Zachary Mason - The Lost Books of the Odyssey

When the Trojan shore sank below the horizon I thought about what to do next. There was a sentiment that we should go straight back to Ithaca but I decided we would take the long way back and turn raider till we saw our own harbor — we had a fleet of five ships, every man was lean and hard from years of war and, taken by surprise, the yeoman militias of the coastal cities stood no chance against us.

We attacked at night, by preference. We put many towns to the torch, speared men in night-dress fumbling for their bows and filled our holds with stolen silver. We struck and sailed on, trying to stay ahead of our reputation, but nothing travels faster than bad news and the day came when we saw grim armed men patrolling the walls of the city we had chosen. We could barely have fit another tripod aboard anyway, so it was time to sail for home.

It was nearly winter then, the tag end of the sailing season, and flocculent grey fogs covered the sea. We could easily have found an island somewhere, someplace out of the way, unlikely to be visited, and spent the winter there fishing and letting idleness smooth off our keen edges, but we were tired of our own society and of our rootless wartime existences and so we did not wait. We would have preferred to sail within sight of land but were afraid of well-armed ships cruising for revenge so we took the straight route over open sea. There was many an old sailor in my crew and none of them had ever made a blue-water crossing of the Middle Sea but I scorned adversity and risked it.

The days crept by, undifferentiated durations of mist and whitecaps. We kept course as best we could by dead reckoning but the sun and moon rarely peeked out — when they did my mates and I would jump on the opportunity and make our measurements but our calculations were never in agreement. Three ships went missing one night and were not to be found however much we called into the whiteness but it was no great matter, I thought, they could find their own way home.

On the seventh day of the journey the look-out shouted (his disembodied voice floating down from the fog-enveloped crow’s nest) that he saw orange lights floating above us close ahead, too far up to be a ship. The fog shifted and we saw them from the deck, bright flares drifting high above us. It was hard to be certain if it was the cloud bank or the lights that were moving. The more superstitious men invoked the Hermes of Travelers and made the sign against the evil eye. I noticed that the lights were spaced evenly and seemed roughly rectangular and told the men to cheer up because we were looking either at the windows of a house on a high island hill or at some unusually symmetric ghosts. Within minutes we found the shore, steep and rocky and covered with short twisted pines. There was a cove and in it a neat little dock. It occurred to me to pass it by — we had treasure enough and supplies to get us home even if we wandered until spring, so why go looking for trouble? But with the impending reality of homecoming and the reversion from warriors to the conditions of husbands, sons and townsmen, the crew were determined to have a holiday. Reluctantly I permitted them to dock and followed as they jumped from the ships, swords in hand.

The island was small but very steep, really just a small mountain protruding from the sea, its flanks covered with a dripping tangle of redolent pines. A single path zigzagged upward, its stairs cut in the stone and lit by paper lanterns spaced out like stepping-stones so that on reaching a new one the glow of the next was just visible through the fog. Up we hiked, full of uncertainty. At the top we emerged into a clearing before a house with a high roof and an open door. Evenly spaced windows glowed with firelight. As we looked around doubtfully, moved by the house’s beauty and unsure if we were pirates, pilgrims or travelers passing by, the lady of the house emerged and from her doorway greeted us with a warmth and composure that were shocking in light of the savage spectacle we must have presented. In retrospect, that should have been a warning. She said that we were welcome on her island, Aiaia — she and her women rarely received visitors and would gladly offer us their poor hospitality. Abashed, the men sheathed their weapons with pantomimes of discretion and entered her hall, meek under her magisterial smile. The lady’s maids emerged to take our hands and seat us at a long table before a fire burning in a great pit large enough to roast ten bulls. Above the pit was a mantel carved with men chasing wolves or perhaps being chased by them. I wondered about the extravagance with firewood but thought it impolite to ask.

The lady, who said her name was Circe, sat me at her right hand and said that we were clearly heroes returning from some great struggle, she could see it in our keen faces and the strength of our sword-arms, and I had the air of a captain about me. Who were we, then, and what deeds had we done? This was against the law of hosts — guests were to be allowed to eat and drink before they were asked to account for themselves, but she and her maids had a wanton look about them and I suspected they were prostitutes as much as gentlewomen so I did not stand on politesse. I gave her a not entirely accurate history of the war, distorted more for the sake of a good story than self-servingly. I glossed Helen’s death and said little of Agamemnon and his brother. I did let slip that I was the favorite of a goddess and that my counsel had often been sought by chiefs. She was an excellent audience, thoroughly enjoying the tale and prompting me to continue when I was afraid I had talked too much and fell silent.

It got late and the fire burned low. Many amphorae lolled on the ground, empty of wine, ringing hollow when someone tripped on them. The women started trickling away with my men, who took care to avoid my eyes as they went off to their forest trysts. (I don’t know why — I never gave them cause to think of me as a moral exemplar.) Outside, torches went past the windows and the wind brought laughter. When everyone else had gone, Circe stood and took my hand and led me into her bedroom as the coals settled.

I woke later that night not knowing why but troubled and then it came again, a thin high keening. My first thought was that there had been a fight over a woman. I sat up in her bed and listened. I heard the wind in the pines, the distant waves, something like laughter and then a barely audible retching. Circe turned and muttered in her sleep. I crept out of bed and went to the window that opened over the mountain. Flashes of torchlight shone here and there among the trees. I watched for a long time, breath steaming and goose bumps rising. The sky was lightening in the east and I was about to go back to bed when I heard a long familiar ululation close by and saw a flash of bare skin through the restless boughs. This could have many meanings, some of them benign — in Athens the cult of the Bacchantes was an excuse for faintly licentious outdoor revels for well-to-do ladies. Then a woman walked naked out of the woods, her skin white and her tangled black hair whipped by the wind. Her face was blank and in her left hand there was a skinning knife. There were dark stains on her hands and stomach.

I drew my sword and put it to Circe’s neck, the tip moving with her pulse. She came slowly to her senses and regarded me with sleepy, slitted eyes as I stood menacing her. In a husky voice she told me to think — if she had wanted me to die she would have drugged me like the rest of my men, all of whom were gone by now. She said she desired me and had decided to keep me, called on my dispassionate mind and held out her hand for the blade.

They were only women and probably had no better armament than knives — even alone, I could cut my way through them, and there might even be a few of my boys left alive. It occurred to me then to wonder what they had done with the unguarded ship. I imagined stalking down the path with blade drawn, racing onto the dock unopposed and finding nothing there but the waves lapping at the pilings as lights flared in the house high above me. I imagined coming back up to the house, finding it empty, searching for a target for my rage, finding nothing. The sun going down again and distant wavering cries calling and answering from the forest. It horrified me that I should have made it through Troy, often avoiding death by the width of a spear blade, only to end up dying here, my bones turning to ash in her fireplace.