THE DREAMER'S LOOM

by Michelle L. Levigne

  Penelope sat up, tears streaking her face, muffling her scream with her fist against her mouth. One last image remained from her dream. The raft spun in dizzy circles, sucked into a massive whirlpool. As it went down, it crumbled to pieces.

  "He is dead," she blurted into the darkness, her voice thin, strained from the effort not to scream. The oppressive heat of the night felt chilly, like the land of the dead. There was no other interpretation for the dream. All her prayers for help, for guidance, had brought this answer.

  Then anger touched her. Penelope refused to believe the dream. After all this time, how could she believe anything she dreamed? After all, she had once dreamed she bore Odysseus two sons. The second had never come.

  "I need better proof than the dreams of a fool," she told the darkness. Anger gave her strength. "If I ask my suitors for proof, the brutes would find a red-haired man and bring me his battered head." She snorted in bitter laughter at the thought. "Proof no one can falsify. Then when I know he is dead, I will join him." She shivered again, despite the heat of the night. Far off, thunder rumbled, promising a storm and relief.

  As she lay back down, the answer came to her, as if spoken in Odysseus' own voice. The bronze and horn bow of Iphitos, which no hand but its rightful owner could bend until given away in friendship. Or until the owner's death.

  Penelope made her resolve and let the tears come, but she had no more left to cry that night. As she waited for sleep, she whispered prayers to Athena that the first arrow loosed from the bow would fly wild and strike her heart.

  * * * *

  The day Penelope finished the sheet and took it off the loom, the suitors returned in full force to feast in her hall. She washed the sheet and hung it to dry in her private garden, then gave it into Eurykleia's and Eurynome's hands, to carry among the suitors to view as they ate. She kept to her rooms all that day, refusing to see anyone but faithful Autonoe. Telemachos didn't come to visit her in her rooms, and she understood. He needed to be strong to hold the unreadable mask he had learned from her, to face the suitors as they returned for their feasting and wooing. If he spoke with his mother that first day, he would lose his resolve.

  Penelope heard the songs and shouts of the suitors in the hall below her, though every door between her and them was shut fast. She shuddered and worked at her loom, trying to block her thoughts from the present moment. She worked on her own funeral sheet, resolved to die the moment her unwanted bridegroom tried to claim her. She worked quickly, weaving her tears into it with dark shades to express her sorrow. Among the shadows, she wove scenes of remembered happiness with Odysseus. Only a keen eye, told what to look for, would ever see the details.

  Now, so sure of victory, the suitors indulged in rudeness to the household and neighbors. They openly told Penelope's women when to come sleep with them. They brought a burly, cruel beggar with them, named Irios, who let no other beggars near the house. Irios was a pet for them, to wrestle with pitiful wrecks for their amusement, run errands and hurl abuse at anyone who opposed the suitors' wishes. Penelope made no protests, though she knew Telemachos burned to do something. She didn't care. Soon, it would all be over.

  Autonoe brought her the news that the suitors had ordered Odysseus' bedchamber opened and new ropes strung in the frame of the bed. Penelope froze, her breath nearly stolen by the horror and anger and renewed sorrow that combined in her heart. This was the final proof they wanted Ithaka, not a bride. They would take the king's wife, marry her off against her will, and the new bridegroom would claim her body in the king's bed.

  "I know my path now," she whispered, after sending her maid away. "Yes, the bed will be readied. When I am dead, Eurykleia and Eurynome will wrap my body in the sheets spread on that bed, and use its wood for my funeral pyre."

  * * * *

  "Telemachos is gone?" Penelope stared at Eurykleia. At the back of her mind, she congratulated herself on her control. Her face and voice showed little of the terror spilling through her body, like flames on a river of oil. She hoped she only showed surprise. Melantho was in the room. "How can he go without taking leave of me?" she asked.

  The image of a band of suitors overtaking her son on some errand filled her mind. Penelope could well believe they would kill Telemachos, hide his body, refuse him funeral rites, then give out a story that he had gone on a journey. It would be easy to believe. Since childhood, Telemachos had spoken of taking a fast ship and searching for his father. Penelope wished now she had taken his suggestion, the two of them traveling the world to search for Odysseus.

  "He said he didn't want you to worry for him or talk him out of leaving," the old nurse said, keeping her voice low. She chanced a sideways glance at Melantho. "As well, he hoped to stop his enemies from knowing his destination and keeping him from reaching it."

  "Then he does go in search of his father." Penelope nodded. She managed a smile. "My son is nearly a grown man. What he does, he need not answer to me any longer." She sighed. "Thank you, Eurykleia. Did he say when he hoped to return?"

  "He only said his journey was long."

  Penelope nodded, dismissing the woman. Her thoughts spun as she returned to her sewing. It felt useless to keep working on the embroidered sleeves of Telemachos' new tunic. She wanted to have it ready for him for the new moon festival, but he would be elsewhere, now.

  Pylos? Her thoughts turned to the possible route her son took. It made sense. She had told him often what a good friend and staunch supporter good King Nestor was to his father. It was the sensible place for Telemachos to start his search.

  If her son actually searched. Maybe he left to give her an excuse not to announce the contest of the bow. Until he returned, she couldn't leave the house for another man's home. Telemachos had to give his mother permission to leave his protection. The only other person able to do that was Laertes and the old man never left his estates now. He didn't have to pretend the sorrow that made him weak.

  Her pride in her son's actions vanished when she deduced what he had done. Penelope knew more than her suitors suspected. Many wished Telemachos dead with his father. Telemachos' absence was the opportunity they wanted, to let them kill him.

  Penelope hid her new fear. She hurried to Athena's shrine and spent long hours there in prayer and tears.

  She had need of her prayers. Autonoe came to her in the evenings, repeating what she overheard from the suitors in their feasting and boasting. The men who had promised not to harm Telemachos now plotted to lay in wait for his return, to kill him. They had sent a ship and provisioned it, to await Telemachos and his daring friends.

  Penelope could do nothing. Even if she knew where her son had gone, any messenger she sent would be waylaid. Perhaps killed.

  * * * *

  Five nights later, Penelope dreamed she stood in the courtyard, watching her twelve white geese feeding on the corn she tossed to them in slow handfuls.

  A shadow drifted by overhead, a small speck that grew larger as it passed back and forth over the courtyard. She looked up, blinded by the sun. Her geese did not notice or take fright. Then the shadow left the sky, transforming into an eagle that swooped down, breaking the neck of the goose standing nearest to Penelope.

  She watched, transfixed with horror and a strange, compelling fascination, as the massive golden and black eagle killed all the geese. Before even one could make a sound or lift their wings to escape, they were dead.

  The eagle landed in the courtyard, perching on the body of the first goose it had killed. Penelope watched, still caught in fascination, though a cold fear began to move through her when the eagle focused one large golden eye on her. She opened her mouth to cry aloud.

  Have no fear, Penelope, daughter of Ikarios, most virtuous among all women," a mellow, warm voice said. It penetrated to her heart, coming from everywhere around her. "Your geese are not truly killed, but are the suitors. This eagle of portent is Odysseus, come home in vengeance."

  Penelope woke, hearing the honking of her geese as if som
ething had frightened them out of their feeble wits. Dim dawn light peered through the bronze shutters. She hurried to fling them open. Down in her garden, the twelve geese scurried in frightened circles, honking at one another, flapping their wings as if they would fly away at any moment. Penelope thought she caught a shadow moving across the ground, but when she leaned far enough out the window to see up into the sky, nothing moved there as far as she could see.

  Chapter 25

  * * *

  Eumaios brought Penelope the news when Telemachos returned weeks later. Someone warned him of the suitors waiting in ambush and he came home by a route they didn't expect. The man hinted a god had taken a hand in the escape. In the weeks between his disappearance and the swineherd's news, Penelope wondered sometimes if it were better her son never returned. She almost wished for a message from him, saying he had met old friends of his father's and had decided to go adventuring with them, or some war chieftain had adopted her son. Even living a life of battle, moving from place to place to fight off the seasonal raiders was a safer life than waiting in his father's home to be killed by his mother's suitors.

  Or so she thought, until she knew her son had come home. She smiled and later told Eurykleia that Odysseus could not have done it better. Her delight grew when she noticed the suitors' disappointment, though she knew their anger at Telemachos would not let them miss the next opportunity.

  Still, she wished her son had not returned. Now it was time to bring out the bow and begin the contest that would end her torment once and for all.

  When the suitors left off their feasting for the night, whether to go to their homes in Ithaka or the beds they had appropriated in her house, Penelope ventured from her rooms with Autonoe. By the light of a single lamp, they went to the private storeroom, which Penelope had not unlocked in years.

  In the dark room, Penelope examined the ox-hide cover on the bronze bow. Dust lay thick on it, showing no one had disturbed it since the last time she had touched it. She slid the cover off, listening to it crack and creak its stiffness. The bronze was dark from disuse. She polished it, rubbing hard with the sleeve of her robe. Soon it took on a dull glow, nothing like when Odysseus had played his game of skill for her entertainment.

  She examined the arrows to be sure the shafts were still straight, the tips still secure. She contemplated the bundle of poisoned arrows, the black thong still tight around them. Penelope considered leaving the poisoned arrows for her suitors to use in the contest. Shaking her head, she took the bundle out and wrapped it in her veil. All the gods were against her nowadays. She would hide all the arrows, not just the one she intended for herself. If she left poisoned arrows with clean, someone would use them against Telemachos.

  Her task finished, she nodded to Autonoe. The serving woman went to the door and looked out into the dark hall. When she signaled all was clear, Penelope followed her out and locked the door. In two days, she would bring the bow out for the contest. Penelope hoped the house would burn down before then.

  * * * *

  When Telemachos returned late the next morning, Penelope greeted him with tears. Something had happened during his journey, she could tell from looking at him. For a moment the calm, stern mask he wore slipped aside and she saw jubilation in his eyes. He kissed her and promised to tell her all his story in a short while. First, he wanted to bathe and eat and make preparations for guests coming to the house. Penelope followed his directions and refrained from asking more questions. Her son had a plan and she counseled herself to be quiet and wait.

  Mentor and some elders of Ithaka came to eat with Telemachos, to hear the news he had learned in his travels. Penelope sat in her chair in the shadow of a pillar at the foot of the stairs, to listen and spin thread while the men talked. She was proud of how her son spoke with the elders. Among the suitors, he maintained a neutral silence for safety. Here among men who honored him as his father's son, he spoke wisely.

  He told them of Pylos, how King Nestor prospered. He spoke of the harvests waiting on the mainland, the condition of the roads between Pylos and Sparta. When he spoke of meeting Menelaos and Helen, staying in their home during Hermione's wedding feast, Telemachos met his mother's eyes for the first time. His gaze promised messages and news for her ears alone.

  Penelope was content to wait. She had sometimes wished evil on the woman whose actions had robbed her of so much. Now, too much time had gone by. Penelope told herself to forget the past. It was unchangeable and her bitterness would never affect Helen.

  After the elders left, Telemachos came to her rooms. He told her about the presents Helen had sent, for him to give his own bride when he found her. He told her the curse Menelaos spoke against the suitors, and the prophecy he had been given of Odysseus' return.

  "If a god says my father is still alive, struggling for his homecoming, then it must be so," Telemachos concluded. There was a strange glint in his eye, as if there was more he wished to say. Penelope waited for him to continue but he said nothing.

  "You said Menelaos learned this news long ago, before he rescued Helen a second time." She rested her hands on the arms of her chair, studying the carved owls as if she had never seen them before. The words hurt, but she had to speak them. "Things change. Even Zeus has uttered prophecies through his oracles that did not come to pass."

  "Mother, believe me, please. Wait a little longer. Just another day or two. Please?" Telemachos knelt before her chair, taking both her hands in his. He pleaded with mischievous joy in his eyes, like when he was a small boy asking for treats he knew would make him ill.

  "One more day. Tomorrow, I announce the test of the bow. Then we will know if your father is alive or dead. Then it won't matter." A bitter laugh escaped her. She felt tired, longing for her bed and the momentary, sweet deception of her dreams.

  "One day is all I need." He laughed at her frown and leaped to his feet. He kissed her forehead and cheeks and hurried from the room. Before he left, he called back, "I have a guest coming, a beggar Eumaios befriended. He has news of my Father you should hear."

  Penelope nodded and closed her eyes. Was that the cause of his high spirits? More gossip, more false hopes? She wished she hadn't filled his head with tales of his father when he was little. Her son had more faith in Odysseus' tenacity and cunning than she did.

  For a moment, Penelope thought she heard an owl calling outside her window. A shadow moved across her room. She thought someone entered but before she could turn to look, she leaned her head back in her chair and slept.

  When she woke, the suitors had arrived for their feast. As had become her habit since the sheet was finished, Penelope prepared herself to face them for a short time. She took pains to make herself beautiful, desirable, on the slim hope that even now she might sow seeds of discord among them.

  She put a veil as light as mist over her hair and face after her maids adorned her with jewels. Penelope knew it hid little, but the veil tantalized the men with a sense of more to see. It gave her a feeling of security from their bold, probing gazes. With Autonoe and Hippodameia as attendants, she sat in her chair at the foot of the stairs and let the suitors begin their usual round of praises, flattery and cajolery.

  While she gave half her attention to the words, Penelope surveyed the hall. Every suitor sat in his accustomed place, organized by the rank they had established among themselves. Telemachos sat near the back of the hall, by the smaller hearth. He had chosen the spot before the suitors could relegate him to the anonymous place. At the time, Penelope had applauded his tactics. Now she wished her son sat at the front of the hall by the larger hearth, to be near her.

  Movement by the doors caught her eye. She saw Eumaios lead a man in, the beggar Telemachos had mentioned. Penelope smiled, seeing how one faithful household woman hurried to meet the two men. Eumaios followed the woman out of the hall but the beggar came further into the room, hands outstretched in the customary manner. Penelope frowned, wondering what happened to the beggar Irios, who usually sat by
the doors. He was a big man with a twisted foot and she had heard many complaints that Irios beat other beggars who approached her door. She wondered how this beggar had escaped Irios' rough hands.

  She studied him, ignoring more cajolery heaped on her. They were the same words used the day before, and the days before that. As if the suitors could not find any new words to speak to her, any other thoughts in their heads.

  The beggar had wide shoulders under his rags and dirt. They were stooped now with age and harsh living, but she thought they once might have been powerful. He shuffled when he walked, like he had damaged his leg in the past. There were many men in Ithaka who shuffled like that, the few warriors lucky enough to come home early, injured in the battle against Ilion. The beggar's hair was so thin, faded from age and rough living, Penelope couldn't guess what color it might have been. The same for his beard.

  His head, when it was not bent in a placating way, had a noble bearing. She could imagine a plumed helmet sitting on that head. Many men had tumbled from glory through wounds, wars lost and lands fallen into someone else's hands. She felt pity for the man, whoever he might be. That Telemachos and Eumaios both wanted to help him spoke well for his character. She resolved to send for him later and speak to him. If only to delude herself for a little while that Odysseus might be coming home.

  Then the beggar looked up and met her gaze. His eyes were large, gray, piercing. They didn't belong in that haggard, abused face. Penelope felt herself being tested and probed by those eyes, as if the man knew the thoughts in her deepest heart. She looked away, frightened yet drawn to the man. When she looked back, he had moved on, standing with his back to her. The feelings that ran through her were hard to understand. She couldn't sit still any longer.