The Eighth Arrow

by J. Augustine Wetta

  We spent a long time searching those woods but without finding a single trace of human life. At one point, we heard something like a scream in the distance, and our dogs went still and silent, lifting their noses to the air. A few scampered off to investigate, but there was no further sound from the forest, so we pressed on.

  “If we could just find the largest tree, surely Ajax would be nearby,” I said to Diomedes. “But how would we know that the tree we’re looking at was the largest?”

  Diomedes took off his helmet and scratched his head. “Tell you what,” he said. “This tree looks tall enough. Why don’t you climb it.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “While you’re up there, see if you can spot one that’s taller.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we’ll find that tree, climb to the top of it, and see if there’s one that’s even taller. And when we can’t see any tree taller than the one we’re in, I guess we’ll have found the tallest tree.”

  I looked at Diomedes, and a little cough of surprise escaped me. “Brilliant” was all I could think to say. He shrugged and smiled, then tripped over Dionysus.

  So we carried on in this way for a while longer, hiking and climbing and hiking and climbing until at last we did locate what appeared to be the largest tree in the forest. It was certainly the largest tree I’d ever come across, even in all my earthly travels. You could have carved a small house out of its trunk. But Ajax was nowhere to be seen.

  “I don’t understand,” I said to Diomedes as the dogs found places to rest among the fallen leaves. “Homer said that Ajax would be found near the largest tree in the Wood of Suicides, right?” I unrolled Chiron’s map and looked at it again. “We are in the Wood of Suicides. I’m certain of it.”

  “Maybe this isn’t the largest tree.”

  “It has to be. From the top, I can see all the way to the river. There’s nothing like it in any direction.”

  Just then, one of the dogs nearby gave a yelp and started rooting through a pile of leaves. Diomedes and I watched him emerge with an enormous leather belt between his teeth. We pulled on it, and a breastplate emerged, followed by greaves and an enormous spear.

  “There’s something else under here,” mused Diomedes. “Something big.” He drew his sword and stabbed it into the earth at his feet. There was a hollow thud, and the ground under our feet trembled. “We’re standing on a door.”

  “No,” I answered, kicking aside the leaves, “we’re standing on the shield of Ajax.”

  CHAPTER 9

  THE SON OF TELEMON

  DIOMEDES NODDED. “That makes more sense.”

  “And this really is his armor,” I said as I heaved the shield up on end. “I’d know it anywhere. There’s only one man in the world capable of carrying a shield this size. It belongs to Ajax, the Son of Telemon.”

  “So he is here, after all.”

  “But without his armor.” I sat down with my back against the tree. “He must be nearby. It wouldn’t be like him to leave his weapons unattended.”

  “Unless he’s dead.”

  “Oh, he’s dead all right. He wouldn’t be here if he weren’t dead. The question is what shape he’ll be in when we find him. I think we should wait and see if he turns up.”

  “In that case,” answered Diomedes, “I’m going to build a fire. It might get his attention. And besides, I’m starting to get cold.”

  “Be careful,” I warned. “With all this dead foliage about, we could set the whole forest ablaze.”

  I helped Diomedes clear a space next to the tree, placed some rocks in a circle, then reached up among the lower branches and snapped off a twig for kindling.

  “Oi! What’d you do that for?”

  Diomedes and I both jumped, and Argos ran in a circle barking at the air. This sent the rest of the dogs into a howling frenzy, and it wasn’t until they had settled down that we were able to search for the voice. “Who is that?” I shouted, scanning the woods. It had come from somewhere nearby.

  “ ‘Who’s that?’ Who’re you?” said the voice. “I am Ajax, Son of Telemon, Lord of Salamis.”

  I stood dumbfounded while the dogs went wild again, snuffling through the bushes, barking, and running circles around the tree.

  Once the dogs had calmed down, I spoke again, straining my eyes into the woods. “Ajax, it is I, Odysseus, Son of Laertes.”

  But only a single word drifted to us on the moldy air: “Oh.”

  And all was silence. Even the dogs held their peace this time, for that single syllable held such despair that even they felt the weight of it.

  “Son of Telemon, I would not disturb your sleep if I hadn’t been awakened myself. I came this far only by the aid of the Parthenos, and she has commanded that I fight my way through Hades.”

  Still there was no response.

  “I could use a strong set of arms, Telemides. We might work our way out together.”

  Still no answer. Try as I might, I could not get him to speak again.

  “Maybe he left,” offered Diomedes after a while.

  “Then we’ll wait for him to return,” I answered. “We need his help.”

  There was more to my persistence than self-interest. “I should have given him Achilles’ armor,” I mused aloud. But Diomedes wasn’t listening. He was busy collecting leaves.

  I watched Diomedes work for a while. I was still “playing tortoise”, as Penelope would say. I looked at Argos, and all I could think of was how much I regretted leaving him. I looked at the cup tied to my belt and could feel only remorse for my infidelities. For whom had I been showing off all those years? Something in Ajax’ tone had emptied all the joy out of me. What had I proved when I took that armor from him? What did I have to show for it now but broken hearts and broken friends?

  I reached for another piece of kindling, but when I leaned toward the tree to break off another twig, the voice of Ajax boomed out again. “Oi! Stop! I’ll speak, you pitiless dog. Weren’t it enough to steal my honor? Now you steal my flesh and blood?”

  Diomedes jumped again, and the dogs ran in circles, but I knew now where the voice was coming from. I looked closely at the tree. Sure enough, a bloody wound marked the spot where I had removed the twig.

  “Ajax?” I said, looking at the open sore. “Are you in there?”

  Diomedes jogged over. “Is this what I think it is?” he whispered.

  “I once saw a man transformed into a pig,” I answered, “but never a tree.”

  “This is worse.”

  Diomedes was right. It was much worse. And worse still was the means by which Ajax spoke, for when he answered, the wound itself opened, bubbling and spitting like a green log in a fire.

  “Yeh. It’s me.”

  “But . . . how? How did you end up like this? A witch?”

  “No witch, Odysseus. I done it myself. This here is the Wood of Suicides. And you might have thought on that before you started buildin’ a campfire with pieces of my friends.”

  I looked in horror at the forest that rose in dark throngs around us, swaying, creaking, groaning . . .

  “These here trees, they used to be men. We all used to be men. But we chose this fate when we chose to take our own lives.”

  A deep chill passed over me. “By the gods, I’m sorry, Ajax.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I . . . I’m sorry I hurt you,” I said. But the words rang hollow, and the more I thought about it, the less I meant it. After all, I hadn’t killed him. I wasn’t anywhere close when he threw himself on his sword. And come to think of it, why was I doing all this apologizing anyway—to Penelope, to Diomedes, to Ignotus, to Ajax, to the Harpy? I didn’t ask Penelope to wait eleven years for my return; any sensible wife would have found a new man after two or three years. I didn’t force Diomedes to cooperate in my misdeeds; he freely chose to come along every time. Nonetheless, the Centaurs knew me—not him—as the man of lies. It wasn’t fair. I wasn’t any worse than any other A
chaean, just cleverer. Ajax chose to take his own life, and here was I apologizing for it.

  No, I wasn’t sorry after all. In fact, I was angry. Angry at Ajax for expecting an apology, angry at Penelope for making me feel so guilty, angry at Diomedes for his complicity; but most of all, I was angry at myself for feeling like such a crook. Not that I wasn’t a crook, mind you. I’d always been a crook. And a liar, a womanizer, a pirate, a bully . . . I’d just never felt bad about it before.

  “No, I’m not sorry,” I said, looking up again at the dying tree. But the sight was so pathetic I couldn’t follow through with these words either. What good was my anger to anyone now? And what would it cost me to apologize? Maybe this was the nature of friendship—one apology after another. And why shouldn’t it be?

  “No, Ajax, I’m not sorry that you killed yourself. That was your own work. But I am sorry that I didn’t try to stop you. I’m sorry that I wasn’t more generous. I’m sorry that I wasn’t a more loyal friend, a more honorable warrior, a more generous victor. But most of all, I’m sorry that I can’t help you now.”

  The tree gave a shiver, and a few brown leaves dropped to the ground. “This weren’t the man I fought with at Troy. Odysseus wouldn’t never have said that.”

  “Oh, Ajax. So much has happened to me since we last spoke. I am no longer that man. The man you knew was . . . unworthy of your friendship. But he has changed. Not more worthy. Just . . . less arrogant.”

  The tree gave a sputtering sigh. “I been cursin’ you ever since I got here, Odysseus. Now you even steal my anger.”

  “I earned every one of your curses, old horse. No suit of armor was worth our friendship, much less your life. I regret that I took it from you. I wish I’d given you that and every other weapon I ever owned. Son of Telemon, I beg your forgiveness not because I deserve your pardon but because you deserve my apology.”

  I stood facing the tree and couldn’t think of another word to say. What now? It didn’t seem right just to leave him, but I couldn’t carry a tree with me across Hades either. “Chiron sends his greetings,” I said at last, just trying to break the silence.

  “My old tutor. You see him again, tell him I been thinkin’ of him.”

  Then I remembered the oil. “It is small consolation, Lord Ajax, but if you will allow me, I have a little vial of oil given me by Chiron that I’d like to use on that wound.”

  There was a rustling of leaves that I took for consent, and having untied the flask from my belt, I removed the cork and let a single drop fall on the sore, which was still open and bleeding. Well, the House of Autolycos had never been stingy with gifts. It seemed to me that a man like Ajax deserved more than a single drop of oil, no matter how precious that oil might be. I emptied the rest of it over the wound and watched the sparkling fluid ease down the trunk. An aroma of pine and cinnamon filled the air.

  “Ajax, Son of Telemon, may the god who rules the heavens look more kindly on you in future ages.”

  “Oi!”

  It wasn’t the response I was expecting. The wound sputtered, coughed, and puckered into itself; and then as I looked on, it healed over and grew smooth with flesh. All over the tree, the bark softened and paled, and then the great limbs overhead withdrew into the bole. Diomedes and I stumbled back as the earth cracked open under our feet, hurling clods of dirt into the air. Roots popped out of the soil and lifted their writhing tentacles before shrinking into the trunk, which split down the middle and toppled over. It was a horrible thing to see, in a way; but when the transformation was complete, a man lay in the leaves at our feet, curled up on his side like a newborn babe. Ajax.

  “Eh! Oi! Woah!” he groaned, pushing himself up on his hands and knees. “Now what have you done to me, you lyin’, two-faced . . . um . . . liar?” Ajax had always been better with weapons than words. In this, he and Diomedes were woefully similar. He stood up before us straight as a spear (By the gods, he was big!), looked to his left and his right, and then fell over face-first.

  “Oi!” he shouted into a pile of leaves. He made no effort to lift himself this time but lay face down while the dogs sniffed him and barked. “That hurt,” he said.

  “Ajax, I think you’re all right,” I answered.

  There was no coherent response, just a litany of muffled curses, so Diomedes and I decided to sit at a distance and let him get used to his body. I decided that this was a good time to mention something that had been bothering me ever since we’d found Argos. “Diomedes,” I whispered, “I’m worried about the dogs.”

  “Really?” he said. “They look happy enough to me.”

  Argos seemed to sense that we were talking about him and trotted over. He curled up at my feet and gnawed something on his backside.

  “Well, that’s just it,” I continued. “I don’t see how they belong here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Chiron told us that the god who built this ‘Hell’ was a just god.”

  “So?”

  “So why would a just god punish these innocent creatures?”

  “They don’t seem so innocent to me,” said Diomedes. Argos had worked his way from his backside to the underside of his leg.

  “But what could they be guilty of?” I asked.

  “For starters,” said Diomedes, making a face at Argos, who was engaged in his grooming with unseemly enthusiasm, “they are dirty, smelly, ignoble, and stupid.”

  “And that earns them an eternity of suffering?”

  Diomedes shrugged. “They don’t look like they’re suffering to me.”

  I looked at the dogs. They seemed happy enough.

  “For you and me, this life would be Hell,” he continued, “running in circles for eternity, covered in filth. For a dog, though, a dead forest might be just what he always wanted.”

  I laughed. “What do you know? I think you’re right.” I smiled at Argos and scratched him behind the ear. “In the end, I guess Hell is what you make of it.”

  Diomedes grunted. “I’m not sure I could make this anything but Hell.”

  “Which is why you’re not a dog,” I said.

  “I always thought of Odysseus as a dog,” said Ajax, standing before us, solemn and blurry eyed. He nodded at his own cleverness, then added as an afterthought, “But without the loyalty.”

  CHAPTER 10

  PATHS CONVERGE

  BEFORE US TOWERED the Bulwark of the Achaeans, stark naked, plastered with leaves. There was no doubt about it, even in the nude he was a daunting presence. Especially in the nude.

  “Ajax, you have every right to be angry with me, but may I suggest you put on some clothes before you continue?”

  He looked down at himself and raised his shaggy brows.

  “Go look next to that hole that used to be your roots.”

  He frowned.

  “Over there. Your tunic and armor—everything is in a pile under that mound of leaves.”

  Ajax turned around while Diomedes and I tried to look the other way.

  “He wasn’t famous for his wit,” mused Diomedes.

  He’d never spoken a truer word. Ajax was as stupid as a sack of rocks. But he was his own man, and you had to give him credit for that. He insisted on mixing milk with his wine, which quite disgusted everyone who knew him. And whereas all the Achaean warriors prided themselves on their long hair, Ajax shaved his clean off like a slave. “Feels nice,” he used to say, rubbing his head back and forth, “and makes the fightin’ easier.” He rarely wore a helmet except for duels, and I’m not sure he needed one. He had an exceedingly thick skull. He took an arrow in the forehead once, and just left it there while he hammered away at the enemy, blood running down his face. That alone turned the tide of the battle.

  When Ajax returned at last, he was none too pleased. “Me and you have a score to settle.” The great man loomed over me now, clad head to toe in bronze. His legendary shield was planted before him.

  Were you to have met Ajax back when he was alive, the first thing you’d have noticed
about him was that shield. He loved it like he loved his wife—more than he loved his wife, in fact. He certainly spent more time with it. He ate off it, slept on it, and sat under it on hot days and beside it on cold days. He used it as a table, a tent, a bed, a plate, a stretcher, a door . . . I remember clearly the day it was forged. We had just finished raiding Chryse, a little town near Troy with not much material wealth but an abundance of beautiful women. We’d burned the city to the ground, seeded its fields with salt, and killed every man tall enough to hold a spear. But those Chryseans were brave men and excellent archers, so we were all exhausted by nightfall. I was roasting a pig with Diomedes and Teucros when Ajax came storming through the camp. He had several arrows sticking out of him and a look on his face like he’d eaten a rat.

  “Aimi, Ajax!” I called as he strode past. “You starting an arrow collection?”

  “I got me an idea,” he grunted.

  It was a rare occasion that an idea of any sort should manifest itself between those enormous ears of his, so I rose to follow him along with half the camp.

  He didn’t change direction or expression until he arrived at the tent of Tychios, an old blacksmith so nicknamed for his skill at bartering. He had taken a spear to the back early in his youth that cost him the use of his legs. Not being much of a singer, strategist, or storyteller, he turned to metalwork and discovered he had a talent for it. We found the smith resting on a pile of sheepskins surrounded by broken swords and pikes.

  “Make me a bigger one of these,” said Ajax, throwing his shield at his feet.

  “Lord Ajax, Bulwark of the Achaeans,” Tychios answered with as much deference as any human voice could muster, “I’ve told you before, that shield is as big as I make them. I could hardly lift it off the forge.”

  “I need it bigger,” Ajax growled, pulling an arrow out of his calf. “Them Trojans been usin’ my lower parts to store their arrows, and I’m done with it. I need me a shield that will cover me chin to toe.”