A Sea of Sorrow
A Novel of Odysseus
David Blixt
Amalia Carosella
Libbie Hawker
Scott Oden
Vicky Alvear Shecter
Russell Whitfield
Introduction: Gary Corby
“Introduction” copyright © 2017 by Gary Corby
“Song of Survival” and “Epilogue: The Homecoming” copyright © 2017 by Vicky Alvear Shecter
“Xenia in the Court of the Winds” copyright © 2017 by Scott Oden
“Hekate’s Daughter” copyright © 2017 by Libbie Hawker
“The Siren’s Song” copyright © 2017 by Amalia Carosella
“Calypso’s Vow” copyright © 2017 by David Blixt
“The King in Waiting” copyright © 2017 by Russell Whitfield
All rights reserved.
Cover design by The Killion Group.
Formatting by Running Rabbit Press.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
A Sea of Sorrow
Introduction
Character List
Song of Survival
Xenia in the Court of the Winds
Hekate’s Daughter
The Siren’s Song
Calypso’s Vow
The King in Waiting
Epilogue
Notes from the Authors
About the Authors
More Novels by The H-Team
A Sea of Sorrow
A Novel of Odysseus
Introduction
Gary Corby — Author, The Athenian Mystery Series
Welcome to the world of Odysseus, the tale of the wily King of Ithaca, who took ten years to return home after the Fall of Troy. That was a long time for such a short journey, but he had a few adventures on the way.
Retelling the great stories of the classical world is a long and glorious tradition. It’s exactly what the writers of ancient times used to do.
This meant that ancient audiences always knew how a story was going to end. But they didn’t care. It wasn’t the destination that they cared about. It was the journey. Which is probably how Homer felt about his original tale. The whole point of The Odyssey isn’t whether or not Odysseus gets home. It’s about what happens to him on the way.
Perspective is everything. An astonishing number of the ancient plays — the plays that created our modern theater — are all about the Trojan War and what happened after. How they kept the subject fresh and alive year after year was interesting. Sometimes they did it by telling the same tale from a different point of view. The Trojan War from Cassandra’s viewpoint is way different to how Achilles felt about it. Sometimes an author would keep things fresh by taking just one event and looking at it in detail; or by the author putting his own complexion on a well-known event.
I want to talk about Euripides. Euripides was the sort of writer who, if he were alive today, would be shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize every year, and then come second every time. He was incredibly original. Maybe a bit too original for the judges.
Euripides wrote the world’s first anti-war story. It was called Trojan Women, in which Euripides suggested that war and conflict might be less than glorious if you happen to be the victim. That was a very novel approach in its day, that day being 415 BCE. Yet it was the same fundamental story that Homer had told, just from a different perspective.
David Blixt, Amalia Carosella, Libbie Hawker, Scott Oden, Vicky Alvear Shecter and Russell Whitfield have played this game. They have told the story of Odysseus, the same Odysseus of whom Homer sings, but from a different perspective, six of them in fact, and with a different complexion. Their Odysseus is a man who, “Islanders whisper about amongst themselves, hoping he never lands on their shores.” Because when a man like Odysseus passes by, there’s going to be a certain amount of destruction.
Homer would not have written this Odysseus. Every author is an author for their time. But I’m sure he would recognize the man in these pages.
What has struck me the most (if I might move from the sublime Homer to the ridiculous Corby) is the way that A Sea Of Sorrow retains Odysseus in his ancient context, and then follows him from a modern realist point of view. There’s no myth or magic in this world.
But if Odysseus is not told as a myth, then what is it with all the fantastic elements? Who was this Circe? What were the Sirens? Then I read the answer in Amalia’s tale. Okay, so that’s how they explained the Siren incident. Now how are they going to talk their way around the next one?
In this book you’ll encounter a Penelope who is not so much a wifely weaver as a stateswoman with an interesting problem to solve in political economy; a kyklops who is not particularly monstrous, since he’s at once both a man and a public relations exercise; an Odysseus who is a tough, functioning leader, but who suffers from something that looks rather similar to PTSD.
Here then is a new take on an old warrior and his ancient world.
Character List
Aeëtes, half-brother to Circe
Aeolus, king of Aeolia
Aglaope, a Siren
Amphinomus, suitor to Penelope
Anthousa, kitchen maid, handmaiden to Circe, lover of Chrysomallo
Antinous, overly muscled, obnoxious suitor to Penelope
Calypso, priestess queen of the isle of Ogygia
Chrysomallo, handmaiden to Circe, lover of Anthousa
Circe, exiled daughter of a king, herb woman
Danae, favorite handmaiden to Penelope
Eirene, grandaughter of Glaukos, who tells Polymephus’s story
Elpenor, one of Odysseus’s sailors, who fell and broke his neck
Eumaeus, Odysseus’s favorite pig herder
Eurycleia, oldest servant in Penelope’s house; nursed Odysseus and Telemachus
Eurylochus, Odysseus’s captain
Eurymachus, handsome suitor to Penelope
Galatea, Egyptian priestess-friend of Polyphemus
Glaukos, narrator of Polyphemus’s story
Helen, queen of Sparta, Menelaus’s wife
Heliodoros, Circe’s father, chief of Colchis
Icarius, father of Penelope, of royal blood in Sparta
Kyklops, Egyptian herder, attacked by Odysseus
Ligeia, mother of Aglaope, daughter of Thelxiope
Lycus, Circe’s husband, exiled prince
Melantho, maidservant in Odysseus’s palace, Eurymachus’s lover
Menelaus, king of Sparta, husband to Helen of Sparta
Mentes, old warrior in Ithaca, mentor to Telemachus
Mentor, old guard left by Odysseus in Ithaca
Nausithous, son of Calypso
Nestor, king of Pylos, fought in Troy, old friend of Odysseus
Outis, “NoOne,” one of Odysseus’s beggar identities
Pasiphäe, Circe’s half-sister
Peisistratus, sixth son of king Nestor
Phemius, bard in Penelope’s hall
Polycaste, daughter of King Nestor, sister of Peisistratus
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Penelope, wife of Odysseus, queen of Ithaca
Polyphemus, given name of Kyklops, Egyptian herder, victim of Odysseus
Telemachus, son of Odysseus
Thelxiope, grandmother of Aglaope, Siren
Song of Survival
Vicky Alvear Shecter
My Ithaca. My Penelope. Are you still waiting for me? You must, because I feel you calling to me…calling me home. Calling me to you.
— Odysseus
PENELOPE
The day they tried to burn Odysseus’s palace down, the queen of Ithaca was at her loom. So lost was she in the counts and the colors and the threads and the rhythm, she almost missed the entire event.
But the shouts and scuffles grew louder and more insistent, forcing her to pull herself out from her work like a pearl diver emerging from the bottom of the sea.
“My queen!” a sweating guard called and she turned, blinking.
It was one of her father-in-law’s men, a wizened warrior with white-streaked hair and scowl lines scored deeply into his weathered forehead. He held two squirming, cursing boys by the neck, presenting them to her like chickens ready for the block. One furious boy kicked at her loom but the guard pulled him back before he connected.
“Good thing you missed,” Penelope said mildly. “It would have hurt you a great deal more than it would’ve hurt my loom.” She knocked on the upright beam. “There’s a core of metal underneath that.”
Danae, her favorite noble-born attendant, was suddenly beside her. “Much like your queen,” she said, crossing her arms and raising one eyebrow at the boy. “You should remember that.”
The courtyard grew silent as the queen’s women on the other side of the courtyard stopped their work and looked up, the musical clinking of their slowing loom weights tapering into silence.
“The House of Odysseus should burn,” the kicking boy spat. He was all elbows, wrist-bones, and kneecaps in his filthy, too-small tunic.
“You should suffer like we have,” agreed his wriggling companion.
The guard shook the boys so hard their teeth rattled like rocks in an earthenware bowl.
“Caught them trying to set fire outside the Great Hall,” the old warrior said. “We must send a strong message. Let me cut their throats right now. I’ll spike their heads out in front of the palace as a warning. Just give the command.”
One of the boys started crying. Tears furrowed tracks down layers of grime on his cheeks.
They’re Telemachus’s age, Penelope noted with a sinking heart. They were likely the desperate sons of the lost men of Ithaca. Like her son, they had probably been infants when their fathers had sailed for Troy thirteen years before. Both boys, she noted, had the rangy, desperate look of children who knew true hunger.
“Where is the retired king?” Penelope asked, trying to buy time. Could she really command the deaths of children? Normally, it was her father-in-law, Laertes, who handled cases of blood justice. But she already knew the answer. Odysseus’s father had withdrawn to his orchards.
He hid from his people in shame, for he was the father of the only Achaean king who had not returned with his share of Trojan gold. Three years after the fall of Troy and still not a single man had returned. Not the king, not an oarsman, not even a lowly camp cook. A whole generation of the best men of Ithaca, lost. And while all the other Achaean cities grew fat with their share of Trojan riches, only Ithaca starved. Surely, many believed, the house of Laertes was cursed.
Laertes blamed the gods for Odysseus’s “bad luck”. But Penelope was sure her charming and impulsive husband played a significant role in whatever tragedy befell them.
This was the third attack on the palace in as many weeks. It was clear desperate Ithacans had turned their rage against the king onto his House. And just as with everything else, she was forced to deal with the consequences of her husband’s mistakes.
On her own.
“Who are your people?” the queen asked.
“I am Agathon, son of Lemnos,” said the boy who had kicked at her loom. “My mother is dead and my aunt couldn’t feed me, so I’m out on my own now.”
“The sweating sickness took most of my family too,” added the other boy, Kyron. “There is no one left to work the farm. We’re all starving.”
“These hoodlums must be punished,” the old warrior said again. “Let me show the others what happens when they attack their queen and prince.”
Penelope’s mind whirred and she forced herself to breathe. Think. What would Odysseus or Laertes do?
Despite Odysseus’s claim of ruling as “gently as a father”, she knew that wasn’t the case. Her husband and father-in-law—indeed, all the men of the region—killed at the slightest threat to their honor. But it was that pursuit of honor that lead to this desperate situation in the first place, wasn’t it?
Do the opposite.
The thought came unbidden. It was the Goddess of course, reminding her of the wisdom of the Old Ways: that sometimes, surprising people with kindness could be just as unbalancing and effective as shocking them with violence.
“Take them to the kitchens and feed them,” she said. “When they’ve had their fill, escort them to the baths and when they are clean, have my women clothe them.”
Penelope glanced at Danae, who gave her a small, closed-lip smile of encouragement.
The wizened old warrior, though, sputtered in outrage. “They should die for attacking the royal house! If we don’t do something, others will think we are weak! We can’t have that—I won’t kill them in front of you if you don’t want their blood staining your courtyard!”
Penelope stared at the man as he whined on about the loss of honor that would befall him for not killing the “sniveling little pieces of shit” in retribution. The molten metal at her core hardened until even he seemed to sense her immovability. Finally, he stopped raging. The boys, for their part, had stayed quiet—too hungry and hopeful to risk making their situation worse.
Finally, the old warrior sighed, lowering his eyes. “Yes, my queen.” He dragged the boys with him toward the kitchens. “If it were up to me, I’d be throwing your tiny little balls to the dogs right now, so don’t you dare think about trying anything,” he muttered, shaking the boys by the neck like puppies.
One of the boys twisted around to lock eyes with the queen. “Thank you,” he mouthed, beginning to cry again, but this time, likely at the prospect of not having to pick through goat dung for his next meal.
This could not go on. She turned to her lady. Although a few years younger, Danae so resembled the doe-eyed queen, many assumed they were sisters.
“Danae, I need you to prepare a message to send to Sparta,” she said, barely above a whisper as the other women returned to their looms. “And I need for it to go out this very afternoon. But no one must know of it.”
The queen sent a coded message to her father, who ruled Sparta while King Menelaus and Penelope’s cousin, Queen Helen, secured trade deals around the region. Penelope hadn’t been to the land of her birth since her wedding nearly fourteen years prior, but that didn’t change the fact that she was still a royal daughter of hard-fighting Sparta.
It was time her people remembered that.
* * *
TELEMACHUS
Telemachus was on the open field beside the royal barn trying to get his father’s hunting dog, Argos, to fetch a stick he’d just thrown.
“Come on, boy! Come on!” he called.
Argos sat and yawned, looking away.
Telemachus sighed and put his hands on his hips. “Lazy dog,” he muttered.
“He needs a job to do,” Eumaeus, the pig herder called as he walked by with a squealing piglet under his arm.
Telemachus rushed over. “Oh, is that for me? Can I keep him?”
Eumaeus laughed. “He will be yours, later for dinner. The queen called for an ox to be slaughtered too—do you have guests? Who are they? It has been a long time since your mother hosted visitors.”
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br /> The boy shrugged. “Here. Lemme have him,” he said grabbing the piglet out of the herder’s arms.
“Wait, young master—”
Tucking the squealing trotter under his arm, Telemachus ran as fast he could, kicking up clouds of dust behind him. “Come on, Argos,” he yelled to the dog. “Come hunt this.”
Argos sprang up, ears pointing forward, eyes focused on the boy.
Telemachus put down the piglet. It ran in confused circles. “Get him, Argos!” the boy cried. The dog charged, running low and hard at the target.
“Wait,” Eumaeus called running after the dog. “Don’t let him—”
But within moments Argos had the piglet in his mouth and was thrashing his head back and forth.
“Drop it,” yelled Eumaeus to the dog as he came up to the pair. “Drop it!”
Argos released the piglet, which flopped lifeless to the ground. Panting, the dog’s eyes were bright and he looked at Telemachus as if asking, “Again? Please?”
Telemachus laughed and clapped. “You’re right. Argos just needs to hunt.”
Eumaeus scooped up the dead piglet. His face was flushed. “Boy! He could’ve torn it apart and then what would you have? Nothing to eat, that’s what. Nobody, not even a royal, should be so wasteful with food in these times.”
Telemachus stared up at the man. “You can’t call me boy. I am your prince.”
“My apologies, young prince,” said the pig herder, brushing dirt and small stones off the little pig’s hide. “I can still get some nice chops out of this.”
“Will you take me and Argos hunting with you?”
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