“What can we do?” Helen wailed, hoisting her skirt above her knees in a vain attempt to keep it dry.
Odysseus examined the oars of the mystery ship. Each stuck out at exactly the same angle from holes halfway up the side of the ship, the oar heads dimly visible under the water. Taking hold of one, he found that it was as firm as if it had been set in a rock.
“I think …” he said, “I think it’s climbable. At least—I hope it is.” He drew in a deep breath. “I’ll go first. And if it’s safe …”
He didn’t wait to hear any arguments, for even a small hesitation on his part was going to puncture his resolve. He immediately clambered on to an oar. When it didn’t collapse under his weight, he crawled gingerly up its entire length. Once at the hole where the rest of the oar disappeared into the dark bowels of the ship, he stood up carefully and stretched till his fingers curled over the upper edge of the ship’s hull. With a heave and a grunt, he hauled himself up and rolled on to the deck. Then he kissed the flooring and sat up.
He was glad none of his friends could see his face, where fear was now dissolving into relief. But just as suddenly fear returned. What if the crew had seen him?
Yanking the pirate’s dagger from his belt, he darted quick glances around the ship.
No crewmen.
No monsters.
No ghosts.
In fact there was no sign of life at all.
Carefully keeping a watch around him, Odysseus explored the entire deck. Not only was there no mast, there wasn’t even a sign of a socket where a mast might be fixed.
By the stern, under a tan and white striped linen canopy, he found three kraters of water, four jars of preserved fruit, and a basket of dry bread. There was also a length of coiled rope.
Odysseus picked up one of the water jugs and drank greedily. Then he picked up the rope and went back to the side of the ship where his companions waited in the sinking boat.
Waving, he called down to them, “There’s no one here at all. But there’s water and food and—”
“Get us up there!” Helen cried.
For once the others agreed with her.
Mentor was the last to climb over the side, and when he looked back, Silenus’ little waterlogged boat was finally swamped by a succession of white-capped waves.
“Just in time,” he said as he untied the rope from his waist.
The girls were already drinking water and laughing as if drunk on wine. When Odysseus and Mentor joined them, Penelope handed them each a loaf of dry bread. They ate the loaves without a complaint, washing them down with great gulps of water.
Then they flopped down under the canopy and feasted on the preserved fruits as if they were at a grand banquet.
“What else is there?” Mentor asked. “I could eat a centaur and still be hungry. Do you suppose there’s any meat? Or olives? Or—”
“No more for me,” Penelope said. “My stomach must have shrunk to the size of an olive. It has had enough.”
Helen burped prettily, putting her hand over her mouth.
“Look around,” Odysseus said, leaning back against a large pillow and waving his hand at Mentor. “Whatever you find, it’s yours! I’m as full as Penelope.”
Mentor made a mock bow. “Thank you, great lord.” He began to root around behind the jars of water and fruit. “More bread,” he said, “drier than the last.” He pushed aside another jar. Behind it was a white cloth packet lying against the planking. “What’s this?”
Odysseus sat up, and Penelope did too. Only Helen, eyes closed, seemed more interested in sleep than mysteries.
“Give it to me,” Odysseus said.
“You told me that whatever I found was mine,” Mentor said.
“I meant food.”
“Did not.”
“Did, too.”
Penelope snatched the packet from them. Carefully she unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a large golden key with a pointed piece at the end. She bit it. “Gold clear through.”
“Why would anyone make a key out of gold?” Odysseus mused.
“Gold? Key?” Helen sat up, suddenly interested.
Odysseus took the key and held it up to the light. “What do you think these mean?” He pointed to some strange markings on the side.
Penelope snatched the key back and studied it closely. “It’s called script. A kind of writing. Don’t you know how to read?”
“What does one need writing for?” asked Mentor. “We’ve signs to keep track of our stock of grain, to assign weapons to our warriors, to record tribute. What else does a kingdom need?”
Odysseus nodded.
“Well, script is more useful than that,” Penelope told them. “These markings don’t represent things, like your picture signs do. Each of these”—she pointed to the markings on the key—“is a sound. When you join the sounds together, they make words. You can send greetings, tell stories—”
“Bards tell stories,” said Mentor. “No need to write them down.”
“Words?” Odysseus squinted his eyes and stared carefully at the key. “What words?”
“Well, in this case, a name,” said Penelope.
“What name?” Helen asked.
Penelope ran her finger across the strange script. “Dae-da-lus. Daedalus.”
“Never heard of him,” Odysseus said.
“Of course you have,” Mentor said. “He was a great craftsman and toy maker. Served King Minos of Crete for many years. Built the Labyrinth, the maze where the monstrous Minotaur, half bull and half man, was imprisoned. Don’t you remember, Odysseus? The bard at your father’s house sang about him the evening before we sailed off to your grandfather’s.”
“Oh—the monster. I remember that part. I wasn’t much interested in the craftsman, though. Or the toy maker.”
Helen shuddered deliciously. “A monster?”
“Oh yes, a horrible monster,” Mentor said, turning to her. As she trembled again, he expanded on the story, clearly trying to impress her. “The people of Athens were forced to send a tribute of youths and maidens to King Minos, and he shoved them into the maze where they were devoured by the Minotaur.”
Helen put her hands over her ears. “Don’t tell me any more.”
Mentor pulled her hands away. “Sweet Helen, the Minotaur was killed long ago. No need to worry about it now.”
Odysseus rolled his eyes. “Enough! What do we need old tales for when we are right in the middle of an adventure of our own?”
“Adventure? Is that what you call this?” Helen said.
Penelope agreed. “We almost died out there in the satyr’s boat.”
Odysseus laughed and took the golden key back from Penelope, tying it on to the thong that held his bronze spearhead. He tucked them both inside his tunic for safekeeping. “Any danger averted is an adventure. If you live to tell the story.”
“We’re not on dry land yet,” Penelope reminded them all.
After an hour’s rest, they fell to eating again, but Odysseus was restless. He drummed his fingers on the deck.
“What is it?” Mentor asked.
“This ship. It puzzles me. I don’t like what I can’t understand,” Odysseus said. “There’s no mast. No sail. We can’t get at the oars. If there ever was a crew, how were they supposed to row anywhere?”
“Good questions,” mused Mentor.
“I’m just grateful we aren’t at the bottom of the sea,” Helen said.
Penelope shook her head. “No, Helen, Odysseus is right to wonder. If we just sit here, becalmed, until the supplies run out, we’re hardly any better off than we were before.”
“Except that the boat isn’t sinking,” Mentor pointed out.
“So we die of starvation instead of drowning. Neither death gets us to the Elysian fields,” Odysseus said.
“Is that all that men worry about?” Helen asked sharply.
“Look, that golden key must have been left for a purpose,” Penelope said. “Let’s see if we can find a keyhole.”