by Ralph Hardy
Luna has fallen, and rosy dawn is an hour away. The wolves will be stirring, hungry after a long night. It’s time. I take the stem of berries and place it on the flat grass in the clearing. Then I lower myself onto it, crushing the berries with my chest, staining the white shield of fur there bloodred. Then I roll over and over on the berries, spreading their juice on my sides and back. I even, carefully, smear some of the juice on my muzzle, taking care not to lick it. Then I lie on my side and begin to whimper.
After a few minutes, a magpie lands on a tree above me. Not now! I think. I know him; he had been my messenger to the wolf pack earlier. Now I’m afraid he will spoil my plan.
“Noble Argos,” he calls down. “Are you wounded?”
“Yes, friend. A boar tusked me.”
I can’t tell him the truth. Magpies are notorious gossips.
“Can you walk?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “I think not.”
“You must try, loyal one. The mountain wolves are coming. Get up, if you can, and flee!”
“How many are there?”
“Ten or more. It is the new pack from the west. They travel together. Hurry, Argos. Try to run! Their scouts will be here soon.”
“Let them come, magpie. I do not fear death. But I would not have you see it. Fly away and return when it is done.”
Then I close my eyes and wait, lolling my tongue, making myself pant. Finally, just as I hear the wolf pack scouts entering the clearing, the magpie leaves his branch.
“Die well,” he calls back to me.
I close my eyes and whimper loudly. Oh, the shame of that sound. But it works. It draws the wolves close. There are two, I think. I keep my eyes closed tight, but I hear them approach. They circle me in opposite directions, growling softly. Finally one of them finds the courage to speak.
“You are Argos, are you not?”
“I am,” I groan.
“Who has killed you?”
“A boar did this. He pierced my chest. I will die soon.”
“Sooner than you think, dog of man. My brother and I will tear your throat, and you will not threaten our pack again.”
I open my eyes. They are a skinny, mangy-looking duo, both dirty gray and barely two years old, with no status in the pack.
“You can kill me, it is true, brother. But what will your leader say when he finds that you robbed him of this glory? He will bite off your tails and then you will never mate, will he not?”
“He speaks the truth, brother,” the smaller one says. “There is more glory in finding him and telling Lykaon. He will reward our loyalty with more food, and we will grow stronger. And we will keep our tails.”
I whimper again. “Go quickly, brave pups. I will not live long enough for your debate. And finding a corpse will not help you.”
“The Boar Slayer is right, brother,” the small one says. “We must hurry.”
“Live a bit longer, Argos,” the older wolf says. “To die like this, alone, would bring shame to your descendants.”
“He has no descendants, brother! All Ithaka knows that!”
They laugh madly.
I will rip out their hearts right now for that insult, I think, but I cannot do it now. Instead, I whimper again and roll my eyes.
“He dies! We must hurry!”
I hear them run off. Apollo’s chariot rises higher over the tree line. Soon, I think. Soon.
Mountain wolves—even a pack of them—move silently in the hunt, but this pack is not hunting. They are seeking glory. I hear them howling and snarling from several stadia away. Only when they draw close do they stop their yelping. I open my eyes and wait. Their leader, Lykaon, shows himself first. He is the largest wolf I have ever seen; his diamond-shaped head is as massive as a bear’s, and his eyes glow with an evil intelligence. The rest of the pack clusters around him. The two scouts run up to me. The smaller one, showing off, nips my tail, and I lift my head, snarling and snapping my jaws. I just miss, and the smaller one squeals like a puppy.
Then I close my eyes as if exhausted.
“He still lives, Lykaon, as we said.”
“I can see that, fool. But he still has a bite to him. That is good. There is no glory killing a half-dead dog. Even one such as Argos.”
The wolves draw closer, but I have chosen my location carefully. Because of the boulders and the ravine, they must either stay behind their leader, where there is room, or squeeze in close to me and risk my sharp teeth. They choose to hide behind Lykaon.
I raise my head. “I die soon, Lykaon. Are you a buzzard that eats what is already dead? Why do you linger? Let me die with honor, with my throat in your jaws.”
Hearing this, he attacks, lunging for my neck.
But I am Argos, the Boar Slayer, and I am ready. I leap to my feet and meet his charge. Lykaon tries to stop and rears up on his hind legs in surprise. Then I pounce, locking my jaws on his throat, and pulling him down. He’s very strong, though, and he gets his legs under me and pushes me off, but I flip him onto his back and bite again. We roll over and over on the grass, biting and clawing, both of us trying to get a death grip.
Finally we separate for a moment, and then Lykaon charges again. This time I go in low and find his windpipe between my jaws and crush it. When I know the bite is mortal, I release him from my jaws. Suddenly, another wolf charges. He bites my flank, but I wheel away and send him spinning. Then I charge him and he retreats to the safety of the pack, which stands watching their pack leader die.
“Attack him, brothers,” Lykaon cries. He is nearly dead; his eyes have grown glassy, but his wolves obey him. First, a black wolf, a three-year-old with yellow eyes, rushes toward me. He is fast, and I feel his jaws on my chest. But I jump back in time and leave him with only a mouthful of fur. Poisoned fur. He begins to gag immediately. Another wolf leaps, a gray shadow, but I duck and he sails over me, landing near the ravine. I charge him and he stumbles over the edge, clawing with his paws at the rocky earth, trying to gain a hold. I bite his leg, and he falls.
“Avenge Lykaon!” a wolf behind me cries. Suddenly I feel two of them on me, biting my ear, my shoulder, my flank. But they are smaller wolves, low in status, and not trained to fight. I spin round and round and they fly off, taking some of my flesh with them. I kill the one with half my ear in his mouth first. The other wolf is already sick from the poison berry juice I spread over my fur.
Then I throw myself into a knot of three wolves preparing to charge me. I bite and claw at them. They run away, back along the path they had taken. Four more wolves slink toward me, two from each side, cutting off my escape. But instead of charging them, I turn and run toward the largest boulder. One of the wolves tries to cut me off, but I cuff him with my paw, just before I leap to the top of the boulder. Then a silver-colored wolf scrambles up the boulder toward me, teeth flashing. I kick a rock down onto his face, and after that, he stays on the ground. I stare down at them. Three are dying from the poison; only four remain, and they are all wounded. I am panting and bleeding, but I have won the day.
“Wolf pack!” I cry. “Your leader is dead and only four of you remain alive. Return now to your hunting grounds on western Ithaka and remain there. I will not hunt you down if you stay on your territory, but will allow you to mate and raise your pups on this condition: you must hunt only wild game henceforth. You may not separate sheep from the flock or a kid from its nanny. These animals belong to the men on this island, and the men owe their allegiance to my master, brave Odysseus, who returns soon. Keep this pledge, or I will hunt you down, one by one.”
The four mountain wolves turn to one another and appraise their many wounds. After a few moments, the largest one says, “We yield, Argos, slayer of boars and wolves. There is mercy in your terms. It was Lykaon, after all, who led us to this cursed part of Ithaka. Now that you have killed him, we can return to our dens and we will trouble you no more.”
“Well spoken, cousin,” I say. “Good hunting to you and your kin.”
They each lower their heads as they pass under the boulder, then they trot away, heading west. For a moment—just a moment—I feel like following them. I would be their new leader, and I would spend the rest of my days hunting and raising litter after litter of strong pups. But that is not my fate. I belong to the house of Odysseus, and there I have to return. I must see my master again, if he lives, as the birds say he does. And Telemachos still has much to learn from me.
Just as I think this, the magpie returns, alighting on a branch above me. He says nothing; instead, he looks down at the destruction below him and whistles.
“You still live, Argos?” he asks.
“I do, clever magpie.”
“You have your master’s cunning.”
“Perhaps. Now, do this for me, most eloquent of birds. Spread the word throughout the forests of Ithaka, what I have done here. Tell the mountain wolves on the north and the south to keep their packs small and to hunt only game. Tell them Argos the Boar Slayer has tasted wolf blood and found it to his liking.”
“So I shall,” he says. Then he spreads his wings, and in a few moments he is flying north, cawing loudly now that he has something worthwhile to say.
I leap down from the boulder and begin the long run back to our land. I am bleeding from many bites, and my left ear is shredded.
I am no longer the handsomest dog on Ithaka, I think.
CHAPTER XVIII
What the owl says
A gull has circled twice overhead, and then when I bark at it, the bird lands on the ridge overlooking the path down to the harbor. A moment later, a dozen or more gulls land near him.
“What news do you bring from over the sea, Shell Eater?” I ask the first gull when I reach him.
“Only this, loyal one. An owl has arrived on your island. He has news of your master, whom I followed for three days after he sailed from the underworld without stopping to anchor, finally landing again on Aiaia. I left soon after, but you must find this unblinking one, for he knows Circe and will tell you more.”
“More, more, more,” cry the other gulls.
“How will I find him, White Wing? The forests here are thick and owls are difficult to see, even for a tracker such as I.”
“Go to the tallest tree on the island, Boar Slayer. This owl is vain, having lived with the goddess, and always seeks to occupy the highest perch. There, I am sure, you will find him.”
“Find him, find him, find him,” they repeat.
“Thank you, fair gull,” I say. “I wish gentle winds for you and your brethren.”
“One cannot control the wind, Argos. Now hurry and seek the owl before night falls and he begins his hunting. If he leaves his tree, you will not find him.”
“Hurry, hurry, hurry!” his brothers call.
The gull spreads his white wings and rises above me. Then he dips one wing and circles away, flying effortlessly down to the shore, where the retreating tide has left glittering shells exposed. The flock follows a moment later. I turn and run the other way, deep into the piney woods. I know the tallest tree on Ithaka, a juniper to the north of my master’s farm. I had tracked a stag there once, and Telemachos’s arrow had found its heart. I reach the place just as Apollo’s chariot sinks below the western hills. I stand on my rear legs and brace my front legs against the trunk, looking up through the branches.
“Father Owl,” I call, “are you there? I am Argos, the Boar Slayer, loyal dog of brave Odysseus. The gulls told me I’d find you here.”
Several moments pass, and I am fearing the owl has already left for its hunt when I hear a rustling sound high in the branches above me. I jump back just in time, as a thick excrescence explodes on the ground beside me.
“Did I hit you-you-you, Boar Slayer?” the owl calls down to me.
“Nearly, Mouse Hunter,” I called back. “But I shall not stand so close next time.”
“See that you-you-you don’t. Now that you-you-you have awakened me, what do you-you-you want? Be quick, for my belly growls.”
“I seek news of my master, Odysseus, Sir Owl. I hear that you were on Circe’s island, Aiaia, when he returned from the underworld. Is that so?”
“It might be. But why should I tell you-you-you what I know? What can you-you-you do for me in return?”
“What could a fierce hunter such as yourself desire? Is there not enough prey on this island for you?”
“The hares here are easily caught, it is true-true-true, as are the smaller rodents. What I desire tonight, though, is fowl. But not tough old biddies. Tell me, on your farm, are there young chicks, newly hatched, scratching for seeds? If so, show me where I might find them, and I’ll tell you-you-you of your master’s return to Aiaia, for I was there when his ship arrived.”
I do not hesitate to answer.
“Yes, Sir Owl. On my farm there are chicks, hatched not three weeks back. I will drive them from their coop tonight if you tell me truthfully what you saw on that cursed island.”
Then I hear a great beat of wings, and suddenly the owl swoops out of the juniper and alights on the lowest branch of a tree next to me. Its black tufted ears stand straight up, and its round eyes stare at me unblinking.
“Hear these words, then, Argos, for I was there with Circe when your master arrived, still pale from his journey to the underworld and lamenting his fate.”
“Once Odysseus and his men beached, he sent men to retrieve the body of Elpenor from the house of Circe, so that he might be buried as he asked. When they had done so, and planted the oar on his funeral mound, Circe appeared, along with her servants, bearing meat and shining red wine. Glorious in her gown, she addressed Odysseus and his companions: ‘Unhappy men, sent alive to Hades, so dying twice, come eat and rest here all the day. Tomorrow, before you set sail, I’ll show you the way home so that no more unhappiness follows you.’
“Hearing this, I think your master’s heart was gladdened, and he and his men feasted on the unlimited meat and never-ending wine until night came, and all of your master’s men fell asleep on the beach. But I was awake and saw Circe take your master by the hand and lead him away from his men. She bade him to tell her of his visit to the underworld, and when he had done so, she said, ‘You did what I asked, so now I will tell you all.’
“‘Brave Odysseus, your journey will not be easy, for many of the gods are with you, but many too are displeased. So you must listen carefully and do exactly as I say. The winds will carry you east for two days, and you will reach a sea flecked with foam and dark as wine. There by this sea live the Sirens. They are enchanters of all who are human, and no sailor who has heard them has ever returned to delight his wife and children.”
Did my master think then of his wife, Penelope, and his fine son, Telemachos? I wonder, but I say nothing, and the owl continues with Circe’s warning.
“‘Truly, the beach where they sit is piled high with the bone heaps of men who sailed too close so that they might listen to their enchanting melodies. So you must sail straight on past or you will perish there, and your bones will be added to the pile.’
“Then your master asked, ‘But how can we sail past them, fair goddess, for we are men and yield easily to temptation? And I would willingly listen to their songs, for I have heard they are as beautiful as has ever been sung.’ Circe shook her head and then clasped your master’s arm.
“‘If you wish to see your wife and son, you must do this: before you reach the Sirens, melt beeswax and stop your companions’ ears so that none can listen. But if you yourself want to listen, have your men bind you to the mast, hand and foot, with knots you cannot untie. Then tell your men that no matter how much you beg them to untie you, they must not, for if they do, you will surely leap from your ship and drown. And if you implore them further, they must bind you with more lashings until you have passed the enchanters. Will you do this, brave Odysseus?’ Circe said.
“‘I will do so, Goddess,’ your master promised.”
“Surely my master will follow her counsel, Si
r Owl!” I cry.
“Interrupt me not, Boar Slayer, if you-you-you wish to hear the tale.” The owl snaps his fiercely crooked beak.
I bow my head, and after a few moments the owl clears his throat.
“Then Circe continued. ‘There is more to tell, I fear,’ she said. ‘After you have passed the Sirens, you will come upon a giant rock, which divides the sea into two courses. You must decide then which course to take, but I will tell you first what you will encounter on each side. On one side, there are giant swells and overhanging cliffs, which not even a sparrow can pass through. Of all the men who have tried to sail this way, only Jason and his ship passed safely through, and that was with the aid of a goddess. Now, on the other side is a high peak covered always in cloud, and halfway down that towering rock, there is a cave. Inside that cave, the monster Skylla lives, whose howling is terror.’
“At those words, your master shook his head. ‘Monsters can be slain, fair Circe,’ the Wily One said.
“‘No one, not even a god, would want to face Skylla,’ Circe replied. ‘She has twelve feet and six long necks upon her. On each neck, there is a hideous head with three rows of teeth, full of black death. Her body from the waist down remains hidden, holed down into the cavern, and from there she fishes, looking for dolphins or dogfish or anything larger. Never has a ship passed her without losing men, for she snatches at least one sailor with each of her heads and carries them off.’
“‘Then I should choose the other course, fair goddess,’ your master said grimly.
“‘Brave one, the choice is more difficult than that. If you choose the second course, you pass by a lower cliff adorned with fig trees.’
“‘And what monster resides there?’ Odysseus asked.
“‘No monster, brave Odysseus,’ the goddess said. ‘But instead a black whirlpool called Charybdis. Three times a day she sucks the sea down into her black hole, and not even Poseidon could rescue you if your ship is caught. So hearing this, I urge you to steer clear of Charybdis and instead make for Skylla’s rock, for it is better to mourn six friends than lose your entire ship and all its company.’