Eurykleia realized the change first. She looked away from the loom, a sharp turn of her head. Tears touched her eyes, wiping away the hard disapproval in the old nurse's face.
"You're taking it apart," she whispered.
"Every night. As many strands as I can manage without anyone realizing the duplicity."
"Oh, my child. Forgive my unseeing heart." The old nurse opened her arms and enveloped Penelope in an embrace that wiped away all the silence and cold between them.
"I am relieved," Eurynome admitted. She kissed Penelope's forehead when Eurykleia had released her.
"Have you told anyone?" the other woman asked.
"Only Laertes knows, because I wanted his approval and help if I had overlooked any flaw." Penelope shivered, wrapping her arms tight around herself. "I am afraid until his anger cools sufficiently, I cannot tell Telemachos. The change in his temper would be too drastic. Someone would suspect and then we would all be lost."
"He is his father's son," Eurykleia said. "Trust him. He will not fail you."
"I do trust him," she countered. "Yet I asked myself, who of everyone here would Odysseus trust, if he advised me in this? His father and the two of you. His mother, if she were alive...I think he would keep the secret even from her. She was always too open with her feelings." Penelope shook her head. "Our son's role in this deception is crucial and he is untested. Odysseus would not take such a risk, no matter how much it hurt him. And neither will I."
* * * *
Penelope woke, feeling her heart pounding with panic. She lay still, listening with every fiber of her being. In a moment, she recognized the sound. The rising howl of the winter storm woke her. She had thought for a moment she heard voices calling her name. Yet now that she was awake, a nagging sense of something wrong kept her from returning to sleep.
It was not her dream. Not this time. She couldn't remember a fragment of it. Penelope was relieved. When she woke from happy dreams of Odysseus' return or memories of their short years together, she cried for the loss all over again. It had been a long time since she took pains to hide her nightly tears from her servants.
When she had bad dreams, it was no relief to wake. They were warnings of sorrows waiting if she didn't walk carefully. Lately, she had begun another recurring dream. She slept in Odysseus' arms, yet when she turned in their bed to see his face, to smile and kiss him, another man pressed his naked body against hers. His hands were covered with blood, smearing her body, burning her. He had no face she knew. Penelope knew she would see that face someday if her weaving failed to keep the suitors from her house.
She nearly leaped from her bed, her heart pounding again. The loom. She had fallen asleep before taking apart some of that day's work. Penelope chided herself for that mistake. She had been nightly unraveling her web for nearly four moons now--how could she forget so easily?
The floor was bitterly cold against her bare feet. Penelope took the ache as punishment for her carelessness. She dressed quickly, throwing a blanket around her shoulders against the extra chill in the air. She put no sandals on, in case someone lay awake, listening. Bare feet were more easily kept silent. She lit a lamp from the glowing coals in the brazier by her bed, nearly burning her fingers when the wick caught too quickly. Then Penelope hurried to her weaving room, guarding the flame so it would attract no attention.
She lit more lamps after she shut the door. The cloth glowed softly in the dim light of the flickering flames. All that showed were silver, white and purple, a hand span of border on the very top. Penelope was proud that she remembered how to make the dye that turned threads silver. It took up large amounts of precious time and none of her women but Melantho had mastered the trick yet. It required a deft touch, both in timing the setting of the dye and picking the right threads to take the color. Penelope insisted on using large amounts of silver in the funeral sheet, to properly honor Laertes. Even if she truly did want to finish the cloth, it would take her a year to weave it if she ignored all her other household duties. Penelope made sure she attended to every other duty first. No one could fault her. She hoped.
Sighing, half in contentment at the success of her plan, half in dismay that she could fall off her routine so easily, Penelope set to work. She used the delicate tools Odysseus had made for her during their first winter of marriage to unravel her work. It was only appropriate.
The delicacy of her work required patience and time and concentration. It amused her, in a bitter way, that she used twice as much effort to take the thread from the pattern than to add to it. That was only appropriate, as well.
She had removed five threads before she felt the slight draft in the room. A chill touched her, unrelated to the storm blowing beyond the bronze shutters. Slowly, Penelope put down the tools, straightened and braced herself for whatever trouble would come. She turned to the door.
"Mother?" Telemachos stared at the loom, not at her. He carried no lamp, was barefoot like her, and the blanket he had wrapped around himself slid off his shoulders. The flickering shadows changed his shape, made him look like his father despite his slimness. The tears in his eyes hurt her.
"You should be sleeping," she said, unable to find any other words to say. It was hard to speak to him. They had fallen into the habit of quiet civility, speaking but saying nothing with their mouths or their eyes.
"I dreamed you called me." He finally looked up from the loom and the handful of broken threads on her lap, which she would burn in the brazier in her room. "I went to your room and you weren't there, so I looked for you."
"And what did you find?" she asked, her voice soft to avoid any inflection, any hint of her feelings.
"My mother still loves and still waits for my father. And she protects me against myself." The tears grew bright in his eyes. He came to her and knelt on the floor next to her seat. He wrapped his arms tight around her and pressed his face into her belly, like he had as a little boy who needed comforting. "Forgive me--all this time--I've hated you."
"If you forgive me for deceiving you," she murmured, reveling in the feel of his arms around her, the heat of his tears soaking into her dress. "Your grandfather and I didn't want to hurt you, but for the sake of the deception--" She broke off when Telemachos sat back, dismay on his face.
"He knew? The things he said against you--the things I said against you!"
"Hush!" She fought a chuckle of relief and pressed two fingers across his lips. "Would you wake the whole household and have them know?"
Telemachos grinned, shaking his head. He hugged her again, harder, whispering, "Mother, I love you. I am proud to be your son. Whatever you ask, I will do."
"Can you pretend to be angry with me for a little while longer?"
"How much longer?"
"A few more moons. Then say you are reconciled to losing me. You are almost grown and will take a bride someday. It will be easier if your mother is not here to challenge your wife's authority." She twisted her face into a mask of disapproval. Telemachos laughed, muffling the sound behind his hand. "Tell them you can see it will take years to finish the funeral sheet for your grandfather. You are satisfied with how things stand and even if you haven't forgiven me, you are no longer angry."
"More angry at myself, for doubting you. For not finding a way to free you of those suitors myself."
"You have always done more than any other son would. Now, go back to your bed before someone realizes you are gone. If they search for you, they will discover our secret. In the morning, if the storm has settled, go see your grandfather and tell him. He will be relieved."
Later, when she was back in bed, the betraying threads safely burned to unidentifiable ashes, Penelope let the tears of relief come. Telemachos' pride was precious to her. She imagined it an echo of Odysseus' approval.
* * * *
The seasons flew by too quickly for Penelope's taste. Occasionally, a suitor came to the house and politely asked to see the progress of the burial sheet. While there was some progress visible
since the last visit, no one questioned her or remarked on how slowly it grew. Yet the sheet did grow.
Penelope purposely planned it large, for a man twice Laertes' height and weight. Yet it still crept toward completion. Even when she considered that three years had gone by since she crafted her plan, she was not satisfied.
* * * *
Penelope opened the shutters in the wall opposite her bed, welcoming the warm spring night. She dressed and pulled the lamp from its niche, where the flame couldn't be seen until she needed it. Her thoughts were more on her son this night than the weaving she went to unravel. Telemachos was twenty years old this spring. He carried many of a man's responsibilities. Maybe it was time to seek a bride of proper family for her son. He wouldn't want to marry for several more years--his father had claimed her after he was twenty-five--but it was good to start planning early.
She smiled as she entered her weaving room, and hummed a few notes to herself from a song Telemachos had taught her that evening. Penelope set down her lamp and retrieved the others to light them. She considered the sheet for a moment. It had progressed in three years to little more than half its intended length. She was proud of its intricate design. She had accomplished a particularly beautiful section that day, all in blue and red and green, and she felt a flicker of regret in having to remove most of it. Penelope shook her head at the cold comfort that she would recreate the design in the morning. She settled down at the loom and pulled the first thread free.
The door banged open, torchlight spilling into the room along with six men. For a moment she stared, unwilling to believe anyone would intrude, in the dead of night, into her private rooms.
They were suitors, not servants. Antinoos led them, his golden handsome face twisted in a sneer. He stepped toward her, his hand raised as if he would slap her. Penelope refused to cower. She snatched up the tiny knife Odysseus had made, determined to fight if the man touched her.
Antinoos paused, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. Her angry glare held him off like a wall of stone. He looked to the loom, with the thread half pulled from its place. A grin of triumph wiped away his hesitation.
"Proof!" he shouted. He reached for Penelope and she slashed at him with the tiny knife. He leaped out of her reach with an agility that made her shiver.
"You dare to touch me in my own home?" Her fury covered the terror at being discovered.
"As you dared to lie to the noble guests in your home," Eurymachos responded, the next intruder to step forward.
"I did not lie. I said when the sheet was finished, properly made for my husband's father, then I would choose a new husband." Penelope straightened on her bench, pressing her lips into a thin smile to hide their trembling. "I never promised the work would be finished."
Antinoos snorted in short, bitter laughter. He gave her a grudging bow of respect. "Well-spoken and well-planned. We will keep you to your promise. You will finish the sheet."
Shouts rose from the stairs, silencing her response. Penelope froze when she recognized Telemachos' voice. She knew her face went pale and hoped the shadows hid that. The struggle went on a few more heartbeats, then the men parted and let her son through to her.
"Do you try to kill my son in the night as well?" she asked, keeping her voice as cold as she could manage.
Telemachos had come running, barefoot, wearing only a hastily wrapped loincloth. His hair was tangled from sleep and he bore a few red patches on face and chest that would turn to bruises. He stood before her, blocking her from the view and reach of the angry men.
"Tell the boy not to interfere in the discussions of adults," Eurymachos said, his voice a lazy drawl. Penelope saw the stiffening in Telemachos' shoulders and prayed her son controlled his expression.
"Leave my mother be," he growled. Some men backed up, though they were fully dressed and carrying torches and knives, while Telemachos was practically naked before them.
"We will leave her be if she continues to weave. As long as the funeral sheet for Laertes continues to grow. And does not shrink," Antinoos added, snarling.
"Shrink?" Telemachos' voice held enough question Penelope could almost have believed him. He turned to her, his eyes asking if she were all right. She nodded slightly. "Mother, what are they saying?"
"Your lovely mother is not as eager to become a bride as we all thought," another man called from the back of the shadowy group at the door.
Amphinomos, Penelope thought his name was. Even after almost three years of partial peace, she could still remember their names and faces and voices. The short years of respite had not been long enough.
"She cuts apart at night what she puts onto her loom during the day," Antinoos continued. "For the peace and satisfaction of the guests in your house, royal Telemachos, move your mother's loom to a more open place. Where we all can see her working during the day, and where she cannot reach it at night to unravel it."
"And if I do not comply?" Telemachos stepped to the side to stand by his mother, one hand resting on her shoulder. "You will place a guard over her and her work, or invade my house once again? Do you intend to eat and drink us into emptiness?"
"The queen has given her word; when the funeral sheet for Laertes is finished, she will choose her husband," Eurymachos said. He smiled, bowing to Penelope, ignoring Telemachos. "It would be best if she chose a strong man, one who holds the hearts and approval of Ithaka. One who can lead them through danger. A man who would appreciate a cunning, beautiful wife."
"I have given my word," Penelope admitted, her words slow as she searched for the right thing to say. She bit back the impulse to plead with them not to take her from her home. The expected response would be a promise, and a veiled threat against her son's life. "Leave my rooms, leave my son's house. In the morning, you may return and witness that my loom is moved to the hall. Each evening, my suitors may come and watch me work. The web will not shrink while their eyes are turned away, I promise you. When it is finished and washed and sent to Laertes' household, then I will decide on a husband. And you all must abide by that decision," she added, her voice hard.
"We will. If you wish, we will make our oaths on sacrifices to all the gods," Antinoos added.
"No. That is foolishness." Penelope couldn't repress a shudder at the image his words called up. Memories of Helen, the oaths given before her marriage to Menelaos, and the tragedy that had come of those oaths.
When the men had left and the room was dark with shadows and the few flickering spots of light from her lamps, then she cried. Telemachos held her, his voice tight and sharp as he promised dire punishment on whoever had betrayed their secret and let intruders into their house.
"We can send to Sparta," he urged. "King Menelaos is home, the traders say. You are Helen's cousin. She would send help, wouldn't she?"
"Perhaps. But if I sent for help, our enemies would hear of it. Even if Menelaos came at the head of an invading fleet, would it be in time to save us?"
Telemachos smiled, though his lips trembled and angry tears touched his eyes. "Is it too late to pretend you are a boy, and run away?"
That night, Penelope dreamed of Odysseus sitting on the beach while beautiful singing filled the air. Yet there was a difference. He stared out over the ocean and wept.
* * * *
In the morning, Penelope watched her servants. Some wore open relief at discovering the game she had played. Some dared praise her for the trick. She knew she had gained and regained the loyalty of many because of her actions. She heard Odysseus' name spoken in whispers on smiling lips. But it was the delight dancing in Melantho's eyes which caught her attention. The woman ran to greet Antinoos when he came to supervise the moving of the loom.
"Is it for revenge, then?" Penelope whispered when she escaped to her bed that evening. "For slighting you, when you thought you deserved a better position? For keeping you from marrying one of your sweethearts in Alybas? For Aias, because you blamed his death on Odysseus?" She shook her head, closed her eyes and
let the angry tears slip from under her lids. "Were you the one who taught my daughter to make the potion that killed her? Melantho, I will not punish you now. I will not give you the satisfaction of seeing my anger. I swear, the day I must go to another man's bed, you will not follow me. I will leave you to Telemachos' cold mercy. Not even for the sake of your father will you be spared." More tears escaped. Penelope hid her face in her sheets, to muffle the sobs.
* * * *
Three moons later, as summer began to relent its most oppressive warmth, Penelope neared the end of the weaving. She had used the press of her other duties in the household as an excuse not to touch the loom. Yet thread by thread, the sheet grew to completion.
On a hot night after she put the first purple thread into the bottom border, Penelope dreamed of Odysseus. Her first dream in many long moons differed from the two dreams of eternal journeying, or her husband sitting on the island beach.
Odysseus rode a raft of planed logs instead of his familiar, black-keeled ship. Joy lit his face despite the stormy seas around him. He knelt low on the raft, holding the rudder with an arm that bulged with straining muscle. The wind whipped rain into his face and he laughed into it.
Penelope cried in her sleep and the tears blended into a gentler rain in her dream. This was the Odysseus she remembered best, rejoicing in challenge, loving life. She longed to reach out to him, to brave the danger at his side.
The crashing, tossing waves threatened the raft but he held on and beat the growing storm. Thunder crashed, the sound seeming to lift the waves higher, sending the fragile raft flying. Penelope watched Odysseus look around, straining to see through the rain slashing in his face, and he struggled to guide his raft. The waves lifted it again, carrying it high, sending it crashing down so she thought she would see it hit the floor of the sea.
Odysseus lost his grip on the rudder, falling hard against the logs, sprawled flat for a moment. Then the rise of the waves flung him into the air. He grabbed at the ropes on the mast and they tore free in his fingers like charred threads. The raft spun as he tumbled into the sea. His head did not break the surface.
THE DREAMER'S LOOM Page 34