by Ralph Hardy
My mistress departed, leaving Odysseus and me alone in the room. He put his hands on my head and drew my forehead to his, looking into my eyes.
“You remind me of another great and loyal companion,” he said to me. “One whose name will be known as long as men treasure loyalty and courage.”
I licked his hand in honor of my father. After a few minutes, the old nurse Eurykleia entered the room, carrying a basin and a cloth, and sobbing.
“Why do you weep, kind nurse?” noble Odysseus asked. “Is this request loathsome to you?”
“No, stranger, it is not the task that brings my tears,” she said softly. “I saw you when you entered the palace, and my old eyes thought they had seen noble Odysseus himself. But then I learned from the servants that you were just a vagabond and not the king he was. Still, there is something about you that reminds me of my master Odysseus, and my ancient heart is moved to tears, though I know not why, except that I miss him greatly. Please forgive me, stranger, and I will gladly wash your feet.”
“Do not be troubled, loyal nurse, by your tears for your master, for they bring even more honor to this house,” the Wily One said to her.
The old nurse came around to where Odysseus sat and placed his feet in the basin. Slowly, gently, she washed his feet and legs until suddenly, when her hand reached the area just above his knee, she let his foot go, and it fell onto the side of the basin, tipping the vessel and spilling the water onto the floor.
“It is you!” she whispered. “You have the scar from your first boar hunt, just above the knee. My master has returned!”
The old woman jumped to her feet and began to run out of the hall to proclaim the news. But I knew this was not brave Odysseus’s plan, so I too sprang to my feet, and I am faster than an old nurse, and I was able to leap between her and the door, blocking it. A moment later, Odysseus had the nurse in his arms. “Nurse, do you want to kill me?” he whispered fiercely. “I tell you straight out, if you say anything, that will be accomplished!”
The old nurse sank to her knees. “Master,” she said, “forgive this old nurse. I raised you from a child, and though you are not the same man in aspect who left twenty years ago, the gods have favored me and brought you home. But fear not, I am as stubborn as stone and will tell no one. But if it pleases you, I would retrieve another basin and anoint you in oil, as befits a king.”
This she did, and when she had finished, she swore again to Odysseus not to reveal his identity, and after she left, we settled down to sleep. I lay on the floor near the divan where he slept, and occasionally brave Odysseus’s arms would slide toward the floor and brush my back. When he turned over, he would reach down and pat my head, and I would lick his rough, oar-callused palm. I am sure he was dreaming of his beloved Argos.
Later that night, though, I heard sounds from the rooms above, and I rose to investigate, careful not to wake Odysseus. Creeping into the great hall toward the stairs, I saw a dim light growing brighter. I sniffed and caught the scent of my mistress Penelope, holding a candle as she descended the stairs. She seemed to be dream walking.
I followed her as she entered the room where Odysseus slept. Running ahead of her, I licked his face, waking him just as noble Penelope reached the divan. Then Odysseus jumped to his feet, drawing his dagger! My first thought was that only the cruelest gods would let a man kill his wife by accident after so much suffering. I barked and jumped in front of Odysseus. Truly, the gods favored me! My bark woke my mistress from her dream walk. I heard a gasp behind me, and then her gentle voice, asking, “Where am I?”
Brave Odysseus lowered his dagger and took my mistress by the arms. “You have been dream walking, noble Penelope. Tell me, what spirits possess you and torment your sleep?”
He guided her to the divan, and she sat there for a moment, pale and speechless, until her senses came to her.
“Friend, forgive my intrusion. My days are tormented by grief and my nights are tormented by dreams. Come, listen to my dream and see if you can interpret it, for I can find no message in it, yet it comes round every night.”
I do not understand human dreams. Dogs—when they dream—dream of the hunt. Sometimes we hunt alone and sometimes we hunt with a pack, as our ancestors did and our cousins the mountain wolves still do. That is all. I have dreamed of my brothers and sisters many times, hunting alongside me. Together we are tireless and can track any prey. Those are fine dreams.
But this was my mistress’s dream: “I have twenty geese who swim in the pond and scratch about the house. They feed on grains of wheat and drink from our trough. But in my dream, a giant eagle with a carved beak swooped down from the mountaintop and killed them all with his sharp talons. I began to weep—in my dream—and the ladies of the village tried to comfort me, but they could not. Then the eagle landed on the jut of the roof and said aloud in a human voice, ‘Do not fear, daughter of famed Ikarios. This is a blessing, not a dream. The geese are the suitors who eat your food and drink your wine, and I, the eagle, am a portent of your husband come home. He will destroy the suitors just as I slew the geese.’ And then I wake and look outside, and there are the geese feeding on the grain and drinking from the trough, as always. What say you of this? What is your interpretation, friend?”
Noble Odysseus shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled. “Lady,” he said gently, “it is impossible to see this dream in any other way, since Odysseus himself, in the form of the eagle, told you its meaning and how it will end. The suitors are doomed, one and all, upon his return.”
But my mistress did not believe Odysseus. “No, honored friend,” she said. “Although my son and I would like nothing more than your version to be true—for it would mean my beloved husband is still alive—some dreams are deceptive. Such, I fear, is my dream of the geese. No, what the dream has told me is this: tomorrow dawns an evil day. It is time that I assent to marriage.”
I growled then; I could not help it. But my mistress continued, “Before my husband left for Ilion, he would practice his archery on the grass outside our home. He would set up twelve axes and, standing far away from them, shoot an arrow from his greatest bow through all twelve handles. I will set up these axes as a contest for my suitors, and whoever is able to string my husband’s bow with the greatest ease and shoot an arrow through the ax handles will win my hand, and I will go away with him, forsaking this house where I once found love.”
This time a whimper escaped me, but neither Odysseus nor my mistress paid heed. Instead, he took my mistress’s hand and said, “O faithful wife of Odysseus, the gods themselves could not disapprove of this contest, for they will strengthen the arm and steady the hand that draws the bow.”
“No one can say what the gods desire, my friend,” my mistress replied. “But having decided this, they seem to have lifted a weight from my shoulders, and now sleep falls heavily upon me. I must return to my bedchamber. Forgive my waking you, and may the dawn find you rested.”
Saying this, she rose and left the room. I followed her to the stairs, where the night servant met her and took my mistress up to her bedchamber. I returned to find Odysseus preparing to sleep again.
“We must both rest, loyal one,” he said, petting my head, “for tomorrow King Odysseus returns.”
CHAPTER XLIII
To string a bow
Bright dawn came and woke us both. Above me, in my mistress’s bedchamber, I could hear her weeping, for it was the day she must choose a husband. Brave Odysseus heard it too. He lifted his hands and said, “Father Zeus, you who led me over dry land and dark seas to my home, do not abandon me now. Show me an omen that you are with me this day.”
Then immediately we heard thunder rolling above our heads, though the morning was clear, and Odysseus smiled. A few minutes later, Telemachos, followed by Eumaios, strode like a god into the room. He was wearing a fine silk tunic, and a sharp sword was slung over his shoulder. In his strong hand he gripped a spear. He clicked his fingers once. I ran to him and positioned myself by his side.
&nb
sp; “Did you sleep well, friend?” Telemachos asked Odysseus, maintaining their ruse. “Did my mother grant you hospitality? A bed and a warm fire?”
“I slept well, noble Telemachos,” the Wily One said. “And while sleeping, my mind devised many things.” I saw him wink at his son, but before Telemachos could reply, several servants entered the room. One rekindled the fire, while another rolled up the blanket on which Odysseus had slept. Several more entered the kitchen.
“The house wakes early. Dawn has just risen,” Odysseus commented.
“There is a public festival today,” Telemachos replied. “The loathsome suitors will be arriving soon, I think. Even now the shepherds are bringing pigs and goats to put on the spit.”
Just as he said this, Melanthios, the goatherd, appeared at the door. He looked at Odysseus and spat on the floor. “Stranger, are you still here?” he sneered. “Do you intend to stay all day, pestering the gentlemen with your begging? If so, you and I shall come to blows!”
Brave Odysseus said nothing, but I saw him clenching his fists. Then Melanthios left the room, and I lifted my nose and smelled another herder enter the yard. By his scent, I knew he was an oxherd. He entered the hall and I knew instantly—the way that dogs always do—that he could be trusted. Telemachos greeted the oxherd as Philoitios.
“Who is this stranger?” the oxherd asked Eumaios after greeting Telemachos. “What are his origins and who were his ancestors? Unlucky man, he is dressed like a beggar, yet has the bearing of a king.”
Saying this, he approached Odysseus and offered his right hand. “Welcome, stranger. May prosperous days befall you, for I can see now that you are in the grips of misfortune. May Father Zeus take pity on you, though alas, he did not pity the master of this house, Odysseus, who is dead and gone to the house of Hades.”
Then Philoitios began to weep, for he had loved Odysseus and served him loyally, I could tell.
Seeing this, Odysseus put his hand on the cowherd’s shoulder and said quietly, “Noble oxherd, you seem like a good and honorable man. I tell you this, and even swear it as Zeus is my witness: Odysseus will come home again soon, to this very house, and you shall see him with your own eyes as he rids this house of the despicable suitors who reign here.”
Hearing this, Philoitios placed his hand on Odysseus’s shoulder and said, “How I wish that day comes soon. When it does, you will see what kind of strength my hands have.”
So then did Eumaios, Philoitios, Odysseus, and my master Telemachos sit and begin to devise their plan. I left the house then to learn more of its surroundings, and as I crested the rise that leads to the sheep pasture, I saw a band of suitors sitting on the ground in earnest discussion. I approached them downwind so that I could hear them more easily, yet remain unseen.
One of them, whom they called Amphinomos, argued forcefully, “Friends, this plan of ours to kill Telemachos is too difficult for now. Let us think of our feasting instead, for today’s festival will ensure that we eat well. We have time to do our deeds on another day.”
Just then an eagle flew over, carrying a trembling pigeon in its talons. The men took this to be a portent and agreed with Amphinomos to forestall their evil plan. Rising, they brushed their tunics and started down the path that wound to mighty Odysseus’s palace.
I growled as they passed, and then went to round up the stray sheep for my sire, noble Argos, who, alas, was no longer there to do so.
When Apollo’s chariot reached its zenith, the suitors took their seats in the great hall to await their feast. Servants filled their wine cups and cooks brought huge slabs of meat to the table and began carving them. I sat just outside the hall, waiting for Odysseus and Telemachos to arrive. After a few minutes they did, side by side, Odysseus still disguised by Athena and dressed as a beggar, and Telemachos looking strong and stalwart in a fine golden mantle.
I followed them inside the great hall, and the boisterous laughter ceased immediately as Telemachos seated brave Odysseus at an empty chair near his own honored place and filled both of their cups with wine. Never have I seen a hundred men so silent!
Then noble Telemachos spoke. “Gentlemen,” he said. “This man is my honored guest. I ask you to share your meat with him and fill his glass accordingly. Most of all, bear him no insult, for to do so would be to insult me the same.”
Telemachos looked about at the men seated at the table, but none would meet his flashing eyes. Only when he sat and began to cut his own meat did the suitors resume their eating, never looking at Odysseus, or at noble Telemachos, who had defied them. Instead they feasted and made toasts to their own valor, forgetting to thank both the gods and the house of Penelope for their food. Such uncouth men! Even I, living in trash heaps and fields, recognized this.
I myself ate meat passed to me under the table by my master Telemachos, and I licked the juices off his fingers. Then, as the feasting began to wane and the cups were drained, one of the largest of the suitors rose to his feet. His name, I gathered, was Ktesippos, and from under the table I saw my master clench his fists when he stood up.
He tapped his cup until everyone was silent and addressed them. “Hear me, friends. This stranger has sat among us as our equal, as he should, for he is a guest of Telemachos. But come, let us too give him a gift, so he can give it as a prize to the woman who washes his feet, or to the other servants who dress him or make his bed.”
Then Ktesippos grabbed the hoof of an ox that lay in a basket and hurled it at Odysseus!
But Odysseus avoided it by turning his head slightly, and the hoof hit the wall. All around, the suitors inhaled sharply, but stalwart Odysseus smiled and said nothing. Then Telemachos rose to scold Ktesippos. “Sir,” he said, “it is good that your missile missed its mark, for had it struck my friend, then you would have met my sharp spear, and your father would be planning a funeral instead of a wedding.”
Then another suitor said, “Your words and temperament serve you well, young Telemachos, and it was wrong for Ktesippos to insult your friend in such a manner. But let me offer some counsel. It has been ten years since anyone heard news of your father, has it not? For ten years you and your loyal mother have held off these suitors here in hopes that your father should return to his rightful place. But now the temper in this house has changed from one of hope to despair, for even the most loyal blood of Ithaka can no longer think that Odysseus will ever return.”
Around the table the suitors grunted in assent, nodding their heads like cows. The suitor continued. “Now it is time, dear Telemachos, to counsel your mother. Sit with her and explain that she should marry the suitor who is the best man among us and can provide the most for her. In that way, you can control your father’s inheritance while she looks after the house of another.”
Then the suitor sat, and several men around him clapped and pounded his back for saying what they did not have the courage to speak. Courage? I am certain Telemachos had more courage as a suckling babe than these men! I looked over to brave Odysseus, but he said nothing. What nerves he had! To remain silent when a hundred men proclaim you dead at your own dinner table! But beneath the table, his fists clenched again and again.
Then my master, noble Telemachos, answered. “It is not for me to tell my mother where her broken heart should lean, and I will not force her to choose a husband if she is not ready.”
Suddenly the strangest thing happened! Athena came down, invisible to all but me, and stood at the entrance to the room. With a nod of her head, the suitors began to laugh uncontrollably. Their eyes burst with tears as they crammed the sizzling meat from the spit into their jaws. Soon they had covered themselves in meat juice and wine, and they began to insult one another—and even Telemachos—crying, “Woe to your house, Telemachos, for the gods have brought this worthless vagabond to your door. He will never leave, yet he can do no work to earn his fare. Better to sell him to a slave ship than to have his dead weight around your house!”
So they spoke, but noble Telemachos said nothing. Inst
ead, he looked at his father, and they shared the same thought as I did: that the suitors, with those words, had begun their undoing. I sat on my tail to keep it from twitching.
A moment later I heard my mistress descending the stairs. Yet she did not enter the great hall where the suitors grunted and howled like swine. Instead she, along with her servants, went to the far corner of the house, to a locked chamber. Telemachos sent me then to guard her, for indeed the suitors had grown mad and could not be trusted near her.
Taking an ornate, ivory-handled key from her gown, she unlocked the door and entered the chamber. Inside were shields of bronze and gold-tipped spears lying next to gifts from many other islands. At the back of the room, hung on a peg, was a splendid bow. It was a powerful bow, as tall as a man, and made of the strongest yew wood. Hanging alongside the bow was a quiver full of arrows, which my mistress took as well. Then with the bow and the quiver in her hands, my mistress suddenly sank to her knees and began to weep. The servant girls—stupid creatures—did nothing, but I went to her and put my muzzle against her cheek and let her bury her face in my neck.
“I shall have to marry one of them, my new friend,” my mistress whispered. “The gods demand it.”
I could do nothing but lick her tears and nuzzle her cheek, but perhaps that helped in some small way. After a few minutes, my mistress rose to her feet, and with her hand on my shoulder for support, she left the chamber, carrying the quiver and majestic bow, after locking the door behind her. Together we walked back to the main hall where the suitors sat, quarreling now and boasting of their prowess with weapons and battle strategy. They did not see us at first, so lost in argument were they. But my master Telemachos and his father, noble Odysseus, now sat off to the side, watching the suitors carefully.
My mistress stood beside the pillar that supported the roof. On either side of her, servant girls held opposite ends of the veil in front of her face so that she might retain her modesty. Then she spoke, not loudly, but in a commanding voice, so that the suitors stopped and listened immediately.
