THE DREAMER'S LOOM

by Michelle L. Levigne

  They were barely out of sight of their home when they met a farmer and his grown son heading to the harbor with a load of grain on two donkeys. Both men saluted Odysseus and he returned their greeting cheerfully. Neither smiled; their bows of respect to their prince were stiff. They hesitated, studying Penelope a moment too long before greeting her and wishing her well. She smiled, nodded and stayed quiet.

  "Is it because I'm a stranger here?" she asked Odysseus, once the men were out of earshot.

  "Hmm?" He looked at her, then back over his shoulder. "You strike every man speechless with your beauty."

  "Odysseus, don't mock me." Despite the prickle of warning raised by that introspective look in his eyes, she smiled.

  "Who can guess the thoughts in a farmer's mind? Rumors travel this island faster than the wind. There's little anyone can do to stop the people from believing."

  Penelope decided to give up. Either Odysseus didn't want her to know the reason, or he didn't know. She had expected all Ithaka to admire their prince. Whatever the farmers had heard, they had no affection for Odysseus at that moment.

  A short time later, they came to a rise in the path. Trees lined the way and it curved so they couldn't see what came before or behind them. Shadows made a pleasant change from the warm brightness of the day. When Odysseus halted and turned to her, Penelope slipped her arms around his neck. Laughing, Odysseus wrapped both arms around her, lifting her so her toes dangled. They had barely begun kissing when she heard the distinct bleating of goats coming over the hill ahead.

  "Did you bring me out here only to seduce me?" she whispered.

  "Witch," Odysseus growled. His scowl became a grin. He set her down, releasing her with a caress. "I should pray for a storm to keep us prisoner for a week. Then I'd show you seduction."

  "I am always willing to learn, my lord." She laughed when he snatched at her, and darted out of his way.

  The goats poured around the shadowy bend, filling the path. Penelope pressed against a tree trunk as an aromatic flood of shaggy brown and white and speckled coats separated her from Odysseus. He stood on the other side of the path and laughed at the surprise on her face. In another moment, the herder came into sight. The man's mouth dropped open when he saw Odysseus. He ran up through his milling goats, using his staff to push the animals out of his way.

  Penelope didn't like how the man looked her over and grinned before turning to speak to Odysseus. From the stiffening of her husband's shoulders, she guessed that he didn't either. The goats' bleating assaulted her ears, a piercing sound that kept her from hearing what the man said.

  Then the goats were past and she could cross the path again. Odysseus didn't reach for her when she rejoined him. Neither did he introduce her to the herder.

  "Despite the sparse rains, the meadow is filled with thick, sweet grass," the man said. He looked to Penelope and nodded to her. "You'd especially appreciate that, lady."

  "I have no idea what my lord intends," she returned. She looked to Odysseus to avoid the herder's gaze, rather than find explanations in her husband's eyes.

  "He should set his cunning to help Ithaka, not the lords of Mycenae." The herder's voice grew sharp.

  "You should tend your goats before they are stolen," Odysseus returned. The bitter quiet of his voice sent more prickles of warning up Penelope's back. Though she never heard that tone before, she thought she knew him well enough to guess it was the quiet before the storm.

  The other man paled and backed away. Mumbling about his goats, he turned and left without any farewell. He swung his staff, whistling for his creatures.

  Odysseus took her by the hand and led her away. The pace was quicker than before and she stumbled once before she could adjust her stride to match his.

  "Penelope." Odysseus stopped. He looked away, his jaw clenching moment. "Forgive me. You are the last person I should punish for an idiot's words."

  "Can you tell me what he said?" She waited but he didn't answer. "It has to do with the meadow?"

  "That cursed meadow should have been--" He released her hand and stepped away. He kicked at a branch in the path, then stopped and seemed to regain control. "Legends. Foolish legends, which people grasp at like dying men grasping bits of wood in a stormy sea. At one of the high places, there is a meadow sacred to the Goddess." He turned back to her, his mouth twisted in a tight smile. "Her priestess made the Sacred Marriage there to bring crops in the lean years. Once a child was planted in her belly, the seasonal king was strangled and buried there."

  "He said--" A thrill of horror chilled her. Penelope envisioned Odysseus still and cold, his face purple from the rope. It echoed dimly one of her visions of disaster.

  "No, he wouldn't dare." The sharpness of his smile made her shiver. "He did say I should take you there, to return prosperity to Ithaka. You are no proper queen until you give me a son, and I am no proper heir if I can't get you pregnant."

  "If it would help--"

  "Penelope!" His bark of laughter scraped at her ears. He held out his arms. She gave herself into his embrace. "Little witch, much as I welcome any excuse to enjoy you...I will not parade you, naked, in front of a leering audience."

  "They would watch?" Horror made her stiffen in his arms. She would have pulled free if he hadn't held her so close.

  "They may try, but we won't be there. You are mine, and I share you with no man. Not even in his dreams." For a moment, Odysseus' embrace squeezed the breath from her.

  * * * *

  That night as Eurynome bathed her, Penelope told her nurse of the encounters. She wished she could have gone to Eurykleia as well. The few times the housekeeper had come to fetch Penelope for night rituals, she had given bits of advice or explained relationships and family standings on Ithaka that had escaped the young wife before.

  "We were better off in Alybas," Eurynome said with a snort, when Penelope had finished her story. "I've heard similar tales and people dare to come to me and ask--" She huffed, and turned away to get a brush.

  "Ask what?" Penelope thought she could guess.

  "They want to know if you are with child yet. The harvests aren't good this year. They want you to give them assurance of fruitful crops next year. Savages! In Alybas, you might have been laughed at, but not treated like a breeding slave."

  "My duties do include providing a son for my husband. Even more so, as a queen."

  "That is between you and him. The rest of this benighted island has no right to watch for your moon flow and study the size of your waist." She brushed hard, making Penelope's head jerk twice before softening her strokes. "Your husband does not help matters."

  "He handled it well this afternoon." Penelope regretted bringing up the subject.

  "Yes, today. But I have been watching and listening, child. Ithakans follow Odysseus because they know he'll always come away with a profit. They know he's clever and strong and no one who follows him will suffer. But I see little love for him. They'll always need a reason to obey, something that benefits them, not because they trust him. That's not good."

  "He's still young, and he's not yet king." She sat forward, tugging her hair free of her nurse's hands. "My husband will win their love. It takes time. He has plans to make Ithaka prosper. They will love him then."

  "For your sake, I hope so." Eurynome snorted again. "I hope he doesn't expect you to produce a child every year."

  "He has no say in that regard," Penelope whispered. She could still taste the bitter, chalky potion Eurynome had brought her tonight. Her resolve wavered a bit, weighing duty to the Goddess against freedom of choice.

  Eurynome's words returned to her thoughts. It was true, the people of Ithaka didn't love their future king as they should. Penelope remembered the small criticisms spoken against Odysseus in Sparta, the unkind looks she had seen cast at him. She remembered her other moments of doubt. The moments he hid the truth from her, used her to get a reaction from someone else. All small situations, easily forgotten at the moment. She wondered if he us
ed others to manipulate her in turn.

  Is there a glamour in my eyes? she wondered. Does he make me happy for other reasons than that he cares for me?

  * * * *

  The first bitter storms of early winter lashed Ithaka. Penelope liked listening to the soft brush of wind-driven rain against the sturdy shutters in her workroom. It spoke to her of the strength and sturdiness of the whole house. She spun the wool from the fall shearing and designed her first weaving project in her mind. When the day's work was done and there were no island matters to attend to, Odysseus came to her rooms to build the loom. Progress was slow, but she didn't complain. She watched the growth of the loom under her husband's hands and wondered how it would be to weave baby clothes and sheets.

  Members of the household watched her for the first sign of a baby blooming in her belly. The days and weeks went by, the phases of the moon changed. Her body continued to fill out, slowly, but not the drastic changes of a baby in her womb. She still took Eurynome's potion. Part of her dreaded Odysseus' reaction if he ever learned the truth. His disappointment frightened her more than his anger. Penelope scolded herself not to care what the servants thought, and devoted herself to running the household.

  Helping her aunt had been good practice. With Eurynome's help, Penelope established efficient routines for the new household. Melantho enjoyed her role as second to the mistress of the house. Penelope had worried about her maid's sullen moods the first few weeks after arriving in Ithaka. All seemed well now, and Melantho was a loyal, hard worker once more.

  Penelope welcomed the storms. She was greedy for her husband's time and company. The storms kept the ships grounded and men caught indoors. Odysseus had more hours to spare for other duties beyond resolving problems and giving leadership, more time the two of them could spend talking, making plans for their future. Odysseus put half his vineyard and orchards and some of his sheep and cattle into her care, for her personal servants to tend. Aris and her sons were put over those possessions, while Dolios stayed in the house as steward, aiding Eurynome. Working with Odysseus, Penelope found, was as pleasant as the drowsy contentment that wrapped around them before they fell asleep in each other's arms.

  * * * *

  "Exactly." Odysseus nodded and gestured for Penelope to stand back. He knelt, sighting down the line of bronze axes balanced against each other, twelve pairs in a straight, narrow dirt trench in the middle of the feasting hall. "It feels like years since I've done this," he muttered.

  Outside, a storm howled and battered uselessly against the sturdy walls of the house. The evening meal was long over. The elders of Ithaka had come to Odysseus' house to discuss winter damage and how the ships fared. Laertes had come, but he listened more than he spoke, turning more leadership of Ithaka over to his son. Penelope had left her stairway and chamber doors open so she could catch snatches of conversation, whenever the howling of the wind lowered enough to let her hear.

  She knew soon, Odysseus would be king of Ithaka in everything but name. That last waited on her. Sometimes, though she liked Laertes, she resented the man for resting the kingship on the birth of his son's heir.

  Now, everyone had left for their homes before the worst of the storm hit, except Laertes. Penelope had come down to join father and son by the hearth, to tell stories and talk. She enjoyed these quiet evenings with her father-in-law and suspected Odysseus' tales of her disguised as a boy made it easier for the man to talk to her.

  Their conversation had turned to the wooing of Helen and the suitors' contests of skill. Laertes mentioned Odysseus' bronze-bound bow and the test of skill he had devised.

  "The idea is to set up a narrow channel between the angle of the axe heads," Laertes explained. Penelope stepped away from helping Odysseus and went back to the hearth. He wiped some ash off the edge of the hearth so she could sit next to him.

  "And then shoot the arrow along that channel without touching anything," she guessed.

  He nodded. Penelope studied the line of axes down the length of the feasting hall. A thick cushion hung from the wall to catch the arrow at the end of its flight. If it was not knocked off course, its energy spent by brushing against one or several axe heads.

  "Perfect." Odysseus stood up and walked back to join them. "Penelope, you have a deft hand and a true eye. No one else I know of could have set them so straight and true." He bowed extravagantly to her, making her laugh.

  "Excepting yourself," his father said, his tone dry, eyes dancing with laughter.

  "True. Now, for my bow." He reached for the ox-hide case lying flat on the nearest table. He paused, a lopsided smile on his face. "Every time I come back to it after a long absence, I wonder if I will still be able to bend it." He slid the bow out of its case, firelight reflecting on the bronze wrapped around the tips and the grip. Wood and carved ivory gleamed with a warm, soft light as he ran his hands up and down its length, checking for rot or worms or dampness that might have harmed it.

  Penelope knew little about bows beyond what she overheard her cousins say. Her grandfather had preferred the spear or slingshot. The bow had a different design from others she had seen, more curve coming away from the grip. She wondered if this was what Kastor had meant by a bow that was tight and stubborn, only yielding to a loving touch.

  "Coward," Odysseus muttered, grinning. He tossed the ox-hide cover aside and balanced the end of the bow on the ground, braced against his sandal-clad foot. He pressed from the top, catching the bowstring up quickly and slipping the loop over. It caught, and the bow gave off a low, thrumming chord as Odysseus plucked the string. He snatched an arrow from the quiver lying on the table, strode over to the end of the dirt trench, knelt and swiftly loosed the arrow.

  Penelope held her breath as the arrow skimmed down the narrow gap of the axe heads. She listened for the click or hum or the ring of bronze that meant the missile had gone awry. Silence, broken only by the subdued howling of the wind as the storm gathered its strength. Then a solid thunk as the arrow hit the cushion on the wall. She leapt from her seat and ran to Odysseus, to fling her arms around him. He hugged her one-armed, holding the bow aside. He kissed her and laughed and spun her around the open floor.

  "Oh, Penelope, Penelope." Odysseus sighed, closing his eyes and resting his head against the top of hers. "You make me think I can do anything, that you never doubt me."

  "You are my husband," she retorted, half teasing, half serious. "If I don't stand behind you, who will?"

  "Indeed," Laertes said from his comfortable seat by the fire. "Son, guard her carefully. I see a hundred men coming to steal her from you, the moment you give her cause for complaint."

  "Put no ideas in her head!" Odysseus said, mocking fear twisting his face into a comical mask. He led Penelope back to the hearth and sat down, with her between him and his father. "I admit, I did doubt my skill for a moment."

  "A very brief moment," his father muttered, drawing a giggle from Penelope, a long-suffering sigh from Odysseus. "Have you told her the tale of the bow yet?"

  "No, he has not." Penelope snatched up the ox-hide cover from the floor before Odysseus reached for it. "A thousand tales he has told me, but this is the first time I heard about bow or axes. Tell me now." For good measure, she sat on the cover.

  "Father, I swear before all the gods, you're a bad influence on my wife. She only torments me like this when you're around." Odysseus braced the bow against his foot and loosed the bowstring, then balanced the weapon on his knee. He scowled at them, but Laertes and Penelope only waited. "Very well, if you both insist." He took a deep breath and the look in his eyes became distant.

  "I was just seventeen and my sheep had been stolen by raiders," he began, looking at a spot on the floor, among the blue and green tiles. "Father gave me my own flock when I was twelve. The raiders took every one. I was furious."

  "He was," Laertes muttered in Penelope's ear. "You should have seen the water jars he broke." She muffled a chuckle behind her hand, eyes sparkling.

  "
So," Odysseus continued, "I took a ship to the mainland to follow them. Only a few boys my own age accompanied me, to sail. On land, I went on by myself. The second morning after leaving the ship, I met Iphitos, son of Eurytos, the famous bowman. He carried this bow for luck while he searched for stolen horses. His horses were nearer to us than my sheep and we made an agreement to help each other." Odysseus paused, frowning.

  "We were like boys anywhere, enjoying the adventure so much we didn't mind discomfort and hard work. Or danger. He taught me a few tricks with the sword I didn't know, and I taught him spear work where he was lacking. We were like brothers." He chuckled, glancing over at his wife and father a moment. "We found his horses, put them in the care of people he trusted, and then went after my sheep. Iphitos teased me unmercifully about my lack of skill in riding horses. We had a few friendly fights, then I challenged him to ride the rudder of a fifty-oared ship during high seas. That silenced him.

  "We finally found the raiders who took my sheep. They had joined up with their kinsmen. Twenty men against two arrogant boys. We managed to rescue most of my sheep. The raiders paid dearly for the ewes they ate.

  "Iphitos and I took wounds away. Our smaller numbers were the only advantage we had, chasing through the darkness in unfamiliar territory. I saved his life, stanching a wound that could have killed him, so he gave me this bow. It is said that only the true owner of this bow is able to bend it. No other man can bend it unless given to him as a gift...or until the owner has died," he added, his voice softening.

  "Where is Iphitos now?" Penelope whispered, feeling the old memories that wrapped around her husband. She rested a hand on his knee and leaned against his shoulder.

  "In the shadow lands. One of his precious horses threw him and broke his back."

  Silence for a long moment, when even the wailing of the wind had softened as if in respect for the end of the tale. Penelope stood, picked up the ox-hide cover and gave it back to Odysseus. He caught her hand and pressed a kiss against her palm. She wondered at the wistfulness in his eyes. Did he think about giving the bow to his son? She tried not to jerk her hand away from his grasp before he released it.