Circe(85)

For sixteen years, I had pushed the thought aside. Telegonus made it easy, his wild babyhood filled with Athena’s threats, then the tantrums, his blooming youth and all the messy details of life that he trailed behind him every day: the tunics that must be washed, the meals served, the sheets changed. But now that he was gone, I could feel the truth lifting its head. Even if Telegonus survived Athena, even if he made it all the way to Ithaca and back, still I would lose him. To shipwreck or to sickness, to raids or wars. The best that I could hope for would be to watch his body fail, limb by limb. To see his shoulders droop, his legs tremble, his belly sink into itself. And at the last, I would have to stand over his white-haired corpse and watch it fed to the flames. The hills and trees before me, the worms and lions, stones and tender buds, Daedalus’ loom, all wavered as if they were a fraying dream. Beneath them was the place I truly dwelt, a cold eternity of endless grief.



One of my wolves had begun howling. “Quiet,” I said. But she kept it up, her voice rattling off the walls, grating at my ears. I had fallen asleep before the fire, my head on the hearthstones. I sat up, bleary, skin printed with the weave of my blanket. Through the windows streamed winter light, harsh and pale. It darted into my eyes and left shadows knee-deep on the ground. I wanted to sleep again. But she whined and howled, and at last I made myself get up. I went to the door and yanked it open. There!

The wolf shoved past me and went racing across the clearing. I watched her go. Arcturos, we called her. Most of the animals did not have names, but she had been Telegonus’ favorite. She angled upwards, to the cliff that overlooked the shore. I left the door hanging and went after. I had not put on a cloak, and the rising storm-winds buffeted me as I climbed the peak to where Arcturos stood. The seas were at their winter worst, dragging and gusting, white-topped, savage. Only utmost necessity would take a sailor out. I stared, sure that I was wrong. But there it was: a ship. Telegonus’.

I ran back down through the trees and the bare thorn thickets. Terror and joy jostled together in my throat. He is back. He is back too soon. There must have been some disaster. He is dead. He is changed.

He collided with me among the laurels. I seized him, pulled him into my arms, pressing my face to his shoulder. He smelled of salt and felt broader than before. I clung to him, nerveless in my relief.

“You are back already.”

He did not answer. I lifted my head and took in his face. It was haggard, bruised and unslept. Thick with misery. I felt alarm flash through me. “What is it? What is the matter?”

“Mother. I have to tell you.”

He sounded as if he were choking. Arcturos pressed to his knee, but he did not touch her. All his body was cold and stiff. Mine had gone cold with it.

“Tell me,” I said.

But he was at a loss. He had spun so many stories in his life, but this one stuck in him, like ore to its rock. I took his hand. “Whatever it is, I will help.”

“No!” He jerked away from me. “Do not say that! You must let me speak.”

His face was gray, as if he had swallowed poison. The winds still blew, twisting at our clothes. I felt nothing but those bare inches between us.

“He was gone when I arrived. My father.” He swallowed. “I went to the palace and they said it was some hunting trip. I did not stay there. I stayed on the boat as you told me to.”

I nodded. I was afraid he would break if I said a word.

“In the evenings I would walk the beach a little. I took the spear always. I did not like to leave it in the boat. I did not want—”

A spasm passed over his face.

“It was sunset when the boat came driving in. A small craft, like mine, but piled with treasures. They flashed as the boat rocked in the waves. Armor, I think, and some weapons, bowls. Its captain threw down the anchor and jumped from the prow.”

He met my eyes.

“I knew. Even from that distance. He was shorter than I had thought he would be. His shoulders were broad as a bear’s. His hair was all gray. He could have been any sailor. I cannot say how I knew. It was as if…as if all this while, my eyes had been waiting for just that shape.”

I knew the feeling. It is how I had felt first looking down at him in my arms.

“I called out to him, but he was already moving towards me. I knelt. I thought…”

His fist was pressing against his chest, as if he could press it through the skin. He mastered himself.

“I thought he knew me too. But he was shouting. He said I could not steal from him and raid his lands. He would teach me a lesson.”

I could imagine Telegonus’ shock. He who had never been accused of anything in his life.

“He was running towards me. I said that he misunderstood. I had the permission of his son, the prince. It only made him angrier. I am ruler here, he said.”

The winds were scouring us, and his skin was rough with gooseflesh. I tried to put my arms around him, but I might as well have embraced an oak.

“He stood over me. His face was lined and salt-stained. There was a bandage on his arm, with the blood soaking through. He wore a knife at his belt.”

His eyes were distant, as if he knelt on that beach again. I remembered those scarred arms of Odysseus’, marked from a hundred such shallow cuts. He liked fighting at close quarters. Taking blows on your arms, he said, was better than taking them in your guts. His smile in the dark of my room. Those heroes. You should see the look on their faces when I run straight for them.