THE DREAMER'S LOOM

by Michelle L. Levigne

  "Oh. She said I would never leave my home. I would always be here, safe with her." Ktimene tugged on a half-unraveled braid, sticking the frayed tip in her mouth.

  "A priestess doesn't chew on her hair," Penelope scolded, teasing. She hugged her daughter. "That is a very good interpretation. We will talk more of this when your father returns. I think he would be very proud of you, if you became a priestess."

  "When is he coming? Grandmother is sick again. She thought Telemachos was Father when we visited yesterday."

  "If I could, I would bring your father home tonight." She hugged her daughter again, then gave her a nudge to move her from her lap. "Come, we will find some offerings for Athena and make our prayers now. For your father and for your grandmother." When Ktimene slid off her lap, Penelope stood and took her hand.

  They went through the gardens and courtyard to the kitchens. Eurynome sat in a corner with Eurykleia, both women deep in frowning conversation. Penelope watched them while Ktimene searched the shelves full of cakes and loaves of bread, deciding what to give as an offering.

  Were they as worried about Antikleia as she? The winter had been wonderful for her mother-in-law. Penelope had never seen the woman so alive, so alert and full of laughter. At times, Antikleia had been like a young woman, showing what she had been in her youth. Penelope knew then why Laertes was still devoted to his usually sorrowful, gray wife.

  Spring had brought even more happy anticipation to the woman. She took her grandchildren on long walks along the shore, watching for ships arriving in the harbor. She told incessant stories about their father as a boy and young man, filling all the gaps Penelope's tales couldn't cover.

  But now, with spring turned to summer and tales of ships destroyed by a god's wrath, Antikleia faded. Penelope worried for the woman, listless one day, eager and hopeful the next, unable to even roll from her blankets the day after that. Ktimene had begun avoiding her. Penelope would have let her daughter stay away, but Ktimene's presence was one of the woman's few delights.

  Ktimene's report that Antikleia had mistaken Telemachos for his father had shaken Penelope. How much further could the decline last?

  * * * *

  Laertes came to Penelope in midsummer with the news that Nestor of Pylos had returned home safely. He offered to take Telemachos with him and sail to retrieve news of the other warriors. Penelope was glad Telemachos was out for the day, visiting with Eumaios, who had become a friend. Her pale face and moan of dread would have shamed her son.

  "No. Please, Father, I can't explain why--"

  "I understand." Laertes rested a hand on her shoulder and kissed her forehead. "Maybe for the same reason I want to take him when I sail. I will not argue with you. Who can tell? Odysseus may reach home ahead of me. I wouldn't steal Telemachos' chance to welcome his father home."

  "I can welcome my father," Ktimene spoke up from the doorway. She leaned against the frame, listening, her red curls escaping her braids, her face a mask of hurt pride.

  "Sweet one, how would your father know you?" Penelope said, holding her arms out for her daughter. She knew the hurt was momentary when Ktimene ran to her and climbed onto her lap. "If you meet him at the docks with Telemachos, the two of you close together, he will know you both. Your brother needs you to help your father recognize him, don't you see?" She hugged the girl, relieved when the child laughed and agreed.

  "Then as soon as your father has kissed you," Laertes said, taking up the tale, "you must run as fast as you can to your grandmother, and let her know he is home."

  "I run faster than everybody," Ktimene said, nodding for emphasis.

  "Then run to Eurynome and have her bring your grandfather some wine. The day is hot and he has a long walk to make." Penelope nudged the girl off her lap, smiling when Ktimene darted from the room.

  "She's like a little bird," Laertes said. "I still intend to voyage. Do you have messages for your friends in Pylos?"

  Penelope smiled and thanked him and racked her brains for something to say to Polykaster and Straltos and other friends from her few journeys. She knew her father-in-law didn't quite believe her excuse, but she let him think as he would.

  She refused to speak to anyone the certainty that filled her. If she let Telemachos leave Ithaka, with the gods so wroth against the Achaian kings, she would never see her son again.

  Chapter 21

  * * *

  The last days of summer arrived on gentle breezes, perfect to carry the men of Ithaka home. Penelope left offerings at Athena's shrine and in the cave, begging for some vision to comfort her. Antikleia faded, in mind and body. She didn't recognize her husband. She took to wandering the villages of Ithaka, seeking her children. Mothers learned to picked up their toddlers and hide when Antikleia wandered by. More than once, they had to retrieve a child the woman claimed as hers. Penelope didn't force her children to visit their grandmother.

  One night she went to bed with her window open to catch the breeze from the sea. She wearied herself with tasks that day so she wouldn't lie awake worrying and wondering. Her prayers for a vision barely left her lips before she slept.

  Odysseus sat at the rudder of his ship, the wind filling his sails. A massive hide bag bound with silver sat between his feet. It glowed like rotting logs in a forest swamp and writhed. Penelope drank in the sight of her husband, safe in his ship. His eyes were puffy, red-rimmed from no sleep, his jaw set into stern lines. He sailed at night, his men asleep or keeping watch over the sea and sky, fear painting their faces green.

  When Penelope woke, she ignored the fear for Odysseus' fate, choosing to take the dream as a good sign. She told Ktimene first the next morning and laughed when the girl asked what was in the bag that writhed between her father's feet. When she told Telemachos, her son hugged her and asked if his father would go hunting with him before winter came.

  The next night, Penelope had the same dream. Odysseus looked more weary--eyes more red and puffy. He nodded over the rudder, caught himself and sat up straight again. The bag churned on the deck between his feet, but he smiled when he looked at it. Penelope reached out to him and woke when she called his name.

  The next night, Odysseus slept, clutching the rudder. The bag was gone. Terrified, Penelope tried to turn in her dream to search the ship. A twisted silver wire fell at her feet. Wind tore through her dream, whipping the waves white. Odysseus staggered to his feet. He fought the rudder in an unruly sea and shouted commands to his men.

  The storm screamed Penelope awake. The bronze shutters of her room banged against the wall. The wind raged with all the strength and cold of winter. She thought she heard the cries of men as they battled the furious sea. She staggered from her bed to close the shutters, then fell back into it, buried her head in her arms, and cried.

  * * * *

  Winter came, with no word of Odysseus, though rumors told of other kings lost in their journeys home. Tyndareos sent word from Sparta that Menelaos and Helen had not returned. He asked Odysseus to spare some men to seek them.

  The last tale of the year, before winter closed the ports, told of Agamemnon's fate and Klytemaistra's vengeance. Penelope listened to the tales brought by merchants and sailors, so similar she knew there was much truth in them. She felt nothing for her cousin or her husband, but worried for their children. She feared for Orestes, sent away by his sister to live in hiding. Elektra had been married to a slave as punishment for her loyalty to her father. Chrysothemis was the only child of Agamemnon's still in Mycenae's palace.

  The intended sacrifice of Iphigenia had been the last blow for Klytemaistra. She took a lover before Agamemnon reached the shores of Troy. With him, she ruled Mycenae and planned to destroy Agamemnon on his return, and no one opposed her. Elektra sent Orestes into hiding, knowing the fate of sons of murdered kings, and tried to warn her father. Klytemaistra exiled her. When Agamemnon returned to Mycenae in victory, he walked into the arms of his wife and she killed him in his bath.

  Penelope listened to the tales
, wondering what people thought when they heard and repeated them. Perhaps the doings of noble houses were to them like tales of the gods, but it was the tragedy of her bloodline bandied about the markets and docks.

  She was glad when rough seas kept ships from visiting Ithaka. She locked Odysseus' bedroom and put away the clothes she had made for his welcoming feast. She set herself to wait out the winter and to pray spring would bring better news and happy stories.

  * * * *

  Spring brought good rain, warm weather, an abundance of births to the flocks and herds, and more tales of heroes and warriors. Lost on their homecoming journeys. Killed by faithless wives or servants as they entered their homes.

  Penelope wondered how many stories were wild speculation, created by jealous minds. It amused her a bit to speculate on her name being added to the list of faithless queens who took lovers and greeted their husbands with a poisoned cup or a knife. She hoped wherever his wandering took him, Odysseus heard and knew she waited in loyalty.

  One day in late summer, Laertes and Telemachos spent the day together inspecting Odysseus' vineyards. Penelope gave her maids the afternoon to themselves. She took Ktimene to her garden and Athena's shrine, to think and pray and indulge in daydreams. Ktimene had grown too quiet and Penelope worried for her daughter as much as her mother-in-law. Both were lost in their dreams, one in the past, the other in the present. Penelope didn't know what to do for them. Life had stopped, caught like a cloak on a briar, waiting for Odysseus.

  Antikleia forgot to eat for days at a time. She had given up her wandering search for her children, too weak from fasting and fevers to move from her hearth. Every boy was Odysseus, every girl her daughter. Penelope slept badly, expecting a summons in the night to tend her mother-in-law. She needed to rest, to hide from the demands of Ithaka a little, or she would be Eurynome's next patient.

  Ktimene joined her mother in her prayers, laying out the handful of grain and pouring the wine over the small pile. When the girl climbed onto her lap and begged for a story of Alybas, Penelope obliged. She told one after another, trying to make her daughter laugh, hoping the sound would loosen the tight, waiting sensation that choked her.

  The day grew hot. The bees droned and the plants sizzled in the warmth. Ktimene leaned against her shoulder and fell asleep. Penelope refused to disturb the child, who woke too often with bad dreams. She sat still, letting Ktimene sleep, and tried to find words to help her daughter. She heard a footstep in the garden beyond the walls and imagined it was a servant coming to tell her Odysseus had just sailed into the bay. She was able to believe for only a few heartbeats.

  "Lady Penelope!" Melantho hurried through the rustling bushes that guarded the private garden. She trembled, nearly falling to her knees and her face had a new, unaccustomed pallor. "Oh, my lady, come quickly."

  "What is it? Who is hurt?" Penelope stood, clutching Ktimene to keep from dropping her. By some miracle, the child didn't wake.

  "My mistress, Antikleia--" A sob cut off the rest of Melantho's words.

  Penelope got no more from the woman. Eurykleia heard and came running. Penelope put Ktimene in the nurse's arms and followed Melantho to Laertes' house.

  Servants gathered in the dark, vaulted feasting hall. Penelope followed Melantho through the crowd. She stepped through in time to see Medon cut the rope and lower Antikleia to the waiting arms of her women.

  Penelope shuddered, understanding. Antikleia's life was bound up in her son. Had she heard some terrible news about Odysseus and killed herself in response? Penelope shook off that feeling. She didn't dare indulge in morbid fantasies. Every eye in the hall watched her, forcing responsibility onto her shoulders. She was the mistress of the family and the queen. If anything was to be done, she had to decide.

  "Medon, watch for Lord Laertes. Let no one tell him of this except yourself, and make it gentle. Let no word of this leave the house for now. We must take my mother to her chambers and prepare her as she deserves. It was a sickness that drove her to this. If she had been well, she wouldn't have taken her life." Penelope looked around the room to meet every eye, to impress her judgment on every mind. Deep inside she cried, wailing for Odysseus to comfort her.

  She supervised as the servants washed Antikleia and dressed her in her best clothes. Penelope kept busy with details, bracing herself to face Laertes and Telemachos when they returned.

  When there was nothing more to do, she dismissed the servants and sat with Antikleia's body. The woman looked peaceful, the ugly rope burns around her neck covered with garlands of flowers. Penelope had put the coin in her mouth, to pay the ferryman at Death's river.

  "Mother, if your spirit still lingers, I beg of you, hear me," Penelope whispered. The shadows lengthened in the room, afternoon turning to evening. "I love you as my own mother. If ever I did anything to grieve you, I ask forgiveness. My son and my daughter love you. Your absence will be pain to us for many years to come. How shall I explain your death to Odysseus when he returns?" Her voice broke. "And if he is not to return, but already waits in the shadow lands, please, send me a sign."

  She lifted one of the dead woman's hands, cold and woefully thin, and pressed it against her cheek. Penelope closed her eyes. She thought she heard the brushing of wings outside the open window, the soft coughing cry of a dove or the hoot of an early owl. Gently, she put Antikleia's hand back at her side, stood, and slipped from the room.

  There were other details to attend to. Melantho, for all her years of experience, suddenly couldn't manage the household. Penelope sent another servant to tell Eurynome the news and stayed to put Laertes' house back into order. She welcomed the little details to distract her mind from dark thoughts. Penelope ordered more wood brought in, more grain ground for flour, wholesale scrubbing and cleansing of the house. She thought the servants welcomed the work, too.

  "Mother!" Telemachos hurried through the open door, dodging the women with baskets of washing balanced in their arms. "Medon has news for Grandfather, but he won't let me listen." He flung his arms around her, his face bright. "Is it good news? Is my father home? Tell me!" Argus darted into the house, dodging feet, barking an echo of the boy's plea.

  Penelope swallowed a sigh that was sure to turn into a sob. She wrapped her arms around her son. It startled her to realize how tall he had grown. His nose was even with her shoulder. "No, your father isn't home yet. That's the trouble." She sat, gesturing for him to join her.

  "Is Grandmother sick again?"

  "Again." She felt a hysterical laugh try to escape.

  "Grandfather explained. She worries about my father so much she cannot eat or sleep, and that makes her sick. It hurts when she calls me by my father's name. She always begs me never to leave Ithaka." He shook his head, eleven-year-old wisdom peering from his eyes.

  Penelope debated telling him the mistake was easily made. He was so clearly Odysseus' son, the shape of his head, hands and shoulders, the way he walked, even tricks of speech. She wondered if he would have Odysseus' mellow, persuasive voice when grown. There were times she had almost called him by his father's name, at night when she was sleepy, sitting by the fire and imagining a different silhouette across the hall.

  "Yes, your Grandmother has been sick again." She breathed a prayer of thanks for this help in explaining to her son. "She loved your father so much, nothing else in life mattered. It hurts to wait for him, doesn't it?"

  "Sometimes I hate the boys who have fathers. They tease me that my father can't take me hunting or teach me to sail." Telemachos smiled, a strange, grim expression on his young face. "When my father returns, I'll make him proud."

  "You will. I know you will," she whispered. Penelope swallowed another sob filling her throat. "Your grandmother lost hope that your father would ever return. She went to look for him in the land of the dead." Penelope felt bile rising in her throat as the glib, stiff words passed over her lips. Simple to say once she found the courage, meaning much, explaining little.

  "Dead?" Telemac
hos paled. He reached for his mother's hands. When she put her arms around him he didn't draw away, but pressed his face into her shoulder, as if he could hide.

  Penelope saw movement in the doorway and turned to see Laertes enter the hall. He walked with Medon, silent, staring, pale. Stiffly, he followed the servant up the stairs to his wife's chambers. Penelope held still until Laertes vanished and she heard the click of a door closing.

  "We must take care of Grandfather now," she whispered, releasing Telemachos. "We must be strong for him, so he doesn't leave us as well. Think how your father will feel, coming home to find both your grandparents gone?"

  "He can come live with us," the boy offered, his voice husky from the tears he had shed. Awkwardly, he rubbed at his eyes with his fists.

  "Yes, he can come live with us."

  * * * *

  When Penelope returned home at sunset, she found the news had raced before her with ill results. Telemachos had gone home to take instructions to Eurykleia and Eurynome. He met her at the door, his arm around his sister's shoulders. Ktimene's face was a wreck of tears, wet and glistening, eyes swollen. She made no sound but held out her arms to her mother. Penelope gathered up her daughter and Telemachos followed her up the stairs. In a low voice, he informed her a woman had brought the news, shouting it so the whole house knew. Ktimene had awakened, alone and in the dark, and had screamed herself hoarse. She made no sound since then.

  "Eurynome tried to hit her with a stool," Telemachos added, mystified and proud. They stepped into Penelope's room. He hopped up onto the bed as she sat in a chair, slowly rocking Ktimene. "She said she wasn't ever to come back to our house, or Dolios would kill her."

  "Who?" Penelope muttered, distracted with wiping Ktimene's face with the edge of her sleeve.

  "Eurynome called her Thoosa. She laughed and ran away."