Finding Ithaka

by Anna Harvey

  As he spoke, he glanced up and glimpsed the white owl perched over the high gable of the roof. Turning aside, he caught one of the servants, hastening by with a flame to light the tallow candles hung inside the porch.

  “The bird is still here?” he hissed, anxious not to be overheard.

  “Yes, all day, master. The women have driven it off only for it to return a short while later. It will not budge from the rooftop.”

  A shadow passed over his body for he knew Penelope was superstitious of such occurrences, believing them to be portents from the gods. “Is your mistress, Penelope, aware for this would distress her?”

  “I think not, master,” ventured the loyal servant. “She has been occupied with her loom all day and has not wandered outdoors.”

  “Then that is good.” He nodded at the man, before dismissing him. He would not dwell on these things. Dinner awaited them. “Come, Telemachos,” he said clasping his son by the shoulder. “Let us wash off this grime from our bodies, before we dine.” And father and son together entered the well-built stronghold.

  Darkness had crept into the hall, as Odysseus took his place at the long wooden table. The tallows had been lit and bitter-tasting smoke hung in the air, which pricked the eyes. The raucous noise of human chatter filled the great hall, as the dinner guests had already been seated. At his right hand as always sat Telemachos, his skin well-oiled and his hair carefully groomed. A fresh robe covered his son’s limbs, the fine handiwork of his wife Epicaste. Close beside, were seated Odysseus’ two grandsons, the sons of Telemachos, now entering warrior-hood. The elder, Persepolis, in time being destined to succeed to the throne of the island kingdom.

  It was at that moment, a hushed silence fell on the gathering as the lady of the house, Penelope, Odysseus’ queen, stepped into the great hall. Flanked by her attendants and their daughter-in-law Epicaste, Penelope was modestly veiled as was her custom. Odysseus watched her move gracefully like a wild deer, as Penelope took her place at his side. Despite the passage of time, the gods had been kind to her. Within the privacy of their chamber, her uncovered face still bore her youthful appearance although flecks of grey streaked her dark hair. Tonight she wore a flame-coloured gown, woven by her own skilled hands and richly decorated with unending circles reminiscent of the cycle of life. He noticed her slim waist and how, despite her years, Penelope still bore herself nobly as a queen. Her entry signalled for the feast to begin. Hastily a troop of servants carried in plates piled high with roasted meats and the wine krater filled to the brim with dark wine, diluted with honey and water, before it was handed round for all to partake.

  “Where have you been all day, my lord?” Penelope turned her gracious head towards him. She spoke modestly without grievance, her features obscured by her veil. “I noticed you rose early before Dawn and have been gone all day.”

  “I could not sleep, my love,” he replied above the din of the feasting. “The gods disturbed my sleep again with dreams of Troy. So Telemachos and I departed early to inspect the preparations for the festival and to ensure all was in order. But in truth, I took rest in the shaded orchard, as I could not shake off the weariness of age and the visions that torment me.”

  “But would you not take more rest in the comfort of your own bed where none would disturb you? For your body no longer relishes sleeping on the hard earth, wherever you can lay your head.” He knew her words were moved by feeling and held a truth. For though still a strong man, his limbs had weakened and now caused him pain.

  “My dear wife, I am touched by your concern,” he replied. “But do not trouble yourself, for Telemachos did not allow me to lack comfort but spread a coverlet over me.” He turned his head to her face, but beneath the veil, her expression was inscrutable. “But,” he continued, “now Helios beats down on the land again, would you not wish to accompany me outside, that we might enjoy our lands together and what the gods grant us.” As the words left his mouth, he already knew her reply. They had had this exchange so many times before and always Penelope’s cautiousness had prevailed.

  She lifted her chin towards him. “You know I would prefer to stay inside the palace, attending to the domestic duties of the household,” she replied graciously. “There is much to occupy my days, supervising the looms and helping Epicaste look after the children. Clambering about in the mud and undergrowth does not befit a noble woman. Rather it is the lot of a lesser-born woman who does not begrudge her face withering under Helios’ rays.”

  Suddenly Kirke’s image came upon him again and her haunting serene smile. It was if the gods dangled the memory in his mind to toy with him. It had been during Spring, when the woodland had come into flower and once more the heat had begun to rise. She had woken him early before the rest of the household had stirred.

  “There is a place I want to show you,” Kirke whispered in his ear. “It is a special place, known only to myself, where I go to set aside my formal duties and responsibilities.” As the mist pooled over the sea plain, she had led him out along a narrow trail deep into the dense forest. In the hollow of the woodland, there was a lake, fed with waters from a mountain stream. Under the dappled light, where none could behold them, she had stripped naked and strode into the water, urging him to join her. He had gawped at her like a beached fish, stunned at seeing her flesh, the curved breasts and rounded buttocks exposed to the sight of the gods. Never had he seen his own wife’s body uncovered outside of the bed chamber. He had pulled off his own mantle, feeling the weight of kingship and leadership lifting from his shoulders, until he stood there naked as a man. Then he had plunged headlong into the cool waters, gasping for air as he surfaced. Like village children, they had played, laughing, splashing and frolicking until Helios was high up in the sky. Even with her long tresses twisting down her shoulders and the water droplets dripping from her face, Kirke captivated him. Afterwards, under the woodland canopy, they had made love on the forest floor. Under the rustling of the leaves, protected by the circle of ash with its creamy blossom, perhaps then they had begotten the child.

  “Husband, did you not hear me.” He glanced up. Penelope had turned towards him poised for his reply.

  He pushed the memory away and looked across at her. “Forgive me, beloved wife, something took my mind.”

  “I asked my lord, whether it is safe to roam by yourself? To sleep unprotected outside without your sword or a watchman to defend you.” Penelope whispered to him, so he strained to hear. “Each day brings reports of people arriving from the mainland, seeking a safe place for themselves and their kin to raise a new roof.” He heard behind her words her fears of the kingdom being ruined and the wealth of their house being diminished by too many mouths feeding off their herds and flocks.

  Odysseus regarded her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “What you have said is true, Penelope. There is unrest on the mainland and the skies have become blackened so that the harvests have failed for three seasons. These people come seeking refuge within our island kingdom on the island of Same. I have granted them land so they can set up new homes and through their toil feed themselves.” He spoke soothingly as if comforting a child. “Telemachos is newly returned from Pronnoi, where he has been ensuring that all is carried out in accordance with my wishes. The kingdom of Ithaka is not affected and our own grain stores are full. All the estates prosper so there is enough for all. The newcomers’ plight cannot be ignored for I was destitute once and only through the hospitality of strangers did I survive and return safely to Ithaka.”

  “Come, we are here to feast!” he said, turning his head away from her. “Let us have song to shake off this gloomy mood that some god has put in your mind.” Calling out to one of the servants, he cried “Summon the bard to entertain us with music and song.”

  “Certainly, my Lord,” came the reply.

  The bard set up close to the hearth, next to the crackling fire, setting his well- strung lyre on his lap. He was a stranger, no more than thirty seasons of age, who had travelled with Tel
emachos from Pronnoi. The folds of his cloak were still soiled from the dusty paths. All at once, a sweet haunting singing descended over the hall and those hearing the sound quickly fell silent. The harmony was unknown to him, but quickly he recognised the unfolding story as his own, only embroidered under the callings of the Muse.

  With a full sail and prevailing Wind, they had left the land of Aiaia but Odysseus had carried Kirke’s instructions deep within his heart. The dangers had been as she had warned. Off a clutch of islands, the winds had swept in carrying the enigmatic echoes of sweet maiden singing. On his orders, the men had tied him to the mast with cords and sealed their ears with wax, refusing to draw near. He had railed at them, straining against the knotted ropes, as he begged them to release him so he might know these mysterious creatures, the Sirens.

  It was on the ninth full day at sea that they had come across a beacon arising out of the foaming sea, whose flame and red glowing rock burned day and night. The men had been alarmed by the sight of the huge rocks and pumice hurled into the air, where no bird could fly safely, fearing the displeasure of the gods. But he had stayed faithful to Kirke’s instructions. Keeping the Wandering Rocks to the right, he had steered the ship’s course down towards the straits of Messenia. There, compressed by the land on both sides, the sea narrowed into a channel. Kirke had warned of Charybdis, the whirlpool who could suck a ship and its crew whole, carrying them down to the murky depths. He chose the course closer to the steep sided cliff. But no matter how hard they rowed, the sea-god Poseidon held them back with the currents. Only after they strained oarlocks, their foreheads hot and pounding, did the god grant them passage. It was then they saw strange creatures from the sea depths. Not the many headed monster Scylla of which the bard now sang, but tentacled and snake-fanged creatures, dead or half dying, that terrified the men out of their wits.

  They then had passed into the calmer waters, the wide open swell of the grey sea ahead of them. He had been eager to continue on with their journey, but Eurylochos spoke up, laying down his oar.

  “Can we not pull into this shore of Thinakia to take rest?” he demanded, his shoulders square and holding his head high. The sea journey had done nothing to temper his humour. “The men are weary from battling Charybdis’ currents and need to take rest.”

  Odysseus looked at the men, who had lowered their oars, watching the exchange sullenly. Since their stay at Aiaia, they had become less responsive to his authority. No one had questioned his command outright but insubordination rippled below the surface.

  “Very well then,” he agreed reluctantly. “We will beach the ship and set-up camp for the night.”

  They found a sheltered bay beneath a sacred fire breathing mountain. Initially the verdant land offered promised respite to the weary travellers to regain their strength for the long sea crossing ahead. Only when Odysseus spotted the herds of cows grazing on the rich pastureland on the mountain slopes, was he seized with panic. Then the warning of the blind seer, Tiresias, came to his mind and he was filled with dread and foreboding.

  That first night, he had taken the men by surprise. As they huddled round the campfire, the orange glow of the firelight flickering on their faces, he had made each and every one of them swear an oath. Not to kill or maim any cow they encountered under any circumstance, but to leave them unharmed. And the men had promised faithfully they would not touch a hair of the sacred cattle, an oath witnessed by the gods on Mount Olympos.

  But then the fair weather had turned. Each day the gods sent storms and Notos, the south wind, keeping them trapped in that sheltered harbour. At first all had been well and the men had been content with their lot, happily idling away their time until the wind changed. Then they had fed on the rations of bread and wine supplied by Kirke. As the food grew scarce, they had tried to live on fish and birds caught in traps. But as their bellies began to empty and their muscles wasted, the complaints had started to swell. Eurylochos grew resentful, sowing the seeds of Mischief here and there amongst the men. As the heat and humidity of the place rose during that lunar month, so too did the men’s tempers threatening to break out into full mutiny.

  That morn Odysseus had been close to despair, when he had decided to climb the sacred fire-breathing mountain. Only a murmur of breeze and light bee hum stirred the air as he purified his hands with water. He made libation with the last of the wine skins and prayed to the gods that they might at last provide safe passage. He looked around for some portent to answer his prayer, but there was only silence and the fertile grass valley stretching down to the shore.

  It was when as he returned to the camp that he got the first warning of trouble. A plume of ashen smoke was rising up and there was a smell of meat roasting over a fire. The evidence was there to see. He strode into the camp, the full force of his rage upon him.

  “Do you not realise what you have done?!” he cried out. One of the men, who had been about to bite into a chunk of meat, stopped and stared at him wide-eyed. A coat of meat scraps and animal fat encrusted his mouth. There were remnants of spitted meat and butchered cattle, but the men had already gorged themselves. He quickly counted the dead animals. Twelve slain beasts in all. “By killing these cattle sacred to the god, you have cut short your own days.” He looked around, seeing a mix of despair and anguish taking over for these lost men. He left them to finish their impious feast, unable to bear watching. Whatever fate awaited them could not now be undone.

  They put to sea the next day, hastily leaving that place as if they could outrun the Fates themselves. It would have been wiser to stay the winter now that windstorms had appeared, but Odysseus was convinced that they had offended the gods. It was not long before his deepest fears were realised. A raging tempest sent by Zeus himself descended upon them, with no land in sight to take refuge. They had tried to battle the sea, straining on the oars with all their strength as the waves poured into the ship. But then disaster had struck. He shuddered to recall it. With a sickening groan, the mast had crashed down smashing apart the boat and hurling them into the water. As he fought his way up to take gulps of air, Odysseus recalled his last glimpse of his men, their heads bobbing in the waves crying out as one by one they disappeared. Even then, he had not been ready to descend to the dark of Hades. As he thrashed in the water, the Fates had put into his way the keel of the boat. Hastily he had scrambled to it and clung to the broken planking as a child to his mother. All through the darkness, he had held on tight, alone, refusing to give up his life.

  Time passed in a haze. When the light of daybreak had come and the storm had finally quelled, he found himself drifting alone. There was no sign of those dear companions. He could not be sure how many days he was at sea. He remembered passing close to the straits of Messenia, where they had sailed but one lunar month ago, and being in danger of being sucked down into the whirlpool Charybdis. The sun god must have favoured him for he had cooled the heat of his rays, which would otherwise have beaten down remorselessly by day. But there was no comfort from the relentless thirst that racked his body or from the brine which permeated every crevice of his skin.

  When the raft finally touched land, the local people discovered him near death, still clinging to those splintered timbers. That had been the land of Ogygia, where they had tended his broken body and nursed him back to health. In exchange for the gift of life, he had accepted the daughter of their chief as his bride, Kalypso. For seven long years, he had shared her troglodyte cave-dwelling existence, sleeping on the rock-hard floor and shivering with cold when the northerly Boreas wind blew. They had had some semblance of a marriage, but it had not been a love match. And though Kalypso had borne him three children, he had felt no joy in her company or ample figure.

  As time passed by, Odysseus had grown ever restless. Walking on the shingled beach looking out towards Ithaka, he felt like a trapped bird wanting to escape its cage. His mind harboured a thousand fold fears for his kingdom, for his family and young son, while he dawdled here. Always there was the ques
tion that preyed on his mind. Would Penelope stay steadfast or would the kingdom be lost? As to what else he had left behind, that part of his mind was sealed like a tomb that he refused to open.

  On that seventh year, a god must have put it in Kalypso’s mind to help him. For she had noticed his low spirit, the way he took no pleasure in eating, love-making or evening story-telling around the cave fire. She had been a kind-hearted spirit and had petitioned her father to help him leave that wretched island. The chief had resisted at first until a kinsman had come forward to offer wedlock to Kalypso. He had not been a god, as the bard now described in painted words, but a mortal man ambitious for power. Then at last Odysseus had been equipped with a sturdy wooden boat. This time he had not lingered or prolonged his farewell to Kalypso. As soon as the fair weather arrived, he had put to sea steering by the Bear and the Pleiades stars.

  For seventeen days, Odysseus sailed across that boundless sea, with only the endless swell of the waves for company. Even then the god Poseidon, the earth-shaker, had not quite done with him. On the eighteenth day, the god had whipped up a tempest, driving the ship off course and engulfing it with heavy waves. For two whole days, his body had clung tight to the mast, gripping the sail trusses. They had cut into his reddened chafed hands, burning the flesh like fire, but he had refused to let go. Even then, his mind was turning to how best he might survive refusing to give into death. When land finally appeared and the waves were threatening to engulf the small boat, he reasoned it best to swim for the shore. Quickly he had emptied out the goat skins and filled these with his breath to make a float. Then casting aside the heavy robe presented by Kalypso, he had thrown himself into the sea.

  Now the bard was telling of his meeting at the shore’s edge with a young Phaiakian princess, after the sea had finally deposited him onto land. Nausikaa had been her name, fresh faced and milky skinned. The other women had run screaming as he approached them, naked and destitute, only a leaf to cover his modesty. With soft and honourable words of supplication, he had gained her trust and her assistance. It had been she who had ordered her maids to wash and clothe him and instructed him in how to petition the help of her father, King Alkinoos, and her mother, Queen Arete.