Argos (7 page)

A
t first I did not believe the mountain sparrow, but as the days pass and no black ship is sighted at the harbor, I begin to fear the worst. Odysseus, sacker of cities, would not forget his homeland, his beloved wife, his valiant son, and his loyal dog unless a goddess had emptied his mind.

My mistress Penelope weeps every night by the sea. When the suitors leave, she takes her torch, and she and I climb down the narrow trail to the rocky beach, and she lays her hand on my shoulder and cries to the gods for the return of my master. Great is her despair and terrible are her lamentations. Most nights she holds the torch up as high as she can, waving it in great arcs above her head, as if my master's sleek black ship is bearing toward us, and the lookouts, perched high on the
mast, on seeing the torch, will guide the black ship safely home to Ithaka. The ship never arrives.

Then, when the torch is nearly extinguished, I guide my mistress back to our house, walking slowly so she doesn't stumble along the path. At the door I step aside and let her enter, while I begin another night of sentinel duty, patrolling the sheep pens, guarding them from the mountain wolves, and human thieves too, until at dawn, when Apollo begins his journey across the sky, I curl up next to the barn and sleep for a few minutes until the roosters crow. Such is my fate now.

As the months pass, Telemachos grows into a young man. His voice no longer squeaks when he talks, and hair has begun to grow on his face. Every morning tutors come from the village and work with him. How hard he studies! He has learned all the gods by name and what prayers to say to them. He practices his letters and reads poetry. Sometimes he reads it to me, and I confess, it puts me to sleep. Then there are the numbers! I do not understand the marks he makes, but he must understand it well because the tutors no longer strike him on the wrist—although perhaps now they are afraid to. Then, in the afternoon, there is wrestling and spear throwing, archery, and boxing. On days when there is wind, he goes to the harbor and
practices his sailing. A king must know all these things, and one day Telemachos will be a king.

But now he is a boy who misses his father.

Now, in his thirteenth spring, Telemachos has turned even more inward, for there is no man about to teach him the ways of the hunt, as boys learn at this age. And so Telemachos broods. I know he wishes to hunt, because he spends long hours practicing with his bow and hurling his spear at gourds, but he knows nothing of tracking game, of staying downwind from the fearful doe; he knows not the footprint of the wild pig, nor where the hares make their warrens. Neither does he know to strike a pair of antlers with hard wood to taunt a buck into showing himself, nor does he know where the point of the spear must go if a boar charges. In short, he knows nothing about how to hunt like a man, and so I will teach him to hunt like a dog.

This morning Telemachos rises early to practice with his bow. I follow him out to the pasture, where he sets up a gourd, and when he sets down his bow to lift the gourd up to the fencepost, I take his bow in my mouth and trot away. He runs after me, calling my name, but for once I disobey him and continue to lead him away from the house and toward a stream
deep in the wooded valley where the deer come to drink. But humanfolk are so loud! How to get him to stop calling my name?

I stop and let him catch up to me, and I put the bow down at my paws. When he stoops to pick it up, I take one end in my mouth and begin to tug, leading him farther into the woods. He follows me, curious to play my new game. But it is not a game. To hunt is to live. I crouch down and slowly creep up a hill, sniffing the air to make sure the wind has not changed. Telemachos, as smart as his father, soon realizes what I am doing and crouches low alongside me. Together we slither into the wood, barely disturbing a leaf. Every few minutes I stop to sniff the air, and Telemachos sniffs as well, although humans have pitifully small noses. Then I rub my face in the dirt, and the boy does too, darkening his shiny face, which animals can see for leagues.

We pass a tree where a young buck has rubbed off the bark with its antlers. I stand on my hind legs and lean against the tree, showing him the missing bark. I think he understands. Farther along the trail, where it grows wet, I see the footprints of a deer. Telemachos walks past it, so I growl softly until he turns, and then I put my nose next to the footprint and growl again. He sees instantly what he'd missed. Now he
knows we are close to our prey.

As Apollo carries his chariot higher, we reach the hidden stream. There we duck under a laurel and wait. First one small doe appears, then another. Soon they are joined by as many deer as there are whiskers on my snout. I look at Telemachos and lick his bow hand. Slowly he notches an arrow and raises his bow. Then, as often happens in the morning, the wind shifts, bringing our scent to the deer. Several raise their heads, alert, ready to flee.

Now!
I think.

I hear the hum of his bowstring and see the arrow take flight. He has aimed for the largest buck, a proud deer that did not test the wind when it shifted and brought new scents. That costs the deer his life.

Telemachos, who is not a boastful boy, whispers his gratitude to the gods and then hugs my neck. Together we clamber down to the stream. Telemachos ties a leather cord to one of the buck's legs, and we drag the carcass back to the farm until one of the servants comes out to help us the rest of the way. Later, that servant shows Telemachos how to dress the deer so that none of it is wasted. The skin is hung to dry, the hooves are boiled for a jelly, the entrails given to the lesser dogs after a priest reads them. That is our way on this island.

Now it is late afternoon and the suitors have arrived, as they do almost daily, to vie for my mistress's hand and my master's estate. Although they come day after day, month after month, they are guests and cannot be refused hospitality. To do so would bring shame and dishonor on the house of Odysseus throughout Achaia, which my mistress would not allow. Nor do we have enough servants and shepherds to drive them away when they are rude or insolent, though they hear my growls when they berate a servant or complain to a shepherd that his sheep are not fat enough.

Just as I am about to head to a far pasture to bring in a flock, one of the suitors sees the deer Telemachos has slain, dressed and ready for the spit. He orders the servant to prepare a fire and to cook it straightaway, for the men were growing hungry, complaining that “Fair Penelope offers us little meat.”

“No,” declares Telemachos firmly, stepping between the suitor and the servant. “The deer is my kill, and it is for my family and servants to eat. Not for men who should hunt for themselves.”

The suitor draws back his hand to cuff the insolent Telemachos, but I leap between them, baring my teeth. Behind me, I hear Telemachos draw his xiphos, a small sword, but sharp enough to sting. The suitor, who had left his spear at the door
to the main house, turns and walks away, uttering oaths at Telemachos for his rude behavior. Later that night the suitors are sent home, cursing and hungry, but the family of Odysseus, son of Laertes, dines well.

Throughout summer and autumn we continue to hunt. Telemachos misses many kills and makes many more. Such is hunting. We trap hares, his arrows find more deer, and he spears a feral pig. The boy grows strong; his spear arm fills out with muscle, and his legs grow stout enough to carry his kill many leagues. But of his father, my master Odysseus, the boy and I hear not, despite my pleas to the seabirds to bring back news, and sadness descends on the house of Laertes as another winter approaches.

W
inter comes fierce and unforgiving to Ithaka. The livestock grows lean and huddles together against the cold winds; mountain wolves grow bolder, encroaching on nearby farms—but not my master's; and few ships enter our harbor, so we hear no news. Then early this morning, while I am making my rounds, the mountain sparrow returns! Again, he seems bathed in a golden drop of light.

“Boar Slayer,” he calls down to me. “I leave for Aiaia when rosy dawn comes. If your master and his companions still live, though madness has seized them, I will tell you of it when I return in the spring and winter has left our island.”

Hearing this, I have an idea. My master is known as the Wily One, but I am clever also.

“Wait, Sir Sparrow,” I call. “Can you take something to my master, something from Ithaka? Perhaps it will jar his mind and the madness will leave him!”

“What can I carry, Argos?” the sparrow asks. “I am small and my wings will not support any great weight. Even a grasshopper in my claws soon becomes too heavy, and Aiaia is a long journey from here.”

I say nothing. Instead, I sit down and pull up my rear leg and begin to scratch my neck. In winter I do not shed, so I claw mightily. Soon a clump of my black fur falls to the ground.

“Take this,” I say to the mountain sparrow. “Surely my fur is light enough for your journey, and your claws can easily grip it. When you reach Aiaia, leave this fur where my master can see it. If the gods are good, then he will remember his life here.”

The mountain sparrow flies down and grasps the fur in his claws. “It might work, loyal one, for sometimes the gods
are
good if we act without their help. When I return, I hope it is with good news!”

Then, clutching the tuft of fur in his claws, the mountain sparrow flies away. I follow him as he darts among the junipers along the edge of the estate, and then he turns south and east, flying into the dawn, and I can see him no longer. Then I return to my rounds.

Spring comes and Ithaka turns green again. Meadow flowers bloom, and the shepherds spend long nights delivering lambs and kids. In the warm afternoons, Telemachos and I take long walks along the goat trails that cross this part of the island, and he complains bitterly about his tutors or the latest insult from the suitors. Not once does he mention his father.

When we return in the evening, Telemachos strokes my face and scratches my ears, and then, reluctantly, joins the suitors for dinner. A few of the suitors, realizing that he no longer speaks of Odysseus, have tried to befriend him in order to win my mistress Penelope's favor. They sometimes offer him choice cuts of meat and give him small gifts such as soft sandals and flutes, which he accepts graciously, as his mother has taught him.

Tonight, as the suitors are feasting, one of them, Ktesippos, a balding fat man with the swollen belly of a giant sow, offers to teach Telemachos how to wrestle.

“I am the greatest wrestler on Ithaka,” he boasts. “No man has thrown me, nor remained upright in my grip. Here, let me show you.”

He stands up and comes around to where Telemachos sits. I rise to my feet, but Telemachos puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Come, boy,” Ktesippos says. “Stand up and face me. Let me see your stance.”

And Telemachos does stand up, but he wrestles Ktesippos with words, not muscle, saying, “You may be the finest wrestler on Ithaka, Ktesippos, since only schoolboys and old men are left on this island. But when my father, the city sacker, returns, he will break your arms and throw you on your back, and you will regret the day you sought to replace him!”

Then, hearing these stinging words, Ktesippos swings his right hand to cuff Telemachos, but Telemachos ducks, and then punches the clumsy suitor in his ample gut. The big man falls to his knees while the other suitors laugh and hurl food at the groaning man.

“Come, Argos,” Telemachos says. “These craven men do not deserve to sit at the table of brave Odysseus with his son.”

A few of the suitors hear these winged words and stand up to protest, but Telemachos and I turn and leave the room. From there we walk to a hillside shrine for Zeus, and there Telemachos makes an offering to Zeus asking that his father return soon, and he swears then to the father of the gods that never again will a day pass without his father's name passing his lips. I will help him keep that promise.

A week has passed since the night the suitors behaved so disgracefully, and the birds have begun to return to Ithaka. I watch each flock, hoping it brings the mountain sparrow, but none do. And then, this evening, I hear a familiar voice.

“Boar Slayer, I return bearing news of your master,” the mountain sparrow calls as he alights on a branch near the sheep pasture where I stand guarding spring lambs.

“Greetings, loyal friend,” I reply, my heart tumbling like a newborn lamb trying to walk. “Do you come from Aiaia? Did my plan work? Did my master remember his land and his family? Tell me at once!”

“What plan was that?”

“Sir Sparrow, you took a clump of my fur and were to give it to my master!”

Suddenly a ray of light appears, shining on the bird's tiny crested head.

“Of course! That plan! Yes, your plan worked, Argos! Brave Odysseus saw your black fur and a veil was lifted from his eyes. How piteous were his tears and those of his men when he spoke to them. Even fair Circe was moved by his suffering.”

Oh, what joy I feel then! I leap into the air twisting and turning, unable to restrain myself.

“So she will let him leave now, will she not, friend?” I ask,
once I can stand still. “My master sails soon?”

But the sparrow dips his head and says softly, “Argos, the gods give and then take away, is that not so?”

“What do you mean, Sir Sparrow? Surely the goddess will release my master! What more could she want?”

Then the sparrow flies down from the branch so that I will not miss a word.

“Let me tell you straightaway what happened, loyal one, before I forget. When I reached Aiaia, I flew directly to your master. I found him carving a small flute, but his eyes were mindless, Boar Slayer, as if he had no thoughts in his head. I landed on his knee then, which took great courage, I must say, because we birds do not enjoy a man's touch, and I dropped your fur onto his lap.

“After a moment he lay down his carving knife and picked up your fur, studying it with great intensity. Then I saw a smile creep across his noble face, and his eyes grew bright—as bright as twin stars, Argos. Then he leaped to his feet and began to seek out fair Circe. He found her in her garden and approached her, saying, ‘Goddess, it is time to think again of returning to my own country, if truly it is ordained that I shall return. Accomplish now the promise you gave. See me on my way home. The spirit within me is great, and my men
and I wish to see our home.'

“Then fair Circe nodded, as if she had known this day would come. ‘Son of Laertes and seed of Zeus,' she said sadly, ‘you shall no longer stay at my house if you wish to leave. But first there is another journey you must undertake.'

“‘And what is that journey, fair Circe?' your master asked.”

“‘You must sail to the house of Hades, the land of the dead,' the goddess answered. ‘Once there, you must slaughter your sheep and make a pool of their blood. When the spirits of the dead drink this, they will become as flesh and speak to you. But let the prophet Teiresias drink first, for his is the tale most worth knowing, for the dead speak only of the past, while Teiresias knows how your fate will spin, as he, though blind, can see the future and help you return to Ithaka.”

And then the sparrow begins to weep.

“I left then, Boar Slayer,” he finally manages to say. “I could not follow your master to Hades. I was too afraid.”

“Sir Sparrow,” I say gently. “I thank you for what you have done in the service of my master. Now it is spring and you must build a nest. Go and fashion a strong one for your family. You can do no more for me. Nor can anyone, I think.”