by Ralph Hardy
“Just then, although the night was clear, a bolt of lightning split the sky,” says the cormorant. “Zeus was angry, and Odysseus knew they were doomed. He woke his men, crying, ‘Faithless men! Why did you break the one promise I asked of you?’
“But none of his men answered truthfully, instead blaming the other, until Eurylochos said, ‘What is done is done, brave Odysseus. Surely the gods will not punish us for eating the food they put before us! We have promised to build a temple for Helios when we return, and we will do so. Eat with us, regain your strength, and with Zeus’s help, we will soon leave this cursed land.’
“But before Odysseus could answer, they all heard the bellow of an ox, though there was none close by. Again they heard the sound, and one of the men who had been watching the cookfires cried out for Zeus’s mercy, for the sound of the oxen was coming from the meat on the spit, and they knew then they would not be forgiven.
“For six more days your master and his companions remained on the island, filling their bellies with meat and praying at night for mercy. On the seventh day, the hard eastern winds died, and the men made their black ship ready, hoisting its white sails to catch the western wind. I perched myself on the prow again, and later that morning they departed.”
“Soon they were on the open water, and the cheer in them rose as their sleek vessel put the dread island behind them. Then, late in the sun-filled afternoon, the sun disappeared and a dark cloud hovered over the black ship. The peaceful western wind grew hard and bitter, and then a terrible wind snapped the forestays and sent the mast crashing down on the steersman, pounding him dead. But before Odysseus’s men could take their oars, Zeus hurled a bolt of lightning down upon them, throwing all the men from their ship into the gray water, where they bobbed like sea crows until they drowned.
“Thus did the gods punish them all, save your master,” says the cormorant. “He was able to cling to the broken mast and float above the waves while his companions met their fates.”
I whimper now, like a young pup first weaned, and I am not ashamed of it. I cannot bear the thought of my master alone on that cold black sea, clinging to the shards of his swift ship.
“But he still lives, does he not, Sea Flyer?” I ask with dread in my voice. “What happened then? Did help arrive?”
“Alas, Argos, I could do nothing but give him hope. I stayed near him, flying circles above him by day, and at night. I perched on the mast itself, so your master would not be alone. When he hungered, I caught small fish for him, which he ate as we birds do, in one swallow.”
“I thank you for staying with him,” I say, and she nods her head in acknowledgement. “But tell me, where did the currents take him then?”
“The currents took your master back toward Skylla and dreaded Charybdis,” she replies, “but this time Zeus protected Odysseus, and terrible Skylla did not swoop down with her fierce claws, and Charybdis only spun your master and threw him back into the open sea still perched on the mast. I followed him for nine more days, bringing him fish to eat, and on the tenth night the currents brought him to the island Ogygia, home of the lovely nymph Kalypso, who talks with mortals. There she oiled his flesh and fed him meat and figs. But she laid a trap for him, as well.”
How much more can one man suffer?
“What kind of trap, black-winged one?” I ask, feeling my hackles rise again. “Surely the nymph will protect him!”
The cormorant does not answer. Instead she turns over shells strewn along the water’s edge, as if looking for food. I press her more firmly. “What manner of trap was it, sea raven?”
Finally the cormorant lifts her beak. “Remember your promise to me, Boar Slayer,” she says firmly. “Raise not your voice again.”
I clamp my jaws shut and wait. The cormorant lifts her long neck to look back over to her colony and then says these words.
“While your master slept, exhausted from clinging to his mast for ten days, cunning Kalypso had her servants chop down all the large trees on the island and burn them!”
But I am puzzled. “Why would she do this?” I ask. The cormorant stares at me with her yellow eyes until I answer my own question.
“With no trees on the island,” I say finally, “my master cannot construct a boat. He is trapped!”
Then, despite my promise, I race through the cormorant colony, barking and snapping, spilling nests and crushing eggs beneath my feet.
It is the most shameful moment of my life.
CHAPTER XXI
Stag hunting
Galenos, the blind tutor, has taught Telemachos well. Tonight, now that the cowardly suitors have left for the evening, the youth comes to me and bids me to follow him. We climb a hill overlooking the shore and sit together in the gathering darkness, with only the night-flying bats to keep us company. Telemachos has brought with him a woven mantle, and he spreads it out on the grassy hillside for us to lie upon. Then he rests his head on my flank, and after a few minutes—during which I think he has fallen asleep—he asks, “Argos, do you know how the universe began?”
Of course dogs have no use for this type of speculation, so I remain silent, though I lick his ear so that he will continue.
“You see, according to Galenos, when the universe was born, there was only Chaos, the void of emptiness between heaven and earth. Then Erubus was formed, the place of unending death and night.”
I whimper as he says this, but Telemachos adds hastily, “Not night like this, Argos, but ceaseless, silent blackness. Then Eros was formed from their union, and she separated night and day, and then Gaea appeared, our mother earth. She was joined by Uranus, who made the heavens, like those above us.”
I confess now that I am growing drowsy. The mantle on which I lie is soft, and this story of the gods is not like the rousing adventures that Telemachos usually tells me. But Telemachos continues his tale, and so I remain awake, as a dog must do, but with one eye closed.
“Then Gaea and Uranus created the Cyclopes, the hundred-armed Hecatoncheires, and the twelve Titans,” the boy continues. “But Uranus was threatened by his children and forced them back into Gaea’s deepest canyons and gorges, which angered her. She convinced the youngest Titan, Kronos, to help her overthrow Uranus and he did, but he too, after marrying his sister Rhea, became cruel and jealous of his offspring, and swallowed them as they were born.”
I growl hearing this, and Telemachos pats my head to comfort me before continuing.
“Let me finish, Boar Slayer.” He laughs. “You see, Rhea hid her sixth-born child, giving it to the nymphs to raise, and wrapped a stone in its place, which Kronos swallowed instead. Do you know who that child was, Argos?”
I lick the boy’s ear again. The child was Zeus. Every dog knows that.
“That’s right. Zeus. And once he was grown, he returned to Mount Olympus and tricked Kronos into swallowing a magic drink, which made him heave up Zeus’s other siblings from his stomach. Then there was a great war, greater even than the one my father fought against the Trojans. Kronos recruited all but three of the Titans to his side, while Zeus freed the Cyclopes and the Hecatoncheires from Gaea’s caves to fight alongside him. After many terrible battles, Zeus, armed with lightning bolts, prevailed. Then he exiled his foes, except for the Titan Atlas, whom he punished by forcing him to hold the earth on his shoulders.”
But who or what holds up Atlas? I want to ask, but I do not do so, because then Telemachos begins to name the constellations glittering above us, and that is something no dog can remain awake for, and so I fall asleep.
Sometime later Telemachos sits up, and I spring to my feet with a snarl. I sniff the wind and find no threatening scent of wolf or man, but still the fur along my back rises. Someone or something is on the hill with us; that I know. Telemachos senses it as well.
“Who’s there?” he calls out. “Announce yourself!”
Telemachos draws his xiphos, but it is I who see it first: a large stag standing over the ridge, looking down on us. Even in the darkn
ess I can see its enormous antlers, as wide as a spear, perched high above its head. For a moment I think I should give chase, but something tells me not to—a voice in the wind, perhaps. So I remain beside Telemachos, who now sees it too.
“Leave it be, Argos,” Telemachos says softly. “This is not a night for hunting.”
Then the stag leaps to the crest of another hill and disappears from view. After a few moments Telemachos rolls up the mantle, and we begin to make our way down to my master’s house. Several times we stop and look back from whence we had come. The stag appears again, high on the ridge, watching us. Surely, I think, the stag is an omen sent by the gods. But what does it portend, fortune or misfortune? How does one know?
Then I remember something Galenos had said to Telemachos when the boy asked a similar question. The tutor said, “An omen may be good or evil; we know not which until after the moment has passed and the deed has been done, and then we make our claim to have known all along.”
Tonight one of the suitors claims to have seen a giant stag grazing near Mount Nerito. “Its antlers were as broad as a man is tall,” he announces, but the rest of the suitors jeer at him. “There are no more giant stags on Ithaka,” one sneers. “Our forefathers killed the last great deer a generation ago,” he continues. “And the mountain wolves got the rest,” another suitor adds. Soon they are discussing other matters: the swiftest ships, the greatest javelin throwers, and the best grapes for winemaking. But Telemachos looks at me with raised brows, and I know we will be hunting tomorrow. Hunting for giant stag.
We leave before dawn’s rosy fingers reach my master’s estate. My mistress is awake and bids us good hunting, and Telemachos kisses her and then touches her feet to show respect. She has raised him well. When we reach the top of the ridge we turn around, and she waves to us one last time before entering the house. How lovely she looks in the dawn, I think.
Telemachos carries a knife, his bow, and a quiver of arrows; that is all, except for some dried meat and honey. We are to travel light and fast. I think we both had the same thought: a few of the younger suitors had seemed interested in the stag sighting also. They wanted its antlers to prove their merit to my mistress, and so we must kill it first.
Telemachos is young and strong, and together we run swiftly along the goat trails that lead to Mount Nerito. We stop only so that I might sniff the air for our quarry’s scent, but as we reach the mountain pastures, we slow our pace and approach stealthily. A stag does not grow large if it is not watchful for wolves and hunters. I lead Telemachos to the stream that feeds a small pond on the west side of the mountain. There we both drink our fill, and then, near the pond, we find a laurel-covered perch in which to wait for our prey. I know many deer stop at the pond to drink during the heat of the day, and that is our best chance to see the stag. As we wait, we see many smaller deer approach the pond—deer we would have taken any other day. But we hunt only the giant stag, so Telemachos lets them live.
Apollo’s chariot is high in the sky when I hear branches breaking. In such stillness the noise echoes as loud as an army striking their shields. Telemachos hears it too. He puts his hand on my shoulder to steady himself while he readies his bow. We both see it at the same time: our prey. The stag’s swooping antlers appear first, followed by his handsome head, then his powerful shoulders. He stops at the edge of the clearing to sniff the wind, and then he slowly steps toward the glistening pond, turning his proud head side to side, ever watchful.
Truly, I had never seen such a magnificent creature! Now that it is daylight, I can see that his pelt is nearly bloodred and his antlers are as long and sharp as a javelin. His neck is thicker than a man and his hindquarters ripple with muscle as he walks. But it is his eyes that give him away. They are the eyes of a god. Telemachos knows it as well.
“That is not a stag,” he whispers as he slowly lowers his bow.
Just then we hear the twang of a bowstring. I bark a warning, but it is too late. The stag leaps, but before he lands, an arrow protrudes from his shoulder. The stag bellows and begins to run, twisting and zigzagging through the underbrush, as two more arrows pierce the air. But they miss.
“Come, Argos!” Telemachos whispers. “We must find the stag before the other hunters do!”
We back away slowly until the laurel leaves close in behind us, and then we run in the direction that the stag has taken. It is easy—too easy—to follow its bloody trail, but even a wounded stag can outrun a man for some distance, until it must lie down to die. After a few minutes I realize where the stag is running—to the summit of Mount Nerito. I know a shorter way to get there. I bark and change direction; Telemachos follows me. Soon, we are climbing up steep cliffs and clambering over boulders, but straight up is the fastest way.
My only fear is that the stag will collapse before it reaches the summit, and the hunters will find it before we do. Telemachos knows what I do: a god in the form of an animal can be killed. Neither can it change back into a god with a human object in its flesh. We have to find the stag and remove the arrow lodged in its shoulder, or the god will die. And then the other gods will punish us.
Below us, I can hear the cries of the hunters running up the trail that leads to the summit. We both know their voices; they are the young suitors who ate at our table the night before. If they catch us with their stag, they will think we intended to claim it as our own, and they will kill us. And Telemachos has no shield or javelin, only his bow and knife. As we near the summit, the brush and small trees begin to thin, leaving us exposed to the hunters, so we climb even faster. At the top of the mountain is a small clearing surround by a ring of boulders. It is there I know we will find the stag. And it is so.
The stag is lying on his side. Foam covers his mouth and neck, and blood still seeps from the arrow, which has worked its way deeper into his shoulder. He tries to rise and run, but there is nowhere for him to go, and he is too weak to stand very long. Telemachos runs up to the stag and tugs him gently to the ground. Then Telemachos withdraws his knife. The stag’s eyes widen in fear.
“Lie still, immortal one,” Telemachos says gently. “We seek only to help you.”
I stand guard by the trailhead from which the hunters will soon emerge, so I do not see Telemachos cut the arrow out, but I hear him whisper, “I have it,” when he has done so. Then I hear him cry, “Goddess, have mercy on us!”
I turn and see Artemis herself.
She stands taller than a man, but her face and build are slender and lovely to behold. In one hand she holds the arrow that felled her, and the other hand cups Telemachos’s chin.
“I thank thee, Telemachos, son of Odysseus, for coming to my aid,” she says, with a voice that rings like a golden bell. “In return, I will grant this: that your arrows shall never miss their mark, whenever you draw your bow.”
I bark a warning. The hunters are coming close.
“Goddess, we must all flee!” Telemachos whispers.
Artemis smiles and brings her hands together. Suddenly a fierce wind rises up, swirling the leaves around us, and then I hear the harsh squeal of a boar. He appears out of a small cave and charges toward the trail where the hunters are climbing up to us. We watch the boar disappear, and a few moments later we hear the screams of terrified men. I turn back around, and Telemachos stands alone. He is rubbing his eyes, and the goddess is gone.
I run up to him and tug at his bow, leading him away from the summit. Soon his head has cleared, and we are bounding down the slope. We don’t stop running until we reach my master’s estate. Tonight, when the suitors arrive for their customary dinner, three chairs are empty at the table.
And they will never be filled, I think.
BOOK II
CHAPTER XXII
A strange dog
Nearly seven years have passed with no news of my master, although I have asked every bird and sea animal that alights or lands on Ithaka if they have news for me. They report nothing, yet I think he lives, as does my mistress, for nearly e
very night she sends servants to the harbor seeking news from incoming ships. I have much to do here: the flocks need my vigilance, my mistress needs a guard, and Telemachos needs a companion.
How tall he has grown! How handsome and strong! In the summer his skin turns to bronze, and his curly dark hair becomes like gold ringlets. Truly he is his father’s son. But he has few companions. The other boys his age have gone to sea or become apprentices to winemakers and blacksmiths, farmers, and merchants. But except for hunts, Telemachos remains close to home. He is the son of a king and will one day rule Ithaka, but he cannot leave his mother, for the suitors would dishonor her if he did. So he waits for his father, Odysseus, to return.
The years have been hard on me. My muzzle is now flecked with white, and my hearing is not as sharp as it once was. In the cold mornings, my joints are stiff and my hips ache. I have reached the age when I should remain inside, lying on a fleece rug curled up next to a fire. But that is not my fate. So I too wait for my master, Odysseus, to return.
Daily the suitors come and insult the servants and eat our stores of food, olive oil, and wine, so there is no end to the misery on Ithaka. Our house grows poorer; the suitors, fatter. I seldom see my mistress; she has become a prisoner in her own home. If she goes to the village, the other women spread false gossip about her; they cannot believe a wife can be so loyal to a man considered dead. Moreover, while the suitors pursue my mistress, the other women in the village are left unmarried and resentful, for she is the prize the greatest men on the island seek. So she remains inside the estate, hidden away from the quick tongues and hard stares of the village folk, with only her servants, her son, and a dog for company.
