Odysseus in the Serpent Maze

by Robert J. Harris

  Helen gasped. “Magic!”

  “Don’t be silly,” Penelope told her. “It’s a workshop.”

  But Mentor was the only one looking beyond the implements. “There’s the master,” he whispered, pointing to a white-robed man in an alcove to the right side of the room.

  “And is that his wife?” Penelope asked, equally softly.

  A few feet farther was another alcove, occupied by a beautiful young woman. More beautiful, in a way, Odysseus thought, than Helen.

  He wondered what Mentor would think of that!

  Or Helen.

  When the master didn’t immediately summon them into the workshop, Odysseus went forward, followed quickly by the others, holding his hands out, palms upward, in a gesture of friendship.

  “We’re shipwrecked and far from home,” he told the white-robed man. “May we have your help?”

  Neither the master nor his lovely wife made any response.

  “They’re not moving,” Penelope whispered.

  “I don’t think they’re even breathing,” Odysseus said. He walked up to the man and touched his face. The cheek was marble.

  Astonished, Odysseus said, “Statues!” He examined the young master closely, marvelling at the details. “Look how lifelike they are.”

  The four of them crowded around the statue of the young man, then they turned to look at the young woman.

  “Who but Daedalus could have made them?” Penelope said. “This has to be his workshop.”

  Odysseus turned around to look over the workshop more carefully. Built into one wall was a kiln with a forge close by. Small jointed figurines of people and animals fashioned from wood and plaster were arranged on many of the shelves. Whoever Daedalus was, he was a master at his work.

  “What use is all this?” Helen complained. “We need food, water, couches, servants.” She plucked unhappily at the folds of her dress. “And a change of clothes.”

  “Surely we’ll find something useful here,” Penelope said soothingly. “There should be another room, where Daedalus could sleep and eat.” She started to look around for a door.

  “What’s this—a guard dog?” Mentor stood by the side of a metal hound, its body formed of bronze plates riveted together. For eyes it had a pair of rubies that glittered in the flickering light.

  Helen laughed. “Woof! That dog couldn’t scare anyone.”

  Mentor smiled. “Certainly not me.” He spotted a nearby chest and started towards it. “What about this, Odysseus? Maybe there’s clothing in it we can borrow?”

  Odysseus joined him.

  A strange clanking began. Then a muted metal growl.

  “Stop!” Odysseus whispered hoarsely, putting his hand on Mentor’s shoulder. “Don’t move.”

  Mentor halted in midstride.

  The bronze dog’s jointed legs moved forward awkwardly, and its head turned with the noise of two metal plates scraping together. The jaws opened, exposing twin rows of sharp metal teeth. Then the jaws clanged shut, sounding like a sword being slammed back into its scabbard.

  “Back away slowly,” Odysseus whispered. “Hands out. Show the dog we’re leaving the chest alone.”

  They edged backward, but the jewelled eyes followed them.

  “Don’t move!” Penelope cried out. “It fixes on motion!”

  At her voice, the dog’s head swivelled towards her.

  The moment the dog looked away, Odysseus and Mentor each took another step backward.

  The great head heard them and swivelled back.

  “It fixes on sound too,” whispered Mentor.

  Suddenly, with an awful grinding noise, the dog bounded forward, knocking Odysseus aside and ramming Mentor in the belly. Then it skidded to a halt and waited until Mentor—staggering—began to rise.

  The bronze dog moved stiff-legged towards him, clashing its terrible teeth as it advanced.

  Now behind the dog, Odysseus thought frantically. The knife would be useless against the metal dog. The satyr’s club would have to do. He pulled it from his belt.

  “Here,” he cried, “over here, hound.” He banged the club twice on the workshop floor to get the creature’s attention.

  The bronze dog turned towards him, then charged. Odysseus brought the club down on the dog’s skull with all of his might.

  The metal rang like a gong, and the club broke cleanly in two.

  “Oh, oh!” Odysseus cried, and without thinking, jumped aside.

  The dog looked up, swivelled its head till it found Odysseus again, and grinned its metal grin.

  Then it started after him.

  CHAPTER 17: A BOX FULL OF MARVELS

  “RUN, ODYSSEUS!” PENELOPE CRIED.

  The dog turned its head towards the sound of her voice, and in that instant Odysseus vaulted over the nearest workbench.

  Swivelling back, the dog found Odysseus at the height of his vault and leaped over the bench after him.

  Odysseus ducked low, and one of the metal paws scraped his hair as it landed behind him.

  A clay jar broke on its back, and this distracted the dog for a moment, long enough for Odysseus to roll under the table and get to the other side. He saw Penelope hoisting another jar to throw.

  “No!” he yelled. “It will come after you!”

  Penelope glanced behind her, where Helen stood trembling. She made no move to throw the second jar.

  Meanwhile Odysseus was running again, the hound right behind him, knocking over tables and benches. As he ran, Odysseus looked for anything resembling a weapon, but there was nothing there but pincers and hammers and …

  He grabbed up a hammer as he passed one table, turned briefly, and tossed it over his shoulder at the bronze monster as hard as he could. The hammer bounced off the dog’s snout and—for a second—it was confused. Then it went after Odysseus once more.

  Odysseus had been watching over his shoulder and so did not see the stool in his way. He tripped and fell over it, executing a quick roll. But before he could get up, the hound had bounded forward, trapping him in a corner.

  The bronze maw creaked open.

  Odysseus could count many—too many—teeth. Is this it? He thought. To die without landing a serious blow? To die lying on the floor of a … a workshop?

  “Odysseus!” called Mentor.

  The dog looked towards the voice as Mentor snatched one of the wooden figurines from its shelf, then tossed it towards Odysseus. The figurine arced through the air, and the dog reared up to snatch it.

  But Odysseus stood quickly and leaped higher, catching the figurine in both hands, and in a single fluid motion he thrust it lengthwise into the dog’s gaping mouth.

  The beast pounced, pinning Odysseus to the floor, but this time when its jaws snapped shut, the sharpened teeth sank deep into the wooden figurine. It growled and rumbled and clanked. The hinges of its jaw strained and squeaked. But its teeth were jammed fast.

  Odysseus didn’t let go of the wooden figure, and he was yanked helplessly from side to side as the dog jerked its head back and forth in an effort to free itself.

  “Stop it!” Odysseus cried. “Stop it, you hairless, metal monstrosity.”

  But the dog didn’t—or couldn’t—stop. It continued to shake its head, and as it did, a harsh metallic grinding inside the dog rose higher and higher in pitch till it reached an earsplitting whine.

  Snatching up hammers, Penelope and Mentor ran over to help, and now they began banging the bronze dog on the head.

  “The eyes,” Odysseus shouted. “Go for the eyes.”

  The hound shook its head harder and harder as first Mentor, then Penelope, cracked its jewelled eyes. The metal plates buckled under the strain. Rivets popped from the metal frame. One of the bronze legs broke free and clattered to the floor.

  Mentor gave one more hammer blow at the right eye, and it popped out of its metal socket.

  The bronze dog fell over, its remaining legs twitching spasmodically as its metal chest plates burst apart. Notched wheels and th
in metal rods spilled out over the floor. The dog gave one final shudder, and—with an awful clank—fell silent.

  “What a terrible thing to do to rubies,” Helen commented.

  Odysseus couldn’t help himself. He began to laugh and laugh.

  Penelope joined him.

  Even Mentor began to giggle.

  “Well, it is,” Helen said.

  With that, they all simply rolled on the floor, convulsed.

  It took a while before they could stop laughing. But at last Odysseus sat up and poked the dog with his foot.

  A few more wheels fell out of its chest.

  “If I ever meet Master Daedalus …” he began.

  “He’s long in his grave,” Mentor said. “If you’d listened to that bard…”

  But Odysseus was already walking across the room to the chest that the dog had been guarding. “Let’s see what manner of treasure that beast was keeping safe.” He didn’t tell them that walking helped him control the shakes. His legs were twitching just as the bronze dog’s had. Odysseus refused to believe it was fear that made his legs tremble. After all, what was there to be afraid of now?

  He lifted the lid of the chest. What he saw inside was the last thing he’d expected to see.

  The chest was filled with thin sheets of pale leaflike material inscribed with drawings and symbols.

  “Script,” he said disgustedly. “Nothing but script. Penelope—can you read this?”

  She got up, came over, and took the papyrus from his hands. Spreading the sheets out over one of the long tables, she pored over them for many minutes. Finally she looked up.

  “Well?” Odysseus asked.

  “I can read some of it. I’ve watched my father’s scribes enough,” she said. “Here’s Daedalus’ name again.” She pointed to the bottom of one page.

  Odysseus took the golden key out of his tunic and compared the two groups of signs. “I can see that,” he growled. “What else?”

  Penelope frowned and looked down again at the papyrus. “It’s full of long, complicated words I’ve never heard of before. Things like high-draw-lick. And awe-toe-mat-ick.”

  Mentor sat down next to her. “Where does it say that?”

  She showed him the script on the page. “I think these are instructions for making things, because there are drawings of many strange things too.” She pointed out a tall, pointed building, a strange-looking chair with legs like a woman’s, water flowing down a series of complicated channels, a pair of wings, a plated hound.

  “That’s the dog we just fought,” Helen said.

  No one argued with her use of “we”.

  “And there’s the ship,” Odysseus said, picking up four of the sheets on which both the outside and the inside of the ship were drawn. The inside drawings showed clearly how the wheels and rods fitted together to make the oars work. There was also a lot of script on the page, which meant nothing to him now. He stuffed the papyrus down the front of his tunic and promised himself that when he got back to Ithaca, he would learn how to read it.

  When.

  Not if.

  Just then Helen—who’d been unaccountably and blessedly silent—gave an awful yelp and tumbled to the floor. A marble plinth that she’d sat down on was even now sinking into the floor.

  “Is this another of Daedalus’ tricks?” she cried.

  Before anyone could respond, there was a thunderous rumbling from somewhere above their heads.

  “A storm?” Penelope asked.

  Odysseus’ eyes narrowed; his mouth went dry. A prickling at the back of his neck warned him that something much more serious was about to befall them, only he didn’t know what.

  The thundering sound was closer now.

  And louder.

  The room began to shake.

  Suddenly, with an awful certainty, Odysseus knew.

  “Get out!” he cried, pushing the others towards the door. “Out! Out! Out!”

  Penelope grabbed Helen by the arm and dragged her through the door, down the dark passage towards the great bronze door, which was still agape.

  As they got closer, a huge boulder crashed down in front of the opening and rolled away towards the stone jetty.

  “By the Furies!” Mentor gasped. “Are the gods playing skittles with us?”

  “Not the gods,” Odysseus cried. “Daedalus.” He took a deep breath. “We’ve got to get out of here right now!”

  More boulders rolled down from the cliffs above them.

  “If we go out, we’ll be crushed,” Penelope shouted back.

  “If we get pinned inside here, we’ll be buried alive,” he replied, charging outside.

  The others followed, but they looked up fearfully. The entire cliff face was breaking apart above them, sending torrents of stones large and small tumbling down towards the harbour.

  “The tunnel,” Helen screamed. “We’ll be safe there.” She lifted her skirts and began running straight towards the sea cave. But as she ran, one of her sandal straps broke, and she fell, sprawling, some twenty steps short of her goal.

  “Helen!” Mentor cried. Without hesitating, he scooped her up in his arms and ran with her towards the cave. As he ran, a small stone glanced off his ear and a larger one grazed his back, but he kept to his feet.

  Right behind him came Penelope, and then Odysseus. At the last minute, Odysseus turned and looked back at the ship.

  Huge rocks the size of horses were raining down on it, splintering the decks.

  “Nooooo,” he moaned as the hull buckled and cracked.

  Then Penelope grabbed him by the arm and yanked him into the sea cave just as a boulder the size of the bronze hound hit the ground where he’d been standing.

  He touched his tunic, where the papyrus drawings were stowed. If it takes me years, he thought, I’ll build another such ship, greater than the Argo my father sailed on. And, he promised himself, he’d make a voyage such as no man had ever made before.

  “I swear this by the gods,” he whispered.

  Only Penelope heard, and she didn’t ask him what it was he swore. It was as if she already knew.

  CHAPTER 18: RITES FOR THE DEAD

  WHILE THEY HUDDLED ANKLE-DEEP in water, the rocks outside the tunnel piled up until they were all but blocking the tunnel mouth. The walls vibrated with the impact of stone upon stone.

  “We need to get out of here before the roof collapses,” Odysseus said, starting to slog through towards the open end.

  Mentor agreed. “Lucky the tide’s going out, or we could have been drowned.”

  The girls followed right behind them, though Helen limped slightly because of her missing sandal.

  When they emerged out the other side, they all blinked in the sudden light.

  “Dry land and daylight,” Helen said, pointing to a shingle of sand. “Things are looking better.” She stumbled towards the sand.

  Penelope and Mentor cried out together, “Helen, no!” Odysseus reached for his dagger.

  Out of the woods above the beach a dozen armed men suddenly appeared, striding towards them. Four held spears, three mighty bows with the arrows already nocked; the rest had drawn swords.

  Odysseus took his hand away from the knife. A boy with a knife, he reasoned with himself, is no match for fully armed men. He brought his hand up weaponless. Better to use my brain.

  “We come in peace!” he cried.

  One young man, in bright bronze armour and a high-crested helmet, strode ahead of the others. He had a fierce hawk face.

  When he got close to them, he laughed and called over his shoulder, “Stand easy, men. These are only children.” He was scarcely older himself.

  Odysseus bristled. I’m no child, he thought. I’m a prince of Ithaca, old enough to have already slain a boar, rescued two princesses from pirates, and beaten a bronze hound. But he didn’t say it aloud.

  One of the swordsmen, grey-bearded, with corded muscles and a deep scar over his right eye, stepped between them. He held his sword chest-high an
d pointed right at Odysseus’ throat.

  “Idomeneus, my prince,” he said in a gravelly voice, “in this place who knows what form an enemy may take. Remember that young Theseus, who slew the beast in the maze, was but a boy. Remember the trickery of Daedalus and his little son.”

  “You worry too much, Bosander,” said the prince. He took off his helmet and wiped his sweating face with the back of his hand.

  The older man didn’t lower his sword and, once again, Odysseus’ fingers went to the hilt of his dagger, which he pulled out slowly, insolently.

  “Hsst,” Penelope said in his ear, “what are you thinking? One knife against a dozen armed men? You’ll just get us all killed.”

  Odysseus knew she was right. But he’d already figured that out on his own. He hated that she didn’t trust him.

  Bosander knocked the knife from Odysseus’ unresisting fingers with his sword.

  “I was just giving it to you, old man,” Odysseus said. “No need to stand a sword’s length away.”

  Bosander moved close and pulled at the thong around Odysseus’ neck with more roughness than was necessary.

  A gasp went through the men.

  “Look, my lord!” one cried.

  Idomeneus stiffened. “Take it, Bosander!”

  The grey-bearded soldier sliced the thong with his sword and, dropping the bronze spearhead on the sand, kept the golden key.

  “Are you brigands waiting to rob us when we have done you no harm?” Odysseus demanded, his voice hotter than his heart.

  Idomeneus glowered at him. “Mind your tongue, stripling!” he warned. “Though you’re an Achaean by your speech, you’re still a stranger here. Be careful how you address the son of Deucalion, king of Crete.”

  Glowering in silence, Odysseus knelt and picked up his humble amulet, tying it around his neck once more.

  Bosander handed the gold key to Idomeneus. “This is surely the key the man Praxios spoke of, my prince. He didn’t lie.”

  “Few men lie when faced with the threat of the Labyrinth,” the prince remarked slowly. His eyes grew hooded, the lids closing halfway down. He took a step closer to Odysseus, looking more like a hawk than ever. “How did you come by this key, boy?”