Helen grabbed Penelope’s arm. “Are those things ghosts? Are we being haunted?”
“I think …” Penelope said, huffing a bit from the exertion. “I think they’re sirens. Half woman, half bird. Honestly, Helen, don’t you ever listen to the bards? The Argonauts battled sirens on their journey to get the Golden Fleece and—”
“I only listen to the love poems,” Helen said, shrugging. “The rest is just boy stuff. Shields and spears and swords.”
The keening was louder than ever, and wilder.
“Well, listen to me now. Sirens lure sailors to their death by singing. No man can resist them. Obviously neither can boys.” She kept her foot on Odysseus’ chest as he struggled once again to rise.
“Are you sure?” Helen asked. “Those sirens sound off-key to me. Father would never let them sing in our hall.”
Penelope shook her head with exasperation. “Helen, it doesn’t matter what they sound like to you or to me. To Odysseus and Mentor those songs are the most wonderful sound they’ve ever heard.”
The boys both stood up together, and it took all of Penelope’s strength to get them both shoved back down on to the bottom of the boat. All the while, the loud keening did not abate, and the boys struggled against her, though with little will.
“Helen, you’ve got to help me with these two, before they go and drown themselves,” Penelope called over her shoulder.
“Why?” Helen asked. “Why should I care if they go overboard? They lied to me and spoke roughly and wouldn’t let me have any water, and—”
“Because …” Penelope said, emphasising each word, “we … don’t … want … to … be … alone … in … the … middle … of … an … unknown … sea.” She grimaced. “Neither of us is a sailor.”
This argument finally moved Helen, and she sat down on Mentor’s chest, crossing her arms and looking quite put out. “Well, if the Argonauts battled the sirens and won, how was it done?”
Penelope’s brow furrowed as she tried to remember. With the constant keening around them, it was difficult to think.
She recalled the bard. He’d had one of those closed-in faces, his chin and cheeks freshly scraped free of any beard. When he told his stories to the accompaniment of the lyre, he had stared at the ceiling, and that made his throat apple bounce about. And …
Then she had it. “The great minstrel, Orpheus, was aboard and he sang to the men. His song was stronger than the sirens’ song.”
Helen sniffed. “So we’ll out-sing them then?”
“We can try,” Penelope said. “Though. I don’t have much of a voice.”
“My father,” Helen mused, “claims I sing like a nightingale.”
“Then sing, Helen!” cried Penelope as Odysseus once again began to struggle to his feet.
“Let me see,” said Helen, “there’s a spinning song my nurse taught me. Or the Wedding Hymn of Alcmene, Or—”
“For the sake of the gods, cousin—this is not a performance. Just open your mouth!” Penelope cried.
Helen started to sing. Her voice was little more than adequate, and she could only remember bits of a dozen different songs. After a few lines of each, she gave up. “It’s not easy singing out here with no one listening and throat raw and …”
Penelope had got behind Odysseus and kicked him in the back of the knees. As he sagged, she grabbed his tunic and pulled him over on to his back.
“I must go,” he said muzzily. “They have prepared a lavish banquet.” He sat up.
“Yes,” Mentor added, in a soft voice. “Listen. There are sweet wines and soft beds. I must go too.” He pushed Helen off his chest.
“This is not going well,” Penelope muttered, looking around the little boat. Then she saw what she had to do. Loosing the rope, she yanked the sail down and wrapped it around them, first across Odysseus, then Mentor.
“Help me, Helen,” Penelope said. “Wrap them till they can’t move a muscle.”
Helen got up and tried to tug at the linen folds, being careful of her nails. Finally, Penelope threw her on top of the boys.
“Just lie there. The combination of the sail and you might hold them for a while.”
“But …” Helen began.
“And don’t you dare whine, or I’ll throw you overboard with them and sail off on my own.” Penelope’s voice was so tight, Helen feared she might actually do what she threatened.
The keening around the ship had got progressively louder, and now a woman’s face once again appeared out of the mist. It was a predatory face, with a beaklike nose and sharp teeth. Behind that face beat strong wings, white as a gull’s. The siren’s voice pierced Penelope’s ears like needles.
Picking up the club, she advanced on the singing creature and swung with all her might, smacking the bird-woman across the cheek. With a shriek of pain, the siren shot up and out of sight.
Another siren wheeled out of the mist, talons extended, and Penelope gave her a crack across the leg.
The siren winged off, squealing, and a third flew down, took one look at Penelope waiting with the club, and spun away.
The mist around the boat disappeared all in a rush, and when it was gone, they were once again alone on the dark blue sea.
“What’s going on?” Odysseus said, trying to disentangle himself from the sail and failing. “Are you idiots trying to suffocate us?”
Penelope pulled her cousin up and then bent to help the boys get free of the sail. “I was trying to save your life. Right now I can’t remember why.”
CHAPTER 13: ADRIFT
ONE DAY PASSED WITH Penelope carefully rationing the water.
Then a second.
The sun beat down on them, and they took turns resting in the little bits of shade offered by the krater.
By the third day, when they were all burned by the sun, hungry, cranky, sour-mouthed and thirsty, Penelope said quietly, “There’s no more water.”
Her announcement was met with silence. No one was surprised, though Helen bit her lip to keep from crying out.
“Never mind, Helen,” Penelope said. “Let’s talk about Sparta. Listen—I’ll sing you a song.”
Mentor turned and stared out to sea, as if by looking hard enough he might discover land.
Odysseus nodded, drifting into a half sleep, where he heard a faint echo of the sirens’ song. When he woke, startled by Penelope’s real song, he found himself angry. Angry at the boar, who had gored him and so sent him on this death’s journey; angry at his grandfather, who’d hired an incompetent ship’s captain; angry at the pirates for their brutal stupidity; angry at Silenus for salvaging such a fragile craft; angry at Mentor so entrapped by a girl’s beauty that he was useless; angry at Helen, who’d surely sneaked more than her share of water. And mostly he was angry at Penelope for waking him.
Then he shook himself out of his anger.
In fact, Odysseus knew that Penelope was the one who’d saved them thus far with the krater of water and the club. It was Penelope who’d kept him—and Mentor—from diving overboard after the sirens. It galled him to admit it, but in her own womanish way, she was the real hero here.
And now she was standing and raising her arms.
“What are you doing?” Odysseus asked.
“The only thing left to us,” Penelope said. “Praying to Zeus for rain.” She looked up into the cloudless sky. “Father Zeus, lord of the storm, send us even the merest shower to lighten our sufferings. We will make sacrifices in your name when we’re on land once again.”
Not a cloud appeared in the sky.
“Silenus warned us not to rely on the gods,” Odysseus said. “Surely he knows them better than we do.” If anyone is to blame for this mess, he thought, it’s the gods.