Argos (2 page)

T
ruly the gods are good. This afternoon mistress Penelope ordered the servants to leave her. Then she took Telemachos by the hand and, with no guard but myself, led us to a mountain meadow where they would make a picnic. It has been many years since I have seen my mistress so at ease, and so I believe she has heard from the oracles that my master returns soon. While Telemachos chases butterflies and my mistress picks mountain flowers, grape hyacinths, and scarlet anemones, I keep watch, as it is my duty and my joy.

Telemachos, seeing his mother happy at last, brings a wild iris to her. How they embrace! I sit down next to them, watching and waiting. Finally Telemachos says, “Argos wants a hug too!” and they fold me into their circle. When Telemachos lets
go, he scrambles to his feet and grabs a small spear to practice his javelin throwing. I am tempted to run after him, but I must stay with my mistress Penelope, who weaves a garland of flowers.

Watching his son and wife, how can I not think of my master? He has been gone now for more than ten years. How we have all changed! Telemachos grows tall, but not yet broad, and his black hair curls in ringlets like his father's. Mistress Penelope is still radiant, outshining all the women of Ithaka, but sometimes the shadow of worry crosses her face, her green eyes sparkle less, and her lips forget how to smile. As for myself, I have seen just a few more days than Telemachos, but I have passed half my life, while he is still a pup. A pup who throws a javelin far.

Across the meadow I see movement. A doe, trailed by her fawn, steps carefully into the meadow, leaving the safety of the forest to graze on green grass and flowers. Mistress Penelope follows my gaze and sees them as well. She puts her hand on my shoulder, but there is no need. Today is not a day to hunt. Even Telemachos lowers his javelin to watch the pair. Then the trees move again. A buck steps into the meadow. The buck does not graze like the doe and the fawn but holds his antlered head high, watching over them.

“Three of them now,” whispers Telemachos. “There is the father! Mother, the fawn has a father!”

“You have a father too,” mistress Penelope reminds him gently.

“But he is not here on Ithaka, is he?” the boy says. “He is not here to watch over us.”

“No, Telemachos, my son, he is not. But he left Argos here for that purpose until he returns.”

I turn to lick Telemachos's hand, and when I do, I see him. A hunter. No, a
poacher
, on our land. He has a bow in his hands and is slowly raising it.

I bark. The buck turns its head. I bark again, and he sees the hunter. I hear a hum and the whistle of an arrow flying past us. But I have warned them in time. No animal on Ithaka has a faster first step than a deer. Before the arrow can strike, the deer are gone.

I turn back to the poacher and bark again, but after missing the shot, he retreated into the forest. I start to chase after him, but my mistress calls me back.

“Come, Argos, Telemachos. Let this day not be ruined with blood. The poacher's arrow missed, thanks to the Boar Slayer. Now it grows late, and the servants will be worried.”

“What about the poacher?” asks Telemachos. “Should we let him get away?”

“I will send out guards when we return. If the poacher is still on our land, they will find him,” my mistress says.

Or I will find him myself
,
I think.

Then mistress Penelope packs her sitting cloth and gathers the flowers she had picked. Telemachos throws his javelin one last time—the farthest he has ever thrown it—and we take the trail back to my master's house, Telemachos chatting happily about his new prowess, and his mother assuring him he will grow to be the finest javelin thrower in all Achaia.

But I can sense something is different on Ithaka; grim tidings are in the air.

I hear them first, and then smell them, for the wind is not strong: men. I climb the ridge that runs along the western side of my master's farm and look down at the road. A great throng of men, armed with spears, but using them as walking staffs, is heading our way. The fur on my spine rises and my lips pull back into a snarl. But I wait a moment before barking. Then I see several of them laugh and hear others singing. They are not on a raid, I realize. Is there a festival today? Then I wonder:
Is my master returning? Is this a welcoming party?
Despite my best efforts to control it, my tail begins to wag.

I watch the approaching men for a few more moments,
straining to hear word of my master, but I hear only my mistress Penelope's name on their lips. Then one of our servants comes running up the road to greet the men. After a few minutes, he turns and runs back to my master's palace, and soon all the servants are rushing around, stoking the cook fires and arranging chairs in the great hall, bringing great jugs of wine from the cellars and sharpening knives, and I hear the squeal of a pig being led to slaughter.

A moment later I hear barking, and soon after I see a pack of dogs, my herding pack, running toward me. They are led by Titus, a loyal but thickheaded mongrel, who guards the far pastures when he isn't scavenging food from the servants. The other dogs—curs, mainly, of dubious lineage—stand a few steps behind him, as befits their status, barking sporadically at the wind.

“Who are those men, Boar Slayer?” Titus asks. “Are they marauders? Thieves?” The fur along his back bristles at his own words.

“I know not their purpose, Titus, but thieves and marauders seldom travel by day, nor do they sing or dress themselves in fine tunics, I think.”

“So it would seem. What should we do then?” Titus asks, sitting now on his haunches.

“Do? What is there to do?” I reply. “Return to your flocks and herds and tell your underlings to stop barking at shadows. The men approach my master's home and so I shall investigate their purpose.” Behind Titus, a mangy-looking whelp barks again, and Titus spins around and snaps at him, biting his ear and sending him scampering away.

Truly,
I think,
I must build a stronger pack.

Just then I hear a whistle. Telemachos!

“Go, Titus. I will summon you if I need you,” I say.

I leave the ridge and run back down to the palace. My master's son is outside in the courtyard. When he sees me, he claps his hands and I run up to him. He is blinking back tears and his fists are clenched.
Is he sad or angry?
Humans have such complex emotions!

“They are suitors, Argos,” he whispers. “They think my father died after the fall of Troy and so they seek my mother's hand in marriage, as is the custom throughout Achaia, so one of them can inherit my father's land as I am too young to hold it.”

My master dead?

I growl at these words, and again the fur along my back stands up straight.
How dare they! What proof do they have?

“Easy, Argos,” Telemachos says gently, stroking my back.
“They are many and we are few. My mother will send them on their way once we have fed them. That is her duty.”

I sit on my haunches so he can pat my head, and we wait for the men to arrive at our courtyard. Since many of the island's bravest men left with my master years ago, the only men left on the island are poor farmers, shepherds, and traders, along with these men, who were too old to fight with my master when he left, too young at the time to leave home, or too craven to test their skills against the Trojans. None are worthy of my mistress.

I knew some of their names: Antinoos, Eurymachos, Agelaus, Ktesippos, Leiocritus, and more; even together, they are not worthy to enter our estate. When they reach the courtyard, they stop, stamping the butts of their spears down in unison as if they are trained warriors. Telemachos and I approach them. He has one hand firmly on my neck, but there is no need. They are guests, arriving with peaceful intentions, and it is Telemachos's role, as the only man in the household, to welcome them.

After he has done so, they enter the great hall, and there they remain for the rest of the day, eating and drinking my master's stores and insulting his servants when they are too slow to refill a cup or slice their meat. My mistress Penelope never
comes down to greet them, and they leave when Luna is high in the sky. Antinoos's last words to Telemachos are that they will return the next day, and the day after, and the day after that, until his mother chooses one of them to marry.

Hearing this, I know one thing: woe has come to the house of Odysseus.

It is late now, and my master's house is quiet and dark. Even the guards are dozing, as it is the hour before rosy dawn comes to Ithaka. I make my way down to the shore, guided by Luna's face. The seagulls are asleep on the jetty, hundreds of them with their heads tucked behind their wings. I wake them all with a single bark. When they finish squawking, I say this: “You must fly higher and farther and find King Odysseus. If you fail, another man will become king and our fair isle is doomed. Go now, and do not return without news.”

Their wings fill the sky.

T
his afternoon, while I am dozing in the sun—I had been up all night guarding sheep—a gull approaches me. I have one eye open and one closed, in the manner of most guard dogs, so I am both asleep and awake at the same time. The gull wakes me with a squawk next to my ear. I jump to my feet, jaws ready to snap his wing, but the gull is already hovering in the air, too high for me to reach.

“Are you the one called the Boar Slayer?” he asks, circling above my head.

“Yes, I am called that,” I growl. “Come down so that I may introduce myself properly,” I add.

“I think not, Boar Slayer. But I do come bearing news for you.”

“News of what, orange beak? Nets full of fish? The lapping of the waves? The tide coming in and out?”

I do not like to be awakened from a nap, and truly the gulls are more likely to report a school of fish near the shore than news of my master. Still, this gull does not look familiar to me: his wings are darker than our gulls on Ithaka, and his accent is foreign.

“Very well. I will not bother you again. Perhaps we'll talk another time if you are busy.”

The gull hovers higher and begins to arc its wings, then turns with the wind.

“Wait!” I cry, and sit back on my haunches.
Why would a strange gull fly up here to the highlands if not for important news?

The gull circles lazily back toward me, dipping low above my head.

“Forgive my impertinence, high flyer. I was dreaming that my master had returned to Ithaka, and I woke to see that he had not, and so my temper was aroused. But what news do you bring? I will gladly listen to it.”

The gull does not answer, but instead catches a gust of wind and soars high above me. “Brothers,” he squawks. “I have found the Boar Slayer!”

A few moments later, dozens of gulls appear over the ridge and swoop down low over me, eventually landing beside the gull who had woken me.

“Could you not tell me the news yourself, white wing?”

“No, I could not, Boar Slayer. Truly, we gulls belong in flocks. That is how Father Zeus made us. If you see a gull alone, it is merely waiting for others to arrive, or searching for food to tell them about. We prefer to speak with our brothers nearby, to form a chorus of our words. We find this pleasing, though men who do not know our language complain about our noise, it is true.”

“Your flock is with you now, so tell me then your news,” I say. “What do you herald?”

“Only this. Your master's ships left Troy some months back, Argos, sailing toward Ithaka. I know this because I was following your master's fleet—or I should say, following a school of anchovies.”

“Anchovies! Anchovies! Anchovies!” his flock echoes.

I cannot restrain myself from a loud bark. The gull's story echoes the owl's!

“Then he returns soon, whitest of birds! My master is returning with his men! How joyous the celebration will be!”

But the gull says nothing. He spreads his long wings and again hovers effortlessly above me. Then he lands on a fencepost.

“Have you ever eaten an anchovy, Argos? Truly, I would fly to faraway Crete for an anchovy. They are quite delicious.”

“Delicious! Delicious! Delicious!” the gulls cry.

Seagulls are the most ravenous birds, thinking constantly about food, so I know I have to be patient with him before he will complete his tale.

“I shall have to try one sometime, my friend,” I say. “But what of my master's ship? When will he arrive?”

“Some birds claim they are too oily, but I think not.”

“When my master returns, I shall eat one in celebration with you.”

The gull tucks his head in its wing for a moment and then turns one yellow eye toward me.

“There will be no celebration, loyal Argos. The winds drove your master's many ships to Ismaros, a small island by the Kikonians. There your master and his men sacked the city, killing the men and taking their wives and possessions, as men returning from war are wont to do. Still, your master was light of foot and wanted to leave, but his men behaved shamelessly and drank too much wine and slaughtered many
sheep and cattle to feast upon.”

“Shame! Shame! Shame!” the gulls cry in unison.

How unlike dogs men are, to kill so wantonly
,
I think.
Surely the gods made them like themselves, petty and cruel as often as noble and heroic.

The gull suddenly spreads its wings and launches itself into the sky, flying a circle above my head. Seconds later his flock joins him, spinning gyres in the sky, making me dizzy.

“Ahh, the fishermen return to the dock. They will have nets full of calamari. We shall dine well this evening,” he cries to his brethren, ignoring me.

“Sir Gull,” I cry. “Is that all you have to say? Is my master sailing again toward Ithaka? If that is your story, I thank thee for your efforts.”

Again he hovers above me; then he perches on a sea-pine branch, turning his head sideways to look at me.

“There is more to tell, Boar Slayer. Some men from the city escaped the slaughter and retreated to safety, summoning their kin from the interior of the country. These were hard, fighting men, with horses and armor, and there were many. They came early in the morning, and Father Zeus gave your master's men evil luck. The Achaians fought for hours and bravely, but eventually they were beaten back. Out of each of your master's
fleet, six were killed, but some were able to board their ships and sail away, as the Kikonians are not sailors.”

“But surely my master lives, bright-winged gull?”

“Aye, noble Argos. If only he had had a crew such as himself, he would have won the day. But he lived and was glad to escape death, I think. Now I must go. Calamari is best eaten fresh.”

He lives. My master lives.

“We must go! We must go! We must go!”

“One moment, please,” I beg. “So my master returns now, though with fewer men? Still, the gods will be praised when they return.”

A third time the gull hovers and lands. Again, he turns his head sideways to look at me. “Boar Slayer, hear me out. Not long had they left Ismaros before storm-minded Zeus sent a foul north wind against their ships, and although they rowed hard against it, their sails were ripped and had to be stowed. For two days and two nights your master and his men laid up, bailing their ships and grieving for their lost friends. Then, on the third day, glorious dawn came, clear-eyed and dry, and I heard your master shout: ‘Rig the sails and steer us home to Ithaka!'

“Ithaka! Ithaka! Ithaka!”

“How his men cheered that morn, Argos! But from atop the mast, I saw clouds scuttling by, as quick and silver as a school of tuna, and I knew that Father Zeus was not yet appeased. Once they rounded their swift ships past Maleia, the bitter winds changed course again and drove them for nine days until they made shore. That was when I left their ships, Argos, for the waters there hold few fish. I have flown for many days and nights, and now I must eat and rest. My mate will be laying her eggs soon, and she too enjoys calamari. Shrimp as well.”

He smacks his beak as he says this, and then the gull launches himself into the air and turns into the wind. I bark once, and he dips his head to listen.

“Wait!” I cry. “Faithful friend, highest flyer of all the birds, what of my master? Where did he and his men land? Will they be returning soon?”

The gull circles twice and then flies low, low enough for me to hear his terrible reply. “Your master and his men landed in the country of the Lotus Eaters, noble Argos. Forget your master and tend to his son. No man returns from there alive.”

Then, with an arch of his silver wings, he takes the wind and flies away.

“No return! No return! No return!” his flock calls back to me.