Argos (18 page)

After a long pause while he licked his feet, the cat resumes his story.

“Your master said, ‘Preeminent King Alkinoos, since I have revealed myself, will you grant me a ship so that I may sail it home? And in return, may the gods grant you and your wife and children great comfort and success in every endeavor.'

“‘It shall be so,' Alkinoos said, and then he loaded the ship with gifts, treasure greater than Odysseus had won even sacking Troy. Then, your-r-r master boarded his new ship, oared
by the sea-loving Phaiakians, and laid down to sleep, for he had promised that he would not try to learn his location, and Alkinoos had said if he did so, then the gods would not harm him while he slept, but instead send a great following wind to speed his ship to Ithaka.

“That is when I jumped on board my own ship, and together both ships sailed toward this wretched place, though my ship was not laden with treasure and thus was the faster. I lost sight of your-r-r master's ship several days ago. Per-r-rhaps it sank.”

Just then a bell peals. The ship in the harbor—the cat's ship—is setting sail. We both hear it. The cat leaps from the rafter onto a bale of hay, then leaps again and lands near the door of the barn. I am an old dog and the cat is still young and swift, so he eludes me at first. I chase him across the grounds and down the trail leading to the harbor, across the black rocks that form a barrier against the sea tide, then down to the moorings where his ship is docked. Artemis herself gave that cat wings, and I know I can't catch him.

But others can.

I bark three times. That is my signal to the gulls, and from out of the very heavens they come.

“The orange harbor cat!” I cry. “Avenge your fallen brothers as I cannot.”

The birds descend on the ship with their sharp beaks, but I turn away and look out over the sea one last time.

Is my master at this very moment sailing toward Ithaka? Only the gods know.

M
y master has landed! He is here on Ithaka!

Here is what I know. I was down at the harbor, looking for signs that my master's boat had arrived, when I heard a pelican and a small group of gulls arguing.

“I say twenty!” the pelican said.

“Not a day more than nineteen!” the largest gull replied.

“It's twenty, because my mother was just a hatchling when he left!”

“My father saw his black ship personally,” the gull said. “He perched on its mast.
Nineteen
years ago!”

“Nineteen! Nineteen! Nineteen!” his brothers squawk.

“Gentle birds!” I cried. “Why do you argue? What subject
vexes you so that you disturb this calm morning with your squawks?”

The pelican pointed his strange long beak at the gull and said, “This gull says your master left nineteen years ago, and I say twenty. Settle our dispute, Argos. How long ago did your master leave?”

Such impertinence!

“Why do you torment me with such a question, Fish Swallower? Do you think I have not counted every day that he has been gone? It is twenty years and more, for my master still has not returned!”

“But, Boar Slayer, haven't you heard?” the gull said. “Odysseus arrived three days ago on Ithaka. His ship ran up the beach on a small harbor that the men of Ithaka seldom use. There the Phaiakians carried your master, still asleep, onto the bank, near an olive tree, but hidden from the road, and placed around him his many gifts, bronze, gold, and fine linens. Then they themselves turned their way homeward, leaving him to be awakened by the gods. A tree owl saw the whole thing.”

Then, I confess, Argos the Boar Slayer whimpered like a puppy. But just once. Master Odysseus was on the island! But where? I didn't know the harbor where he slept. Was it nearby?
Was my master even now striding toward his home? The birds did not know.

“Find him!” I commanded the gull, which was the smarter of the two. “Find him and report back to me, or I'll tell the barn cats where you make your nest.”

The gull screeched at me, but did as I bade, and was soon flying high over the island, in search of my sleeping master, and the pelican flew off to fish.

Later that afternoon the pelican returned and told me a story of great woe: Poseidon, angered that the Phaiakians had conveyed my master home, turned their ship and sailors into stone, just within sight of their home.

So do the vengeful gods extract their dues.

Night has fallen and there is no news of my master. The gulls could not find him, and I think I have been deceived. Then, just as I am herding the last sheep into its paddock, I hear a tree owl's call. I find him perched on a juniper branch. This is the tale he tells.

“When Apollo's chariot reached its zenith, your master stirred and woke. But he did not know where he was, for Athena, daughter of Zeus, had made everything on the island look strange to him, so that he was not certain he had even
reached home. ‘Ah me,' he lamented. ‘Where am I now? The Phaiakians promised to bring me to sunny Ithaka, but this land is shrouded in mist! Are the people of this land savage and violent or hospitable to strangers? And what shall I do with these gifts? Where should I hide them until I know the true nature of these people?'

“Then with great sorrow, your master hid the treasures and then set along the beach to look for the island's inhabitants. Along the beach he met a young man clothed in a shawl and armed with a spear.

“Know ye who that young man was, Boar Slayer?” the owl asks me as if he were a tutor himself speaking to a student.

“No, Sir Owl, I do not,” I answer.

“Thick-headed pup! It was Athena herself disguised as a young man!”

Athena!

“Tell me, wisest of animals, what did my master say to the goddess?”

“Pay attention, grizzled one, and I will tell you all. Seeing the young man, your master rushed over to meet the goddess, saying, ‘Dear friend, what land is this and what people live here? Is it an island or part of a mainland, jutting out toward the salty sea?'

“The gray-eyed goddess Athena answered thus: ‘You are a stranger, no doubt, for this is a land with a name. Here there is grain for bread and grapes for wine, goats, cattle, and timber as well, and streams that run all season. Why, even the Trojans have heard of this land, for this is the island Ithaka, stranger.'

“Ahh, Boar Slayer, most men would have rejoiced boldly upon their homecoming, but your master is wily and trusted not this stranger. Instead he checked his words and said, ‘I heard the name Ithaka when I was on Crete, far across the sea, and now I myself have come here. I fled wide Crete and am an exile now, having killed Orsilochos, a man swift of foot, with whom I fought against the Trojans, and who tried to rob me.'

“Then Athena changed herself into a woman again and took your master's hand. ‘Truly you are ever contriving, clever one,' she said. ‘But I know you, Odysseus, and now you know that I am Athena.'

“Your master fell to his knees then, Pink Tongue, crying, ‘It is hard, O goddess, for a man such as me to recognize you, for you take every shape. But is it true that I am back to my dear country? It looks nothing like Ithaka!'

“And then the goddess chastised your master. ‘Wily One, most men, upon arriving home after enduring such great suffering, would have run to their wife and children. But not you.
Why do you ask so many questions? Here, let me prove to you that this is your island.'

“Then, with a wave of her hand, she scattered the mist, and your master began to weep as Ithaka was revealed to him.

“‘Daughter of Zeus,' he cried. ‘Truly you have answered my prayers. I brought with me many treasures, which I have hidden, but now I wish to give them to you as gifts, for gold and jewels are not as dear to me as my own country.'

“Smiling, the goddess lifted your master from his knees and said, ‘What need I of gold and jewels, brave one? Instead let us plot the destruction of the suitors who, even now, would steal your land and corrupt the heart of your loyal wife.'

“Truly, O goddess, with your help I would fight three hundred men.”

And would I, alongside you, master.

“So the goddess and your master entered a nearby cave to make their plan.”

Hearing this, my knees give way.
My master is so close!
I thank the tree owl and then ask, “Tell me, wisest of birds. Where is this cave? Can you lead me there? I can leave this moment!”

“I can take you there, Boar Slayer, but I will not. It is more than a day's walk for an old dog such as yourself, and you would be missed here. The suitors might grow suspicious and
make their own plan to kidnap Penelope, or worse, for your master's son is still away, is he not? It is better for you to stay here and wait. I will tell you what I learn, so that when the time comes for your master's return home, you will be ready.”

I have to admit the tree owl is right. He flies away after saying this, and I return to my watch. Twenty years have passed; I can wait another day or so to smell my master again, to feel his strong hand stroke my fur, to put my muzzle next to his knee. But I do not know his plan, and I cannot take the risk of spoiling it.

I will wait, though my bones ache and my eyes dim.

I will wait.

The next night the owl returns as he had promised.

“I watched the cave all day, Argos,” he tells me. “And late in the afternoon, your master emerged from the entrance with gray-eyed Athena.

“‘Now make your way to your faithful swineherd, Eumaios,' she commanded your master. ‘Wait there for me. Eumaios is loyal and will accommodate you, for he is a good and noble man and friendly to your son and steadfast Penelope. While you are there, I shall go to Sparta, where your son is seeking news of your fate from Menelaos. I have heard that men are
lying in wait for him, seeking to do him harm, but I shall not let evil befall him.'”

“‘Please protect him, fair goddess,' your master said. ‘For I have been gone too long to have my son taken from me at this late juncture.'

“‘Do not worry about Telemachos, brave one,' the goddess replied. ‘Instead think of the vengeance you will have over the suitors if you follow our plan. And remember, do not reveal yourself yet.'

“And upon saying this, she took her wand and tapped Odysseus on his shoulder. Suddenly his handsome flesh began to wither on his bones. His bright eyes dimmed, and his black hair turned gray and sparse. Then the very clothes he wore fell off, and she put a vile and dirty tunic over his body. Finally, arming him with a crooked staff, she bade him farewell, and your master began his journey across the island to find his loyal swineherd. No man would know him now,” the owl says with a snap of his crooked beak.

Argos will,
I think.
Argos will.

T
he owl, not wishing to be seen while Apollo's chariot still flew, sent a kingfisher to follow my master as he ascended a rugged path that led through pine-covered hills and then down into the valley where the loyal swineherd lived, tending to my master's land and herds. According to the kingfisher, the brave one found the swineherd Eumaios sitting on his porch, watching the fields from three sides, ever vigilant and keen of eye.

Inside the enclosure, scores of pigs wallowed and rutted, though their numbers had diminished, I know, because the suitors keep ordering more pigs to roast to feed their craven stomachs. The swineherd keeps four dogs nearby (slow-witted curs, really, but loyal to the swineherd), and when they saw
my master coming along the path toward them, they ran at him with teeth bared. A cowardly man would have swung his staff at the dogs, but my master, instead, lowered his staff and sat down on the path to show he meant no harm. Seeing this brave act, the swineherd ran to my master, shouting at the dogs and driving them back with stones and kicks.

When the dogs retreated, the swineherd said, “Old one, you are either brave or foolish. The dogs might not have heeded me and instead attacked you, as you are defenseless. That would have brought shame on me.”

“Surely your dogs are loyal, and there is no shame in that,” my master said, and offered his hand.

Then Eumaios reached down and pulled my master to his feet. “My dogs are loyal, as am I, for I too seek nothing more than to protect my own master and his herds.”

“And where is your master?” Odysseus asked. “And what is his name?”

“Alas, I do not know where he is—if he is alive and looks on the sunlight while he wanders strange lands, or lies dead. I know only that I mourn him, and I grieve for his family, who miss him most.”

“That is a sad tale,” my master said, his eyes watering as he learned of his servant's honor.

“Indeed, but I think that you too have sad tales to tell. Come, old man, enter my shelter and I will give you food and wine, for no man is a stranger under Zeus.”

The kingfisher followed the men and hopped onto the porch to listen while the swineherd and my master shared goat stew and wine, but not before making offerings to the gods. After they had eaten, my master said, “Tell me your name that I may remember you for your loyalty to your master, should I meet him.”

“My name is Eumaios, but alas, I fear you will never meet my master, thanks to cursed Helen, for many brave men died on her account. In Agamemnon's cause, my master went to Ilion, there to fight the Trojans, and he never returned, but perished perhaps. In his absence the land is overrun by cowards who would seek my master's land and steal his loyal wife. They demand his fattest pigs for their stomachs and steal his sheep and goats. They despoil his land and neglect his vines and olive trees. Truly they are savages and not fit to live among clean and noble men. Even yourself, old and tattered as you are, are more noble and honest, I can attest.”

My master said nothing for a time and let the swineherd grieve. Then he said, “Dear friend, tell me the name of your master. You say he perished in Agamemnon's cause. Tell me
his name, for I have wandered many places and perhaps met him along the way, for a man such as that would have stood tall among other men.”

Eumaios stirred his fire and said nothing for some time. Finally he spoke. “Old sir, I fear you will never meet him. The dogs and the vultures have yanked the skin from his bones by now, or else the fish have eaten him, out in the great sea, and his bones lie buried in the sand upon a beach. So he must have perished, leaving his loyal wife and brave son to mourn him, and for me, most of all, for I will never know a lord as kind again as he. How I long to behold his eyes again, on this, his island. You asked me his name, sir, but I have some modesty naming it, for in his heart he loved me, and so I call him my master, though he is dead.”

Moved greatly by his servant's loyalty, my master said softly, “Dear friend, on my oath I tell you that Odysseus is on his way home. Within days he will return, and he will take his revenge upon any who deprives his wife and son of the honor they are due.”

But the swineherd only shook his head.

“I don't know if what you say is true, my friend,” he said. “But I pray to the gods that brave Odysseus comes soon, for his stalwart son Telemachos left this fair isle many days ago to
seek news of his father. And even now the dread suitors, I hear, are planning to ambush him upon his return, so that his name is never heard again on this island.”

Hearing this, my master, the Wily One, said nothing. Then faithful Eumaios fed my master again and gave him wine, and they talked of ships and faraway islands and said nothing more of Odysseus's return. When it grew late, my master thanked the swineherd and said, “I have but one more request, dear friend. My clothes are nothing more than rags, and winter approaches. Do you have a mantle and tunic I might wear tomorrow? I shall return it if it pleases the gods.”

“Yes, old sir,” Eumaios said. “I have only a few cloaks and mantles, but you shall have my finest as a reward for keeping an old, lonely swineherd company.”

Saying this, he laid out a mantle and tunic, simple but clean, and spread out another mantle on which my master would sleep.

“Thank you, kind friend,” my master said. “And where will you sleep tonight?”

“I am but a lowly swineherd,” the old man said. “I sleep with the pigs.”

I still cannot believe that my master is here in fair Ithaka, and I have yet not seen him. I have been patient for so long, and now it is almost too much to bear. I have turned and begun to walk toward the sheep paddock when, suddenly, my back legs give way. After a few minutes I manage to stand and walk again, but I totter on my feet like a newborn fawn.
Hurry, master!