Circe(93)

Of all the sons in the world, he was not the one I would have guessed for Odysseus. He was stiff as a herald, blunt to the point of rudeness. He carried his wounds openly in his hands. When I’d reached for him, there had been an emotion on his face I could not quite name. Surprise, tinged with something like distaste. Well, he did not have to fear. I would not do it again.

That was the thought that carried me home.



I watched the sun rise at my loom. I set out bread and cheese and fruit, and when I heard my son stir, I went to his door. I was relieved to see his face was not so dull, but the grief was still there, the heavy knowledge: my father is dead.

He would wake up with that thought for a long time, I knew.

“I spoke with Telemachus,” I said. “You are right about him.”

He lifted his eyebrows. Did he think me incapable of seeing what was before my eyes? Or only of admitting it?

“I am glad you think so,” he said.

“Come. I have put breakfast out. And I think Telemachus is waking. Will you leave him alone with the lions?”

“You’re not coming?”

“I have spells to cast.”

I did not really. I went back to my room and listened to them talking about the boat, the food, the most recent storm. The tonic of ordinary things. Telegonus suggested they go out and drag the boat back to the cave. Telemachus agreed. Two sets of feet upon the stone, and the door swung closed. Yesterday I would have thought myself mad to send them off together. Today it seemed like a gift to my son. I felt a pang of embarrassment: Telemachus and Telegonus. I knew how it looked to have named my son that, like a dog who scratches outside a door when it cannot come in. I wanted to explain that I had never thought they would know each other, that his name had been intended for me alone. Born far away, it meant. From his father, yes, but also from mine. From my mother and Oceanos, from the Minotaur and Pasipha? and Ae?tes. Born for me, on my island of Aiaia.

I would make no excuses for it.

I had retrieved the spear yesterday and now it leaned against the wall of my room. I lifted the leather sheath. The ray’s tail looked even stranger on land, spectral and ragged. I turned it, catching the light on the infinitesimal beads of venom that crowned each feathered tooth. I must return it, I thought. Not yet.

From down the hall, another stirring. I thought of all those men and women over the years, spilling their secrets while Penelope carefully gathered them up. I pulled the leather sheath back over the spear and opened my shutters. Outside was a beautiful morning, and on the wind were the first hints of what would soon ripen into spring.

The knock upon my door came, as I had guessed it would.

“Open,” I said.

She was framed in my doorway, wearing a pale cloak over a gray dress, as if she were wrapped in spider-silk.

“I come to say I am ashamed. I did not speak of my gratitude yesterday as I should have. I do not mean only for your hospitality now. I mean also for your hospitality to my husband.”

It was impossible to tell, in that mild voice of hers, if the comment was pointed. If it were, I supposed she was entitled.

She said, “He told me how you helped him on his way. He would not have survived without your advice.”

“You give me too much credit. He was wise.”

“Sometimes,” she said. Her eyes were the color of mountain ash. “Do you know that after he left you, he landed with another nymph? Calypso. She fell in love with him and hoped to make him her immortal husband. Seven years, she stayed him on her isle, draping him in divine fabrics, feeding him delicacies.”

“He did not thank her for it.”

“No. He refused her and prayed to the gods to free him. At last they forced her to let him go.”

I did not think I imagined the trace of satisfaction in her voice.

“When your son came, I thought perhaps he was hers. But then I saw the weave of his cloak. I remembered Daedalus’ loom.”

It was strange, how much she knew of me. But then, I knew about her too.

“Calypso fawned over him, and you turned his men to pigs. Yet you were the one he preferred. Do you think that strange?”

“No,” I said.

It was nearly a smile. “Just so.”

“He did not know about the child.”

“I know,” she said. “He would never have kept that from me.” That was pointed.

“I spoke with your son last night,” I said.

“Did you?” I thought I heard a flicker of something in her voice.

“He explained to me why you had to leave Ithaca. I was sorry to hear it.”

“Your son was kind to bring us away.” Her eyes had found Trygon’s tail. “Is it like a bee’s venom, that stings only once? Or like a snake?”

“It could poison a thousand times and more. There is no end to it. It was meant to stop a god.”

“Telegonus told us that you faced the great lord of sting-rays himself.”

“I did.”

She nodded, a private gesture, as if in confirmation. “He told us that you took further precautions for him as well. That you have cast a spell over the island, and no god, not even Olympians, can pass.”

“Gods of the dead may pass,” I said. “No others.”

“You are fortunate,” she said, “to be able to summon such protections.” From the beach came faint shouts: our sons moving the boat.