THE DREAMER'S LOOM

by Michelle L. Levigne

"Do you truly want more children?"

  "Yes." Penelope gazed down at Telemachos. "When I give life, I am one with the Goddess. And I will bless Ithaka."

  * * * *

  Three nights later, Penelope knew she had recovered from giving birth. She felt desire stir as Odysseus slipped into bed and put his arms around her. She turned his good-night kiss into many. He caressed her with a hesitation she never thought he would show. Impatience made her movements sharp as she guided his hands over her body.

  "No," Odysseus whispered, catching her wrists to hold her still. "I don't want to hurt you. It's too soon."

  "Beloved, please." Penelope tried not to let anger wipe away the sweet desire pulsing through her. It had been so long since she had felt it. "The pain will be small. Eurykleia said so." She smiled when he wavered. His nurse's word was among the highest authority.

  "Even so..."

  "Are you afraid of making me pregnant? Don't be. While I nurse Telemachos, I cannot conceive."

  "You can't be sure of that."

  "Who can be sure of anything?"

  "I can." Odysseus looked at her for a few heartbeats more, then rolled out of bed and snatched up his discarded clothes. Penelope sat up, staring as he left the room.

  He returned in only a short while, but it felt like half the night passed. Penelope bit her lips to keep silent when she saw the cup he carried. Odysseus sat on the edge of the bed and held the cup out to her. The familiar, bitter odor made her ill. She refused to meet his eyes, afraid of what she might see.

  "What is it?" she whispered.

  "You know very well, Penelope."

  "How long have you known?"

  "I guessed." He pressed the cup into her hands. "In my father's house, there are many places where a boy can hide to learn what adults would not tell him. I spied on my mother and Eurykleia, and learned women's secrets a man with twenty daughters would never learn. And some nights, your first kiss had a bitter taste."

  "You never said anything, never reproached me." Her voice broke as wet warmth touched her eyes.

  "I care for your happiness and the joy of our bed more than getting an heir on you. How happy would you have been, full of a child you hadn't chosen to conceive?"

  "Beloved," she whispered. Penelope took the cup fully into her hands. She gazed down into the milky depths.

  Once, the potion had been a way to rebel against destiny. Now, she felt a deep, aching sadness at the thought of denying another child to the world.

  "Penelope, drink before it loses its strength." Odysseus lifted the cup to her lips. She thought she saw sorrow in his eyes, and worry.

  "It will taint my milk."

  "Eurynome and Eurykleia both say not."

  "They--you spoke with them?" Penelope wavered between anger and amusement at the conspiracy.

  "Eurynome feared the potion weakened you, when you carried Telemachos. She consulted Eurykleia, who came to me. They prepared this for when you needed it." Odysseus began to take the cup. "You don't need to drink this tonight."

  "I need you tonight, beloved." She took the cup and emptied it in two swallows, nearly gagging on the last mouthful, and blinked back tears. Odysseus took the cup and put it on the floor. He drew her into his arms and kissed her, and she knew he shared the bitterness with her.

  * * * *

  Penelope dreamed. Shadows on shadows, muted voices whispering words she could not understand. She remembered nothing when she woke, beyond an implied warning: guard happiness. She knew no one was ever happy for very long. Either contented carelessness led to a mistake that offended someone, or a jealous god or an enemy would attack. So she treasured and guarded each moment and let the days go by as they willed.

  The people of Ithaka credited her with the bountiful spring and gentle summer. They loved and praised her, bringing gifts of early crops or young lambs and piglets. She dedicated her gifts of grain to the Goddess, to avoid punishment for taking undue praise. Penelope found comfort in serving the Goddess, one more step she could take to protect the ones she loved.

  When rumors of trouble with Ilion began at midsummer, Penelope wasn't surprised. What surprised her was Odysseus' refusal of a summons to Mycenae.

  "He can tell Agamemnon whatever he wishes. I will not leave Ithaka this summer," Odysseus said, recounting the conversation to her after the messenger returned to Mycenae. Outside, the afternoon darkened gently to evening. "He can tell Agamemnon I have gone mad, plowing the sand with dogs and using my best sword as a plow blade. And sowing the seashore with rocks and coral, for good measure."

  "You didn't actually use those words, did you?" she asked, looking up from Telemachos' cradle. It sat four steps further from her bed than it had the previous evening, a sign of her growing strength.

  "I did." He stopped his slow pacing and met her eyes. A chuckle burst from him. "He'll likely tell Agamemnon I am my wife's slave. Which is near truth. What good will it do us to complain to Ilion? We have been patient, gave them time to mend their ways, offered them a place in our accords. Ilion and Troy stand apart and look down on the Achaians."

  "Then only trouble will come from more waiting." She shivered and pulled the blanket closer around her son.

  "Likely." Odysseus joined her at the cradle. His arm was warm, taking weight off her weary legs. Penelope closed her eyes and leaned into him. "If I am called away, it must be for profitable reasons, not to soothe Agamemnon's pride and let him preside over the Achaian kings like a priest with his acolytes."

  "You should have sent that message back to Mycenae," she offered with a soft chuckle.

  "Do you ever wonder what the royal wives in Troy say to their husbands about this problem?" Odysseus murmured.

  "I think they say to forget about tribute and think more about improving their flocks and herds."

  "We can only hope." He held her tighter, his hand moving slowly up and down her back.

  Penelope pressed herself against him and remembered the dreams she had about two sons. How soon, she wondered, could she become pregnant again? When could she pour out the potion without Odysseus noticing? She had dreamed about two sons and Odysseus safely at home for the second one's birth. Could she protect him by carrying a second child?

  * * * *

  "Helen is gone," Odysseus said before he stepped through the door into her bedroom one late fall day.

  Penelope looked up, the words echoing in her ears but making no sense. Just a moment before she had been laughing, watching Telemachos crawl on the thick sheepskins spread on the floor, chasing Argus as fast as his chubby legs and arms would move. As if he understood his father's words, the boy stopped his game and went from all fours to sitting.

  A cold howling wind outside presaged a storm. Telemachos flapped his hands for attention, but his parents didn't see. Argus came from behind the tall water jug and sat at Odysseus' feet. The dog whimpered.

  "Gone?" Penelope finally said. "How?"

  "Paris of Ilion came to Sparta on a peace mission. Or so he claimed." Odysseus dropped to his knees next to Penelope and put both arms around her. She felt the racing of his heart. He likely heard the news at the docks and ran all the way up the steep path to their home to tell her.

  "Menelaos? Hermione?" She closed her eyes, imagining carnage in the beautiful, rich palace.

  "Menelaos was called away to tend to a problem with his herds. It was a ruse. When he came back, Paris was gone and Helen with him. Half the servants say she went willingly, half say Paris carried her off. She left her daughter as if she forgot the child existed." Odysseus' face twisted, his mouth pursing as if he needed to spit out something foul.

  Penelope reached to gather up Telemachos. The wide-eyed boy made no protest as she held him close. She wondered if he felt all the turmoil raging in her heart.

  "Where did they go? The seas aren't passable. How did the messenger reach us?"

  She thought of the storm that had beaten at the bronze shutters the day before. She envisioned her cousin riding the seas in
a ship that could capsize at any moment. Helen didn't even like the sea.

  "Menelaos sent to ask us to keep watch if Paris was foolish enough to sail," he admitted. "His men are searching all the land around Sparta. By now, Agamemnon's men should be joining the land search."

  "I can guess what Agamemnon said when he heard."

  "So can I. Probably hoping Paris is dead at the bottom of the sea, and Helen with him."

  Penelope nodded. She wasn't surprised opinion already turned against her cousin. She remembered the visit with Helen more than a year before; the image of a handsome young man half-finished in the loom; Helen dreaming and discontented with her life and a husband who didn't share his life with her. Penelope wondered what Paris looked like. Even if he bore only a shadow of resemblance to the man in the weaving, Helen would have seen it and willingly gone with him.

  Telemachos let out a whimper of protest. She realized she held her son too closely. Penelope apologized with kisses and tickled him to make him laugh. Looking at her son, she knew Helen didn't go lightly from her home, even if she went willingly. Half her heart stayed in Sparta with a golden-haired little girl.

  * * * *

  Odysseus gathered more news after questioning the sailors who brought the messenger. Rumors were rife in Sparta and Pylos and half of Achaia. Some said a servant girl had met Paris at the palace gates and claimed to be Helen and he carried her off. Or Helen hadn't been in Sparta but was visiting her sister in Mycenae. Or Paris had sent out messengers with the tale of the kidnapping, to foul his trail while he remained in Sparta and killed Menelaos. Or Paris came with magic and put the household asleep, leaving him free to carry off the queen.

  "Whatever has happened, the only surety is Menelaos is likely tearing himself to pieces," Odysseus said, when he finished sharing the tales with her.

  "Should we hope they reached Ilion at all?" Penelope returned.

  She nearly smiled at the gasp and frown her words earned from Odysseus' parents. Antikleia had come visiting with a new ball for Telemachos. Laertes had accompanied his son back to the house from the docks.

  "It doesn't matter what really happened. We'll be feasting on rumors all winter," Odysseus added with a wry smile. "The truth will come with spring. Forgive me, love, but I truly hope their bones lie at the bottom of the sea. There will be no peace for Achaia or Ilion until this matter is settled."

  Penelope saw the bleakness in his eyes and understood. Helen's suitors had sworn an oath to help Menelaos, should anyone carry off Helen. Odysseus had fashioned the oath, so it was binding in every imaginable aspect.

  * * * *

  Winter passed too quickly for Penelope. She resented how the weather calmed and warmed, breaking their stormy isolation and letting merchants and messengers cross the water. Telemachos grew too quickly. In seeming days, he went from crawling to tottering around the room on his fat legs, holding onto stools and table legs, her hands or patient Argus' tail.

  By common consent, she and Odysseus avoided the subject of Helen or Sparta or Ilion. They played with their son and planned for the spring planting and held each other in close silence during the long nights.

  Tragedy struck them after the last storm of the winter. Laertes slipped on steps slicked with ice, breaking bow arm and hip. Penelope took Telemachos with her and lived in Laertes' house so she could help nurse her father-in-law. Too many nights the pain kept him awake, weakening him so he fell prey to fevers. While the ice melted and warmer days crept up on them, she watched him fight the fevers and weakness. She used all her aunt's teaching to brew healing potions for him.

  Telemachos was his grandfather's delight, babbling and toddling around the sickroom. Penelope was grateful for the boy's distraction. Laughter was a better medicine, she learned, than the strongest physic or wine, but she worried about Laertes' spirits more than his body. The shattered side of his body lay stiff and still in splints and tight bandages while he fought fevers. She feared his reaction if, when the bandages came off, he couldn't move.

  To her relief, Laertes could walk, but with a limp and on crutches for the first moon after getting up from his sickbed. The old man laughed and let Telemachos teach him how to walk again. Tears filled her eyes when Laertes spoke of taking his grandson on his first hunt.

  * * * *

  When the weather warmed and they could spare the time away, Odysseus and Penelope took their son to the shore. Telemachos loved the water, would sit for long stretches at a time watching the waves come in. He would shriek and laugh, slapping at the froth, picking up whatever the tide dumped on the sand and exploring it to shreds.

  One bright, warm day, Odysseus declared a day of rest for the household. No one was permitted to do any work unless they so chose and it was pleasing. Then he scooped up Telemachos, making the boy laugh, and led Penelope away at a near run. She saved her breath by asking no questions and struggled to keep up with him. Her hair was only half braided, her sandals not tied. She laughed at the picture she knew they made. They went down to a sheltered alcove where the greater bay met the lesser. Blankets, a skin of wine and a basket of food waited for them under a leaning shelter.

  The day passed in laughter. In later years, threads of laughter wove together the shreds of memory. Odysseus bent double as Telemachos navigated the warm, soft sand, his little hands tightly gripping his father's fingers. Sitting at the tide's edge, her skirt pulled up past her knees to keep it dry, watching Telemachos explore bits of seaweed and driftwood that had washed up during the night. A moment of panic when the boy insisted on eating a piece of fruit covered with sand. Odysseus teased her about her caution and she responded with a handful of sand down his back when he didn't watch her. He pushed her down in the sand, tickling her until Telemachos intervened, crawling over them, laughing louder than both put together.

  In mid-afternoon, Telemachos fell asleep. One moment he played tug-war over a piece of driftwood with his father. The next moment he yawned, scrubbed his eyes with his fists and toppled over. Penelope put him under the shelter, giving a cursory wipe to his sandy fists and legs.

  Odysseus had straightened the blanket when she joined him on the slight rise overlooking the beach and the bay beyond. He smiled at her and gestured with a shake of his head out at the sea. Every ship lay at anchor. Waves of warm air bounced off the water. The only sound came from the gentle lapping of the waves and the occasional screech of a sea bird.

  He caught her hand as she lowered herself next to him, tugging her off balance so she landed on his lap. Laughing, she wiped her hair out of her face and let him cradle her close against him. She rested her head on his shoulder and gloried in the strength of his arms around her.

  "My father is talking of assigning some of his herds to Telemachos next spring," Odysseus said when the quiet had grown into a thick, drowsy blanket wrapped around them.

  "What?" She laughed at the incongruity of the subject, brought up for no reason.

  "He feels his years."

  "Giving flocks to a baby won't make time speed or slow, if that's what worries him." She glanced toward the shelter where Telemachos slept. She already felt he grew too quickly; she didn't want him carrying adult responsibilities a day earlier than necessary.

  "Not that, exactly." He shook his head, his gaze locked on some distant point over the water. "My father is tired. The battles he fought to bring peace to Ithaka when he was young...they stole his youth. He wants prosperity and peace for our island. He wants to assure the future for us and our son. He won't be able to rest until he's sure of that. Giving Telemachos his herds will make him feel better."

  "Your father will outlive us all," she retorted. "A grandson is more reason than ever for him to live." She blushed as a yawn worked its way out of her, making her jaws creak.

  "There is that," Odysseus admitted, grinning. "Just the other day, he was talking about which bow we should teach Telemachos to use first. I told him to wait until our son could walk the hunting trails."

  "He will do every
thing well," she murmured as the warmth and quiet swept drowsiness over her. She closed her eyes. It was all she could do to listen to him and carry her half of the conversation, and becoming harder every moment.

  When Odysseus put her down on the blanket and stretched out next to her, she couldn't remember. They slept, arms around each other.

  The shadows hadn't lengthened by much when she woke. The certain feeling of something wrong drove the fog of sleep from her mind. As she disentangled herself from his arms, Odysseus woke. Penelope looked toward the shelter. Ice filled her belly when she saw Telemachos wasn't there.

  Instinct guided her eyes to the water's edge. Relief touched her only for a moment when she saw her son toddling across the wet, packed smooth sand. The water came in with a hushed roar, foaming over his toes. The boy laughed, holding out his hands to the waves. He had lost his wrap somewhere between the shelter and the water.

  "Te--"

  Odysseus' hand over her mouth muffled her shout. She struggled as he lifted her to her feet.

  "Don't frighten him," he murmured, then released her to hurry down the slope.

  Her legs wouldn't move fast enough when she followed. Penelope watched her son step up to his knees into the water. The sucking waves immediately pulled him down, arms waving, without a sound. His head popped up. A thin, high cry escaped him. Then Odysseus scooped the boy from the water and lifted him high. Telemachos laughed.

  Penelope walked on shaking legs to the water. Odysseus dropped to his knees in the water, making a game of plunging the boy in over his head, then raising him so quickly the water splattered in silver droplets. Telemachos kicked and splashed, laughing. He squealed when he saw her and held out his arms, begging her to join the fun. Penelope tucked her skirt up into her belt and waded out to join them.

  Odysseus froze, staring out to sea. Penelope couldn't see what caught his attention through the haze of sun on water. She took their son and he didn't resist. Shading her eyes, she caught the shape of a long war ship coming around the curve into the lesser harbor.