The Eighth Arrow

by J. Augustine Wetta

  Now I’ll tell you something I have never told anyone.

  That day when I walked into the surf to retrieve the corpse, I never found it. I shuffled about in the shallows until my uncles showed up. Then they swam out and retrieved the body while I pretended to help. And as I pushed through the surf in their wake, I gritted my teeth with shame and swore that the next time I had to face my fear, I would not run from it. My uncles never mentioned that old man’s body to me. I suspect they forgot about it altogether—or forgave me for being a boy of ten whose courage had not grown deep as the waters he was swimming. But I never forgot. In the halls of Parnassos, while the bard sang of my bravery before the wild boar, I could not rejoice because I knew that I had the heart of a coward, and no matter how many boars I slew, that coward’s heart would always call to me. I might hide it from my friends. I might shout it down with winning words. But someday, its voice would be heard, and that would be the day I dropped my shield and ran. This was the reason I had always favored the bow. So armed, I could defeat my enemy without actually having to face him. I could strike him from afar and not worry that my heart would fail.

  Now, though, what did it matter if I dropped my shield? I had nothing more to lose and no one to see me lose it. And with that revelation came another: I did not need my shield or my bow. In the presence of such a foe, they were useless anyway.

  Today, I myself would be the arrow.

  I took a deep breath and looked up at Hades. He was grinning. But this time, I had a sense that something had changed. I couldn’t help feeling that there was a certain vulnerability about that ugly grin—vulnerability or loneliness or desperation. It seemed to me now that, for all his power, Hades had the look of a beaten man. A mortal, even. Or less than mortal. Yes, I had seen that look before. It had all the hopelessness of a whipped slave or a warrior on the brink of an ignoble death. It struck me as odd to see it in Hades, the god of the Underworld. All this dark realm was his, and yet somehow, it was all beyond his control. I looked up into his face, and—to my own surprise—I smiled back.

  “The time at last has come,” he declared. “Bow before me and show that I am your god.” He opened his arms in a gesture that was meant to look magnanimous.

  “If you were my god,” I answered, “you wouldn’t need me to show it.”

  The smile faded from his countenance like breath off a razor. “Bow before me, Odysseus, and I will let you pass.”

  In spite of my fear, I felt oddly tempted to laugh. “I’ve told too many lies in my day not to recognize one as obvious as that.”

  “Bow before me,” he hissed, “or I will force it from you.”

  “A forced bow is no bow at all.”

  He ground his teeth and grimaced. “You will bow now, or you will suffer a punishment far worse than what I have planned already.”

  Again, I felt that temptation to laugh. “No suffering could be greater than the loss of those I love. No reward could be greater than seeing them saved—and you have granted both already.”

  His three jaws trembled, all the muscles of his face twisted with rage, his chest heaved, and he dug his sharp nails into his palms. But he said nothing.

  “Wait!” I said—as much to myself as to him. “You—you’re a prisoner here yourself, aren’t you?” I removed my helmet and scratched my head. “You have no more authority over the Underworld than I do.”

  “Nonsense,” he hissed.

  “No. Not nonsense. If this were your realm, you would never have allowed the Parthenos here in the first place.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “No. Not ridiculous. If this were your realm, you would never have allowed Ignotus to leave. You would never have allowed anyone to leave. In fact”—and here I had to pause for thought—“if you were a god, you wouldn’t need to bargain with me at all.”

  “You are a worm, not a man.”

  “Oh, to be sure! But no less a worm than you are, because I understand now that there is a god, and you—you are not he. And I am not he. The Parthenos is not he.” The words just seemed to tumble out. “I may not know who he is, but I do know that all of this . . . this prison . . . is under his dominion. So really, I have nothing to fear from you. His will is going to prevail regardless of your designs. In fact, any punishment you give me will be given because he wills it. And . . . and . . . and because he has saved my wife and my son and my friends . . . I love him. Despite my punishment, I love him. I love him because of my punishment. I love him, whoever he is, because he is a god of justice.”

  “More nonsense!”

  “No. No. No. I’ve had enough nonsense. I’ve had enough lies. Do what you will. You cannot give me more pain than to take away my friends. You cannot give me more joy than to set them free. Both have been done already, and neither was your doing.”

  “I’ll show you a doing,” he roared, shaking his fist. “Draw your sword, Son of Laertes.”

  “No,” I answered, smiling. “No more fighting either.”

  Hades scowled. “But your vow!”

  “I will keep my vow,” I said, “and then I will walk through that door.” I had no doubt that as soon as I removed the arrow, Hades would crush me or eat me or pull me limb from limb . . . but one conviction surmounted all my fears—I was determined not to give him the pleasure of seeing me lie.

  I unstrung my bow. I finished the last of my wine. Then I walked straight up to him. I stood before the Lord of the Underworld with my fists on my hips, and I raised my voice to the heavens. “I am Odysseus, Son of Laertes. I am Odysseus, Father of Telemachos, Husband of Penelope the Faithful. I am Odysseus the Truth Teller, the Peace Bearer, the Healer, the Man of Many Friends. I am Odysseus, Servant of the Four-Letter Name. I am Odysseus. I am the Eighth Arrow.”

  And then—Aimi!—there was a howling and thrashing that shook the Underworld to its core. Hades screamed and battered his fists till the cliffs shook and the ice turned to powder and the wind of his foul breath cast everything about me into the air.

  But he never touched me. In fact, the more he twisted and thrashed, the more he spat and cursed, the more did he appear bested and broken—but not by my hand, not by the hand of any mortal man. He had been defeated long ago by some Force that had beaten him before and would beat him again and again.

  “You,” he snarled. “You used to be a man, Odysseus. A hero.”

  And as I walked past him to the door, still he did not touch me.

  “You were the Man of Twists and Turns,” he said, wincing as I pulled the golden arrow from his back. “You were wily and smart. You were the Teller of Tales, the Master of Plots and Schemes. You had a talent, a place in the world, a name that bowed the heads of men. You were the Sacker of Cities, the Raider of Troy, the Blinder of the Cyclops, the Son of Pain, the Man of Many Faces. You were a magnificent liar, Odysseus. You had one real talent, and you have cast it away. And now what is left? Nothing. No one will remember you now, Odysseus. You are nobody now.”

  Well, that last bit really did make me laugh. “I’ve been nobody before,” I said to him as I stepped through the door. “It’s not as bad as you’d think.”

  EPILOGUE

  In the shadow of his hand he hid me; he made me a polished arrow, in his quiver he hid me away.

  —Isaiah 49:2

  BEYOND THE DOOR, a narrow tunnel wound into the earth. The floor might have been the snaking spine of Hades himself. It looped back so often, at times I could not tell whether I was ascending or descending. Sometimes I felt as though I were falling. At other times I began to wonder if I had moved at all. I tried to look ahead and make out what was coming, but it was too dark. Down, down, down. Would the tunnel never end? I began to wonder if the door itself was a deception; and I might even then have despaired if not for the memory of my wife and son.

  I worked my way onward and downward, feeling through the darkness. And gradually, almost imperceptibly, the stale reek of Hell began to give way to something else—a quality in the air I recognized but
could not name. Memories of apples and turned earth emerged among my thoughts. The air took on a living sharpness—a clear, metallic scent like new rain. Then a wash of light, blue as the night sky just before dawn, and when I turned the last corner of that winding passage, I found that I was standing on grass. I blinked the weariness away, and for the first time in three thousand years, I looked upon trees, green leaves, fields, and morning mist. I heard the sound of living creatures—birds, crickets, tiny peeping frogs. The music of the living world washed over me. I felt the breeze, light as a nymph’s fingers on my face, clean and cool.

  To my left, the grass fell away into a deep, green valley.

  To my right, stood a woman.

  She was tall as an elm and wore a gown of linen so white, it shimmered like snow in the moonlight. Her hair, black as onyx, hung loose from her head and mingled with the night.

  “Am I dead?” I said.

  She smiled. “Not quite.”

  “Are we going somewhere?” I asked.

  “We are.”

  “Olympus?”

  “A mountain, yes.”

  I stopped. “But Penelope, Telemachos, Diomedes . . .”

  “Be still, little one. They are further on.”

  I smiled and nodded, taking a fold of her cloak in my hand like a child. “You will take me to them?”

  “Of course,” she answered, and we began to walk.

  “Wait.”

  She stopped, looked down, her gray eyes shining.

  “Proteus?”

  She smiled. “He too has shown a greater love.”

  I took a deep breath and blew it slowly out. “Then I am ready.”

  “I think you are.”

  We walked in silence then, I clinging to the fold of her mantle, she smiling into the night. Slowly the ground began to slope upward. The grass grew thin, and stones cropped up here and there. Once or twice I stumbled. But always, the Parthenos helped me up again.

  “Will this be difficult?” I asked.

  “Very,” she answered.

  “But you will not leave me.”

  “Odysseus. Incorrigible man. Have you not learned? I have been with you all along.”

  I grinned. She laughed. Her voice washed over the hills like rain. I held her cloak to my cheek and looked ahead across the long ascent. Trees, moss, stones, and soil. Above it, the clouds and sky. And beyond them all, glittering like windows into heaven—the stars. If you’ve ever held a jewel to your eye and watched the world fly into a thousand shining dreams, then you know what I’m talking about.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I AM SO GRATEFUL to the brave, kind, patient, prayerful, and deeply forgiving community of the Saint Louis Priory School. Also many thanks to Ethen Ellenberg, who first had confidence in this story (and whose name really ought to be on the cover with mine); to Vivian Dudro, the world’s most gentle editor; to Joe MacDonald for igniting the Phlegethon; to Walter Hooper, my “Oxford Granddad”, for his gentle encouragement; to the Brannan family for underwriting Limbo and the Griesediecks for helping me organize it; to Michael Dirda for teaching me that it’s okay to read fantasy (and by implication, that it’s okay to write it); to Marly Youmans, for showing me how it’s done; to Dr. Andy Reyes for his technical advice; to Dawn Eden for just the right encouragement at just the right time; to Father Paul Chovanec for his spiritual coaching; to Professor James J. O’Donnell for giving me my namesake; to Cheesy, Easy, Greasy, and Breezy for being my friends; to Ellen Gilchrist for answering my fan letters; to Mike Larsen (and his nephew, Eric!) for the sage advice; to all my allies at the Antioch Writers’ Workshop for their hospitality; and to the patient souls at the Bread Loaf School of English for enduring five summers worth of my foolishness.

  GLOSSARY

  THIS IS A WORK of fiction, not of theology. For a coherent theology of Hell, see Thomas Aquinas. I started writing this book, with the help of my students, as a way of introducing them to the worlds of Dante and Homer. For this reason, I have appended this glossary, which may be of help to the reader when particular historical, mythological, or theological concepts turn up.

  Wherever possible, I have tried to be faithful to Dante’s landscape and to Homer’s characters; however, some details of those magical worlds had to be adapted or omitted. And so with the theology. I have tried to stick with the theological perspective of Dante’s day. But the idea of visiting Hell is itself theologically ludicrous. There is no time or space in Hell, and once there, souls never leave. To be sure, there are theological points that come up from time to time throughout this book, but in the end, it’s just a story.

  Likewise with the language. I once had a conversation with Reginald Foster, the renowned authority on spoken Latin. I asked him which pronunciation of Latin was the most authentic. “All of them,” he answered. “Because the Roman Empire was so vast, no matter how you choose to speak Latin today, there was surely someone who spoke it that way in the ancient world.” I think it’s fair to assume that ancient Greek was spoken with some variety as well. Moreover, the Greeks of the Bronze Age were no more likely to speak Homeric Greek than Englishmen of Shakespeare’s day were likely to speak in iambic pentameter. The ancient Greeks must have used slang, contractions, and all the casual corruptions that inevitably creep into the spoken word. In this book, they have crept into Odysseus’ speech as well.

  ACHAEA: Another name for Greece. During the Bronze Age, Greeks were commonly known as Danaans, Achaeans, or Hellenes.

  AEGIS: The “storm shield” wielded by Zeus (and sometimes Athena) in Greek mythology. The Gorgon’s head is affixed to it, and tassels hang from the lower rim. When shaken, it erupts with thunder and inspires panic.

  AGAMEMNON: The lord of all Achaea; elder brother of Menelaos and commander of the entire Greek army that sailed to Troy. Upon his return from the war, he was murdered by his wife.

  AIKI!: Greek expletive. Roughly translated, it means “Oh no!”

  AJAX: Second only to Achilles, the greatest fighter to sail to Troy. Because of his enormous size and strength, it was often assumed that Ajax must be dull of intellect. He was.

  AMPHINOMOS: The only one of Penelope’s 108 suitors whom she actually liked. Amphinomos was essentially an honorable man, and Odysseus tried to warn him of the impending slaughter when he came to his house disguised as a beggar. Amphinomos, however, failed to heed the warning and suffered the same ignoble fate as the others.

  ANGELOS (PL. ANGELOI): The Greek word translates to “messenger” but has come to signify a purely spiritual being created by God to be His servant and messenger. Dante divides them into three classes: those who chose to rebel against God, those who remained faithful, and those who would not choose a side.

  ANTAEOS: A Lybian giant who forced passersby to wrestle him for their lives. His enormous strength was drawn from the earth itself. Hercules killed him by lifting him off the ground until he was weak enough to be crushed.

  ANTINOUS: One of several men who tried to seduce Odysseus’ wife while he was away at Troy.

  ARGOS: (1) Odysseus’ faithful hound. The name means “swift” or “speedy”. (2) A central Greek city-state ruled by Diomedes and his family. The name can be used in a broader sense to denote all Greece or in its adjectival form, “Argive”, to describe any inhabitant of that region.

  ARMOR: In the Homeric world, armor was a man’s most valued possession. Many lives are lost in the course of Homer’s Iliad in battles over the armor of fallen comrades.

  ATHENA: The goddess of wisdom and war; a special friend and guide to Odysseus throughout the Iliad and the Odyssey. She is also especially fond of Diomedes, whom she fills with such supernatural power in the Iliad that he is able to fight the gods themselves.

  AUTOLYCOS: King of Phocis and grandfather of Odysseus. Autolycos was the world’s most skillful thief. He was known throughout Greece as “the wolf himself”.

  BOW: By Greek standards, the weapon of a coward; nonetheless, this was Odysseus’ favorite weapon and played
a key role in identifying him as the rightful heir of Ithaca when he returned from the Trojan War. Supposedly, he was the only man alive who could string it.

  CENTAUR: Creature that is half man, half horse. The word means “bull killer” in Greek. The Centaurs were clever creatures, famous for their skill with the bow, but inclined to drunkenness and barbarity.

  CERBEROS: In Greek mythology, the three-headed, flesh-eating guard dog of the Underworld.

  CHARON: The ferryman of the Underworld.

  CHIRON: A wise and knowledgeable Centaur who tutored Jason, Achilles, Ajax, and a number of other Greek heroes. He was particularly renowned for his skills in the medicinal arts.

  DANAAN: See ACHAEA.

  DIOMEDES: The youngest of the great heroes of the Iliad. Homer seems to have a particular fondness for him. He is notable for his fighting skill, bravery, and piety. He and Odysseus are often found together in the Iliad, and an entire chapter is devoted to their nighttime reconnaissance mission. Dante consigned them both to the eighth level of Hell, where they burn together in a single flame.

  ERINYES: See FURIES.

  EU LEGEIS: Greek for “Well said.”

  EUPEITHES: A nobleman of Ithaca who led a rebellion against Odysseus in revenge for the death of his son, Antinous (slain by Odysseus in revenge for the dishonor he brought upon him and his wife). Contrary to Odysseus’ “prophecy” that Odysseus would kill him, Eupeithes was in fact slain by Laertes, Odysseus’ father.

  FURIES: Triplet Greek goddesses of vengeance. Also known as Erinyes.

  GERYON: According to Greek mythology, a giant with three bodies and one set of legs. Egyptian mythology added a pair of wings, and Dante gave him a scorpion tale to boot. Geryon had a pet dog with two heads named Orthos (the brother of Cerberos), and the two were said to inhabit the island of Erytheia, where they guarded a herd of magic red cattle. Both Geryon and his dog were slain by Hercules, who ran off with their flocks.

  GORGON: Any of three monstrous winged sisters from Greek mythology (Stheno, Euryale, and Medusa) who had snakes instead of hair. Looking directly at them would turn the observer to stone.