“Father,” I said, “I never will. I leave this place tomorrow.”
He would not ask where, he would not even wonder. So many years I had spent as a child sifting his bright features for his thoughts, trying to glimpse among them one that bore my name. But he was a harp with only one string, and the note it played was himself.
“You have always been the worst of my children,” he said. “Be sure you do not dishonor me.”
“I have a better idea. I will do as I please, and when you count your children, leave me out.”
His body was rigid with wrath. He looked as though he had swallowed a stone, and it choked him.
“Give Mother my greetings,” I said.
His jaw bit down and he was gone.
The yellow sands faded to their usual color. The shadows returned. For a moment I stood breathing, unmoving, my chest filled with a wild battering. But then it was gone. My thoughts were loosed forward, skimming the earth, flying up the hill to my room where the spear waited with its pale poison. It should have been returned to Trygon long ago, yet I had kept it for protection and something else I could not name. At last, I knew what it was.
I went up to the house and found Penelope, sitting at my loom.
“It is time for a decision. There are things I must do. I leave tomorrow, I cannot say for how long. I will take you first to Sparta if you would go there.”
She looked up from the tapestry she was making. A wild sea, with a swimmer striking out into darkness. “And if I would not?”
“Then you may stay here.”
She held the shuttle lightly, as if it were a bird with its hollow bones. She said, “Would that not…intrude? I know what I have cost you.”
Telegonus, she meant. There was grief, and so there would always be. But the gray fog was gone. I felt distant and very clear, like a hawk borne upon the highest aether. I said, “He would never have been happy here.”
“But because of us, he went with Athena.”
It had hurt once, but that was only pride. “She is far from the worst of them.”
Them, I heard myself say.
“I give you the choice, Penelope. What would you do?”
A wolf stretched, her mouth squeaking a little with her yawn. “I find I am in no rush for Sparta,” Penelope said.
“Then come, there are things you must know.” I led her to the kitchen with its rows of jars and bottles. “There is an illusion upon the island to make it appear inhospitable to ships. That will remain while I am gone. But sailors are reckless sometimes, and the ones that are most reckless are often the most desperate. These are my drugs that do not need witchcraft. There are poisons among them, and salves for healing. This one causes sleep.” I handed her a bottle. “It does not work immediately, so you cannot leave it till the last moment. You will need to get it in their wine. Ten drops will be enough. Do you think you can do it?”
She tipped the contents, felt their weight. A faint smile touched her lips. “You may remember I have some experience in handling unwelcome guests.”
Wherever Telemachus was, he did not return for dinner. No matter, I told myself. The time when I had softened like wax was past. My path was laid before me. I packed my things. There were a few changes of clothing and a cloak, but the rest was herbs and bottles. I picked up the spear and carried it out into the warm night air. There was spell-work to do, but I wanted to go to the boat first. I had not seen it since Telemachus began his repairs, and I had to be sure it was ready to sail. Streaks of lightning flashed over the sea, and the breeze brought a distant smell of fire. It was that last storm I had told Telegonus to wait for, but I did not fear it. By morning it would blow itself out.
I stepped into the cave, and stared. It was hard to believe I viewed the same boat. It was longer now, and its bow had been rebuilt and narrowed. The mast was better rigged, and the rudder more trim. I walked around it. At the front a small prow-piece had been added, a seated lioness with her jaws open. The fur was in the Eastern style, each lock separate, curled like the shell of a snail. I reached to touch one.
“The wax is not set.” He stepped out from the darkness. “I have always thought every ship needs a prow spirit.”
“It is beautiful,” I said.
“I was fishing in the cove when Helios came. All the shadows disappeared. I heard you speak to him.”
I felt a flare of embarrassment. How baleful and outlandish and cruel we must have seemed. I rested my eyes on the boat so I would not have to look at him. “Then you know my exile is ended and I sail tomorrow. I asked your mother if she would go to Sparta or stay. She said she wished to stay. I offer the same choice to you.”
Outside, the sea made a sound like a shuttle weaving. The stars were yellow as pears, low and ripe on the branch.
“I have been angry with you,” he said.
It surprised me. The blood rose stinging to my cheeks. “Angry.”
“Yes,” he said. “You thought I would go with Athena. Even after all I have said to you. I am not your son and I am not my father. You should have known I do not want anything Athena has.”
His voice was even, but I felt the sharp edge of his reproach. “I am sorry,” I said. “I could not believe that any in this world would refuse her divinity.”
“That is amusing coming from you.”
“I am not a promising young prince of whom great things are expected.”
“It is overrated.”
I ran my hand across the lion’s clawed foot, felt the sticky sheen of the wax.
“Do you always make beautiful things for those you are angry with?”
“No,” he said. “Only you.”
Outside, the lightning flickered. “I was angry as well,” I said. “I thought you could not wait to leave.”
“I do not know how you could think that. You know I cannot hide my face.”
I could smell the beeswax, sweet and thick.
“The way you spoke of Athena coming to you. I thought it was longing. Something you kept close, like a secret heart.”
“I kept it close because I was ashamed. I did not want you to hear how she had preferred my father all along.”
She is a fool. But I did not say it.
“I do not want to go to Sparta,” he said. “Nor do I want to stay here. I think you know where I would like to be.”
“You cannot come,” I said. “It is not safe for mortals.”
“I suspect it is not safe at all. You should see your face. You cannot hide either.”
What is my face like? I wanted to ask. Instead I said, “You would leave your mother?”
“She will be well here. And content, I think.”
Wood dust floated past, fragrant in the air. It was the same smell that rose from his skin when he carved. I felt reckless suddenly. Sick of all my fretting and convincing, my careful plotting. It came to some by nature, but not to me.
“If you want to join me, I will not stop you,” I said. “We leave at dawn.”
I made my preparations and he made his. We worked until the sky began to pale. The ship was filled with all the stores it could hold: cheese and toasted barley, fruits dried and fresh. Telemachus added fishing nets and oars, extra rope and knives, all of it carefully stowed and strapped in its place. With rollers we pushed the boat down to the sea, its hull effortlessly slipping through the breakers. Penelope stood on the shore to wave us off. Telemachus had gone alone to tell her he was leaving. Whatever she thought of it she kept from her face.
Telemachus lifted the sail. The storm was past. The winds were fresh and blowing well. They caught us, and we glided through the bay. I looked back at Aiaia. Twice in all my days I had seen her dwindling behind me. The water grew between us, and her cliffs shrank. I could taste the salt spray on my lips. All around were those silver-scrolling waves. No thunderbolt came. I was free.