* * * *
Three nights later, Penelope led the rites in the cave, in the dark of the moon. She stayed kneeling when the ceremony ended and the women filed out of the cave. She thought herself alone and it startled her when she stood and turned and found three women waiting, watching her.
"Ithaka needs a king," one said from the shadows of her veil. Penelope tried to place the voice, the posture, but she could not.
"Ithaka has a king," she returned. She tried not to panic, wondering where Eurykleia had vanished to.
"Our land needs a new king. A young, strong one," another woman said. She kept her face carefully hidden too, but Penelope knew her voice. Miriel, aunt of Eurymachos. "A king who is here to serve his queen and guard Ithaka."
"My son is heir to his father's place. Ithaka is well served by Mentor and Laertes and the elders, while my son is still a child."
"Ithaka needs a new king!" the first woman insisted. She reached out as if to grasp Penelope's arm.
"Why will you not wait for my son to become a man? How will you choose this new king you want?"
"You have suitors," Miriel said. "Young nobles. Worthy of the kingship. They are willing to follow the old ways, to serve the Goddess."
"They want to be kings, not bridegrooms?" Penelope widened her eyes, trying to mimic how Odysseus pretended innocent surprise and yet put his adversaries to shame for their words. If the trick worked or not, Penelope couldn't tell. Eurykleia came back into the cave and the three women fled before Penelope could say another word.
"Those three harpies mean trouble," the old nurse said, as she handed Penelope her cloak.
"They mean to become the three Fates and dictate the future of Ithaka."
* * * *
Penelope grew to distrust her dreams. The dreams of Odysseus fell into two patterns. In one, he traveled the seas alone, always journeying but never any closer to home. In the second, he sat on the beach of a jewel-like island. He gazed out over the ocean, longing on his face. A woman's voice hovered in the air, sweeter than the songs of spring birds. From the sound alone, Penelope knew the woman was beautiful. When the song grew strong enough, Odysseus turned from the ocean. Penelope couldn't see his face, but she feared he smiled.
The dream always ended there. Penelope hated the unseen woman and preferred the dream of Odysseus forever sailing and never drawing closer. She didn't know which to believe.
Rumors continued about Odysseus. Some said he was in far distant lands, gathering great wealth. Some said his men had mutinied and killed him on their return to Ithaka and vengeful gods, led by Athena, destroyed the ships in punishment. Some said an exotic queen had made him stay as her king and he had already given her seven sons. Penelope managed to laugh at that rumor the second time she heard it, but not the third or fourth.
More offers of marriage came from the nobles of Ithaka and the surrounding islands which belonged to Ithaka. Penelope politely refused them.
The suitors' tactics changed from gifts and praises to invasion. They came in groups with gifts and provisions for a prolonged stay. With polite words that concealed traps, they asked her to give them time, to talk with them and consider them, and then make her decision. The years of Odysseus' absence were their best argument. Her fears for Telemachos' safety, their hidden weapon.
Though the suitors spoke well of her son and gave him gifts to win his support, Penelope knew one mistake on her part or his could lead to his death. So she played the game with them, struggling day and night for words to prepare against their renewed onslaught of mixed begging, cajolery and flattery. She adorned herself to be her most beautiful and hopefully stir them to jealousy and arguing. Penelope wished they would fight and kill each other. They never did, proving her suspicion that they didn't want a bride, but a throne, and many worked together rather than competing for a prize. She feared they had already divided Odysseus' property among themselves, and only waited for her to accept the man they had chosen as the next king.
How could she reject their praises without insulting them? How could she ignore their publicly repeated concerns for the welfare of Ithaka, without offending the elders?
If she were truly a widow, she should return to her father's house and let him choose another husband for her. Ikarios was dead, so who could she turn to? King Tyndareos had retreated from life since Helen vanished. Could Menelaos, as the king of Sparta, claim authority over her?
Penelope had heard Sparta still waited for its king and queen to return.
Her only other choice was to appeal to her brother, Ithios. He had traveled to Ilion in the war, been injured in the third year, and came home lame and bitter. Penelope wondered what he would say or do when he heard about her siege of suitors. Would he laugh or grow angry? Would he claim authority over her?
Penelope debated for days whether it would do harm or good, to tell the suitors to appeal to her brother to choose her new husband. If they insisted on her making the choice, she would have her proof they wanted Ithaka and not her. Yet there was the terrible chance several did want her more than Ithaka. If they went to Ithios, she would lose what little protection she did have. Penelope had no hope Ithios had softened to her in the past nineteen years. He might deliberately give her to the worst of the lot, or choose without thinking, simply because he was irritated. Or her brother might come to Ithaka as her guardian and claim Odysseus' estates and the throne. She wouldn't put it past her brother to kill her son, and her.
So she held her tongue and endured. Her days were full, trying to keep the routine of the household flowing smoothly while avoiding every man who tried to catch her alone. It made her angry. The constant invasion of the suitors interfered with her household duties. At night, she often cried herself to sleep with hopelessness and longing for Odysseus.
She wished she had let him teach her to use the bow. She would turn his poisoned arrows on her suitors and save the last for herself.
The visits of the suitors extended from days into weeks as summer turned to fall. Their numbers went from an easily handled eight or nine to twenty or so at a time. Eumaios the swineherd had become a friend and confidant of Telemachos over the years and Penelope trusted his opinions. When he complained to her of the damage the suitors' feasts did to the household resources, she knew something had to be done. This was not Sparta, with endless riches to spend on hospitality for moons at a time.
Her choices and resources were limited. She had visions of the suitors rising up and slaughtering Laertes and Telemachos if she ordered them to leave her home forever.
Penelope knew she could gain no help from Mycenae, where Klytemaistra still ruled with her murderous lover. Even if Menelaos and Helen had returned to Sparta, she couldn't ask the warriors to leave the homes they had so soon regained. Penelope toyed with the idea of sending to King Nestor of Pylos to ask his help. She risked angering her people, bringing foreign warriors to Ithaka. Her safety depended on retaining the favor of the people.
Sitting at her loom, weaving and losing herself in the pattern, Penelope thought about Laertes, ill and uncomfortable with a malady he could have ignored a few years before. Her father-in-law showed his years more as the seasons passed, mourning for Odysseus and quietly raging over his inability to cure her difficulties. Penelope looked at her loom and wondered how soon she would string it to weave Laertes' funeral sheet. Then the plan came to her.
She laughed quietly, half in fear, half in delight, when she hurried to Laertes' chamber to consult with him. The old man sat in a chair by the window, wrapped in blankets against the evening chill, gazing out over the orchards he had helped Odysseus plant. Penelope hurried to him and kissed his forehead.
"Father, I have a plan worthy of Odysseus. That is, I think it is one he would approve." She settled down on the floor at his feet, feeling like a girl again, giddy in her glee and relief. "Listen and tell me what you think."
She related to him the thoughts that had been going through her mind, then went on to propose her plan.
She would tell the suitors--more than forty now within her walls, along with nearly fifty others who visited at regular intervals--that she had reconciled herself to remarry. However, she would tell them, before she could leave the house in the hands of her son, she had one more duty to perform.
"I will give them some long, involved history of tradition in my grandfather's country, where the funeral sheet must be made with prayers and ceremonies and the finest threads, the costliest dyes. I will tell them I cannot leave my home until I perform my duty to you in weaving that funeral sheet. The gods will torment me, and the man I marry, if you die with nothing proper to wrap you before you are given to the flames. I will warn them it will take years to complete the weaving. The phases of the moons and tides must be propitious. The dyes I use for my threads must come from strange and far-off lands, to be appropriate for so renowned and beloved a warrior as my husband's father. And, I cannot neglect my household duties for the sake of the sheet, or the gods will be angered and torment your soul and mine in the shadow lands. That will keep them away from our doorstep and our hall."
"Until you finish the sheet, Daughter," Laertes said. His eyes showed a spark of hope, despite the words.
"That sheet will never be finished. For every four threads I put in place during the day, I will pluck out one at night. The second I will declare worthless, badly placed. And as I remove it, to my dismay, I will damage threads that remain from previous days." She smiled at him, daring him to disagree, begging him to approve.
"Yes, that will keep the suitors from under our roof." He nodded, a smile starting to creep across his pale features. "Yet there is a problem. If you agreed to choose a new husband, how would I react to your announcement?"
"With anger, I hope." Penelope felt her bubbling relief begin to die. "Oh, I see."
"Yes, after all these years of waiting, I would grow angered at your lack of faith. I would leave this house, go to the house that guards Odysseus' orchards and vineyards, and continue mourning my son." Laertes rested his hand on her head. "My absence would remove what shallow protection you now enjoy."
"But the suitors wouldn't dare press their case. Not when I have promised to choose among them when my duty is done. They would lose honor in the sight of all the people if they overstepped themselves." She sighed and closed her eyes. "Overstepped themselves more than they have already."
"Nevertheless, it is a worthy plan. A deception Odysseus would approve with shouts of laughter. We will follow it." He struggled from his chair, his legs weak from the receding fever. Penelope hurried to stand and support him. "I have one small request in this, Daughter--no, two," he added quickly.
"And they are?" She supported him as he walked to the table. A cup of wine and healing herbs waited for him to take his evening dose.
"Wait until I am strong enough to play my anger to the hilt." His eyes twinkled for a moment in humor. "And do not tell Telemachos of this plan."
"He will be furious!"
"He is still untried and too honest to play the deception we need. His anger, his disappointment in you, will have to be genuine. Wait until he has calmed and cooled, then reveal the plan to him in secret."
"Yes, Father. I understand."
* * * *
Telemachos kept quiet when she made the announcement three nights later, after the suitors had feasted. He made no attempt to disguise his relief as the men called for the servants to help them pack their belongings, to leave the palace for their own homes. But his eyes, when he looked up and met her gaze, held a glitter that promised a stormy scene in private.
Over the summer, her son had left the kicking and throwing stage behind, adopting his father's cold anger and dangerous patience. He kept his hands at his sides, his voice low and polite when he joined her in her rooms a short time later. The icy fury under his control made her wish he would break something. He surpassed his father's skill in giving his words two edges. Protecting himself from the flattery and disguised threats of the suitors had helped him sharpen that skill. He used it now as a weapon against her, praising her for finding a way to save their household stores from the suitors' stomachs.
"That is of high importance, is it not, my son?" She wished he would pace or move about and break the painful focus of his eyes on her.
She remembered the hurting look his father had given her during their one devastating argument, and how her heart had writhed in guilty agony. Penelope wanted to blurt the truth to him, to see the approval in his eyes, but they weren't alone. She had heard some of her women entertained the suitors in their beds. She didn't know who to trust within her own household.
"Mother, don't twist my words around," Telemachos snapped. He looked away, giving her a moment of relief.
"You are concerned with how their appetites deplete the herds and farms your father left in my care. I want them to remain as rich and prosperous as the day he left, until you are grown and able to take your inheritance."
"Is that all that matters to you? The wealth and prosperity of my father's house? Is that what it means to be a faithful wife? Assuring his goods aren't depleted? What of the promises you made to me, to stay faithful?" Angry tears glistened in his eyes but didn't fall. "You are no better than Klytemaistra. At least she had the courage to show her true feelings."
She slapped him, the sound echoing in the suddenly still room. Telemachos barely flinched, as if he expected it. Penelope stared at the red mark on his face. Her hand stung. Anger boiled in her, at herself, more than her son.
He was justified in his rebuke, she knew. More than anything, she wanted to fling her arms around his neck and confess the truth with tears. Yet sixteen years of waiting and worrying, training her son to be worthy of his father, helped her stay in the role she had chosen.
"My son," she said, her voice soft to disguise the tears that threatened to make it crack. "You are still a child, despite your growth and strength. You are a dreamer. Open your eyes and see the truth." She sat down as her legs began to tremble. "Your father has been gone sixteen years now without a word, without even a message. Everything we know of him, we have heard from rumor. After so long, he is either dead or he has found a home he prefers to this one. Perhaps he has found a wife who pleases him better than I, and has many sons to make him forget the one I almost died to give him.
"Consider this, Telemachos. What man would want to come home to a son another man raised? It is like giving his estate to a stranger. Better for Odysseus to forget his home and make another, and raise the children who will inherit his riches."
"You are so right, Mother." His voice came out thin and harsh. "Hurry with your weaving. I look forward to a silent, empty house." He left before his words faded from the air.
Penelope glanced at her maids. Every one looked away. Some faces bore shock, sympathy, or a mixture of both. Melantho hid her face as if she were crying, but her shoulders didn't shake and she made no sound.
Chapter 24
* * *
Penelope overheard the discussion between Laertes and Telemachos the next morning, as the old man packed his few belongings to leave. She wondered how he felt, deceiving his grandson, agreeing to every unkind thing Telemachos said about her. Penelope made herself listen to the penetrating, furious voice of her son as it floated up the stairs. She left the doors open as she used to do before the suitors laid siege to her home. Penelope considered where her son's accusations had some grain of truth in them.
Had she lost faith? Was the wealth and prosperity of the household more important to her than keeping herself ready for her husband's return? Had she willingly ignored possibilities open to her?
The quiet that now filled her house made it hard to ignore the doubts and questions circling through her mind. Laertes was gone, taking a few aged servants with him. Penelope felt the censorious looks other servants gave her as the days passed. Telemachos avoided her, spending days at a time at the southern tip of Ithaka with Eumaios, hunting and, she imagined, spilling all his dismay and disg
ust to the loyal man. Argus was her only companion who didn't look on her with disapproval. Penelope wondered if she were losing her mind, to hope the old dog understood.
She vented her hurt in doubling her exacting standards for her weaving. The dyes the servants purchased from the merchant ships were not good enough. Or if they could be altered to match her tastes, Penelope insisted on handling the dying process herself, and then did what she could to bungle them without anyone suspecting. Those first weeks, she laughed at her stained hands, wondering what Odysseus would say if he saw her. The laughter turned to tears with painful speed.
She had warned the suitors she would not neglect her household duties for the sake of the funeral sheet. Penelope abandoned her weaving room for days at a time, supervising the smallest tasks in the household. When she did go to her loom, she concentrated on clothing and blankets for the household against the coming winter, ignoring the loom that waited, empty, for the sheet to begin. For luck, she had chosen to use the loom Odysseus made when she carried Telemachos. Part of her cried out in silence at the sight of the loom sitting empty.
Finally, she could not avoid stringing the loom and beginning the dreaded task. Penelope bore the disapproving silence from Eurykleia as long as she could. Eurynome, of all the servants, was the only one who didn't display a hint of judgment toward her. She waited nearly a moon's cycle, then called both women to her late at night, after the other servants had gone to bed.
"Eurykleia, Eurynome, if you would--examine the weaving I have done today." Penelope stepped back from the loom to give them room to observe the work closely.
The two women leaned close to examine it in the flickering torchlight. It had cost Penelope dearly to reach that point in her task. The border design was emerging, a bold slash of deep purple against a silver-white background. Change was easy to detect there, if someone had looked closely at it. She had made sure both women saw the pattern a few hours before.
THE DREAMER'S LOOM Page 33
