The Eighth Arrow

by J. Augustine Wetta

  Diomedes gasped and sank to his knees.

  “Proteus,” I said. “The Old Man of the Sea.” The fortune-teller, the shape-shifting wizard of Egypt. We should have figured it out sooner. There was only one man in all the world more famous for disguises than he.

  He spoke. “Kaire, sisters! Alecto. Megaera. Tisiphone. I come bearing gifts.” He lifted my golden bow over his head with both hands in a gesture of magnanimity. “I, Proteus, Son of Oceanus, aged one of the watery waste.”

  “Kaire, Proteus!” they screeched together. “Kaire, shapeshifter! And well met!”

  “You will forgive me for bringing these fugitives, ladies.” He looked back at us and sneered. “I found them wandering through the land of the lustful and thought I’d follow them out. The weather never did agree with me there.”

  “Clever. Wicked. Wicked and clever,” they answered. “But you’ll have to bring your case before our judge, our queen.”

  “I understand, great daughters of night. I plan to offer her these living souls, and also this golden bow.”

  I was awake now for sure, and as I stumbled to my feet, I cast about in my mind for some strategy—some plan of attack that would enable us to kill Proteus, retrieve our weapons, face down the Medusa without actually facing her, and fight through the Furies. Then the ground began to tremble, and a sound like the grating of stone on stone echoed from behind the gate. I looked again at Diomedes. He had a face like a snared bird.

  “This is my fault,” he kept saying, over and over. “This is my fault.”

  It was up to me to come up with one of my famous strategies. I closed my eyes and racked my befuddled brain as the sound grew louder and closer. An idea. Something. Surely the Parthenos would not bring us this far only to let us perish at the hands of a Gorgon. There must be a way out, I thought, some hidden weakness. I turned back to Diomedes, and shouted the first word that came to mind: “Run!”

  Together we launched into the black river—he sprinting like a man on fire, I stumbling like a three-day drunk. Even now, the Styx had several feet of inky water running its course, and by the time I caught up to Diomedes, we were up to our waists in it. But Diomedes was no longer running at all. Instead, he was standing stock-still, a look of rapt fear fixed on the horizon. Looking up, I saw it: a shadowy figure making its way toward us through the air.

  A pair of wings, black against the distant mist, shuddered and flapped like cheerless flags. We stood together side by side and stared. At our back, the towering Medusa screamed; but before us, some unspeakable demon was winging its way ever closer. “Now what?” cried Diomedes. With every moment of hesitation, the terror before us and the terror behind closed in.

  “If Theseus could do it, so can we!” I shouted, and charged back toward the shore. At last, I knew what I had to do. Always choose the enemy you know, I thought, and swinging my fists over my head, I plowed up the beach and out of the oily surf. My only plan was to die fighting.

  CHAPTER 23

  THE FOURTH ARROW

  THERE IS a certain elation that comes from knowing that the end is near. Faced with certain death, one feels a sudden grim joy, a certain lightness of the step. I used to wonder how so many of my friends could charge with such fearlessness into battle, sometimes against overwhelming odds. But now, careening through the surf with Diomedes beside me, silent and grim in the face of creation’s greatest horror, I felt . . . well . . . brave. I knew that, with all my options spent, I could only be doing the will of the gods. Proteus had disappeared, but my weapons lay on the ground where I had seen them last. Taking my bow in one hand and my heaviest arrow in the other, I let loose my war cry. “Io!” I bellowed. “Io! Io! Io!” And I charged into battle.

  But the monster behind us must have been faster than we gauged. I had advanced only a few steps when something heavy caught me between the shoulders. My arms and legs went loose, and the breath was hammered from my lungs. I dropped my arrow in the sand. To my left, something caught Diomedes behind the head and he hit the ground, limp as a doll. Now I was alone.

  The winged creature landed in a spray of sand farther up the beach. In its left hand, it held a silver shield and spear; with its right hand, it picked up my arrow. Enormously built, tall as Ajax himself, and fortified with glimmering wings that stretched out to either side in a broad arc, the enormous creature hurtled up the bank—away from me toward the three witches.

  Beside me lay the cause of my backache: a leather pouch. Out of its mouth scattered several small loaves of bread.

  “Ignotus,” I whispered. Up the beach he strode, irresistible as a cyclone, silent as a wave from the deep, sweeping aside everything in his path. I watched the three hags fall before him. Onward he charged, a roar like the rush of the four winds filled the air, and then a piercing scream rang my ears and shook the sand. I looked up in time to see the Furies scrambling away, and the giant stepped aside to reveal the Gorgon, frozen in stone from head to toe, my arrow planted firmly in her brow. Then a deep dizziness overcame me and a darkness like night swirled over my eyes.

  CHAPTER 24

  IGNATIUS

  WHEN I AWOKE, I was on my back, my armor in a neat pile beside me along with my rope (now in two parts). For a moment, I had to stop to think where I was, but the stout figure towering before me, burly arms crossed over his chest, brought me to my senses.

  “Ignotus!” I cried, smiling to rise on unsteady feet.

  “The name,” he answered, returning my smile, “is Ignatius.”

  “Ignatius, then,” I whispered. I looked at him, wonderstruck. His broad wings, now folded behind his back, were not the only change in him. His stony gray skin was now as silver as his flashing spear, and the tunic over his shoulders glittered like snow. But more wonderful still was his face, which altogether shone with a light of its own. All the fierce nobility of a lion, the terrible sharpness of an eagle, the deliberate strength of an ox were bound up in those features, yet they formed a countenance distinctly like that of a man. Were I to say, “Here are his eyes, his mouth, his nose . . . ,” I would not do that face justice. For to look upon him was to see him all at once, and in this sense, he was as indescribable as before, only now words were inadequate. “Why did . . . how . . . what happened to you?” I said, my words punctuated by gasps.

  But then Diomedes was beside me, bewildered and breathless. “Ignotus!” he cried, running to him with open arms.

  The giant, resting one great silver hand on his shoulder, spoke warmly. “Do not cling to me,” he said, “but sit.”

  Then, as we rested in the glow of the burning city, he told us the story of his transformation.

  “I left you with a heavy heart,” he said as he settled beside us. He was a marvel to look upon, resting there on his haunches, terrible yet serene. “I left you in despair, and if truth be told, as it must be told hereafter, I had no hope of finding your bread. But neither could I endure your scorn.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ignotus,” said Diomedes, punching the dirt with his sword.

  “The name is Ignatius,” repeated the giant, patting Diomedes on the shoulder. His voice was slow and calm like the toll of a deep bronze bell. “But there is no need for apologies. Shame is a terrible thing. Terrible, yet sometimes necessary.” He left his hand on Diomedes’ shoulder. “After all, where there is no shame, there is no honor.”

  Diomedes nodded.

  “I was justly shamed. It was shame that drove me back into that storm in search of your bread. It was shame that goaded me through the storm to our shelter.”

  “And is that where you found our bread?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Exactly where you left it.”

  I grimaced.

  “Not to worry, Son of Adam. Had you not lost it there, I should never have found my true nature.”

  “You found it in the shelter?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Just as I found your bread, the Siren found me.”

  “But I thought you were afraid,” s
aid Diomedes.

  “I was. However, I feared the bread more than I feared the Siren.”

  “So it was poisoned after all,” I mused.

  “No. But it holds a deep and ancient power. I knew I could not allow the Siren to have it.”

  “So you ate it.”

  Ignatius looked at me silently.

  “I’m sorry, Ignatius. Go ahead. It’s your turn to talk. It’s just that . . . I don’t know . . . I’m just so thrilled to hear you speak. I mean, all this time I’ve been trying to get you to talk. And now here you are. And I like you so much now. Not that I didn’t like you before, of course. I liked you plenty. It’s just that . . . I like hearing you talk.”

  “Then listen,” said Ignatius. “No, I did not eat the bread. It took all my strength of will just to hold it in my hands. But that, it seems, was enough. When I turned to face the Siren, I saw in her eyes my own new form, for she dropped her shield and fled.”

  “So how did you find us?” asked Diomedes.

  “I followed your sign, of course.”

  “What sign?” we asked in unison.

  “Why, the column of fire,” said Ignatius, with a laugh like friendly thunder. “And I knew it must be you. Only ‘resourceful Odysseus’ would come up with a sign so perfect.”

  I studied my feet while Diomedes rolled his eyes. The sack with which Ignotus had struck him lay at his feet. He picked it up now. “So what is this, then?”

  “That, dear friends, is a gift. A friendship-gift of thanks. A finer skin of wine you shall never find. I traveled a great distance to acquire it, but as parting-gifts go, you will find none better. The foulest waters will turn sweet if you add but a drop to the cup.”

  I should have thought to ask him where he’d found it but was distracted by his last words. “Parting gift?” I asked. “Who is departing?”

  “I am, dear friends,” he answered, and a look like sorrow crossed his face. “My nature now is changed. I cannot remain.”

  “But how will we make it out?” cried Diomedes, tears welling in his eyes. “We barely survived this long!”

  “Ignotus . . . ,” I said. “Ignatius, if this is about what we said to you before you left . . . we didn’t mean it. I hope you know that. We were frustrated and weary. We gave in to despair. We weren’t fair to you.”

  “We really are sorry for that,” added Diomedes.

  The giant nodded. “I thank you for your apology, friends, but it is unnecessary. Your rebukes were well earned. There was a strength in me that I had not the courage to use. You named what you saw.”

  “I called you a coward,” I said, turning my eyes to the ground.

  “So I was,” he answered. He reached out his silvery hand to touch my cheek. I looked into his face and felt a smile. “You named the evil you saw,” he said. “There is no fault in that. And besides, if anyone should know cowardice when he sees it, you should.”

  “Thank you,” I answered. We smiled at one another. “Wait!”

  But by then he had turned to Diomedes. “This is no longer my journey,” he said. “It is not possible for me to travel farther with you. Nor is it willed.”

  I looked at the black earth beneath my feet and felt a certain hollowness return.

  “Sons of Adam,” he said, “have courage. Here, where hope is so scarce, the slightest measure may suffice to conquer all.”

  I snorted. “So we should just sit here and be hopeful.”

  Ignatius turned to face me again. “Of course not. You must learn to use your arrows, after all.”

  “Learn to use them?” I said. “How am I going to do that? I’ve lost half of them already.”

  Ignatius leaned down until he and I were face-to-face. “Why, then, resourceful Odysseus, you must learn to use the eighth.” Then he stood up, spread his mighty wings into the hot air, and cast himself skyward.

  As we watched him disappear into the smoke, I felt a little surge of gratitude, and the smallest hiccup of joy.

  I turned to Diomedes. He was rubbing the back of his neck with a look of befuddled consternation. “Don’t look so gloomy,” I said to him. “We’re in better shape now than when we started.”

  “It’s not that,” he answered, picking up the wineskin. “I just wish he’d hit me with the bread instead.”

  He weighed the skin in his hands and shook his head, then turned to me and made a face. I laughed, and he did too, but it wasn’t quite the laughter of friends.

  BOOK II

  REALM OF THE LION

  The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

  The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep

  Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

  ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Ulysses

  CHAPTER 1

  MEMORIES, DREAMS, REGRETS

  I SING OF ARMS and the man

  Made fugitive by sin,

  From native soil to sweat and toil

  By Wisdom’s glittering grin.

  I was making up the song as I went, imitating the melodies of my native land—the songs sung by wandering bards with ringing voices, who slung silver lyres from their shoulders and sang for their bread in the halls of kings.

  Sing, heavenly Muse.

  Clarify. Cry. Confess.

  Which the god whose staff and rod

  Refused the heroes rest?

  Following Ignatius’ departure, a certain bleakness had settled over the beach, held off only by the bleaker light of the burning city, its gates flung open like a set of yawning jaws between which the frozen Medusa twisted like a forked tongue.

  One realm lies behind them,

  Four realms yet uncrossed.

  Two realms more and arrows four—

  One left, one loaned, one lost . . .

  I leaned against a rock, singing and fiddling with the buckles of my armor while Diomedes paced to and fro, chewing his helmet strap to a pulp while he waited for me to come out of my gloom. It was the same gloom for both of us, but Diomedes had always reacted to anxiety by finding something to do. I, on the other hand, have a tendency to do nothing when I’m feeling down. I like to enjoy my moods—even the bad ones.

  “You know what I miss most about the living world?” I said.

  “For the love of the gods!” said Diomedes. “We have a job to finish, you know.”

  “I miss the stars.”

  Diomedes shook his head.

  “On hot nights during the summer, Penelope and I used to gather a pile of fleeces and go up on the roof to sleep. Up there, you could feel the breeze off the water. We’d lie for hours watching the stars, and I’d give them new names and invent stories to go with them. She would laugh and laugh, and I’d get so wrapped up in my inventions, I’d forget I was making them up.”

  Diomedes looked into the starless sky. “Since there isn’t anything up there now, it should be easy to get up and move on.”

  “Do you remember my father’s hall?” I said, raking the sand now with my fingertips.

  “Of course I do.” I could actually hear his teeth grinding. No doubt, he had his own sorrows to dwell on. The episode with “Helen” had to be hitting him rather hard. Still, it wouldn’t kill him to wait a little longer.

  “It was a friendly place,” he said at last. He knew I had something to say and wouldn’t budge till it was said.

  “Demodocus sang there once.”

  “Demodocus. The blind bard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Heard of him. Never heard him sing.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have. But that bard we met in Limbo reminded me of him.”

  Diomedes nodded.

  “Reminded me of the week he spent in my father’s hall.”

  Diomedes raised his eyebrows. “A whole week. Imagine that.”

  “You wouldn’t understand, Diomedes. You have nothing of the mystic in you. Your heart is just a muscle.”

  “Show me a heart that isn’t muscle,” he s
aid, “and I’ll show you a pair of stone feet.” We’d had this argument before. “Your heart is as much muscle as mine,” he added.

  “No,” I said, “my heart is half fire. Circe herself told me.”

  “Hmm. Circe,” he said. “If there ever was a Circe.”

  “You’re just pouting because your girlfriend turned out to be an old man.”

  “You’re the one pouting,” he said. “I’d be halfway out of Hades by now if it weren’t for your dawdling and dreaming.”

  “You’d be halfway insane if it weren’t for my dawdling and dreaming.”

  “Why do I even talk to you?”

  “Because you know that if you ever stopped talking to me, you’d stop thinking altogether. Then you’d march through your life like one of Hephaestus’ golden slaves—all hinges and wheels inside. I’m the only thing keeping you human.”

  “You’re the only thing keeping me on this godforsaken beach,” replied Diomedes. He sighed. “You were saying something about a bard?”

  “Not just a bard, the bard—Demodocus, the Beloved of the People. My father held banquets every night for seven nights. We just about ate our way through the entire winter stock. Father had to start a war just to replenish his supplies.”

  “Your father did know how to treat a guest.”

  “He did.”

  “Good man. Good prince. A man of honor.”

  “I think so. But that week with Demodocus was something different. The bard’s song lifted everything to the clouds.”

  Diomedes nodded and tapped the rim of his shield, grinding his helmet strap between his teeth.

  I closed my eyes and tried to be there again. “It was as though the room were filled with light . . . as though another, better world had stooped to touch our own. A world where beggars are princes in disguise, and monsters were made to play with. I think that was the happiest I have ever been.”

  I opened my eyes. Diomedes had stopped tapping his shield. He was standing perfectly still, studying me.