The suitors calmed and quieted at her words. Whether in shame or because they realized the truth of what she said, she could not tell. Penelope turned to her son. Telemachos watched her with a new light in his eyes. Was it pity she saw? Or something else? A mocking smile twisted his lips.
"Mother, you have too long ruled this house. Bows and contests are not your concern. Go up to your rooms and let me handle these men and this bow, as is proper. I am a man grown, and this is my house."
Stunned at his words, Penelope nodded agreement and moved to the stairs. Autonoe followed her in silence. Despite the trembling in her legs, Penelope hurried up the stairs to her room. She had the strangest feeling Telemachos laughed at her and yet begged understanding.
At the door of her room, Penelope dismissed Autonoe. Even through the closed doors, she heard the last rumblings of outrage from the suitors. Then silence. She imagined Aithon preparing to string the bow. She wished him success. A shadow of strength and mighty days still rested on him, despite his rags.
"I have used my last trick, beloved," she whispered, sitting on the bed. "Tomorrow, I will use the arrow. The suitors will find a way to bend your bow. Then I will pierce my arm and let the green dust fill my blood." A bitter laugh escaped her tight throat. "You never thought when you learned to make that poison, it would reunite us in the shadow lands."
An owl hooted outside her window, loud and clear though the sun had only begun to fall toward the horizon. Penelope started up from her bed but heavy weariness pulled at her limbs. Her heart should have pounded in fear but her body was too tired to react.
Black-haired, gray-eyed Athena stepped into her sight, unchanged in so long a time. She shook her head as she looked down on Penelope, pity in her penetrating gaze.
"Be not so hasty, Ikarios' daughter. Endure and sorrow but a little longer." She raised her hand, reaching toward Penelope's forehead.
Penelope blinked and found herself lying on her bed, still fully clothed. The room was filled with shadows from sunset. Down in the hall, she heard a sound like weeping, the thuds of heavy objects being moved. For a moment, she thought her dream of discord among the suitors had come true and they had unwittingly used the poisoned arrows to kill each other.
"Foolish child," she whispered, sitting up. Her head felt heavy with sleep. The fragments of a dream, a vision of Athena, flickered through her thoughts. As she tried to grasp it and remember, it vanished.
Eurykleia pushed the bedroom door open. The old nurse's face glowed with delight. Seeing Penelope sitting on the bed, blinking and rubbing her eyes, she laughed. The sound rolled out like a sweet, bubbling river of wine.
"My dear child, come down and see! All our prayers are answered. The years of suffering and hoping are over. Even now, your husband is below in the hall, cleansing it from the evil that plagued us. He has killed the suitors and directs as the servants carry away the dead."
"Eurykleia, have you drowned your wits in wine?" Penelope stared.
"I know, it is unbelievable, but it is the truth!" She laughed again, her voice a cry of triumph and kissed Penelope. "Come see. He is like a great lion, spattered in blood, the fierce light of battle still in his eyes."
"If only it were true." Penelope considered the strange sounds she heard. True, the sounds of feasting and riotous laughter were gone. She dared to let herself believe the news. "If the suitors are truly dead, then it must have been the gods who acted. Even Odysseus could not have killed them all by himself."
"He did not. His son stood by his side. Oh, to have witnessed the sight!" Eurykleia tugged on Penelope's arms to pull her to her feet. "Eumaios the swineherd and that new man, the ox-herd, they helped. And surely one or several of the gods lent their aid."
"Indeed, the gods lent their aid this day. I will thank their emissary gladly." Penelope stood. She paused by her bronze mirror to straighten her clothes and found her face pale even in the shadows.
Penelope listened as she went down the stairs. She heard the echoes of tables and chairs being dragged across the tiles. The splashing of water. She smelled brimstone and sulfur burning for purification. Something great and terrible had happened in her hall while she slept. The sounds faded, making it easier to move. Her legs carried her down the stairs when her heart wished to retreat. After so long, she knew her dreams could not possibly come true.
At the foot of the stairs she stopped, her knees weak. For a moment, she stood on the beach two days out from Pylos on her bridal journey to Ithaka. The man standing across the hall from her was the image of Odysseus, half-naked, garbed in rags, spattered with blood, a fierce light burning in his eyes. He stood tall and straight, leisurely wiping his sword clean of blood on an abandoned cloak. Of the suitors, she saw no sign except a few overturned tables and chairs, the last trampled remains of their feast, and abandoned articles of clothing. And blood. Streaks and spots and blackened, congealed pools of spilled blood where the hall had not been cleaned yet. It made a dark, somber contrast against the glistening tiles where water had washed the hall clean.
The man didn't see her yet, intent on cleaning his sword. His muscles moved smoothly under his skin, bronzed in the torchlight, streaked with white scars that gave definition to every curve and line. Strength filled out his body, narrow hips and wide shoulders, thick beard neatly trimmed and full curls of dark red hair. Like dried blood. The rags around his loins concealed little of his body. Penelope saw the scar above his knee, glowing white like ice amid the dirt and gore of battle.
Her knees betrayed her and she would have fallen if she had not clutched at the chair sitting by the stairs. The sound she made caught the man's attention. He turned to her, silent and watchful. He studied her with hooded, unreadable gray eyes. Her gaze was drawn to the sword, still raised in his hand. Penelope thought of Klytemaistra and other wives who had been unfaithful to their husbands all the long years of the war. Did this man clean the sword to cover it with her blood next? She knew how her household might appear, full of suitors waiting to win the wife of a man only assumed dead.
A tiny whimper escaped her lips. Pain touched the man's eyes. He shook his head, a bitter smile twisting one side of his mouth, just like Odysseus. He put the sword down on a table and crossed the hall to her. Penelope sat and held herself straight. Her whole body trembled. She was sure this was another dream, sent by a vindictive god to torment her. One moment she knew Odysseus walked across the damp tiles to meet her. The next moment it was a stranger, holding out bloody hands to strangle her. She remembered her dream of the stranger who burned her with blood when she thought to embrace Odysseus in their bed.
"Mother!" Telemachos entered the hall. His wrist was bandaged, clean white against the dirt and blood that spattered his clothes. His face shone with triumphant glee, making him a little boy again.
He ran to her, leaping an overturned table in one spot, a trampled basket of bread in another. Behind him, the serving women returned, carrying buckets of water and sponges, brooms and shovels, to continue cleaning the hall. The man stopped advancing on her then, leaving a space of ten paces between them. Telemachos reached them, joy fading from his face.
"Mother, don't you know him? Look, the scar on his leg that you described to me so many times. He bent the bow. He killed the suitors. Athena herself came down to help us." Telemachos came to her, gentling his voice and knelt in front of her. "Mother, my hard-hearted mother, how can you sit there so silent and not greet my father?"
"Telemachos, leave her be for now." The man spoke and even his voice belonged to Odysseus. "I am filthy from battle and that makes me distasteful to her. She never liked the rage that touched me when I fought." Laughter echoed in his voice, teasing, mocking. Challenging her.
"My son, the gods are skilled in disguises, so even the most chaste wife has been deceived into betraying her love." Penelope met the man's gaze, finding new strength in the sting of his words. "Much as I long for your father's return, I have given up hope of ever seeing him this side of the sh
adow lands. If this man says he is Odysseus, then he must prove it to me by signs and secrets only we two know. We must speak privately."
"Indeed. And you will not hear a word I speak until I am more presentable. Good nurse," the man called, beckoning to Eurykleia, "a bath and decent clothing. Then maybe my dear wife's heart will soften toward me." He chuckled, the sound warm and familiar, sending new trembling through Penelope's body.
He turned to Telemachos. "We must keep the people from suspecting what has happened for now. When the women have finished cleaning the hall, deal with them as we agreed. Then you and the faithful among the household must go into the courtyard and garden. Kindle torches and bonfires, make music and dance and sing. Let the people outside our walls think it is a wedding celebration, and calm suspicions until morning."
"Yes, Father." Telemachos released Penelope's hands and stood. He kissed her cheek, then hurried to obey. Joy gave him speed and agility, made his whole body glow with life.
"Will you wait for me to return, Penelope?" His voice held teasing laughter, but his eyes betrayed his humor for pain.
"I have waited many years for my beloved. It is the one thing I do well. Whether you dare to come back here matters not to me." She turned quickly, hiding the tears that sprang to her eyes. The shock on Eurykleia's face hurt more than the man's chuckle. Penelope couldn't quite breathe until she heard his retreating footsteps fade.
While the maids finished cleaning the other end of the hall, whispering and crying among themselves, Penelope huddled in her chair. Her thoughts raced in a multitude of directions. She trembled, first in cold, then in burning anticipation. First fear, then delight.
Just when she had made up her mind that yes, she was not deceived, Odysseus had come home and avenged the injustice against them, she despaired. Another had come, empowered by the gods, coming from darkness and returning to darkness. That was the stuff of legends, after all. She shivered and the next moment felt her whole body burn. Whether desire or terror, she couldn't be sure. When the maids finished their work and left the hall, she nearly cried out in relief at being alone.
She was startled when the man came back from his bath. She expected to be told he had vanished. He wore a cloak against the night cool, sandals, and Eurykleia had given him the tunic Penelope had made so long ago for Odysseus' homecoming. The sight brought burning tears to her eyes. It was hard not to bite out bitter rebuke to the old nurse for taking such a liberty. She waited in the doorway, delight and anticipation on her face.
Then Penelope realized it was not a liberty. The old woman truly believed the man sitting before her was Odysseus. The tunic was his, made for a homecoming celebration. Who had better right to wear it? Telemachos believed this man was his father. The suitors, though all dead now, believed Odysseus had returned with vengeance. The servants believed, or they would have raised the alarm. Penelope suspected she was the only person in the house who doubted.
"You are a strange one, Penelope," he said, after gazing at her long in silence. "Of so many wives of noble Achaians, you alone waited without taking a lover, without abandoning your husband's home and bed. Yet when he comes to you, bringing revenge for the wrongs you have suffered, you sit and stare as if he were a stranger."
"You are the strange one," she returned. "If you are Odysseus, you know what a short, happy time we had together. To the tenth year of the war, and now the tenth year since it ended, I have waited. Men change in face and form in that much time. I am to recognize him, recognize you? I look at you and you are Odysseus. I look at you again, and you are a different man entirely."
"Stubborn woman. You will make a curse out of your faithfulness, instead of a virtue." Grudging respect tinged his voice. He smiled. "Witch," he whispered, making her heart leap into her throat. "Eurykleia." He gestured for the old nurse to join them. "The night grows old and I'm tired from this day's heavy work. Make up my old bed for me, though it is cold and likely covered in dust and spider webs. It will be a sweeter, warmer place than my lady wife's bed this night." He turned back to Penelope as Eurykleia and Autonoe hurried to obey. He met her eyes, challenge in his face and voice.
"Yes, make up his bed," she said, trembling deep inside. "Bring it out here into the hall, since he objects to the dust of years of neglect."
"Penelope, you wound me more than you can know!" He stood up, towering over her. Angry dismay filled his voice, but she saw clearly the delight in his eyes. It was all a game to him, one last, precious move to play before they both could rest.
"What man has moved my bed? You and I alone know the secret of the frame," he continued, lowering his voice. They were alone in the hall. "It is impossible to move that bed without destroying the frame, unless the secret is known. I built my bedchamber around a living olive tree, leaving the root in the ground, trimming the branches, boring holes in the trunk so it became the living head of our bed. Only a god could move that bed without your help."
"Odysseus." Her voice cracked. Penelope leaped from her chair, throwing her arms around him. Tears racked her body as she clung to him. "Forgive me! I had to be sure. The years have been so long, and others have come, claiming to be you, trying to steal your place. I wanted to believe--"
Her words broke off in sobs, muffled as he kissed her, hard, a torrent of kisses that robbed her of what little breath she had left. Penelope's legs lost all their strength, but his arms were tight around her, holding her upright. She felt the heaving of his breath in his chest, heard the rumbling of his sobs, felt the damp of his tears mixing with her own. When he kissed her, searching her face, then capturing her lips again, she tasted the salt of their tears.
He sat down, cradling her on his lap. Penelope shivered at the pleasure of his embrace that sent new life through her body. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his forehead, his eyelids, and caressed the damp hair back from his face as she returned to the sweet wine of his lips.
Chapter 27
* * *
"Beloved," Odysseus whispered. He drew her head down to rest on his shoulder. Penelope felt the thunder of his heart, he held her so close against him.
"You do forgive me, then?"
"Penelope, what is there to forgive?" He laughed, the sound ragged, shaking his whole body. Penelope suspected tears waited to return. "I beg your forgiveness, for taking so long in returning, for leaving you at all."
"You couldn't refuse what you had promised," she said, drawing away so she could see his face. Penelope drank in the sight of him. So close, she saw the marks of years of fighting and travel, but he was still strong and vibrantly alive, young and handsome. "I think you were prevented from returning."
"Your dreams?" A heavy sigh escaped him when she nodded. "My love, the story I have to tell you could fill our hours until the moon rises and sets again."
"All that matters is that you are home now, safe, to stay." Penelope caught the tension in the deep quiet that settled over him. "You are home to stay?"
"Penelope...that is part of the story I have to tell you. Later, I would prefer." He caressed her and fire trailed across her body. "As I remember, you always demand the tale of my journey after we enjoy our bed."
"You told Eurykleia you were weary," she whispered against his lips as he bent his head to kiss her again.
"Weary of fighting, of struggling," he corrected a few breaths later. "Not weary of joy."
"Then you shall have your bed whenever you wish." She slipped free of his arms and off his lap. She flinched at how easily she escaped his grasp. He had always been able before to read her body and predict every move she made. Penelope knelt by the chair, taking hold of his hand and pressing it against her cheek. "But please, my dear husband, tell me first. You are not home to stay. What journey must you take now?"
"Oh, my sweet, sweet...stubborn Penelope." A weak chuckle shook his shoulders and Odysseus nodded. "As you wish, though you will get no joy of hearing it."
The sound of a door creaking on stiff leather hinges interrupted
him. Penelope looked up, startled. She had forgotten they were not alone. She saw Eurykleia and Autonoe going into Odysseus' bedroom, their arms piled high with blankets to make the bed. She looked back to Odysseus and he smiled.
"Yes, there is time for a story after all. On my journey home, I met an enchantress. A witch, but with different magic from yours," he added, giving her a mocking scowl. Penelope laughed, marveling at the sound so soon after tears. She leaned against his knee, looking up at his face, drinking in the sight of him as she listened.
"She said I needed to consult the prophet Teiresias." Odysseus nodded, a short, sharp movement. "I know--Teiresias has been dead many years. She sent me to the shores of the land of the dead. She told me what rituals to use to propitiate the shadows so I could pass safely among them and gain the knowledge I needed."
Penelope bit her tongue to keep silent. Another dream had been truth. She wondered now about her other visions of her husband through the years and consoled herself with knowing that in a while, he would indeed answer all her questions.
"Teiresias told me I had offended Poseidon," Odysseus said. "He told me if ever I reached my homeland, I had one more journey to make after that, or I would never live in peace or grow old in the land of my birth. I must journey by land, with the oar of my ship over my shoulder, until I reach a place where the people don't know the sea. I will know I have reached it when a man tells me my oar is a winnowing fan. There, I am to offer sacrifices to Poseidon. After that, I may come home and live out my years. Death will come from the sea when I have reached sleek old age."
He smiled with a distant sadness in his eyes. Penelope wondered what other memories her question had stirred. She stood, slipped her arms around his neck and kissed his forehead, both cheeks, and then his lips.
THE DREAMER'S LOOM Page 37
