The Eighth Arrow

by J. Augustine Wetta

  “Odysseus! Rope!” Ajax was already at the edge of the bridge and peering over. I unwound the rope from my waist and tossed it to him. I watched as he tied one end around his waist. “All right, boys. I’ll hold out here while you climb down into the valley.”

  I was almost over the edge before I realized what that meant. “Wait! Aren’t you coming?”

  “Yeh, dummy. I’ll climb down after.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. “Ajax, what are you going to tie the rope to?”

  He looked around the bridge, then over the edge again. “Guess I didn’t think of that.”

  “Well, you can’t stay here,” I said. “The devils will kill you.”

  “Guess I didn’t think of that either,” he mused, running one hand across his head. “Ye know, I kind of wish ye didn’t think on stuff so much, Odysseus.”

  “We’ll find another way down,” said Diomedes; but the horned devils were clearly winning the fight. Soon their attention would turn to us. And to make matters worse, there seemed to be a larger army of winged devils on the horizon.

  Ajax shook his head. “Uh-uh. No time for that. You two get movin’, and I’ll throw the rope down after.”

  “That’s suicide,” I said.

  “No it en’t,” replied Ajax, drawing himself up to his full height. “I done suicide before. This here is courage.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” I said. “You could go down. I’ll stay behind.”

  He smiled. “You got a wife waitin’. Besides”—he looked back at the fighting devils and grinned—“just now thought of this. The only thing I missed in life was a good death.” He looked downright noble at that moment, the big lummox, contemplating his own heroic demise. It was true what he said. His life had not ended well.

  “Go,” said Ajax. “You and me—we’re even now.” A rock ricocheted off his head. “Oi! I’m coming!” he shouted. “Gods be with you, Son of Laertes.”

  “God be with you, Son of Telemon,” I answered.

  And that was the last I saw of Ajax.

  CHAPTER 6

  TWO PATHS DIVERGE

  I WAS HALFWAY TO THE BOTTOM when Ajax’ war cry echoed across the valley. A moment later, my rope went slack. I had a brief opportunity to curse before tumbling to the ground, my armor ringing about me like a sack of coins. Once I’d reached the bottom, I lay on my back, breathless and dazed. I could see Proteus, sitting cross-legged on a nearby rock.

  “You!” I gasped from where I lay. “You could have saved him.”

  Proteus looked surprised. “Perhaps. But it is not my way to meddle in the affairs of men.”

  “That’s exactly what you’ve been doing all along!”

  Again, he looked surprised. “Why, yes. I suppose that is true as well. Perhaps I should have said that it is not my way to meddle in the affairs of men unless it benefits me.”

  “But you are a man!”

  Proteus mused on what I’d said. “I was a man . . . once. But I have been many other things since.”

  “You let a good man die,” I said.

  “A good man?” he answered. “If he were good, he would not be here. There is no room for good down here. Just a little good would turn the whole place upside down.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I said.

  “Hm? What?” Proteus looked nervous now, fidgeting and coughing as though he had let slip some secret and was trying to back out of the embarrassment.

  Now I was interested. “What do you mean, turn the place upside down? How is that?”

  “Oh, nothing, really. It is just a turn of speech. Idle musings. The ramblings of a senile old fool.” Proteus wrinkled his nose and laughed. “What I meant was that this just is not the sort of place for a good man, which is a good thing, when you think of it. Quite crowded enough down here already, I should say. Ahem.”

  Diomedes walked over to where my rope lay, eyeing Proteus, and started to coil it around his arm.

  “That’s mine,” I said from where I lay.

  Diomedes looked at me but did not let go of the rope.

  “Give it to me,” I said.

  Proteus eased down from his rock. “Come now, gentlemen. We have not the luxury of bickering. And there is a little spring of water in the side of the cliff here, if you should need to drink.”

  I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was until he mentioned it. Diomedes and I made a dash for the spring, forgetting the rope altogether.

  When we had finished, Proteus handed me the coil and spoke. “Let us have a look at your map.”

  “No need,” I answered. “Chiron left this part blank. It’s a valley like the other nine.”

  “Just the same, I should like to have a look.”

  “No,” I said.

  He smiled. “Suit yourself. Which way, then?”

  “The road should begin again on the other side. If we—”

  “Someone is here,” said Proteus. His eyes flashed yellow, and he glared into the darkness behind me. I drew my sword and turned to look.

  “What is it?”

  “Several of them,” he said, stepping toward the darkness. “I should have noticed them, but they are moving so slowly . . .” He cocked his head to the left, glared with one eye into the darkness. He looked so much like a bird, I almost laughed.

  “Six,” he said, “dressed like priests.”

  “We need to move on,” said Diomedes.

  “I do not think they are a threat,” answered Proteus. He gave an odd little shrug—sort of half nod, half duck—then rocked left and right on his heels, keeping his shoulders and head absolutely level. I found it unsettling.

  “How do you know they aren’t dangerous?” I answered. I could just make out the vague silhouette of several robed figures in the distance. To me, they looked threatening indeed, and as they drew closer, they looked more so, swathed head to toe in thick folds of black wool. Moreover, they bore themselves like priests, moving with all the belabored precision of a solemn procession, one foot dragging after the other in slow, stern steps. Their deep hoods drowned their faces in shadow.

  Proteus nodded to himself. “I think it is best we decline the opportunity of their fellowship.”

  Diomedes was already on the move, so Proteus and I followed.

  We set a pretty brisk pace at first, but the robed figures walked so slowly, we found we could stay well ahead of them without having to exert ourselves in the least. Others materialized from time to time, but they too moved with such aching sluggishness, we had only to walk around them. Of course, once we made it to the other side of the valley, matters took a difficult turn, for the climb back up to the road was steep and perilous.

  “Proteus, fly this rope up to the top and let it down to us,” I said.

  Proteus shook his head. “I cannot.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t? Just change into a bird and fly up there.”

  “I would not be big enough to carry all that rope.”

  “So change into a really big bird.”

  Proteus shook his head slowly. “For that, I would need more water.”

  “Water?”

  “If I want to be something bigger than I am, I need water. A puddle, perhaps—even a thick fog will do. But I must be wet.”

  “You’ve been changing back and forth since you joined us,” said Diomedes.

  “Only when there was water nearby.”

  “Can’t you use something else? Dirt, maybe? Air?”

  “It must be water.”

  “Well . . . how much do you need?” I asked.

  “Enough to reach the size I desire. Too much, and I turn into a great, soupy muck; too little, and I crumble to dust. It is rather hard to recover from either.”

  “But I thought you were a magician. Why do you need water at all?”

  Proteus groaned and rolled his eyes. “It is not magic. Or not the way you think of magic at least. I cannot just become anything whenever I like. An ox is about as large as I go. And I cannot be much
smaller than a rabbit. Any smaller than that, I would have to lose some limbs, and once I lose a piece of me, it is gone forever.”

  “Hence your finger,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “But that doesn’t explain the smell.”

  Proteus looked at me blankly. “Smell?”

  “You know. That . . . aroma you give off when you shift.”

  Proteus shook his head and smiled.

  “That fishy, saltwater smell—like seaweed.”

  He shook his head again. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  Diomedes threw his hands in the air. “For the love of the gods, who cares? If he can’t do it, he can’t do it. Can we please just move on?”

  Proteus muttered something under his breath.

  “Well, if you can’t shift into something useful,” I sighed, “then I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way. Be careful, though, old man. It would be a terrible shame if you had an accident. Especially out here where there isn’t any water.” Proteus nodded and thanked me. I put my hand on his shoulder and squeezed hard. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll be right behind if you slip.”

  The smile dropped from his face as he turned toward the ascent.

  The climb was dangerous, for the rocks were slick and loose. Several times, we came close to slipping all the way back to the bottom in a torrent of stone, where the hooded strangers now waited—patiently—with folded arms. In the end, however, we did manage to reach the top, but were so exhausted by the climb, we walked the rest of the way in silence. Not that anyone felt like talking.

  At the top of the next bridge, I broke the silence. “We stop here,” I said.

  “Stop for what?” protested Diomedes.

  “I need to have a look around.”

  Diomedes took me by the arm. “No you don’t.”

  I felt a blush of anger. “What’s wrong with you?” I said, shaking my arm loose. “For as long as I can remember, you’ve been following my lead. Now suddenly I can’t wipe my nose without your consent.”

  “Maybe I’m getting smarter,” he answered, “or maybe it’s just that every time you get an idea, our situation gets worse.”

  “It won’t get worse this time,” I said. “I have a plan.”

  Diomedes grit his teeth. That muscle in his jaw was starting to tighten again. “For once, let your curiosity rest, would you?”

  “It’s not curiosity, this time,” I said, adopting a more conciliatory tone. “I’m looking for my grandfather.”

  “Grandfather!” said Diomedes. He didn’t so much say the word as spit it.

  “He was a great thief,” I answered. “A thief would be a useful addition to our team.”

  “But your grandfather!” said Diomedes.

  “Yes. Autolycos.” I could sense his anger building, and the more I saw of his anger, the more I felt determined to resist it.

  “The same grandfather that used to beat you when he came to visit?”

  “The same.”

  Diomedes shook his head. “We’re not stopping.”

  “Sure we are,” I said, not looking at him. “Beatings or no, he’s family.”

  Diomedes blew out a long, slow breath. “Just this once, I want you to think about what you’re doing, Odysseus. The risk you’re taking. We don’t know what’s in that valley, and every time you meddle, something terrible happens.”

  Proteus nodded. “We do need to keep moving, Odysseus. Risks aside, there is no telling how long it will take for those devils to catch up with us.”

  “It’s not up for debate,” I said, uncoiling my rope. “He’s family, and I’m going down there to look for him.”

  Diomedes swallowed. “Odysseus,” he said, his voice low and furious out of his rigid face, “I need you to think carefully about this. Really carefully. Are you willing to risk your life . . . my life . . . are you willing to risk my life for a man who beat you when you were a child?”

  “Everyone beat me when I was a child,” I said, “but if you want to put it that way, then yes.”

  Diomedes opened his mouth to speak but turned without saying another word and picked up his gear.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “You’re going on without me?”

  Again, no answer.

  “Fine. You’ll never make it. You’re not smart enough.”

  Diomedes stopped. He did not turn to face me. His voice was a thin whisper. “This may be hard for you to understand, Odysseus, but you’re not the only soul in the Underworld who wants to see the stars.” Then he trudged off into the darkness.

  “Come along, now,” Proteus said to me. “We need you, and you need us.”

  “Need the two of you?” I said. “A traitor and a coward?”

  Proteus cracked his knuckles and smiled. “I quite understand how you feel.”

  “You don’t understand the first thing about me, you broken old gimp.”

  Proteus winced. “But I do, Odysseus. You and I are cut from the same cloth—I, a shapeshifter, you, the Man of Many Faces. Both of us estranged from our families. Both of us mad for power and immortality.”

  I laughed and spat at his feet. “To the crows with you. You have no interest in my well-being. You just want to have two men to give Hades.”

  Proteus smiled. “You see? We think alike.”

  “Say another word—anything at all—and I will kill you.”

  He smiled humorlessly. “Good luck with that.” Then he turned and followed Diomedes.

  I was left alone.

  CHAPTER 7

  THIEVES

  NOW more than ever, I wanted to see my grandfather again. It was true that he had beaten me. But then, what man didn’t beat his children? And unlike my father, who seemed to beat me out of a sense of obligation, the beatings I took from my grandfather always felt . . . well . . . purposeful; and if this didn’t quite inspire love, it did create a sort of bond between us that I never felt with anyone else. It was a bond that I rather missed, and now all the more. Besides, I thought, a good thief could be a real asset, so long as I could trust him. Of course, I couldn’t. But then, trust is always an issue among thieves.

  So yes, I missed my grandfather. He was a crafty, lying, murderous old crook, but he had meant a lot to me in my youth, and I had wanted nothing more than to grow up to be just like him. Of course, some folk might think it strange to be raised with a man like that for a role model. He was, after all, a rogue in every sense of the word. But the way my family figured it, if the gods gave you a gift, it would be impious to refuse it. And my grandfather had the gift of cunning.

  Moreover, he was proud of his ability and did what he could to pass it on to me. I often called to mind a game we used to play when I was little. He would hide figs among his robes, and if I could take one without his noticing, he would give me three more. If he caught me, though, I’d get a swift thump on the head. Well, the game never got boring, and it never seemed unusual either. In fact, it taught me a skill or two that served me rather well later in life.

  “Come to me, my clever little Outis,” he would call out, taking a seat on a pile of fleecy rugs. This was always the way he would greet me, and I knew the moment he said it that the game was on. Of course, I was always too excited to get away with the theft on the first try, and then I’d have to leave the room watery eyed and dizzy to recover from his blows. But over time, I learned to wait for his guard to slip, or to create distractions of my own, and pretty soon I could rob him and eat the figs before he noticed they were gone.

  Inevitably, the day arrived when I realized I was too old for the game. Indeed, I remember it with no small degree of satisfaction. It was the occasion of my twelfth genethlia, and my grandfather had come down all the way from Phocis to celebrate with the family. I knew by now where all the figs would be hidden, and he knew I knew and watched carefully for my assaults. Three times I reached into his pockets, employing all the arts of distraction and de
ceit. Three times he caught me, and each time I was caught, he hit me a little harder. “You are a man now,” he said. “Behave like one.”

  His rebuke confused me. He had the figs in his pockets. I was playing the game as we had always played it. Yet he seemed annoyed.

  The fourth time around, I thrust my hand into his pocket without waiting for a distraction, and when he reached back to slap me, I hit him on the nose, knocking him backward over the rugs. Then I picked the figs up off the floor and ate them while he struggled to his feet. I stood then, chewing quietly, and waited for the inevitable beating. But none came. He simply stood before me, his nose swelling beneath two black eyes, and smiled. “Today, my little Outis is truly Odysseus, the ‘Man Who Brings Suffering’. Now, my son, you have learned everything I have to teach. You are as great a thief as I.” That evening, before all our guests, he handed me his own bronze sword with the silver hilt. I used it for the rest of my life.

  So you see, I had fond memories of the old crook—well, good memories, at any rate—and I sincerely hoped to rescue him. However, as I peered over the edge of the bridge, my spirits sank. In a long line beneath me, a mad throng of bandits, burglars, pickpockets, pirates, and crooks of every sort stretched out across the valley. Shifty eyed and nervous, they skulked along the path in a cringing parade of shame. They were naked, all of them, though each wore a sort of loincloth made of living serpents. And around them too on all sides, snakes slid among the stones. The noise of their hissing filled the valley. And there in the midst of them, Autolycos stood like a king. He was as quick and shifty as the others, but I was proud to see that he still held his head like a man of noble birth. Even here, he would not betray the dignity of his blood—a thief, to be sure, but a king of thieves.

  “Papos!” I called from the bridge. “Granddad! Up here!”

  He snapped his head right to left. It must have been near impossible to hear anything above the noise of the serpents.

  “Papos!” I called again, uncoiling the rest of my rope. “Over here. On the bridge. It is I, Odysseus!”

  This time, I was sure he had heard me, though again, he was having trouble spotting me.

  “Papos!” I called a third time. But as I did, an enormous serpent, fiery eyed and speckled silver-black, rose from among the others.