by Ralph Hardy
“Did my master do as he was bidden?” I ask. “Did he abandon the raft wearing the immortal veil?”
“Alas, loyal one, I cannot say for certain. Just as the goddess herself sank into the wine-dark sea and your master tied the veil round his waist, Poseidon sent his largest wave directly at us. The mast snapped under its weight, and the raft was pitched high into the air. Your master and I were both thrown off, or perhaps he dived, I cannot say, but I flew above the broken raft for as long as I could, and I never saw your master again. Then the west wind carried me here, and it is on Ithaka herself I think I will meet my doom.”
“Doom. Doom. Doom.”
“But surely that is not your fate, brave gull!”
“Boar Slayer, a man can break his arm and live. A dog can break its leg and live. But a bird cannot break its wing and live for long. An eagle or a seahawk will find me. Why question the ways of the gods? We learn this when we are hatchlings. See? Above us the eagles are already circling.”
“They come. They come. They come.”
I look up and see what the gull said is true. Two black eagles circle in the sky.
“Go now, Argos,” the gull urges. “Perhaps Athena has left a message that your master lives.”
“Go! Go! Go!” his flock screeches.
I thank the gull and turn away, bounding up the hill toward my master’s home. The shadows in the sky grow larger, but I do not look back. “Why question the ways of gods?” the gull had said. Then, as I trot toward the barn, I see it. A brown owl stares down at me from the peak of the roof. An owl at noon. My hair stands on end. Athena! The great bird stares at me, blinks slowly one time, and then it flies off toward the forest. Surely my master lives, I think. And with that happy knowledge, I run down to the goat pasture. Even those stupid creatures cannot spoil my day now.
CHAPTER XXVIII
A boy becomes a man
Telemachos has a burr under his skin. In the morning he sharpened his short sword until it gleamed, and then he tested its sharpness on his thumb. The drops of his red blood dutifully fell to the ground. Then he polished three javelins of different lengths and, after consultation with Eumaios, discarded two of his spears, keeping the one with the stoutest shaft, which I thought strange, because the longer javelins fly farther. Finally he strung his bow and sent dozens of arrows thudding into a gourd resting against a tree. Then I saw him collect water from the cistern and fill three bladders. A servant put figs and honey, along with dried meat, into two sacks, and then I followed Telemachos to the temple, where he left one sack as an offering to the gods, although I know the priests will simply eat it once we leave.
Telemachos wants to hunt; that is the burr under his skin. The days are growing longer, and the deer are leaving the dark valleys and climbing up into the highlands searching for tender leaves. He wants to see if his arrows still fly true and if he has gained distance with his javelin. He wants to test himself after a long winter. As do I.
Finally, as the cook fires have begun to burn down to their embers and the last of the craven suitors have left, Telemachos comes to the barn where I lie. He kneels down so that I can lick his cheek.
“Loyal one, we hunt tomorrow,” he says. “We leave early, before Apollo’s chariot reaches Ithaka, and we go alone. Are you ready?”
I lick his cheek again. I am always ready to hunt.
Then he leaves, and after making a final round, I curl up for the night. I dream of giant stags and fleet-footed does, and they are no match for us.
We set off, as Telemachos had said we would, before dawn’s first light. The morning is cool, and the grass is wet on my paws. We move swiftly along the goat trails that lead to Mount Nerito. I know a stream where the deer come to drink, and we will find good hunting there. We reach a fork in the trail, and I proceed north, my nose to the ground. Oh, to hunt like this every day. To forget about the stupid sheep and the stubborn goats is to be a hunter, and not a shepherd, and that is my true nature!
I move quickly along the new trail, turning my head left and right, looking for new tracks, stopping to sniff the morning air for new scents—the scent of my prey. Suddenly I hear a low whistle. I freeze. Again, I hear a soft whistle. I look back. Telemachos has not made the turn with me. He is headed in the opposite direction, south, to the scrubland. There are few deer there. Still, he is Telemachos, my master’s son, and he has called me, so I turn around and run up to him. He pats my head, and we share water from a pig bladder. Then I start back along the northern trail again, raising my tail to show him I have caught a scent. Telemachos doesn’t follow me.
“Argos!” he calls. “Argos, come!”
I turn around.
“Argos, come!” he calls again.
What choice do I have? I run back to Telemachos and this time take his mantle in my mouth, tugging it in the direction we should take.
“No, Argos!” he cries.
No?
The boy is young, I think. He has forgotten how to hunt deer.
Then Telemachos kneels and holds out his hands. I lick his palms. After a moment he takes my head in his hands and says these words: “Argos, we are not hunting deer. Today we are hunting boar.”
May the gods help us.
To track a boar can take days. There are not many left on this island, and they live in the most impenetrable terrain, places where few men will seek them. The boar does not feel the prick of a bramble on its skin or the rocks beneath its hoof, the sting of the wasp, or the bite of the coldest wind. Of all Zeus’s creatures, the boar is the shrewdest, the meanest, the strongest, the smelliest, and the most fearless. And I am to help Telemachos kill one.
For two more hours we climb ridges and scramble down slopes, heading deeper into the narrow canyon that bisects southern Ithaka. Telemachos stays right behind me, completely silent except for his deep breaths from our quick pace, his hand gripping his javelin. We stop once to eat and drink quickly, but if Telemachos fears our quarry, he does not show it, because he doesn’t linger over his meat and honey. Instead, we press on. I had heard last summer from a fox that a boar had taken over its den near here, killing its kits and claiming the land around it as his own. This is the boar we hunt, and soon I smell him.
Since the boar has no enemies, it does not try to disguise its tracks or hide its spoor, yet at times they can disappear, and not even the best tracker can find them. How many hunters have died thinking they were tracking the boar when it was following them instead? How many hunting dogs have thought they were upwind, only to feel the boar’s tusks bury into their exposed ribs? Surely the mischievous gods protect the boar for reasons unknown to me.
Apollo’s chariot is high overhead, and I hope the boar is sleeping. Our best chance is to surprise the beast, startle it, and hope it runs from us, so that Telemachos’s arrows can find its powerful hindquarters as a target. Then, once it is crippled, we can track it and finish our task with a well-thrown javelin.
That is what every boar hunter hopes for, to avoid a direct charge.
It is no hard feat to find evidence of the boar now. There are broken branches and trampled grass, hoofprints in the soft dirt, bark scraped from trees, and bristles dangling from thorns. Most telling of all, there is the silence. No animal chooses to live near the boar; even the birds hate them.
Telemachos senses the boar too. He crouches low and sniffs the air. Can he smell it as strongly as I can? How quietly we move through the scrub brush! How deliberately we place each step! Telemachos lowers his javelin and holds it at the ready. Ahead of us, I see a low mound supported by the roots of a large juniper. As we step closer, I see that the mound is larger than I first thought, and there is a small opening on one side that leads to a large hollow covered by roots and leaves. It would have made a fine den for a fox family, and now it belongs to a boar. Of that I am certain. I sniff the still air. I smell boar, but where is it coming from? The scent seems to come from two sides, from ahead and behind me. Since I can move more quietly than any man, I st
ep closer to the den and peer inside. It is empty.
Then I hear it. The snap of broken branches, the cries of warning from the birds in their nests, the low grunt of an enraged killer. I bark and spin around. Behind Telemachos stands a boar sow preparing to charge. And then, behind me, I hear the roar of another beast. A male boar, tusks glistening with saliva, paws the ground. There are two boars, and we are between them.
No man—and few dogs—can outrun a boar, and we are on a narrow trail littered with roots and thick with scrub, so we cannot escape. We have to attack to gain the upper hand, and when one is faced with two enemies, it is best to attack the strongest first. There is only one thing to do; I can only hope that Telemachos will follow my lead.
I charge the male boar.
The beast lowers his ugly snout and charges too. Then, just as we are about to collide, I change directions and turn suddenly. The boar follows me, and for that brief moment, just after he turns, his chest is exposed. Telemachos puts an arrow in it. Then the other boar charges. I have turned around again, though, and I run toward the second boar from the side. From the corner of my eye, I see Telemachos lower his javelin, preparing to thrust. I meet the second boar low and raise her front legs, exposing, for an instant, her gray belly. That is enough. Telemachos finds it with his javelin. The boar roars in pain.
Instantly I spin back and see the male boar, wounded but preparing to charge again. I bark, and Telemachos turns around to face him. Again I charge the male boar, but this time I meet him full on. Even with a death wound, his strength is beyond mine, but I only have to avoid his tusks and give Telemachos a target, so at the last moment I roll over onto my back and kick up with my legs. Again I expose his chest, and again an arrow strikes it. Then another. Each arrow weakens the boar further, and soon he collapses. I roll away just in time to keep from being crushed. Meanwhile, Telemachos has turned back to the female boar, and he ends her life mercifully.
We have done it!
I run to Telemachos. There is blood on his leg, but it is boar’s blood. He is unmarked. And triumphant. Then, suddenly, Telemachos collapses. I have seen this happen to young hunters. The blood lust leaves them and they faint. I lick the boy’s face, and he stirs. Then I carry the sack of honey to him, and he dips his hands in it and licks them clean. Soon he is standing again, and we marvel at what we have done. Even my master never killed two boars on the same hunt! Our names will be sung in the villages and towns all over Ithaka, and honor will flow to the house of Laertes.
But the boars are too large to carry, and Telemachos has not even brought a knife, so we are unable to fashion a sled to drag the smaller one.
“Night is coming soon, Argos,” the boy says. “The craven suitors will arrive, and my mother is home alone, with just the servants to protect her honor. We will return tomorrow to collect our trophies.”
We hurry back to my master’s estate and tell no one of our kill. The next two days, Zeus pounds Ithaka with rain and lightning, so we remain inside. On the third day, Telemachos develops a fever. A week passes before he is strong enough to leave his bed. When he can walk again, he leads Eumaios and a group of servants to the site of our triumph to retrieve the bodies. Nothing of the boars remains but a single tusk. Still, we know what we accomplished.
CHAPTER XXIX
A visit with Aurora
Every few days I leave my master’s farm and take the path north to see Aurora. I would like to go more often, but my days are full of hardship and work, and it is not easy for me to leave my home unguarded. But when she can, Aurora will slip away from her farm—for the herds there are small and easily managed by shepherds—and visit me. She arrives in the late afternoon, when the herd animals and the humanfolk nap, and we hunt for hares in the pine forest or lie in the sun.
Sometimes we chase each other through the olive orchards; she is very fast, long-legged and lean, while I am broad of chest and large footed, but I would sometimes catch her—or she allows me to. Other times we take the path down to the harbor and watch the ships as they are rowed into port. They come from far-off places and the men speak languages we had never heard, but the seagulls would tell us where the ships came from: Chios, Thasos, Lesbos, Rhodes, and farther.
The summer passed, and the olive tree branches drooped low, heavy with their fruit. Still, every day the suitors arrived, sometimes in small numbers of ten or fifteen; other times, more than a hundred descended upon our house. When they came, my mistress would greet them, as is the custom here, and then climb the stairs leading to her bedchamber and remain there the rest of the night, weaving and sewing or singing to herself until they left.
How many pigs, sheep, and oxen my mistress was forced to slaughter for them! What barrels of heady wine they drank! My mistress took on new servants and cooks in order to feed them all, and her stores of gold, silver, and bronze were slowly depleted month after month to pay for her forced hospitality. A week ago, one of the new servants asked my mistress why she allowed the suitors to come every night.
“It is only a custom, my lady,” she said. “Surely a queen such as you can break a tradition, especially one as burdensome as this,” she reasoned.
My mistress stood to her full height and swept back her long tresses. I thought she might strike the servant for her impertinence, but instead she merely smiled and said, “If a queen does not honor custom, how can she expect anyone else to?”
Then my mistress left the dining hall and climbed the stairs to her spinning room and began to sew. I noticed that for the next seven days the impertinent servant peeled onions from morning till dusk, and she did not ask another rude question of my mistress.
It is autumn now, and Apollo’s chariot flies faster across the sky, so the days are shorter and I have even less time to spend with Aurora. I want to surprise her today with a visit, so I finish my herding early and race to her farm. I find Aurora napping under her favorite tree, and I rouse her, saying, “Come, golden one, let us chase hares while the sun is warm on our backs.”
But she is slow to move; instead, she rolls onto her side, pretending to be asleep, although I can see a smile on her muzzle.
“Were you up late chasing sheep, lazy girl?” I ask.
“No, loudest of all four-legged creatures. Sleep did not come, because I could not find a comfortable position.”
And then Aurora stands up, and I can see why she couldn’t sleep. Her belly is swollen, ever so slightly, with puppies.
“You are to be a mother!” I exclaim.
“And you a sire.”
“When?” I ask. “How long before you give birth?”
“Another moon must pass, and then I will be ready.”
Just then, we both hear her master’s whistle.
“I have to go now, Argos. A lamb must have wandered off.”
“Let me help you find it!”
“Don’t be silly. If my master were to see a half-bear dog near his flock, he would round up the village men and arm them with spears, and my puppies would never know their father! Go back to your master’s farm and return when you can. Night is best, when your black coat cannot be seen and the sheep are in their paddocks.”
Again we hear the whistle.
“Go quickly, Argos. He will kick me if I don’t come right away.”
Saying this, Aurora barks once and begins to run toward her master, who whistles a third time from the other side of a small hill. She looks back once at me, but I know she is right. He cannot see me; I am Argos, the Boar Slayer, and men fear my quick jaws and sharp teeth. I turn around and begin to make my way back to my master’s farm.
Along the way I skirt Mount Nerito and its foothills and cut through the thick forest that lines my master’s fields. It is there I see it: flying just above the tree line, an eagle careening through the sky with a viper in its talons. The snake’s jaws are clamped around the eagle’s neck, and neither will release its hold. It is an omen. I do not know its portent, but I know the gods are planning ill for me or someone I
love. That is their way, for to be immortal simply affords more opportunity to convey misery on those who are not.
I reach my master’s farm in time to bring the herds in and to watch from the barn as the suitors make their shameless arrival. As the evening comes in, the wind from the west brings thick clouds that cover the stars, and then Luna herself. The sheep in their paddocks grow anxious over the impending storm, so I bed down in there to keep them calm. Throughout the night Zeus hurls thunder and lightning down upon Ithaka and Poseidon shakes the seas. All night long I think of Aurora. I can only hope that she is dry and safe from Zeus’s hammer; that her poor master has given her food to eat so that she does not have to catch a hare; and that the puppies inside her are growing strong, for this is no life for the weak.
CHAPTER XXX
Family matters
Aurora is fat now with puppies. Almost daily I bring her extra food to eat, as she can no longer hunt well enough to supplement the meager rations her master gives her.
“Leave him!” I suggest a hundred times or more. “Come to my master’s palace! Come live with me so we can raise our offspring together!”
Each time she replies, “I cannot leave my master, Argos. Though he is poor, it is our fate to remain loyal to one man, just as you maintain your loyalty for brave Odysseus.”
“But Odysseus is my master!” I cry.
“Boar Slayer, Odysseus has been gone for more than seventeen years. You are loyal to his memory. I am loyal to a man of flesh and blood who needs me to guard his home and watch his herds.”
How those words sting, although she does not mean to wound me.
“My master lives!” I say, though to my own ears I did not sound confident.
