The Eighth Arrow

by J. Augustine Wetta

  The soldiers of Limbo looked at one another in disbelief. Was this the god of the Underworld?

  “Who will have pity on me?” said Hades.

  I looked to my left and my right. No one volunteered.

  “I will,” I said.

  Hades gasped. “You.” There was nothing in those tearful eyes to inspire pity. Nothing whatsoever. Yet I did feel a certain despair on his behalf.

  “Let the rest of these go,” I said, “and I will stay behind to remove the arrow.”

  Chiron put his hand on my shoulder and leaned close. “The moment the arrow is out, he will kill you.”

  “It is true,” said Hades. “You and I will have to fight.”

  “Just the same,” I answered, “these are my terms.”

  “Three may leave.”

  “All of them.”

  “Your friends. Just your friends.”

  “Every last soul,” I said.

  “I will not barter with you.”

  “Then I will not remove the arrow.”

  Hades groaned. “Very well. Take these dogs out of my sight. All of them. Why should I care whether they live or die? Take them all. If they can find the portal, let them pass. After all, I am a god of compassion. Their souls for yours.”

  “Their souls for mine,” I said. “You have my word.”

  “Vow it, Odysseus,” said Hades.

  “By the river Styx; by my life and the lives of those I love; by the god of the four-letter name whose justice built this prison, I swear it. When the last of these souls has departed your realm, I shall remove the arrow from your back.”

  “And then you will be mine.”

  “And then there will be nothing to prevent you from killing me.”

  “Splendid!” roared Hades. “The vow is made. When the last soul has passed through this gate, you will remove the arrow from my back, and we shall face one another. Like men.”

  “We shall face one another,” I agreed.

  Telemachos called to me. “Over here, Father. Just behind him. Where his back meets the ice. I’ve found the door.”

  Hades looked down at him and curled his lip. “You found the door. Clever boy. Just like your father. It must be close to where you stabbed me in the back. But as your pathetic army passes through, consider this, Prince of Ithaca: you are a shade. You cannot survive a single breath in the land of the living. The weight of all that life will crush you like a gnat. Your father thinks he saved you, but he is sending you to your death.”

  Telemachos looked at me. “Is it true?”

  “It is true,” said Chiron. “The Centaurs might make it. But as for all these souls . . .”

  “Chiron,” I said with mock contempt, “have you so little faith? Surely you don’t think Odysseus, renowned the world over for every sort of cunning, would let himself be duped so easily. The Parthenos chose me for a reason, after all. Come now, son.” I untied the sack of bread from my belt while he walked over. After all my rolling about, it was little more than a bag of crumbs. Hades squinted and craned his neck to have a look as I opened the bag.

  I poured a few fragments into my hand. “Open your mouth.” Telemachos looked worried but did as I said. I placed a crumb on his tongue, and he swallowed it. Then I took him in my arms.

  It was a real pleasure to see his face go slack with surprise. “Why . . . Father . . . it’s . . . I’m . . .”

  “Alive,” I said. “No longer a shade. But we’ll talk about that later.” I poured some bread into my hand and passed the bag to Telemachos. “Go wait by the door. The rest will follow. As they pass, give each a few scraps of this bread. But be sparing. There won’t be enough for everyone. Try to make it last.”

  Telemachos marched back to his place, obedient as always. Hades eyed him fearfully. “What have you in that bag?” he asked. There was a flat note of fear in his voice.

  Telemachos noticed it. “Just bread,” he said, holding out the leather bag. “See?”

  Hades cringed and pulled in his wings. Telemachos took a few more steps toward him, and Hades raised his claw. “Come any closer with that, and I’ll pull you limb from limb. Vow or no vow, I’ll live with this arrow in my back for eternity, and no one will pass through the door.”

  He had worked himself so far to the side of his hole that I could now clearly see the portal set in the ice on the other side. “Telemachos,” I shouted, “enough silliness. Stop bullying that god and do what you’re told.”

  Telemachos grinned and took his place by the door.

  I looked for Penelope. She had returned with the Harpies and stood amid a circle of admiring Centaurs, showing them how to string my bow.

  “Woman,” I shouted, “shame on you. That’s a family secret. Come here.”

  Her smile faded somewhat, but she sauntered over. “Who cares? You won’t be stringing any more bows—not with that arm.”

  “Be quiet and open your mouth.”

  Penelope narrowed her eyes at me and cocked an eyebrow, slapping the bow against her thigh. I could see she was debating whether to beat me with it.

  “Please. For old times’ sake,” I said, “obey your husband. Do it for me this once, and you’ll never again have to beg for a kiss.”

  Penelope laughed, and when she opened her mouth, I tossed the crumbs in.

  Her eyes widened. She swallowed. Then I took her face in my hands and kissed her. This time, it was she who fainted. I only just managed to catch her with my one good arm and lower her to the ice. A Centaur trotted over with a blanket, and we made her comfortable.

  “Guess I’d better get these folks moving,” grunted Ajax. He clapped me on the shoulder. I winced. “You done good by us, Odysseus. Real good. Not like ya, really.”

  “Thanks, Ajax. Always honest.” I smiled and saluted him. “How about we get started before Hades changes his mind.”

  Ajax nodded and turned to the crowd. “Oi! Move it, folks. Door is thisaways.” He did have a knack for getting people’s attention.

  One by one the souls of Limbo filed past—limping, groaning, wounded, and weary. The Battle of Lake Cocytus may have ended in victory, but to look at the victors, you’d never tell.

  I sighed. “Was all this really necessary?”

  Chiron followed my gaze. “Yes, son, I believe it was.”

  “You’d have thought our god might have stepped in.”

  Chiron nodded. “He might have stepped in. He might have fought the whole battle for us. But then, ‘might have been’ covers quite a lot of ground. This is the way it is, and I suspect it’s for the best.”

  “It doesn’t feel like the best.”

  “War never does.”

  While we were still talking, Nessos trotted up. “Good news.”

  I looked up at the burly Centaur. There was a deep gash in his side, and his legs were spattered with gore, yet he seemed hardly to notice. I smiled and patted him on the withers. “I am glad of it, Nessos. What is it?”

  “No fatalities.”

  “What?” Chiron and I said in unison.

  “We have wounded. Plenty of them. But no dead.”

  “None at all?”

  “Not one.”

  “What about Proteus?”

  “Couldn’t find him.”

  “But surely Diomedes . . .”

  “Still hanging on, though you’d think he was dead to look at him.”

  Chiron winked at me. “And you were saying about our god . . . ?”

  By the time Penelope awoke, a good third of the army had filed past. I had entrusted Argos to the Centaurs, then passed the remainder of the time stroking her hair.

  “You . . . ,” she said, reaching to touch my face. I leaned into her hand. She smiled, then sat up and frowned. “You’re not coming with us.”

  I shook my head.

  “Shame on you,” she whispered, choking on her words. “How could you?”

  I felt as though I’d been slapped. “How . . . how could I?” I said, taking her hand. “How could I not ?
Penelope, my wife, you know more than all these others. You know who I am. What I’ve done. I have a debt to pay.”

  She looked at my hand in hers and wept.

  Beyond that, there wasn’t much for us to say. Sad as she was, sad as we both were, I think she understood that I had done my best. So we sat together in silence, grateful at least for the chance to touch one another. We sat together hand in hand and watched as the souls of Limbo filed past and out the gate of lowest Hell. One by one they passed, and each soul saluted as it walked by: all the men, women, and children I’d seen in those bright streets of Limbo—Greeks, Trojans, Egyptians, Ethiopians . . . By the door, Telemachos stood, earnest as a young priest, distributing the bread. He placed a tiny fragment on each person’s tongue when each soul stopped before him. And curiously, the bread never ran out.

  “Here,” said one man, so dark of skin, I thought he must be part god. “This spear belonged to my grandfather. It is a good weapon. It will bring you luck.”

  “Here,” said another, producing a helmet of woven red leather with a crescent moon in gold on its brow. “I wore this helmet on the field at Nagashino. It has never failed me.”

  “Here is my bow,” said another.

  “And my shield,” said a fourth.

  Little by little, a mound of weapons rose before us and spread out across the ice. And when the last of the souls had ushered past; when I’d clasped Diomedes in my arms and been clasped by a tearful Chiron; when I’d saluted Homer and nodded my head to Amphinomos and his friends; when the last skipping child and teetering old woman had ambled through that door at the base of Hell; when Antaeos the giant had wandered off to explore the Underworld, and the Harpies had kissed me farewell; then I turned to my son. He and Penelope were the last remaining souls.

  “Would you believe it?” he huffed, handing me the empty bag. His shoulders slumped with exhaustion. “There was enough bread in that sack for the entire lot of them. Just exactly enough.”

  He looked over at his mother, then down at his feet. “Guess I did all right?” He raised his eyes briefly and gave me a tight, uncertain smile. He had been waiting a long time to ask me this.

  “Telemachos,” I said, “my flesh and blood.” I touched his head with the palms of my hands and pressed my forehead to his. There could be no more words between us.

  There were no more words between us. He bowed. He tapped his chest. I smiled, weeping. He left. Then I turned to my wife.

  “I won’t say good-bye to you again,” she said, before I could speak.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I’ll stay with you.”

  “You know you can’t.”

  “Then you and I will run to the door together,” she pleaded, her eyes welling with new tears, “or you’ll talk your way out of this. Or you’ll trick him or kill him or blind him or find a way around the promise you made . . .” Her voice trailed off in a sob.

  “Penelope. Dearest. Dearest.” My heart groaned in my chest. “I’m done with tricks and turns. I won’t die with another lie on my lips.”

  Penelope shook her head and clutched my hand.

  “You understand, though,” I said, holding back tears. “I know you do. This time, I face my fate with honor. And in truth, I owe it to you. To my son. To the Parthenos. I owe it to god, to our god, or to whichever god it was that gave me this second chance.”

  Then she raised my hand to her lips. “All your life, you have lived for yourself. You have been the center of your world since the day of your birth. For years I waited—waited in hope. I waited for you to leave and waited for you to return. And when you finally returned, I waited for you to settle that restless heart of yours. But you never did.”

  I looked at my hand in hers and could not speak.

  “Today, though . . .” She swallowed and breathed deeply. “Today your heart comes home.” She took my face in her hands and kissed me. “On the other side of that door, I will wait for you.”

  I watched her tears fall to the ground and freeze. Then she walked to the door. She stood for a time looking through it, her shoulders trembling. She turned back to me, touched her lips, and stepped down into the dark.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE EIGHTH ARROW

  LET ME TELL YOU one last story.

  When I was a boy—in my tenth year, perhaps, not much older—I found a corpse floating in the surf near my home. It was the body of an old man who had drowned there some days before. The whole island was troubled by his loss. He had been a pillar of the community, gentle and wise. A respected elder of the assembly. Not wealthy, but often called upon for his good counsel. He had waded into the surf one evening and never returned. Truly, such deaths were not uncommon in Ithaca, but what made this one so tragic was that his body had not been found. Without a proper burial, no man could rest in peace. It didn’t matter how good he was; if his body was not given proper rites, his soul would wander the earth aimlessly for eternity—lost, mourning, and confused. Such were our beliefs back then. So finding his body was singularly important, not just to his family, but to the rest of us who feared we might bump into his phantom some dark night as it roamed the streets looking for a grave.

  I had left my home early that morning with the intention of fishing, but when I arrived at the beach, the old man’s widow was standing on the shore, looking out to sea. She had been making vigils at that spot every night since he’d gone missing. I could see, however, that she was not praying. Her veil was down. She was standing tiptoe, wringing her hands and calling for help.

  She recognized me immediately, cried out, and ran to where I stood with my nets.

  “Son of Laertes,” she cried, her voice cracking with fear and loss of sleep. “My husband. He is out there. I have seen him. You must help me. Show yourself worthy of your father’s name. Bring me my husband’s body.”

  I looked out over the surf—bright and blue under the morning sun. Not far offshore, I could see a shadow wavering beneath the swells. “Go fetch my father and my uncles,” I said. “I will bring your husband in.”

  I watched her scramble up the beach and over the rocks. She turned to me and bowed, then hurried off along the path that led to my father’s house.

  As I looked out at the water—at that dark shape floating just beneath the surface—I realized that I was going to have to dive into that cold surf and tug the rotting corpse to shore alone. I told myself as I shrugged off my tunic and waded into the water that it was merely a matter of placing one foot before the other—that if I could just move my limbs, it would all be over soon. But I also remember—and this part of the story still gives me nightmares—that as I moved closer to the shadow in the water, I realized I might at any moment break down and run away.

  Well, there have been only two times in my life when I’ve felt such fear. That day on the beach was one. This moment before Hades was the other.

  “It is about time,” he clucked, flicking the door shut with his finger. “That was a fine trick you played on me, Son of Adam, and I don’t trick easily. But what is done is done. The time has come now to consummate our vows.”

  “So it has,” I said. We regarded one another in silence. It seemed to me that I had one of two choices: I could turn and walk away—find a place somewhere in the Underworld that wasn’t too uncomfortable and stay there—or I could pretend to keep my word, walk up behind Hades, and then, instead of removing the arrow, make a dash for the door. I was still weighing my options when Hades broke the silence.

  “Enough stalling, Odysseus. Do keep your word and come remove this arrow.”

  I took a few steps forward and stopped again. Such an odd smile played across his face. I knew that look from somewhere.

  “Come now. Your blasted arrow still festers in my flesh, just here where my back meets the ice. You will have to pass the door to reach it.”

  Now I knew that smile. I’d used a smile like that to lure Iphigenia to her death. I’d used a smile like that to trick Dolon into betraying hi
s general. I’d smiled like that at the Cyclops when I told him my name was Nobody. It was the smile of a man laying a trap.

  Hades spoke again. “You hesitate? Odysseus, incorrigible man. Always doubting. So slow to trust. A man after my own heart. Very well. I shall make you this offer, Son of Laertes: if you bow before me, worship me, and acknowledge that I am your Lord, I will give you half my kingdom.”

  Those were generous terms. But why would the Lord of the Underworld make such an offer unless . . . unless he expected to break his word? And then I understood. He expected me to break mine.

  “No, Hades,” I said, “I don’t want your kingdom.”

  Hades assumed an expression of mock indignation. “You will be punished for such insolence.”

  “I know. But first I will pray.”

  “Out of the question. You and I are to do battle here. You promised.”

  I ignored him. After all, what did I have to lose? “Parthenos,” I prayed, “Virgin of the Glowing Smile, Lady of Wisdom and Victory, Bright-eyed Immortal, hear me now. I did what I could to be worthy of your kindness. I did my best. Still I have failed—through lack of wit or honor or common sense, I cannot tell. Even so, Gentle Virgin, Bearer of the Storm Shield, if ever my sacrifices have pleased you, hear now your unworthy servant. Look after my son and my wife and my friends. Keep them happy and keep them safe.”

  Then I strapped my greaves across my shins. I buckled my breastplate and locked my arm into my shield for the last time. I sheathed my sword. I slung my golden bow over one shoulder. Then I took my bronze helm in my hands, and looking into its hollow eyes, I lifted it up and over my head. I was armed for my last battle.