“My lady, only a fool would say no to such an honor. But in truth, I think also only a fool would say yes. I am a mortal. The moment I set down the moly to join you in your bed, you may cast your spell.” He paused. “Unless, of course, you were to swear an oath you will not hurt me, upon the river of the dead.”
An oath by the River Styx would hold even Zeus himself. “You are careful,” I said.
“It seems we share that.”
No, I thought. I was not careful. I was reckless, headlong. He was another knife, I could feel it. A different sort, but a knife still. I did not care. I thought: give me the blade. Some things are worth spilling blood for.
“I will swear that oath,” I said.
Chapter Sixteen
LATER, YEARS LATER, I would hear a song made of our meeting. The boy who sang it was unskilled, missing notes more often than he hit, yet the sweet music of the verses shone through his mangling. I was not surprised by the portrait of myself: the proud witch undone before the hero’s sword, kneeling and begging for mercy. Humbling women seems to me a chief pastime of poets. As if there can be no story unless we crawl and weep.
We lay together in my wide, gold bed. I had wanted to see him loosened with pleasure, passionate, laid bare. He was never laid bare, but the rest I saw. We did find some trust between us.
“I am not really from Argos,” he said. The firelight flickered over us, casting long shadows across the sheets. “My island is Ithaca. It’s too stony for cows. We run to goats and olive groves.”
“And the war? A fiction also?”
“The war was real.”
There was no rest in him. He looked as though he could have parried a spear-thrust out of the shadows. Yet the weariness had begun to show through, like rocks when the tide recedes. By the law of guests I should not question him before he had fed and refreshed himself, but we were past such observances.
“You said your journey was difficult.”
“I sailed from Troy with twelve ships.” His face in the yellow light was like an old shield, battered and lined. “We are all that is left.”
In spite of myself I was shocked. Eleven ships was more than five hundred men lost. “How did such disaster strike you?”
He recited the story as if he were giving a recipe for meat. The storms that had blown them half across the world. The lands filled with cannibals and vengeful savages, with sybarites who drugged their wills. They had been ambushed by the cyclops Polyphemus, a savage one-eyed giant who was a son of Poseidon. He had eaten half a dozen men and sucked their bones. Odysseus had had to blind him to escape, and now Poseidon hunted them across the waves in vengeance.
No wonder he limped, no wonder he was gray. This is a man who has faced monsters.
“And now Athena, who was ever my guide, has turned her back.”
I was not surprised to hear her name. The clever daughter of Zeus honored wiles and invention above all. He was just the sort of man she would cherish.
“What offended her?”
I was not sure he would answer, but he drew in a long breath. “War breeds many sins, and I was not last in committing them. When I asked her pardon, she always gave it. Then the sack of the city came. Temples were razed, blood spilled on altars.”
It was the greatest sacrilege, gore upon the holy objects of the gods.
“I was a part of such things with the rest, but when others stayed to offer her prayers, I did not stay with them. I was…impatient.”
“Ten years you had fought,” I said. “It is understandable.”
“You are kind, but I think we both know it is not. As soon as I was on board, the seas around me lifted wrathful heads. The sky darkened to iron. I tried to turn the fleet around, but it was too late. Her storm spun us far off from Troy.” He rubbed his knuckles as if they ached. “Now when I speak to her, she does not answer.”
Disaster upon disaster. Yet he had walked into a witch’s house, even weary as he was, and raw with grief. He had sat at my hearth showing no hint of anything but charm and smiles. What resolve that must have taken, what vigilant will. But no man is infinite. Exhaustion stained his face. His voice was hoarse. A knife I had named him, but I saw that he was sliced down to the bone. I felt an answering ache in my chest. When I had taken him to my bed, it had been a kind of dare, but the feeling that flickered in me now was much older. There he was, his flesh open before me. This is something torn that I can mend.
I held the thought in my hand. When that first crew had come, I had been a desperate thing, ready to fawn on anyone who smiled at me. Now I was a fell witch, proving my power with sty after sty. It reminded me suddenly of those old tests Hermes used to set me. Would I be skimmed milk or a harpy? A foolish gull or a villainous monster?
Those could not still be the only choices.
I reached for his hands and drew him up. “Odysseus, son of Laertes, you have been hard-pressed. You are dry as leaves in winter. But there is harbor here.”
The relief in his eyes ran warm over my skin. I led him to my hall and commanded my nymphs to see to his comforts: to fill a silver bath for him and wash his sweated limbs, bring him fresh clothes. After, he stood shining and clean before the tables we had heaped with food. But he did not move to take his seat. “Forgive me,” he said, his eyes on mine. “I cannot eat.”
I knew what he wanted. He did not storm or beg, only waited for my decision.
The air felt limned in gold around me. “Come,” I said. I strode down the hall and out to the sty. Its gate swung wide at my touch. The pigs squealed, but when they saw him behind me their terror eased. I brushed each snout with oil and spoke a charm. Their bristles fell away and they rose to their feet as men. They ran to him, weeping and pressing their hands to his. He wept as well, not loudly but in great streams, until his beard was wet and dark. They looked like a father and his wayward sons. How old had they been when he’d left for Troy? Scarcely more than boys, most of them. I stood a little distant, like a shepherd watching a flock. “Be welcome,” I said, when their tears had slowed. “Draw your ship up on the beach and bring your fellows. All of you are welcome.”
They ate well that night, laughing, toasting. They looked younger, new-made in their relief. Odysseus’ weariness too was gone. I watched him from my loom, interested to see another facet: the commander with his men. He was as good at that as all the rest, amused at their antics, gently reproving, reassuringly untroubled. They circled him like bees their hive.
When the platters were empty and the men drooped on their benches, I gave them blankets and told them to find beds wherever they were comfortable. A few stretched out in empty rooms, but most went outside to sleep beneath the summer stars.
Only Odysseus remained. I led him to the silver chair at the hearth and poured wine. His face was pleasant, and he leaned forward again, as if eager for whatever I might offer.
“The loom you admired,” I said. “It was made by the craftsman Daedalus. You know the name?”
I was gratified to see genuine surprise and pleasure. “No wonder it is such a marvel. May I?”
I inclined my head, and he went to it at once. With a hand he ran its beams, base to top. His touch was reverent, like a priest at an altar. “How did you come to have it?”
“A gift.”
There was speculation in his eyes, bright curiosity, but he did not press further. Instead, he said, “When I was a boy and everyone played at wrestling monsters like Heracles, I dreamed of being Daedalus instead. It seemed the greater genius to look at raw wood and iron, and imagine marvels. I was disappointed to find out I did not have the talent for it. I was always cutting my fingers open.”
I thought of the white scars on Daedalus’ hands. But I held back.