"There, my love, I didn't intend to give you sorrow. You want your bed and you shall have it and all the joy I can give you this night." Penelope held out her hands to him, waiting, letting her longing shine in her eyes. The response in his eyes made her pulse sing.
The sounds of music, singing and dancing penetrated the quiet of the hall. Odysseus stood and took her hand and smiled.
"All the people passing by will hear the music and say their stubborn, beautiful queen has at last given up waiting for her wedded lord. I hear wedding festivities," he said as they walked to the wide, heavy doors of his room.
"In a sense, it is our bridal night once more," she said, her smile growing wider.
"Are you a nervous bride again, Penelope?" he teased.
"I was never nervous, my lord. Worried about a man's drunken, clumsy strength, but never nervous. I was well instructed in what to expect on my bridal night."
"And were you disappointed, or pleased?"
"Very pleased." She let him stop them several paces from the door. In a moment, she knew, he would take her into his arms. Penelope wanted to prolong the deliciously painful anticipation. "Do I still please you, my lord?"
"Yes. Your mouth still tastes of honey wine." Odysseus slid the cloak from his shoulders, catching it in the crook of his arm. "I planned my strategy well that night, you must admit. I made you love me from the beginning."
"In a manner of speaking." She laughed when Odysseus blinked in confusion. "At the beginning of our marriage, I loved your strong, sweet body that gave me pleasure with the slightest touch. Then I loved you for the children I wanted you to give me. And now, I am learning to love you for your other qualities." She paused, delighted at the laughter in his eyes, barred from his face. "Such few there are."
"Witch," Odysseus growled. He lunged at her, arms outstretched to capture her, but she dodged him.
Penelope slipped through the gap between the doors into the bedchamber. The bronze shutters hung open to let in new air and herbs were sprinkled on the floor to freshen it. Eurykleia and Autonoe finished spreading blankets on the bed. Penelope was glad now the suitors had ordered new rope in the bed frame. She had a vision of the bed collapsing under their weight, and that would never do. Not tonight.
She tugged the pins from her hair and wrapped them in her veil. She stepped away from the doors as Odysseus pulled them open, and removed the rest of her jewelry. His face showed no trace of the game a moment before. He nodded thanks to the two serving women and stood aside for them to leave. Penelope walked to the bedside, ignoring everything but the rising clamor of her heart in her ears. Dimly, she heard the doors close and the scratching sound as Odysseus locked the heavy panels.
"Our bridal night," she said, voice trembling. Eyes closed, she fumbled with the belt of her dress. Then Odysseus helped her, his hands shaking ever so slightly. Penelope turned her mind to memories as he lifted the dress off over her head. She turned to face him as he put his arms around her.
* * * *
Later, they lay with their limbs intertwined and talked, as they had years before, often interrupted with kisses as they caressed each other with gentle, slow touches. Not from desire, but the need to reassure themselves they were indeed together, at last.
Penelope demanded he tell the tale of his journeys first and completely. She spoke not a word until Odysseus had finished telling her all he had experienced since leaving Ilion for Ithaka. She smiled whenever he related a piece of story that fit her dreams. She had vague memories of dreaming the Cyclops, Polyphemos. And the cattle of Apollo, which his men slaughtered against all warnings. And the island of the king of the winds. She had been there when he visited the land of the dead and saw his recently dead mother. She had seen him on the island of Kalypso, the nymph who had kept him prisoner seven years.
Then when he finished, narrating up to the battle with the suitors, she began her side of the tale. Ktimene's birth, raising their children, comforting Laertes when Antikleia died. Her dreams and how they intertwined with his adventures. Ktimene's rebellion, the man who pretended to be Odysseus, and the onslaught of the suitors. He stayed quiet in his turn until she had finished.
"A wise, resourceful wife I won in my youth. A wise, faithful wife I have regained. My love, you awe me." Odysseus drew her closer, making her ribs ache with the embrace. She smiled, welcoming his strength. His hand tangled in her hair, he tipped her head back so he could kiss her lips. "It was jealousy of our happiness that prompted the gods to keep us apart."
"Jealousy," she whispered in agreement. "We thought we would grow old together, have years of safety and contentment and joy. If ever we unwittingly offended the gods, surely we have paid now."
"We have paid now," he whispered back, his voice thickened with a yawn. Penelope listened for the sound of his breathing to change into sleep. Before she heard it, sleep enfolded her.
* * * *
Penelope felt Odysseus slip from her embrace before she woke fully. She moaned a protest, sure this was another dream turned to nightmare. She struggled to stay asleep, to prolong the sweet dream, but warm lips spread kisses over her face. She felt the soft scratching of a beard, the gentle touch of breath against her skin. She opened her eyes to the first dim glow before dawn in the open windows, and Odysseus drawing away to sit on the edge of the bed.
"Don't leave yet," she murmured, sitting up and holding out a hand to him.
"I would give all my treasures of Ilion to stay here and hold you." Odysseus shrugged, his endearing, crooked grin lighting his face. "However, the treasure I won is in Poseidon's realm and you are my only treasure. And the matter of yesterday is not fully settled. Soon the hue and cry will go around that the suitors are dead and someone will shout for vengeance. I am taking Telemachos and going to my father. It would be a crime if everyone knew I had returned but he did not."
"And the three of you will plan war strategy." Penelope nodded. She had tried to forget the outcome of yesterday's slaughter. It had been easy in her joy.
She pushed aside the blankets and slipped out of the bed. As she picked up their clothes, sorting them out, she felt Odysseus' gaze on her. It was like their first morning together at the river in Sparta, all over again. Would drastic changes come on them this morning as well? She slipped her dress on and sat waiting until he had dressed.
"Telemachos did well?" Something tight inside loosened when a bright smile touched his face and he laughed.
"Penelope, what a glorious son you raised!" Odysseus knelt before her. He held both her hands, kissing the palms. "Your mark is deeply stamped in him. I would have known him for your son, even if no one had told me. I fear he would not be as resourceful, as thoughtful, if I had raised him."
"I weaned him on stories of you. Always, his questions ended with 'what would my father think?' or 'what would my father do?' And your father and Mentor taught him everything I could not." The memory of bitter words came to her. In the last dregs of sleep, with happiness still so fresh, she couldn't keep the hurt from her face.
"Penelope?" He stood, pulling her to her feet and took her into his arms. "What is it?"
"I spoke harshly to him, to aid in the deception of the loom. I told him no man would welcome coming home to a grown son he had not raised. Does it rankle you, that he is grown and you had no part in his teaching?"
"It grieves me, yes. Shames me. Makes me rage in my heart against the powers that kept me from my home." Odysseus kissed the top of her head and rested his cheek against her forehead. "Yet I dare any man to say he is a son not to be proud of." He chuckled. "I did have a hand in his training, you know. I chose his mother most wisely."
Penelope laughed, though the sound took on a bitter note when he released her and gently pushed her back down to sit on the edge of the bed. She watched him scoop up his cloak, hang it over one arm and go to the door. He unlocked it and looked out in the hall. She heard no movement, no sign anyone was awake and at work in the household. It hurt her that he had to prac
tice caution in his own home.
"Dear, sweet wife." Odysseus made as if to cross the room back to her side, then thought better of it. "There will be fighting, I know. And calling and crying in the streets. Have your women lock the doors and let no one into the house. Stay in your rooms and speak of yesterday to no one. Wait, and pray to Athena who guides me. If she is still with me, we will have peace by nightfall." He waited until she nodded that she understood, and then opened the doors. In a moment he was gone.
Penelope found her veil and wrapped it around her hair. It was a tangle she couldn't straighten with her fingers. Odysseus had always loved playing with her hair as they lay talking after their pleasure.
It was a strange feeling but welcome, to slip out into the quiet, empty hall. The faint odor of sulfur from purifying the room lingered in the air. No blood, no spilled wine or the smoke of the suitors' incessant feasting remained. She hoped the hall would stay quiet and empty for many days. Empty but for her husband and son. Penelope welcomed the thought of those two male voices filling her ears.
"Oh, what wonderful evenings we would have had," she whispered, pausing at the hearth.
Her imagination conjured images of Ktimene sitting at her father's feet, begging for stories, trading riddles with him. Her daughter would have been eighteen if she had lived, her hair a dark flame like Odysseus', her body slim and beautiful. He would have been enchanted with her, unwilling to let any man take her from her home. Penelope had not missed the stirring of questions and regrets in Odysseus' eyes when she spoke of Ktimene. When greater burdens and dangers were dealt with, Penelope knew long hours sharing stories and tears awaited them.
She met no servants on her way up the stairs to her rooms. Eurykleia, Eurynome, and a third of her personal serving women waited in the weaving room, their work in their hands. A second look revealed no one worked. Their faces were pale, their backs stiff as they listened to the morning quiet.
"You are all early risers today. Where is Melantho?" Penelope smiled at her women.
"Melantho is dead." Eurykleia's voice was quiet and sleek with satisfaction. "She and all the women who betrayed you with the suitors are dead."
"At whose hand?" Penelope slowly sat on the bench of her loom.
"Your son's." The old nurse laughed, a sharp sound near a cackle. "He forced them to clean up after the dead bodies of their lovers, then denied them a clean death because of their treachery toward you. He hung them in the courtyard. They were like birds with their necks caught in snares."
"Birds that will nest no more in my house." She nodded, unable to smile, though she was glad at the vengeance. A touch of alarm made her look around the room, to be sure none of her innocent women had been taken. A glance showed them all accounted for. "Autonoe, help me bathe and dress my hair for the day." She stood again and stepped toward the door. "My lord husband instructs us to stay here today and let no one in the house, nor speak of yesterday's events until he returns."
"So he instructed me," Eurynome said, nodding. "The doors are locked and the loyal men are stationed with spears and swords to safeguard us."
"Good." Penelope paused at the door. The dark weaving of her funeral sheet on the loom caught her eye. She was both sickened and amused by the sight of it. "Rip that out. I will weave something pleasing. In celebration."
* * * *
Gradually, as the day went past, Penelope felt her women relax their mute, stiff terror. No one came knocking on the doors of the house. No voices were raised beyond the walls, demanding entrance or explanation or vengeance. She worked at her new pattern on the loom, using the colors at hand, letting the design come as her fingers willed. She felt she moved in a dream. Nothing else existed beyond the walls of the room. When her women tried to open the windows and look out, she stopped them. Whether to prolong the illusion or from some wordless compulsion, she did not know.
Eurynome and Eurykleia fetched food for them when they grew hungry. The other women, she kept with her. The two nurses returned, reporting the men still kept silent watch at the doors. No one had approached the house since Odysseus, his son and allies left.
"We are already in the shadow lands," Aktoris whimpered. "That is why no one comes to this house. We are swallowed whole into Hades' kingdom."
"Nonsense," Penelope snapped, then surprised herself by laughing. "Why would Athena guide my husband home after all these years, strengthen his hand for vengeance, and then let us all be destroyed? Rather, she protects us. We are all sheltered in the favor she bestows on him."
She saw hope brighten a few eyes that had been dark with worry. Penelope returned to her weaving. She wasn't sure what she would make of the cloth yet, but it was bright and beautiful in its haphazard clash of colors. Soft and fine, like the netting over a baby's cradle to protect from wind and cold and too bright a sun.
Penelope caught her breath. The one dream she had abandoned now filled her heart. She was still young enough, strong, and if her mirror spoke the truth, looked far younger than her years. Judging by last night, her husband still found her utterly desirable. She could yet have another child. Ktimene's loss could be soothed, at last.
Then all the tearing and hurt of Odysseus' absence would heal. New life would bring blessings on Ithaka and protect the land. She let herself think again of the journey which the blind, dead prophet had ordered for her husband. The idea didn't rankle or give her fear. No matter how soon he went away, Odysseus would return to her. She believed her dreams. She would carry another child.
* * * *
Odysseus returned home at dusk, Telemachos and Laertes with him. The change in the old man astonished Penelope when she hurried down the stairs to meet them. Her husband's father glowed with life and strength, as if he had regained the flesh and height lost with his declining years and sorrow. When Odysseus embraced her, he smelled of sacrifice fires and roasted meat. His mouth tasted of wine when he kissed her.
"All is well?" she whispered before he released her.
"Reconciliation. Judgment passed. The families of our dead enemies agree they have no cause for vengeance. Reparations are to be made for the despoiling of our property. We will have peace in Ithaka." He turned to Telemachos with a mocking scowl. "Son, have you no greeting for your mother? You spoke harshly to her yesterday."
"And with just cause. My love, you have just said there is to be peace in Ithaka. Let it start in our house." Penelope laughed and held out her arms for Telemachos. She smelled sweat and wood smoke in his hair and his arms around her had a new strength and assurance. "To see you and your father together, working in union--" She broke off, fighting the tears burning her eyes. "This is a happy time, not one for tears."
"In deference to the losses in the noble houses of Ithaka," Laertes said, "we should keep our own celebration quiet."
"Indeed. Are you hungry? Do you want to bathe first?" She looked around for her women, to give instructions.
"Our beds would be more welcome than anything," Telemachos said. "We rose with the dawn and crept through Ithaka to my grandfather's home like invaders." He laughed, sharing a companionable glance with his father that warmed Penelope. The battles they shared had closed many gaps she had feared would stand between them. "Then we began a battle, to be stopped by Athena herself. Then came judgments, vows, sacrifices and a feast to seal the peace. It has been a long day, Mother."
"Then your beds you shall have," Eurykleia said as she and the other women joined the small group. She gave orders, bringing the household out of its waiting and back into its ordinary routine. Penelope felt the last tension and worry leave the air, like birds that had perched in the rafters.
* * * *
"Does it hurt you to speak of Ktimene?" Odysseus whispered, when Penelope thought he had fallen asleep.
"A dulled pain." She stirred in the crook of his arm and sat up. "Did Telemachos tell you--"
"He said you suspected Melantho of teaching her to make the potion that killed her."
"He did?" Penelope
shook her head. "I trained him to observe and to think deeply, to be like you, and he still surprises me. I never told him what I suspected."
"Telemachos knew Melantho hated you, and she did what she could to cause discord without being caught. He told me he would have killed her himself the day after Ktimene died, but your actions made him wait."
"I have made many errors, in handling Melantho and her selfish, disobedient ways. Our daughter might be alive right now. The suitors might be alive. We would--"
"Hush, my love." Odysseus stopped her words with a kiss. "There is only pain in considering what might have been. Tell me about our daughter. I want to know her well, before we rejoin her in the shadow lands."
"Yes, she will wait for us." Penelope choked on a soft laugh. "Perhaps now, she has learned the patience she lacked. She was a gift from the Goddess. Perhaps the Goddess took her back, by whatever painful means, when her safety and happiness were threatened."
"If she had been here, the suitors might not have set their greedy sights on you." Hardness touched his voice.
"A fine mother I would have been, hiding behind my child, sacrificing her for my own safety." Penelope lightly slapped his shoulder, turning her words into teasing.
"You know what I mean, beloved."
"They didn't want me, or our daughter. They wanted the rule of Ithaka. They thought to use the old ways without following them. The Goddess tripped them in their schemes. After a painfully long wait," she admitted.
"Too long. The gods play with our hearts and lives. Even the ones who support and help us."
Penelope heard a new note in his voice, partly old frustration, partly renewed pain. She reached for the lamp on the narrow table by the bed and held it over him. Odysseus' face wore hurting lines that wiped away the pleasure they had shared, the victory behind them.
His words took on new meaning. She remembered what he had said of Kalypso, the nymph who had held him captive on her island. There was nothing he could have done to escape. Her magic made every attempt futile, until she gave him permission to leave. Until Zeus, at Athena's prodding, ordered Kalypso to let Odysseus go free.
THE DREAMER'S LOOM Page 38
