped the doorway with a rock so fucking big it would have taken two Ajaxes to shift it. Next thing, there were sparks, and then the tongues of flame shot up and showed us more of our host.

  God almighty, he was ugly! A complete fucking abortion. One of his eyes was missing – either a malformation or some accident or act of aggression had left him with just the one. There was scarring over the socket, the skin like a lizard’s. This cunt was going to give us grief, I knew it. My brain was racing. An opponent with half his eyes – that gives you half a chance. It gives you an edge. The fire roared into life, and he saw us.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  We stared. The freak spoke Greek.

  ‘I asked you who the fuck you are. Cattle thieves? Pirates? You’re thugs on the make, aren’t you? Out on a spree. Well, you’ve come to the wrong fucking place, you cunts!’

  He spotted the remnants of our meal.

  ‘Fucking hell, and you’ve been making free with my food and all, you fucking plunderers, I’m going to fucking kill you!’

  ‘Wait!’ I said. ‘We’re Greeks, like you. We’re what’s left of Agamemnon’s army, on our way back home from Troy. We’re not raiders, we’re just simple soldiers and sailors, driven off course, and we’ve come to you as guests.’

  He grinned, exposing a row of jagged yellow teeth.

  ‘And we ask you to honour the gods, bearing in mind that all suppliants who are dishonoured by their hosts are avenged by Zeus.’

  The host snorted. Mucus shot from his nostrils and ran down his chin.

  ‘Nice speech, but it won’t wash here. Listen you, I’ll tell you right here and now, I’ve never heard of Troy and I’ve never heard of this cunt Agamemnon. I don’t give a fuck about Zeus either. Zeus means fuck all to me and neither do you, arsehole! You’re well out of touch with the way things work in these parts. Permit me to demonstrate.’

  He lurched across the cave and grabbed the nearest man by the neck. The poor bugger didn’t even have time to scream. In the same second, the freak smashed his head against the side of the cave. The skull shattered, and the brains splashed out across the wall and slid to the floor. I started up, but he blocked my way.

  ‘You want some of that, bastard-face? Just try it and see!’

  The men looked at me, shit-scared. We could have tried to rush him and make for the weapons, but we’d somehow frozen. I reckoned I had to keep him talking. I pointed to the still twitching corpse.

  ‘What good did that do you?’

  ‘What good? What the fuck do you mean, what good? That’s fucking food down there!’

  We stared at each other. He read what we were thinking.

  ‘That’s right, you’ve got it. Greeks, did you say? Well, Greeks will do me fine – it’s all the same to me.’

  He laughed and farted. ‘One at a time, though. I’m not a glutton!’

  More gut laughter and more farts.

  ‘Only one question – which fucker’s next?’

  He reached out for me. I had to think fast. ‘Wait!’

  ‘They all say that.’

  ‘No – listen!’ I put on a whining voice and cringed, wringing my hands. ‘Not me, please, I’m begging you! Take any one of my men instead of me and I’ll make it well worth your while.’

  More snorts, more snot.

  ‘No you won’t, I’ve got no fucking interest in your gold, it’s fuck-all use to me!’

  ‘It’s not gold, it’s better than that.’ I picked up the Maron goatskin.

  ‘It’s the best drink ever made, believe me. Drink this and you’ll feel like a god!’

  ‘I don’t want to feel like a fucking god! And I’ve tasted wine before. What do you think I am, you stupid cunt?’

  I poured a good slap into one of his wooden bowls. ‘Just taste it.’

  He lifted it and sniffed, hesitating. ‘I’m not a wine drinker. Anyway, how do I know it’s not drugged or poisoned or something? Do you think I’m completely fucking stupid?’

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘But look, to prove it’s not been spiked, I’ll take the first swig.’

  I gulped enough to convince him but not enough to befuddle me.

  ‘And I’ll ask each of my men to do the same in turn. If it’s poisoned, we all die.’

  I passed the bowl to Eurynomous with a wink, and he swigged and handed it to the next man.

  ‘All right, all right, you’ve made your fucking point. Now give it here!’ He grabbed hold of the bowl and slurped greedily. As soon as it hit the spot his expression changed.

  ‘Hey, that’s fucking good stuff. Got any more of it?’

  ‘Right now just the one skin, sir, but there’s plenty more where that came from. I can go and get it for you right now if you want me to.’

  ‘You’ll stay right where you are! And you’ll go nowhere except under my supervision. Now let’s have the rest of that!’

  I poured him out three more draughts in succession, each of which he threw down his neck the way a dog bolts its food. The wine didn’t even touch the sides of his gob. And still no effect. This was worrying. I weighed what was left in my palm. He saw my expression, misinterpreted it, and grinned.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll leave you some. And you’ll be well rewarded for it.’

  He chuckled as I charged his bowl from the now nearly empty skin, wishing I’d brought another. The cunt had the constitution of an ox. At last, though, I saw the tell-tale look come into his eye, and his speech started to slow.

  ‘Another . . . another . . .’

  ‘Your wish is my command. Not to finish it off would be an insult to the wine. A nice nightcap, don’t you think?’

  ‘Insult to the wine . . . nightcap.’

  The swigs were shallower now, and each one brought him closer to the oblivion he was about to enter. When I saw he was ready to take the plunge I decided to taunt him a little.

  ‘And now, you drunken fuck, what about my reward?’

  The men panicked and gestured frantically at me. The bastard wasn’t completely unconscious.

  ‘Reward?’

  ‘Yes, you said you’d make it worth my while giving you this wine, so what’s the prize, cunt-face?’

  ‘The prize is’ – drunken burping and laughter – ‘that you’ll be the last to die. I’ll leave you till the end. How’s that suit you, eh? I’ll roast your Greek heart and liver and dine in style!’

  One hand slumped heavily onto his naked gut. The bowl slipped from the filthy fingers of the other hand and clattered on the floor.

  ‘But tomorrow will do for that. And the next day, I’ll shit you into little pieces.’

  Snigger, slobber, fart. Blind drunk the bastard lay, his head sagged to one side, burping up blood-red wine. We rushed to the entrance and collected our weapons. Then we put our combined weight against the rock and shoved like fuck.

  ‘Right, now to cut the cunt’s throat!’

  ‘No – wait, lads,’ I said, ‘I’ve something else in mind for this one-eyed arsehole. I’m going to make the bastard suffer.’

  I shoved my sword-point into the hot embers and waited till the blade was glowing a good old red. Then I aimed carefully at the one good eye . . .

  The screaming followed us all the way to the ship. I’d blinded him, but not killed him. I wanted him to have plenty of time left to reflect on the virtues of offering hospitality to strangers.
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  ‘And who knows,’ I said later to Penelope, ‘maybe he’s seeing better now. They say blind men develop an inner light. Maybe he’s even grateful!’

  But at the time I couldn’t resist the urge to run back a little way closer to the cave to let him have a parting shaft.

  ‘Enjoy the rest of your life, loser! By tonight you’ll be wishing I’d killed you!’

  The men came running back to drag me away. ‘For fuck’s sake, listen to the racket he’s making! The bastard could have friends. He could bring down the whole country round our fucking ears!’

  And that’s how it happened, though I don’t mind admitting that over the years I grew fonder of Penelope’s version of events, as she wove it, and as you would expect. The mind’s more cradled when the grave is near, and you acquire a taste for fables, stories to sweeten death’s bitterness. In the web, the friends were the Cyclops, a race of one-eyed giants, of which he was one, and the thunder we heard on our first approach was the sound of their voices, bellowing to one another from their mountain caves, where each lived out his solitary life without a thought for society. The one we met stood as tall as a tree, and not twenty men could have shifted the rock with which he sealed the mouth of his cave, trapping us inside with him. If we’d killed him in his drunken stupor, our bones would have mouldered there along with his. A plan altogether more cunning had to be contrived.

  The monster lunged at us as soon as he saw us and snatched up two of the crew. They were like puppies in his huge fists. He bashed their brains out on the cave walls and ripped their limbs apart with his bare fingers. Then he spitted the best body parts and roasted them quickly over the fire. The stench of burning human flesh filled the cave and made us vomit. The feed was too awful to describe.

  ‘Now I’m going to sleep,’ he said, ‘and if any of you try anything during the night you’ll never get out alive. You’ll never shift that rock, not if you chipped at it with your swords for a hundred years. But before I rest I want to know a few things, now that I have a good full belly and I’m feeling talkative. You, the captain – what do they call you?’