by Ralph Hardy
“Are you Argos, the Boar Slayer?” the dove asks when I reach the stall. She is as white as the sea spray that licks the docks on a stormy afternoon.
“I am called that,” I say. “What wind brings you to Ithaka, fair dove? You will find eagles here, but not your brethren.”
“If you are indeed Argos, then I will not remain long. Lift your head so that I may see if your chest is white, like a shining shield, for I have a tale to tell you if it is so.”
I lift my head high and stand on my back legs, revealing my chest.
“Ah, you are indeed he,” says the dove, bobbing her shapely head.
“From what isle did you come, fair dove?” I ask. “And what news do you bring?”
“From the island where lovely Kalypso lives, loyal one, and which your master has called home for seven years now.”
I put my front paws in front of me and lower my head in respect. “Please, most revered of all birds, tell me your tale. Did Hermes come to your island as Father Zeus commanded?”
The dove flies down from the eaves and takes a perch on a pine stump so that I can hear her clearly, for her voice is soft and low, as doves never shriek or caw as many other birds do.
“Aye, Boar Slayer, Hermes arrived on winged foot four days ago. Fair Kalypso was spinning cloth of the most lustrous silk, and your master, famed Odysseus, was staring out at the sea, lamenting his fate, as he has done every day since I was a hatchling. Seeing Hermes, beautiful Kalypso said, ‘How is it, Hermes, with your golden staff, that you have never visited my island until now? Speak what is in your mind, and it shall be accomplished if I can do it. But first let me offer you repast. I have ambrosia and sweet nectar for you to eat.’
“When she had set this out before him and he had eaten his fill, Hermes said, ‘Goddess, you asked me what brought me to your island, and this is my answer: Father Zeus sent me here across this endless saltwater. He says you have with you a wretched man who longs for his homeland after sacking Troy and then losing all his companions before washing ashore here. But it is not his fate that he should die far away from his people. It is ordained that he return to his own house and the land of his fathers. So I have come this far to tell you this.
“Then, loyal Argos, did beautiful Kalypso weep, for she had fallen in love with your master. Oh, the sound of her weeping broke my own heart, for we doves mate for life, and we die when our companion dies. That is our destiny.”
The dove coos softly and closes her opaline eyes. I am not interested in the romantic life of doves, but again I lower my head to show respect. After sufficient time, I say, “But surely, noble dove, fair Kalypso agreed to Zeus’s command, did she not? She agreed to let my master leave?”
“Nay, Boar Slayer. It was not so simple, for to give up what one loves is no easy task, even for a god. Seeing Hermes unmoved, her tears dried, and she became angry.
“‘How hard-hearted you gods are, and how jealous!’ she cried. ‘Why can I not find happiness with a mortal? Did I not save his life? I found this man clinging to the mast of his ship, a ship that Zeus himself destroyed with a bolt of lightning, killing all his companions, and I brought him here, nursing him back to life! I cherished him and I loved him, and now Zeus commands me to send him away?’
“But Hermes said, ‘Goddess, be careful not to defy your father, lest he rage against you and drive you from this enchanted island.’
“Then gentle Kalypso picked up a stone and threw it at Hermes, but he dodged it, and the next one too, and the next, until my fair Kalypso fell to her knees, sobbing piteously. Seeing this, the messenger god took pity on her and said gently, ‘Loveliest of nymphs, ask Odysseus himself if he wishes to leave. If he chooses to remain here with you, then I shall return to Olympus and tell Father Zeus to change his destiny.’
“So fair Kalypso rose to her feet and walked down to the beach where your master sat on the seaside rocks, staring far out into the horizon as if he could see his homeland instead of the endless water. With such tenderness she placed her jeweled hand on his shoulder. Argos, how it broke my heart to see such love she had for him! Then she said, ‘Bravest of mortals, for seven years you have remained on this island, spending nearly every hour staring out to sea. In this time I have grown to love you, but now I ask . . . is there love in your heart for me as well, or is it too full of longing for your home and family?’
“Then your master turned his tear-swollen eyes to the goddess and said, ‘Why do you ask, shining nymph? I am cursed to remain here until the end of my days, am I not? There is no way for me to escape my fate, as no ship has ever come near, nor are there any trees for me to construct a raft of my own.’
“Then my lovely mistress wept again. ‘Cursed?’ she cried. ‘You have answered my question, fearless one, with that word. So let me tell you this. Father Zeus has commanded that I release you from this fate if you desire it. I know now that your heart belongs on Ithaka, and there you must return.’
“Hearing this, your master rose to his feet and took my mistress’s jeweled hand.
“‘That is easily said, fairest one,’ he said. ‘But how will I leave this place? I have not the wings of yonder dove, nor can I swim like the fish that leap from wave to wave.’
“Then my mistress in all her shining radiance said, ‘Wretched man, do you not know that in these seven years you spent staring out into the sea, the trees I burned upon your arrival have regrown tall and straight? Chop them down and fashion a raft for yourself, and I shall spin you a sail. Father Zeus has promised you fair winds, enough to carry you to the land of the Phaiakians, where they will give you a fast ship for the rest of your journey.’
“Oh, how your master embraced my mistress, and then together they climbed the path up from the shore, where he saw, for the first time, the trees he could fell for his raft. For four days and nights he labored, and finally it was seaworthy. He attached my mistress’s sail and carved a paddle to steer his craft.
“Just as your master was about to launch his boat into the tireless waves, my mistress fell to her knees on the sandy shore and begged piteously. ‘Brave Odysseus,’ she cried, ‘although I cannot make you immortal, if you remain here, the gods will give you a long life. No sword will ever sting you, nor will age cripple your legs and bring you misery, so I promise.’
“Then, Argos, I saw your master weep, for surely he knew that my mistress would never love another man. ‘Fairest of all,’ he said, ‘you know my answer. I would not break your raw heart if there were another way, for truly you are the most beautiful of women. Still, my longing for my own wife Penelope and my son weighs even heavier upon me. Let me go now, and I will honor your love with tales of your generous spirit when I reach Ithaka.’
“Hearing these words, my mistress gave your master bread and wine for his journey, and he pushed himself into the crashing waves, where soon a favorable wind took him out to sea. And then I flew here, loyal one, to tell you this, that you might know your master’s fate.”
Oh, such joy runs through me now! My master will soon be sailing home, and I will be there to greet him! “I thank you, purest one, for coming here and relieving me of my burden!” I cry. “Though I am an old dog, you have made my heart young again!”
But the dove says nothing in response to my gratitude, but hides her head under a white wing.
Seeing this, I say, “Forgive my overweening joy, shining dove, for I know your mistress is alone now on her mist-shrouded island. Return to her and give her comfort, I beg you.”
The dove lifts her head. “You misunderstand me, loyal one. I hide my face because I have not told you everything, and truly the words are difficult to speak.”
“What words are these, White Wing? Did not Zeus himself send a fair wind to convey my master to the Phaiakians? Surely no harm can befall my master now!”
“Still your pink tongue, Boar Slayer, for you have nearly answered your own question. Give me a moment and I will tell all.”
Hearing this, I sit on my hau
nches and wait for the bird to gain her courage. Finally she says what I am most afraid to hear.
“It is true that at the council Zeus himself promised to send a fair wind to steer your master to the Phaiakian land and so appease gray-eyed Athena. But not all the gods were at the council, Stag Hunter, as swift Hermes told me that fateful morning.”
The fur along my back rises, and a snarl forms on my lips.
“Tell me, kind dove, what god did not attend, and who is he that he could stand up to Father Zeus?”
“There is only one, Argos. He is brother to Zeus himself. He is Poseidon, the earth shaker. And your master killed his son, Polyphemos of the Cyclopes.”
Then does my heart break.
CHAPTER XXVI
The color of goldenrod
This morning I heard a ewe was missing from the neighboring farm. The shepherd dogs have been out all night searching for it; I heard their sharp barks growing more desperate as the sky changed from black to gray. Soon Apollo’s chariot will begin its crossing, and the ewe will be found dead. Of that I am sure. By now an eagle has found it, or it fell into a crevasse while grazing beyond its pastures. These things happen to poorly watched flocks. When they find its carcass, the ewe’s owner will beat his shepherd and then the shepherd will kick his dog. It has always been thus. Of course, my master never struck me. No man has. And lived.
The ewe has been found. Alive. I hear the excited barks coming from across the valley, so I leave my own flock to see it for myself. And one of the barks is unfamiliar to me, further piquing my curiosity. When I reach the neighboring pasture, I see three of my brother shepherd dogs standing in a circle, tails pointed toward the center, yapping happily to anyone who will listen about how the ewe was found. As I approach them, they roll onto their backs—as they should—until I tell them to stand up. “Which one of you found the sheep?” I ask. “And had the stupid creature fallen into a crevasse?”
The dogs lower their heads and will not meet my gaze.
“None of you found it? It returned on its own?”
The youngest among them, a mongrel with a brindle coat, finally answers. “A stranger dog found it. The ewe had escaped its fence and wandered near the goat path leading to the village. A thief walking along the path saw her and put a rope around her neck, with the intention of selling her at the market. The new dog followed his trail and caught up to him where the path narrows before the bridge.”
“Then what happened?” I ask. I know the place where the path becomes confined by a band of trees. There is ample room for a dog to attack straight on, but hardly room for a man to swing a staff.
“She jumped the man from behind, biting his leg so he couldn’t chase them. Then she took the rope in her mouth and led the ewe back here.” The mongrel finishes the tale by lashing his tongue across his muzzle. Despite his own failure to catch the ewe, he seems quite proud to retell the events.
“She attacked a man? On her own? What if he had struck her with a spear? A dog is worth more than a ewe!”
“The thief was drunk on wine,” a female’s voice says from behind me. “I could tell by his footprints that he could not walk straight and so probably could not throw a spear.”
I turn to see her, although I had smelled her approach. She isn’t very large, but she has a fine straight back and long legs. Her coat is the color of goldenrod, and her eyes smolder like volcanic rocks set deep in a well-shaped head. Her teeth glisten as she speaks.
“What does your master call you, Sister Shepherd?” I ask.
“I answer to Aurora,” she replies, lowering her head slightly. She is an alpha female, and so she does not roll onto her back.
“You did a brave thing, Aurora,” I say, making sure to glower at the other dogs, who would never have dared to attack a man, even if they had been able to track the ewe. “But now you must be careful. The thief will return, claiming to your master that you attacked him for no reason. He will demand a ewe as recompense. And he might demand your death too. That is the law on Ithaka when a dog attacks a man.”
“The thief did not see me, I think. And before I bit him, I tracked him for some time, howling like a wolf. I even rolled in ash to change my coat to gray. He will think I was a mountain wolf, and he will brag to his friends that he survived a wolf attack.”
When she finishes this tale, my brothers sit on their haunches and howl. What imbeciles!
“And what are you called, sir?” Aurora asks.
Before I can answer, she saunters up to me and rubs her nose against mine. Perhaps this is custom elsewhere, but not on Ithaka. Still, her nose is soft and wet, and she smells of wild flowers. For a moment I forget my own name!
“He is Argos, loyal companion to brave Odysseus,” the brindle answers for me.
“Argos. I have heard that name even on my former home of Samos. You are the great boar killer, are you not?”
I nod. Words finally come to me. “Yes, I have killed many boars. The last one was as tall as a half spear, and he weighed more than two horses. Yet I have never covered myself in ash, tracked a thief, and returned a ewe to my flock. Your deed was brave as mine. But tell me, when did you arrive from Samos?”
“Two moons ago my new master bought me from my former owner, who had given up his farm on Samos and was sailing to Carthage. When he stopped here for provisions, he sold me, thank the gods. I had already killed all the rats on the ship, but I am a shepherd, not a rat killer.”
“That is a task for cats, anyway,” I say. “We are meant for nobler pursuits.”
“Indeed, brave Argos. But now I must return to my flock. They are poorly trained and stray the instant I turn my back.”
“Where is your farm?”
“North of here, where the river makes its turn, in the shadow of the mountain Nerito. My master is called Okylaos. He is poor, but he treats me kindly so far.”
“I know that farm. There is an old olive tree there—the oldest on Ithaka, so I am told.”
“Yes, that is the one. It is a fine tree to lie under when Apollo’s chariot is high and the days are long. Now I must return there. Farewell, sir.”
Before she can leave, I step close to her and bite her gently on the ear. That is the custom on Ithaka, and now the other dogs know that Aurora will one day be my mate. Then she trots off, looking back once, at the top of the ridge, before disappearing from view. The other dogs, most notably fat Thenos, forget their place and begin to tease me. With three snaps of my jaw, though, I have them running back to their farms, tails tucked between their legs.
I am Argos, the Boar Slayer, and I do not suffer fools.
CHAPTER XXVII
A wounded gull
Each day for seventeen days, a different seagull has landed at the harbor with news that my master and his craft sail ever straight toward the Phaikakian land, as the nymph Kalypso had instructed him, guided by the constellation Ursa by night and Apollo’s chariot by day. But on the eighteenth day, no bird appears. Then, on the nineteenth day, a bedraggled gull lands on the harbor, followed by a dozen more gulls, snapping their beaks and surrounding him. The bird’s feathers are sparse and gray, and one of its wings juts out from its body most unnaturally. I run to him and cry, “Far-flying gull, what has befallen you? Did an eagle tear your wing? If so, thank Zeus himself that you escaped its sharp talons!”
The red-eyed gull shakes its head. “No, loyal one, no eagle has come near me, nor did any other bird of prey seize my wretched wing. It was a god himself who did it; the earth shaker Poseidon has destroyed me, and perhaps your master as well.”
“’Twas Poseidon, Poseidon, Posiedon,” his fellow gulls scream.
Hearing this, my heart leaps, yet tumbles when I understand his words. “You were with my master, Sir Gull? What is his fate? Tell me quickly that I might know it!”
“Alas, brave Argos, I know little. But I will tell you what I can. Two days ago I perched on your master’s raft as he sailed swiftly toward land. Far off we could see the mountains of t
he Solymoi and your master’s heart was gladdened, for truly the endless sea will drive the strongest man mad. But behind the mountains a dark cloud formed where none had been before, and I knew that we were doomed. It was Poseidon himself who hid in the black cloud, and he sent winds from all directions at us at once. How your master’s boat staggered in those winds! Then the earth shaker sent battering waves at us, waves so great that your master tied himself to his raft so that he would not be thrown far from it. I heard him cry, “Woe to me that I did not perish at Troy with my companions and covered in honor!”
“Woe, woe, woe!” his companions cry.
“Oh, say not those words, broken gull, for they tear at my heart!” I whimper.
“You asked to hear my tale, loyal one, and now you must hear it,” the gull whispers. His voice is growing weaker, and I fear that he is near his own end.
“Hear it! Hear it, hear it, loyal one,” repeat his flock.
“Poseidon sent yet another wave, black and terrible, and your master was thrown from his craft. Had he not tied himself to the mast he would have died then, but instead he pulled hard on the rope, and hand over hand he regained his purchase. Then came the bitter north wind, then the east, then the south, then the north again. The winds tore my wing and I landed back on the raft, near your master, unable to fly. Suddenly, a goddess appeared next to me. It was Leukothea, the goddess punished by Hera, and condemned to the sea.
“‘Poor man,’ the goddess exclaimed as she surveyed your master. ‘What have you done to anger father Poseidon so greatly?’
“But your master could only shake his head and vomit forth seawater. So the goddess said, ‘Remove that heavy cloak you wear, mortal one. Untie yourself and dive into the sea quickly, for this raft will soon splinter. Take this veil instead and tie it around your waist; it is immortal, and you will not drown as long as you wear it. Then swim hard with your two hands for the Phaiakian land that is your destiny. When you have reached land, remove the veil, and with your back to the blue sea, throw it behind you, taking care not to see where it lands.’”