Mentor groaned in response. “I’ve nothing left in my belly.”
Black clouds scudded across the sky. Cold winds from the north blown by the god Boreas filled the sail, but the water had turned a dark, forbidding green. Riding high on the waves, the little ship lurched alarmingly.
“Of course,” Odysseus continued, soothsayers only tell people what they want to hear; otherwise who’d pay them?”
Mentor moaned again. He was wrong. There was still some bit of breakfast left, and it too, was threatening a return.
Odysseus patted him on the back. “As I remember, you were the one looking forward to this voyage.”
Mentor’s groan had turned to a constant low moaning.
“Try to enjoy it.”
Odysseus left Mentor to his complaints and found Captain Tros standing with one hand braced against the mast. The sail had long since been hauled down and stowed away, safe from the storm, and the oarsmen strained at their work. The broad-bladed oars knifed into the water in powerful, rhythmic strokes.
“How bad is it really?” Odysseus asked.
Tros looked up into the wind, squinting. “Hard to tell. We could turn back and beach her till the storm passes. On the other hand, we’re only a day’s sail from Ithaca, and we could head there. But that would mean going into the teeth of this wind.”
He saw the alarm in Odysseus’ eyes and misread it. “All will be fine, Prince Odysseus, trust me. She’s a sturdy ship.”
“I’m not afraid,” said Odysseus. He did not add that his alarm was at ending the voyage too soon in Ithaca, where his mother and father would fuss over him and keep him from any more adventures. Till I am an old man, he thought. As old as Tros here.
“All the omens were good when we left,” Tros said. Then he turned and—more to himself than Odysseus—murmured, “Perhaps we can make harbour at Zacynthus.”
For the first time, Odysseus actually smiled and touched a hand to the spearhead amulet around his neck. “The Argo came through worse than this.”
“That it did, Prince Odysseus,” said Tros. Then he turned to shout at the oarsmen. “Put your backs to it, boys! Let me see those muscles rip!”
Odysseus looked for a moment at the straining oarsmen, then he returned to where Mentor was emptying his stomach once again, this time of nothing more than bile.
The storm got worse, not better, with waves breaking over the ship and landing each time with the force of a club on bare skin. Tros ordered the oars drawn in since there was little the oarsmen could do in such a turbulent sea.
All around Odysseus and Mentor, the men began to pray.
“Poseidon, save us,” cried a sailor not much older than Mentor, but well muscled from his time at the oars.
“Triton, hear our prayers,” sang out another.
Either the gods weren’t listening or they weren’t in the mood to grant wishes. Hour after hour, the ship was driven helplessly beneath an olive-black sky. Each new wave lifted her up, then slammed her down again with an impact that made the planks shudder and the men cry out anew.
“Poseidon!”
“Triton!”
“Nereus!”
“Save us!”
Mentor let go of the side of the boat long enough to turn to Odysseus. “This is your fault, you know.”
“My fault?”
A wave splashed between them.
“You forgot to give thanks to Athena.”
“When?” Odysseus asked. “I always remember Athena. I was dedicated to her as an infant.” He started to slip on the wet deck and grabbed on to the railing.
“Well, you forgot this time,” Mentor insisted. “Back at the feast. When you were telling everyone what great heroes we were. You should have thanked Athena for guiding our spears. But you didn’t.”
“It must have …” The crease between Odysseus’ eyes deepened. “Must have slipped my mind.”
“Did it slip your mind that Poseidon’s her uncle?” Mentor said, his face now grey, now green, now … over the ship’s side. He threw up nothing and sank back on to the deck. “The god of the sea.”
Odysseus sat down next to him and put a hand on Mentor’s shoulder. “If someone forgot to thank me for something, I wouldn’t punish a whole boatload of sailors for it.”
“You’re … not … a … god,” said Mentor and retched again, this time into his own lap. Luckily his stomach was empty.
“Then I’ll thank the goddess now.” Odysseus stood, both hands gripping the railing.
“Owl-eyed Athena,” he called, “forgive this small prince who wanted too much to be a hero.”
Mentor grabbed hold of Odysseus’ tunic and, pulling himself up to stand by his friend’s side, he put one hand on the side of the ship, raising the other to the black sky. “I too, Athena, ask forgiveness that I didn’t remind Odysseus of his duty.”
At that very moment, the ship was pitched up into the air by a great wave, as black as the sky, as high as a mountain.
For a second the little boat hovered between sea and sky, between life and death.
Then it dropped.
Still waving, Mentor was flung overboard into the sea.
Odysseus was quick, but not quick enough. His fingers touched the hem of Mentor’s tunic for a moment before the boy was gone.
“Mentor!” Odysseus cried. He thought he could make out Mentor’s thin figure through a haze of sea spray. “Mentor!” he cried again, his hands gripping so hard on the wooden rail that an imprint was left in his palms.
For a moment he thought about diving after his friend, but he was afraid that he might not be strong enough with his weakened leg.
Just then something smacked him painfully on that very leg. He looked down. It was the fir-wood box his grandfather had given them, come loose of its lashings. He knew it was empty and could see that the lid was sealed with wax to keep the interior dry on the voyage.
Just the thing, he thought.
Seizing the box with both hands, he heaved it over the side of the boat and jumped into the waves after it.
Sure enough, the box bobbed on top of the water. Odysseus kept it in sight and caught up after three hard strokes. Then, holding on to one of its wooden handles, he kicked as hard as he could, his bad leg lagging after the good one, steering the box towards the place where he’d last seen Mentor floundering in the sea.
“Mentor!” he cried, then was sorry he had spoken as a wave dashed into his mouth. It felt like the entire ocean went in, and only a bit got coughed back out.
But Mentor heard the coughing, spotted him, and managed to swim close enough so that Odysseus could manoeuvre the box between them, a handle on each side.
“Hold on,” he called. “We can kick ourselves back to the ship.”
“Gone,” Mentor managed in a voice made hoarse by the saltwater. “Gone.”
Odysseus turned and gulped. An immense billow was rising up behind him like a huge, green, cyclopean wall. When the sea had flattened out again, he saw that Mentor was right.
The ship was gone.
They were alone in the middle of the heaving sea.
CHAPTER 6: MISERY AT SEA
THEY CLUNG DESPERATELY TO the box, saying little, conserving strength. The storm continued to rain down on them, drops as large as grapes, but could add little more to their misery. They were already as cold and as wet as they were going to get.
At last—mercifully—the storm subsided. But still the boys bobbed helplessly, now under a brilliant canopy of stars.
“Where are we?” Mentor croaked.
Odysseus looked up. Suddenly he couldn’t remember any of the stars over them. He and Mentor might as well have been under an alien sky for all that he could name them.
“If only I’d listened more closely to my tutor …” he began.
“If only is not a phrase for heroes,” Mentor retorted hoarsely.
When the rosy dawn appeared at last, all it revealed was an empty, watery plain.