THE DREAMER'S LOOM

by Michelle L. Levigne

  Telemachos had to be everywhere, touching and watching and learning about everything in their house. Penelope was glad Argus attached himself to her son, because the hound kept the boy out of trouble. She had thought to assign a slave boy to Telemachos so the two could grow up together and her son could have a confidant and playmate. By the time he was four, she knew Telemachos needed a grown man to keep up with him.

  Ktimene stayed small and pale and quiet. She preferred to sit at her mother's feet and play with bits of thread from weaving or scraps of cloth left over from sewing. Laertes showered the girl with dolls and balls and birds in cages. Antikleia held her granddaughter by the hour, silent and glowing with happiness. Neither grandparent could hold Telemachos for long or keep up with him. Penelope was satisfied that her daughter enjoyed the quiet closeness and her son felt no lack of attention.

  For a while, Penelope feared Ktimene would never learn to walk and talk. Her daughter was willing to watch the world bustle around her, accepting attention or neglect with the same pleasant expression. Ktimene rarely cried, even when she was hungry or dirty. By the time her daughter was three, Penelope would deliberately keep toys and food from her, to prompt the child to ask, to cry, to crawl, to do something to change her situation. She learned, gladly, that when Ktimene did want something and her desires were thwarted, she had no patience. Penelope reminded herself of her earlier fears and tried to teach her daughter to act as a king's daughter should.

  Training Telemachos was a comfort to Laertes and Penelope didn't object when he took the boy out on the ships or hunting in the hills years too early. There was something sadly humorous in watching her son struggle to carry a spear three times longer than himself. Argus was Telemachos' constant companion, sleeping by the boy's bedside, always in his shadow. Between his grandfather and the faithful hound, she knew her son was safe. She still felt an emptiness when he left her for the day, giving her only a careless kiss and hug. Her spirit brightened when he came running in, dirty and excited, babbling about his successes and failures, smelling of sweat and blood and forest.

  Ktimene was her mother's delight despite her stubborn fits, and Penelope took care in everything she taught her daughter. The little girl napped on a pallet by her mother's loom and reached constantly for the loose threads. She tied knots and tried to make cloth of her own almost before she could wash and dress herself. She listened and watched everything with a deep, pondering expression in her gray eyes, much as Penelope imagined Odysseus had done as a child.

  Mentor and Laertes had the duty of teaching Telemachos what his mother could not. How to hunt and sail. The history of Ithaka. His duties as prince. How to lead his people and be a wise ruler. Penelope kept for herself the harder task of teaching her children about their father. As the years went by and they grew, alert and intelligent, she found the stories and examples became threadbare. Three short years of happy marriage were not enough memories to fill the mind and heart of a boy going on eight years old, a girl nearly six, without a father physically present.

  They took many long walks together in the hills and valleys, sharing the places she had explored with Odysseus before Telemachos had been born. She taught both children how to use a sling as her grandfather, Dymis had taught her. She reasoned Odysseus' son had more reason than most to know how to defend himself. And if such training had been good for her mother, then Ktimene would do well to learn. Telemachos excelled in hitting every target with a loud, hard slap of the stone. Ktimene mimicked him, but would only use the sling against trees. Penelope marked her daughter's soft heart and began teaching her the healing arts.

  * * * *

  The spring Telemachos turned nine years old, she gave him a copy of the key to Odysseus' private storeroom and let him go inside for the first time. Penelope was the only one who had unlocked the door since Odysseus left. Inside were jewels of ancient make, family treasures, sacred items used for high festivals. The sapphire and silver jewelry Laertes had given her was there. Penelope had not worn it since Odysseus left. The bronze and horn bow of Iphitos waited there as well. Because of Athena's warning to guard the bow, Odysseus had left it in Penelope's keeping rather than risk taking it to war.

  She let Telemachos slide the bow from its protective covering. As he held it, she told how his father set up the axes in a trench in the feasting hall and shot between their crossed handles to test his skill. She repeated to him, as many times as he asked, the tale of Iphitos and Odysseus meeting as boys, and their friendship. Telemachos was quiet, thoughtful, his eyes dark with deep thoughts the first time he heard the story.

  "My father has good friends, even if they are few?" he asked, his words solemn and old despite his sweet voice. Despite the dark hair and eyes he inherited from her, Penelope saw his father looking back at her.

  "Very good friends. Strong and true." She resisted the urge to lift him onto her lap and hold him. Telemachos had taken teasing from some village boys for spending so much time in his mother's company. "When you are older, you shall find friends who are worthy companions."

  "Orestes?" he asked, his eyes brightening. Through messengers and trusted merchants, the boys had exchanged presents and were friends in a sense. Telemachos often made up stories for his mother, of adventures he and Orestes would have together when they were grown.

  "Perhaps. Maybe next year, if your grandfather can spare us, we will journey to Mycenae to visit your cousin."

  "He's older than me. He could come to us." Telemachos shook his head, lowering his gaze to the bow still resting securely in his hands. They were his father's hands, large for his age, the fingers slim and graceful, skilled at everything he tried. "I don't want to leave Ithaka until my father comes home. Then we can go to Mycenae together."

  "Yes, we will go together." Fighting tears, Penelope turned away and busied herself with a pile of bronze cups that had grown green with age and tilted over.

  "Mother, would my father be angry if I tried to string his bow?"

  "Angry?" She choked on a laugh that was half a sob and turned back to him. "I doubt anyone, even his own son could bend Odysseus' bow. It is charmed to only bend to the hand of its owner. You could bend it if your father gave you permission. Or if he gave the bow to you as a gift. Until then, you might crack all your muscles trying." She smiled at the look of awe in her son's eyes. It took away the sting of the words she had not spoken: the death of its owner also would make the bow yield to another man's hand.

  * * * *

  The news from the plains of Ilion was mystifying and tragic. The years of fruitless battle, of minor skirmishes and frustration, wore on the warrior kings and their men. Arguments broke friendships formed in their youth.

  Penelope dreamed of fighting among the kings. The people of Ilion stood along the tops of the walls of the city and laughed at the Achaians in discord. She told her dreams to her children, despite the uneasiness such visions gave her. It had become habit over the years to share her dreams with them. First Telemachos, so he could listen to the gossip at the docks and compare her dreams with the news. When Ktimene began asking questions that showed deep thoughts, Penelope included her daughter in the discussions so they could unravel the images together.

  Ktimene was seven that year, and she began to come to her mother with dreams that matched Penelope's. The child described Agamemnon, Menelaos, Aias and her own father. Comparing dreams every morning, deciding if they were true visions or merely hopes, became habit. Neither knew what to make of some images. There was little comfort in knowing Odysseus was not injured by in-fighting. His face was marked with weariness and anger in Penelope's dreams and she woke in tears many mornings.

  Fall brought all the rumors together into a complete story. An argument over slave girls split Achilleus from the Achaians. Agamemnon's pride and his bed pleasures once more caused trouble. Penelope wondered how Klytemaistra reacted to the rumors that Agamemnon had planned to supplant her with the daughter of a priest of Apollo.

  The trouble b
egan when Apollo harassed the camp and the other kings forced Agamemnon to give the girl back. Penelope doubted anyone considered the feelings of Mycenae's queen.

  The tragic tale fit her dreams. Achilleus refusing to fight. His friend Patroklos, wearing his armor, killed in a dreadful battle. The sorrow that filled and divided the camp of the Achaians. Then the reconciliation. Penelope watched her son's reactions when the tale turned to the death of Achilleus. The man was a hero to her son, second only to his father. Telemachos was as controlled and calm hearing the story as any prince should have been. She wondered if he would come creeping to her in the night like a much smaller boy, to be held while he cried his loss.

  When she heard how Aias and Odysseus contended for Achilleus' armor, Penelope felt a chill of warning. Mentor and Laertes were there with her to hear the tale from a merchant, along with other elders of Ithaka. She dared not open her mouth to question the man who had brought the conclusion to the tale.

  She and Ktimene sat in the shadows to help the men forget their presence. Telemachos looked to her once, smiling from his seat at Laertes' side. Penelope smiled back, hiding her worries. As the story grew, Ktimene climbed onto her lap but she never made a sound.

  "No one really agrees on this part of the tale," the merchant said, giving a grin of apology. "They said Aias was a giant of a man, as fierce as thunderclouds. Odysseus had cunning and skill. Some say they wrestled and raced all day until they collapsed in exhaustion. Others say they competed in archery or riddles. No one is sure.

  "One old woman said she heard from her son, who had returned from the war, they sent spies to listen to the people of Ilion at night. They said the gods would prompt the people to speak of the man favored to win." He shook his head, a grin showing what he thought of that last proposition. "Odysseus won the armor and Aias went mad from jealousy."

  Penelope gripped the arms of her chair. Here it was, the reason for her worries, the dark cloud at the edges of her dreams. Aias and Odysseus had been friends, once. Did her husband still resent Aias for manhandling her? Did Aias hold something against Odysseus, for letting him make a fool of himself? In the years of war, what problems came between the two friends? Ktimene shifted on her lap to put her arms around her mother. Penelope realized the merchant still talked. She hugged her daughter and tried to listen.

  "Early one morning, he ran wild, butchering all the rams of the flocks he could reach. The slaughter was so widespread to be awe-inspiring," the merchant added with a little chuckle. "They said Aias named each ram he killed. Calling this one Agamemnon, this one Palomides, that one Odysseus." He paused, sobering. A tiny shiver took him as he looked around the room. "It's said he killed Odysseus six times that day, before the madness left him. When he looked around at the slaughter, he let out a shout that rose to the throne of Zeus and fell on his own sword. He was dead before anyone could stop him."

  Penelope closed her eyes against tears, closed her ears against hearing any more of the story. She gripped the arms of her chair tightly, struggling not to let out a sound, not to move. Ktimene's arms around her were a comfort.

  Aias' laughing face touched her memory. He had not been an evil man, rather more foolish than stupid. He used his massive strength to make up for the cunning he lacked.

  She knew Odysseus grieved for his former friend. And knew also that some would think his grief a pretense, a trick to smooth his way. Penelope knew her husband would blame himself for Aias' death. She shivered again, knowing others would do the same. She thought of Melantho and was glad the woman no longer served in her house.

  * * * *

  The first fierce winter storm came in on the heels of the news that Ilion had fallen at last. The merchants passing through the Dardanelles only knew the city had fallen. No other details. The burning of the city, the last fighting, the division of spoils, was expected to take moons. Tales came of the gates fallen, sections of the thick wall torn to pieces and smoke rising up day and night.

  Penelope took Telemachos and Ktimene to leave gifts in Athena's shrine. Five nights in a row, she and Eurykleia took Ktimene to the Goddess, to leave offerings and chant prayers. Her mind raced to the many tasks waiting for her that winter, to prepare for Odysseus' return with spring.

  Despite the isolation that winter and the heavy seas that battered the shores of Ithaka, the entire island celebrated. Their men would not return until spring when the rough seas calmed, but now they would come home. The homes were warm and bright that year despite the icy weather.

  Penelope remembered songs she hadn't sung for years while working at her loom. She taught them to Ktimene and the usually silent girl sang them often. In the feasting hall, Telemachos set up the trench and axes and practiced his archery, to earn praise from his father. During a period of clear weather, Penelope accompanied Telemachos and Laertes to Raven's Crag at the southern tip of the island to consult with Eumaios, the man in charge of Odysseus' swine. They chose the cattle to sacrifice and the swine for the feast when Odysseus arrived home.

  The winter passed in happy, contented preparation. Penelope went to the storeroom and chose jewelry she had not worn in years, to decorate herself for the celebration. She sat in front of her bronze mirror for hours at a time, trying new ways to braid and decorate her hair, testing cosmetics to see which made her look best. She spent more time at her loom than ever, weaving cloth to make new clothes for her husband, new clothes for her children and Odysseus' parents, for the celebration.

  The day sunshine broke the winter haze, dispelling it so spring could come, she unlocked Odysseus' bedroom. She had new ropes strung in the bed's frame. Guarding its secret, Penelope allowed only Eurykleia and Eurynome to help her. She brought new sheets and blankets, made by her hand all that winter. She spread herbs over the floor to freshen the air and opened the shuttered windows to let light into a room kept closed and dark for years. When all was in readiness, she sat at her loom to wait and weave, and dream of the second son her dreams had promised her.

  * * * *

  A rough, wet spring let only a trickle of merchants approach the island at first. With them came stories of the fall of Ilion that matched and resurrected dreams Penelope preferred to leave forgotten. She tried to ignore the stories brewed by people who had lost sons and husbands in the war, or men who returned from war without treasure.

  As the days passed and more stories came in, along with them came messengers from other noble households and small kingdoms, asking for news of their kings, husbands and fathers. With Telemachos to act as her eyes and ears on the docks, and Ktimene's sharp mind to help remember details, Penelope put the stories together. They matched her dreams of curses and danger, becoming one complete pattern.

  The victorious Achaians had offended the gods in their greedy pillaging of Ilion. They raped virgin priestesses on the altars where they served. They desecrated temple treasuries and smashed statues to pieces. For every leader who spoke caution and pious care, there were two who led their men in wholesale destruction and disregard for the sacred.

  Penelope's heart ached when she heard how Odysseus helped find every male child of Priam's line, to kill them and purge the bloodline. She understood the reasoning, had heard Agamemnon talk of the need to destroy that family. Priam's own family had been slaughtered for their treachery when he was a child. The war with Ilion might never have come if he had not escaped. She still felt shame knowing her husband had helped. The children had committed no crime but to carry the blood of the enemy.

  Penelope watched Telemachos' and Ktimene's faces as her son related the news to her. She wondered if the years of plotting and fighting had changed her husband that much, or if he had seen their son's face on each child he helped to kill. Telemachos didn't ask why his father had done such a thing. He spoke with no pride or shame, as if he felt nothing in telling of the deed. Penelope waited for him to ask for an explanation, but he never did. If he went to his grandfather or to Mentor with questions, she didn't know.

  Ktimene, how
ever, woke with nightmares three nights running after she heard the news. Each time, she cried out for her father to protect her from the dead children of Ilion. Penelope took to bringing Ktimene into bed with her, to keep the bad dreams away.

  When the stories arrived of curses laid on the Achaian kings, Penelope felt no surprise. Every surviving priest or priestess spoke oracles of doom, destruction and betrayal against their conquerors. She dreaded every new thread added to the story, yet continued sending Telemachos to listen and bring travelers to the house to talk with her.

  * * * *

  "Mother, I will be a priestess when I am grown." Ktimene didn't look up as she spoke. She sat at her mother's feet in Penelope's private garden. Mother taught daughter the finer points of using a lap loom. Telemachos had made a loom for his sister as a winter festival gift, but Ktimene had yet to use it.

  Nine years old now, her face looked older, lacking the baby fat of most girls her age. Penelope looked at the shadows on her daughter's face and wondered if Ktimene's dreams harmed her health.

  "I wanted to be a priestess when I was a child." Penelope smiled, remembering similar conversations with her aunt. She reached for a new skein of thread.

  "The Goddess wants me to serve her." Ktimene brushed red hair out of her eyes and looked at her mother now.

  "She said so, clearly?"

  "No." She frowned, for a moment looking so much like her father it twisted Penelope's heart.

  "Tell me your dreams and we can decipher them together." She put aside her loom. Ktimene immediately clambered onto her lap. Penelope chuckled at this contrast to her daughter's adult words and ambitions.

  "I dreamed of the cave, full of light but no lamps." The child nodded, her brow furrowed in concentration. "I knelt all alone, praying to the Goddess. And she said...I heard words in my heart." Confusion dulled her eyes.

  "That is how it often is with the gods. They never speak clearly, where hundreds can hear and understand."