by Ralph Hardy
This afternoon, while I am dozing in the sun—I had been up all night guarding sheep—a gull approaches me. I have one eye open and one closed, in the manner of most guard dogs, so I am both asleep and awake at the same time. The gull wakes me with a squawk next to my ear. I jump to my feet, jaws ready to snap his wing, but the gull is already hovering in the air, too high for me to reach.
“Are you the one called the Boar Slayer?” he asks, circling above my head.
“Yes, I am called that,” I growl. “Come down so that I may introduce myself properly,” I add.
“I think not, Boar Slayer. But I do come bearing news for you.”
“News of what, orange beak? Nets full of fish? The lapping of the waves? The tide coming in and out?”
I do not like to be awakened from a nap, and truly the gulls are more likely to report a school of fish near the shore than news of my master. Still, this gull does not look familiar to me: his wings are darker than our gulls on Ithaka, and his accent is foreign.
“Very well. I will not bother you again. Perhaps we’ll talk another time if you are busy.”
The gull hovers higher and begins to arc its wings, then turns with the wind.
“Wait!” I cry, and sit back on my haunches. Why would a strange gull fly up here to the highlands if not for important news?
The gull circles lazily back toward me, dipping low above my head.
“Forgive my impertinence, high flyer. I was dreaming that my master had returned to Ithaka, and I woke to see that he had not, and so my temper was aroused. But what news do you bring? I will gladly listen to it.”
The gull does not answer, but instead catches a gust of wind and soars high above me. “Brothers,” he squawks. “I have found the Boar Slayer!”
A few moments later, dozens of gulls appear over the ridge and swoop down low over me, eventually landing beside the gull who had woken me.
“Could you not tell me the news yourself, white wing?”
“No, I could not, Boar Slayer. Truly, we gulls belong in flocks. That is how Father Zeus made us. If you see a gull alone, it is merely waiting for others to arrive, or searching for food to tell them about. We prefer to speak with our brothers nearby, to form a chorus of our words. We find this pleasing, though men who do not know our language complain about our noise, it is true.”
“Your flock is with you now, so tell me then your news,” I say. “What do you herald?”
“Only this. Your master’s ships left Troy some months back, Argos, sailing toward Ithaka. I know this because I was following your master’s fleet—or I should say, following a school of anchovies.”
“Anchovies! Anchovies! Anchovies!” his flock echoes.
I cannot restrain myself from a loud bark. The gull’s story echoes the owl’s!
“Then he returns soon, whitest of birds! My master is returning with his men! How joyous the celebration will be!”
But the gull says nothing. He spreads his long wings and again hovers effortlessly above me. Then he lands on a fencepost.
“Have you ever eaten an anchovy, Argos? Truly, I would fly to faraway Crete for an anchovy. They are quite delicious.”
“Delicious! Delicious! Delicious!” the gulls cry.
Seagulls are the most ravenous birds, thinking constantly about food, so I know I have to be patient with him before he will complete his tale.
“I shall have to try one sometime, my friend,” I say. “But what of my master’s ship? When will he arrive?”
“Some birds claim they are too oily, but I think not.”
“When my master returns, I shall eat one in celebration with you.”
The gull tucks his head in its wing for a moment and then turns one yellow eye toward me.
“There will be no celebration, loyal Argos. The winds drove your master’s many ships to Ismaros, a small island by the Kikonians. There your master and his men sacked the city, killing the men and taking their wives and possessions, as men returning from war are wont to do. Still, your master was light of foot and wanted to leave, but his men behaved shamelessly and drank too much wine and slaughtered many sheep and cattle to feast upon.”
“Shame! Shame! Shame!” the gulls cry in unison.
How unlike dogs men are, to kill so wantonly, I think. Surely the gods made them like themselves, petty and cruel as often as noble and heroic.
The gull suddenly spreads its wings and launches itself into the sky, flying a circle above my head. Seconds later his flock joins him, spinning gyres in the sky, making me dizzy.
“Ahh, the fishermen return to the dock. They will have nets full of calamari. We shall dine well this evening,” he cries to his brethren, ignoring me.
“Sir Gull,” I cry. “Is that all you have to say? Is my master sailing again toward Ithaka? If that is your story, I thank thee for your efforts.”
Again he hovers above me; then he perches on a sea-pine branch, turning his head sideways to look at me.
“There is more to tell, Boar Slayer. Some men from the city escaped the slaughter and retreated to safety, summoning their kin from the interior of the country. These were hard, fighting men, with horses and armor, and there were many. They came early in the morning, and Father Zeus gave your master’s men evil luck. The Achaians fought for hours and bravely, but eventually they were beaten back. Out of each of your master’s fleet, six were killed, but some were able to board their ships and sail away, as the Kikonians are not sailors.”
“But surely my master lives, bright-winged gull?”
“Aye, noble Argos. If only he had had a crew such as himself, he would have won the day. But he lived and was glad to escape death, I think. Now I must go. Calamari is best eaten fresh.”
He lives. My master lives.
“We must go! We must go! We must go!”
“One moment, please,” I beg. “So my master returns now, though with fewer men? Still, the gods will be praised when they return.”
A third time the gull hovers and lands. Again, he turns his head sideways to look at me. “Boar Slayer, hear me out. Not long had they left Ismaros before storm-minded Zeus sent a foul north wind against their ships, and although they rowed hard against it, their sails were ripped and had to be stowed. For two days and two nights your master and his men laid up, bailing their ships and grieving for their lost friends. Then, on the third day, glorious dawn came, clear-eyed and dry, and I heard your master shout: ‘Rig the sails and steer us home to Ithaka!’
“Ithaka! Ithaka! Ithaka!”
“How his men cheered that morn, Argos! But from atop the mast, I saw clouds scuttling by, as quick and silver as a school of tuna, and I knew that Father Zeus was not yet appeased. Once they rounded their swift ships past Maleia, the bitter winds changed course again and drove them for nine days until they made shore. That was when I left their ships, Argos, for the waters there hold few fish. I have flown for many days and nights, and now I must eat and rest. My mate will be laying her eggs soon, and she too enjoys calamari. Shrimp as well.”
He smacks his beak as he says this, and then the gull launches himself into the air and turns into the wind. I bark once, and he dips his head to listen.
“Wait!” I cry. “Faithful friend, highest flyer of all the birds, what of my master? Where did he and his men land? Will they be returning soon?”
The gull circles twice and then flies low, low enough for me to hear his terrible reply. “Your master and his men landed in the country of the Lotus Eaters, noble Argos. Forget your master and tend to his son. No man returns from there alive.”
Then, with an arch of his silver wings, he takes the wind and flies away.
“No return! No return! No return!” his flock calls back to me.
CHAPTER IV
The Boar Slayer
Tonight, as I lie down near the sheep paddock, I hear through the open window of her room my mistress crying. I had heard a servant girl earlier say that this was the twelfth anniversary of my mistress’s marriage
to my master Odysseus, and they had roasted a goat in their honor, but my mistress refused to eat it. Instead, according to the servant girl, she shut herself in her room and spent the evening praying to the gods. Now she weeps.
I enter the house and climb the stairs to my mistress’s room. To the left I smell Telemachos in his bed, and I hear him snoring gently. He had spent the day practicing archery and wrestling, so I know he sleeps deeply. At the other end of the hall I hear the muffled sobs of a woman crying into her pillow. It is my mistress, my queen. The hall is dark, but I can see that her bedroom door is closed. I lift my paw and scratch the heavy oak door. Three times I scratch, and then the door opens.
“Come, Argos,” my mistress says softly. “I would enjoy your company tonight.”
She is wearing a simple bed tunic and her long black hair is plaited, nearly reaching her waist. She has not cut it since my master left. Even in mourning, her beauty outshines every mortal I have seen.
My mistress no longer sleeps in her wedding bed, which my master carved out of a living olive tree as a gift to her. Instead she sleeps on a low pallet covered in thin fleece, which lies next to it. The pallet is hard, and many times I have heard my mistress’s servants beg her to sleep on her own bed. “Your husband would want you to sleep on his bed, my queen,” they say. “He carved it for you!”
“And does my husband sleep on a soft bed at night?” she would reply. “Or does he sleep on a ship’s hard planks or beneath Luna herself, on a bloody battleground?”
To this they have no answer. So for more than ten years she has slept on this hard pallet, and tonight I lie down beside her on it.
“Argos,” she says, stroking my forehead. “You think my husband, brave Odysseus, lives, do you not?”
I lick her hand. My master lives. I am certain of it. Even that wretched seagull could not convince me otherwise.
“I do also,” she says. “But why have we heard nothing from him? Is he a prisoner of some terrible tribe of men? Is he stranded on an island, shipwrecked and thirsty? Does he lie wounded on some battlefield, surrounded by his fallen comrades? Every night I pray to the gods for a sign that he lives, but they answer me not. Every sound of thunder in the summer sky makes me think that Zeus is answering me, but what mortal can divine a thunderclap? I cannot. Outside my window a dove has built a nest. What does this portend, if anything? I know only that a dove mates for life, and I too shall never wed again unless by force.”
She begins to weep again, and I nuzzle her cheek. After a few minutes she sighs and speaks again, but her tone is lighter, as if I have given her some comfort.
“If only you could talk, brave one,” she says. “What stories would you tell? What fearsome beasts have you hunted? How is it that my husband, brave Odysseus, found you, the handsomest dog on Ithaka, in a cave?”
Then she rubs her fingers along the scars on my face. I was once a handsome dog, if I may be immodest, but now my muzzle is scarred, my ears are torn, and on cold days I limp. My fur, once as black as a volcano, is flecked with gray, as if snow had fallen on that black peak. The shield on my chest, a patch of white, is matted with burrs and nettles. Still, my teeth are sharp, my back is straight, and my tail curves like a flashing sword.
I grow drowsy under my mistress’s caresses. How sweet it is to lie next to her, far from the braying of sheep and goats and the squawk of hens. I am nearly asleep when I hear a sound: footsteps. Quick and soft footsteps. I sit up. I know who is coming. Telemachos.
The boy knocks softly and enters the room. He is nearly twelve years old, neither a child nor a man, but simply a boy who misses his father.
“Mother, do you sleep?” he whispers.
“Come to me, my son,” my mistress says, sitting up. “Were you having bad dreams?”
Telemachos sits on the bed next to his mother, and he also rubs my head and ears.
“I dreamed I was drowning, Mother,” he says after a moment. “I was swimming and Poseidon was angry and sent wave after wave crashing over me. Why would I dream this? What does it mean?”
Mistress Penelope puts her arm around the boy. “It means you ate too many figs for dessert, my brave swimmer, and your stomach is upset, that is all.”
“But father is a sailor, is he not, Mother? Could this dream be about him? Perhaps his swift black ship is in a storm. What if he has been thrown overboard?”
My mistress hugs her son, who has begun to cry.
“Your father is a sailor, it is true, Telemachos, but he is also a warrior and a king. The gods would not let him drown at sea. His fate is not that of sailors and fishermen, but that of a hero. Did he not conquer Troy, my son?”
“Then why has he not returned?”
“He is on his way.”
“Soon? He comes soon?”
“That I cannot promise. All we can do is pray to the gods and wait. And in the meantime, I must run the household properly, and you must be a good student and bring honor to our family by your deeds and actions. Can you do that?”
“Yes, and what of Argos? What must he do?”
“Argos has the most difficult task of all. He has to guard all the livestock and keep us safe too. Do you think he can do it?”
“Of course he can,” Telemachos says, putting his arms around my neck. “He is the Boar Slayer, is he not?”
And then mother and son lie down and cover themselves in a warm fleece while I curl up beside them to sleep for a few hours myself. Even a boar slayer must rest now and then.
CHAPTER V
Among the Lotus Eaters
Along the beach I find what I am looking for: sea-turtle tracks. The gods favor these strange creatures with long lives, which they spend swimming across the blue sea, stopping to lay their eggs on the many islands that Kronos made before he was overthrown by Zeus. I knew that some sea turtles lay their eggs on that cursed land of the Lotus Eaters, and I thought perhaps one had seen my master. I find the turtle that night, digging with her strange paws in the moonlight, preparing to lay her eggs. But she had not seen my master.
“Others will come, Argos, who have seen that land,” she says, flicking her black tongue. “On the next neap tide, return here, and you will find my sister turtle. She will know of your master’s fate.”
“Thank you, Mother Turtle. Good luck to you and your offspring.”
She regards me for a long time with unblinking eyes.
“Argos, of the hundred eggs in this clutch, perhaps two will live. Most will die in their shells, eaten by seabirds. A few will hatch and point their beaks to the sea. In those cold waters swim sharp-toothed fish, which will swallow them whole. One or two will hide in the seaweed and live. That is our fate. Zeus has cursed us twice: we live too long and our children die before us. So speak not to me of luck. Now return when Luna wanes, and you will find your answer.”
“Thank you, sister,” I say gently. Though I have no offspring, her story tears at my heart. Then she resumes her digging and I take the trail that leads up to my master’s home, more desperate than ever to learn of his fate.
Apollo’s chariot has carried the sun through the skies twenty times while I herded goats and sheep. Some days I followed young Telemachos on long walks into the pine-covered hills. His servant, Dolios, knows that my master Odysseus would want his son to grow strong legs, so as a young boy, Telemachos spends many hours outside, running, climbing, and playing with the other boys from the nearby village. This will prepare him for the time when he will have to lead his companions into war, for there is no escaping that fate as an Achaian. I spend the evening snarling at the suitors, dodging their kicks, barking when they insult the servants.
In this way the days passed. Now is the evening of the neap tide, and I again take the path down to the shore and wait for the turtles to emerge from the waves. I wait for many hours, watching the endless waves come and go. Finally, when I am about to give up hope, I see three she-turtles blasting through the foam. I wait for them to crawl into the moonlight, and then I approa
ch the one closest in size to the turtle from before, and it is confirmed: they are sisters. And she had laid a clutch of eggs on the island of the Lotus Eaters.
“Tell me what you saw there, Sister Turtle,” I ask. “Were there six ships in the harbor? Was one black and swift keeled?”
“Aye, Argos,” she says, stretching her wrinkled neck. “Your master was there. His ships had been docked for some days before I arrived.”
“You saw him? My master?”
“Yes, I saw him. His fools nearly trampled my nest while they were carrying their shipmates back from the Lotus Eaters!”
“Was my master being carried? Had the Lotus Eaters stolen his mind? Tell me, ancient one!”
“Patience, Argos. When one has swum the seas for as long as I, one learns to develop such a virtue,” she says. “I am tired and hungry after my travels.”
I watch as she unhurriedly chews a piece of seaweed, the slimy green grass slithering into her sharp beak. My master once said that a great ruler does not lead his people with force, but with patience and wisdom. And so I will wait; there would be no rushing her.
“Thank you for allowing me that brief respite, noble one,” she says finally, with a long gulp that travels the length of her neck.
At last I will hear my master’s fate.
“Your master is alive and as shrewd as ever, having sent his men ahead to meet with the Lotus Eaters. But no mortal man is as strong as the great Odysseus, and those he sent were weak and ate the sweet fruit they were given. Your master had to rescue them and bring them back. Oh, how they wept, those piteous men! But he tied them to the rowing benches, and soon they raised their sails.”
“So he left the island! He returns soon?”
This news makes me twirl around on the sand like a young pup!
“But how is it that you, a turtle, arrived here before my master?” I ask.
“You have many questions, loyal Argos, and they are insolently framed, but I will grant you an answer. I swim day and night without stopping, whereas no man can row for too many hours, nor does the wind always favor a ship. That is why I have arrived here so swiftly.”
