by Anna Harvey
In a shady hollow not far from the camp, they found the pungent herb growing. They dug it up out of the earth and four of them quickly chewed the creamy bulbs. Buckling his sword sheath and slinging his bow over his shoulder, he set out.
They made their way through the woods, following in the direction where he had first glimpsed the dwelling with the smoking fire. There was no discernible path, so their progress was slow as they made their way along the rough ground, their feet obscured by undergrowth and shade loving plants. The shadows were growing longer when at last they came across a clearing. Human hands had stripped back the forest. They stood completely still, silent, listening for sounds on the breeze. Apprehension was in the pallid faces of the men and their bodies stiff, as they gripped their weapons. Odysseus nodded and cautiously they ventured into the clearing, no longer under the forest’s protection.
A small bird landed on a branch, so close that the turtle-shell markings could be seen on the wing feathers. It chirruped a sweet warble undisturbed by their presence. Strips of torn cloth had been hung on the tree branches, giving the place a strange enchanted atmosphere. It was then they had noticed the animal enclosures, made from woven willow twigs and supple branches. Odysseus’ brow furrowed. Dangerous wild animals, mountain lions and wolves that ranged in the mountains, were caged inside quite contentedly.
“The witch must have beguiled them,” whispered Neritides, beads of sweat running from his forehead. “How else would these creatures stomach being kept like pet dogs?”
“This has the appearance of a sacred precinct,” said Odysseus quietly as he turned his head to observe the neat and ordered pens in the clearing. Someone tended the beasts well. “Perhaps a local cult practised by the people here. Come, let us discover more.” They stealthily advanced, passing the animal enclosures and tame wild deer and boar grazing unperturbed by their presence. They could see a well-built lodging, stone clad not unlike the great megara he had seen at Mykenai. It was then they spied the lost men. It was as Eurylochos had described, they were grovelling through the dirt ground on all fours acting like swine. Softly they called out their names, but the bewitched men took no notice and continued with their scavenging.
He could feel the anger rising in his chest at the scene he had witnessed. Whoever had done this to his men, would pay a dear price, he thought, as he reached the steps leading up to the dwelling. His companions now faltered, frightened perhaps by Eurylochos’ tale or the shock of seeing their warrior comrades transformed. The pride of the Greek army crawling in the mud like pigs. Witch or no witch, he was determined to discover the cause, whether this be the work of a god or a mortal.
As he climbed the polished stone steps, he could taste the bitter outrage in his mouth. The heavy-studded wooden doors were barred shut. There was no sign of life. He was in no mood for the rules of xenia.
“Come out, whoever you are and show yourself,” he shouted, banging his fist on the door. “I would speak with you!” He strode across the columned porch, his metal sword scrapping on the stone floor.
For a moment nothing stirred. Then the double doors slowly opened, as if taunting him, and she had stepped forth: the witch.
She stood silhouetted in the dark doorway holding a wooden baton. Her hair was un-braided, snaking down her sides in long curled tresses, deeper in colour than spun copper. She wore a simple mantle dyed fern-green, which modestly covered the length of her body. The witch was stood upright, contemplating him with her clear green orbs.
“Welcome, strangers to our house.” Her soft voice rang out clearly, addressing him in his own language. “You have come to the sacred precinct and shrine of the goddess Feronia. My name is Kirke, named so after the wild falcon that nests in these hills. Please enter,” she said gesturing them inside, “so that we may entertain you with wine and food as befits a traveller.” Her words belied the tales he had heard of her.
It was not as he had expected. On the surface she seemed well born, even educated and spoke his language. Odysseus’ first instinct had been to run her through with his sword, like a skewered piece of meat. He had marked the spot to plunge his weapon into her heart, just where the rounded bosom swelled beneath the tunic. He steadied his hand. Whatever spell they were under, he needed to find out. He suppressed his rage and with gritted teeth followed the witch.
She showed him into the ante-chamber of the house, where well-appointed tables and chairs had already been placed. Their arrival was not unexpected. There was murmurs in the background: light youthful voices. In the shadows, he caught a glimpse of maiden figures, eyeing him with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
“Will your companions not also join us?” the witch asked calmly. “For I will ensure you are all looked after well. Please call them inside, while I prepare a drink for you.”
Her back was turned. He had no doubt that she was tampering the wine-bowl with some drug of bad intent. He gestured to the men to cross the threshold. They stood guarded, shifting from side to side. None was inclined to sit and rest.
“Here,” she said unperturbed, handing out the wine cups one by one. “Please drink, as is right for guests to this house.” Courteously she pressed a cup into his hand but was watching him keenly. It was a trick. Finally his wrath got the better of him as he hurled the cup away, smashing it into pieces on the floor.
The witch flinched taken by surprise, the sweet smile fading from her lips. He reached for his sword and jabbed it against her throat, pinning her against the wall. As the blade pinched against her skin, even then she held her nerve and did not recoil.
“Please, put away your weapon.” Her voice was calm, as she looked him straight in the eye without fear. “There is no need for violence,” she urged.
“You would trick me witch! Use your sorcery on us as you did with my men.” He almost spat out the words at her, such was his fury. He could hear the pounding in his head as he readied to dispatch her. “With my own ears and eyes, I’ve witnessed your work. Do you think we are fools?”
“You are right,” the witch replied. “I did give the men who came before a drugged potion. It is harmless and will wear off within two sunrises, when the men will be their selves again. They will be thick-headed for a while but otherwise will suffer no other harm. Please, put away your sword. I mean you and your men no harm. My intention was only to protect this sacred precinct.”
He loosened his grip and slowly lowered his weapon, gesturing the men to hold back from further attack. He backed away, his eyes still firmly bolted on her as if watching a venomous snake.
“You speak my language,” he asked, curiosity beginning to take over. “I have not heard Greek spoken in these strange lands. Tell me how did you learn it? And why should I trust you not to put an enchantment on us, if I let you go?”
Smoothing her tunic, where his hand-hold had gripped her, Kirke stood square to him. “I am mortal woman not a witch,” she replied evenly, holding her chin high. “Many years ago my grandfather took in a man who was shipwrecked near these parts. He was the only survivor of a ship and claimed to come from the lands of the Achaian Greeks. It was he who tutored me as a child in your language. He prophesied that one day other men from Achaia would come to this sacred place. So your arrival was expected.” Kirke lowered her glance, lighting on where he still clasped the sword-hilt. “Please sheathe your weapon and to demonstrate no harm is meant, allow me to entertain you unaccompanied in my private chamber."
Before he could answer, Kirke clapped her hands summoning a group of young women, who had been listening close by. Most were not long out of childhood, so smooth was their skin and lithe their bodies. They approached cautiously with bowed heads, their bodies trembling. Kirke addressed them in a language Odysseus’ ears did not recognise to which the maidens nodded in response.
Turning to Odysseus once more, she spoke again. “These young women have been placed under my care in the service of the goddess. I have explained to them that it is safe,” she paused, looking him direct
ly in the eye. “That you and your men will not harm them.” He nodded his head to re-assure her. “They will show you a spring where you can wash yourselves and will provide oil for your skin, as I believe is your custom.” She regarded his stained and thread-bare warrior clothing, where the long sea crossing had frayed and torn the cloth, and a look of understanding crossed her brow. “We can offer fresh garments to you and your companions.”
Suspecting a trap, he had answered sharply. “No, we are fine dressed as we are.”
Understanding his distrust, Kirke smiled. “As you wish. Then when you are ready,” she continued, “and have cleansed yourself of the warrior’s stain, one of the maidens will show you to my quarters.” With that, she had turned and left him open-mouthed.
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“Surely you will not go to her chamber, Basileos?” Neritides had stopped him, grabbing onto his arm. “It is a trap to poison you with magic herbs or entrap you by some other mischief.”
“What fear can I have,” Odysseus answered with certainty. “For she is only a woman.” He felt restored from bathing, ridding from his body the brine which clung to his skin and hair. “Besides I will keep my sword close by,” he grinned.
As he stepped in the chamber, it took time for his eyes to adjust to the darkened room. A lighted torch hung against the wall flickered, giving off a soft golden glow. It smelt of candle fat, smoke but more pleasantly of mountain herbs. The room was simply furnished with a small window high set in the stone built walls, letting in the fading glow of Helios.
He had not seen Kirke at first, but the sound of her voice alerted him to her presence.
“Come, join me.” She was sat on a well-carved chair, a table beside her. She gestured to the empty chair, similarly fashioned, beside her. “Please let me entertain you with food and wine.” At her summons, several maidens entered the chamber, bearing baskets laden with fruits, meat and wine, which they set out before them and then, with a slight bow of their heads, left.
Alone, Kirke beckoned him to eat, pouring a beaker of undiluted wine and proffering it into his hand. She saw him hesitate.
“I mean you no harm,” she began, noticing his suspiciousness. “If you are still afraid of trickery, I will taste the food and wine first to show it is safe.” Kirke took his goblet out of his hand and swallowed. Next, she broke off a hunk of meat and slowly chewed it. Reassured, he took a sip of the wine and did likewise. The wine was palatable to drink and he could feel a warmth entering his bones and spreading through his body.
“You keep your own chamber?” he asked, studying her appearance more fully. He had never been alone in the company of an unveiled high born woman. He noticed her deep copper tresses had been braided and twisted, but some wisps of hair still escaped. She wore a long sleeved mantle, the colour of deep woodland, tied in a girdle at the waist. The cloth was well made although simpler than the exquisite loom-work of Penelope, his wife. But it was Kirke’s eyes that unnerved him. The way she returned his gaze, without lowering her face or turning away.
“I do,” she replied steadily. “This room is for my own convenience. The others sleep elsewhere in the house.”
“Do you not have a husband whom you serve? To share your bed and protect you and the young maidens here?”
“I need no man,” she replied casually, looking him in the eye with that same direct stare. Again he felt unsettled by this woman who acted like an equal to a man and spoke his language. “There are many men who have asked me as their bride,” Kirke continued, “and were prepared to pay a bride price to my family. But my fate was decided long ago to be the priestess at this shrine. Here I hold sway over the sacred precinct and all those who serve the goddess Feronia. Why would I need to take a man as my husband?”
“How did you become a priestess?” he had asked, his curiosity fired.
She smiled at his question, so that he felt almost foolish like a smooth cheeked boy. “I have the gift of healing and the knowledge of plants and wild animals,” she explained patiently. “These skills were taught to me by my mother, who acquired them from her mother before having been passed down through the generations. My mother was the priestess here at the shrine, before her marriage when she left the precinct to live as a wife with my father. Through her I learnt the old wisdom, how to tame the forest beasts, how to recognise plants with healing properties and how to prepare special potions for those who are afflicted.”
He inhaled sharply. “So you are a sorceress?” he demanded.
“No,” she replied, speaking firmly, “though it is sometimes suits us for men to believe that it is so. That they may stay away from harming us through fear. I am a healer.”
“But you turned my men into swine!” His anger swelled again at the thought of his men grovelling in the mud like swine. “How can you not be a witch or a sorceress?”
“It was done only that we might protect ourselves,” Kirke calmly replied. “Your men came dressed as warriors, entering the precinct armed with weapons of War and fighting. How could we know that you intended to do us no harm?” She looked up, squarely meeting his eyes, a smile playing on her lips. “You use weaponry to have your way, we use more peaceful methods.”
“So tell me,” Kirke asked, pouring more wine into his cup, ”what is your name and why have you come to these shores?”
A shadow flitted across his mind, but he did not betray this sentiment. “You are correct in your assertion that we are warriors. My name is Odysseus, the king and leader of the brave-hearted Kephallenians. We are returning from war, which we fought for ten long years on the distant shores of Troy, before capturing the city.” He swallowed deeply, the words now sticking in his throat. “On our return journey, our boats were blown off course by storms and many grievous misfortunes have befallen us. Many men, dear companions, were lost along the way so what you see is now a depleted group.” He felt again the urgency of their predicament bearing down on him. “Our islands are in the direction of the Little Bear and I fear are many days by sea. We are looking for a place to shelter over the stormy winter.”
“I am sorry for your plight,” Kirke replied kindly, not lifting her gaze from his face. “You and your men are welcome to stay here until the calmer seasons return when once more you may go on your way. Send word to your men, if it comforts you, to haul the ships onto the land and store your goods in the caves. Invite them to come and eat here, as we have food aplenty for all.”
“You are very courteous,” he replied, his spirit suddenly lifted by her words, like a huge boulder that had been pressing down on him had been raised from his back. A god stirred a feeling in his chest. He could not name it outright. Towards a fellow man, it might have been called “gratitude”, but this was a woman. He lapsed into silence, remembering all the hardships and trials he had endured since they had left Troy.
After a pause Kirke spoke again. “I can see you have suffered much. You are a warrior, more used to fighting on land than to a life wandering the seas, at the mercy of the sea god. To see the lives of your men cut short, although the gods must have willed it, must cause you deep anguish. You are a man more comfortable with determining your own destiny.” She reached out and touched his arm soothingly. “Though you may doubt it, I believe the gods will help you find your way home.”
They had then spoken of sorrows he had never before dared utter aloud, not even to Eurylochos, his boyhood friend. The sea journey had been deeply disturbing, throwing him off balance and taking him away from all that was familiar. It was as if a god had given this woman the power to see into his mind and understand him. It was deeply unsettling how she addressed him as an equal but there was something about Kirke to which he felt strangely drawn.
He looked again at her anew, this time not as a foe to be skewered but as a woman. Her face was darkened by the sun, not pale from living indoors as a noble-born woman. The lines around her face intimated she was a woman in her prime, past the first bloom of youth. He notice
d beneath her woollen mantel, the outline of her rounded body and full breasts, emphasised by the girdle. She was very different from his wife Penelope, who had been only just out of childhood when she had come as a trembling bride to his house. Sitting beside this perplexing woman, he found himself overcome by a passion. Perhaps one of the arrows of Eros had struck him: as one had struck his kinswoman Helen, when she eloped with her Trojan lover.
He felt his member rising and recognised it as Desire. It felt like a madness he’d never experienced before. Never at Troy had he taken pleasure in womanising, unlike Agamemnon, seeing it as an obstruction to their mission and his return to his life on Ithaka. He tried to summon up the memory of his youthful love for his wife. Her raven hair, the silky skin and the small mounds of breasts. It was so long since he had beholden her face, the image was clouded and far away. But the more he struggled to fight Desire, the more the hunger raged. Finally he could stem the promptings of Eros no longer.
“I would lie with you, Kirke,” he said. “Let us to bed.”
Chapter 12
Courtship
She felt his weight on her body, his mouth urgently seeking her own. His fingers were exploring her, feeling her face, her arms, her shoulders and breasts. His embrace on her skin felt strange but also familiar, warm and encompassing. He fluctuated between respectful hesitancy and raging passion. Initially her body had resisted his pressure, but then yielded allowing him to enter her deeply. So intoxicating was the sensation, that even if she had wanted, her body now refused to pull back. She gave into it, responding to his rhythm until a crescendo was reached. She clung tightly to him as she felt him spend himself and heard her own voice crying out in the night.