Argos (9 page)

T
here is a cleft between two ridges on the south side of Ithaka where a small berry shrub grows. The berries that grow on it are plump and bloodred, oozing sweet, sticky juice, but even the insects avoid it. I have heard the birds warn one another that the berries are poisonous; to eat just a drop of their red juice means agonizing death. I am going to find it.

I travel at night, while the flocks are safe in their barns, following the deer trails that bisect the island. Selene, goddess of the full moon, guides me deep into the valleys, lighting the path for me.

“What do you seek in this valley, Argos the Boar Slayer?” a hedgehog asks, emerging from the underbrush, when I find myself lost.

I tell him what I seek.

The hedgehog nods once and then stares at me, unblinking, from beneath a tree root for a few moments. “Pick me up,” he says. “I will take you to it.”

He curls up and I take him gently in my mouth, avoiding his barbs, and follow his directions until he says we have arrived. Then I set him down, and he uncurls and stretches his spiny back.

“There is the bush you seek, Boar Slayer. The stem is safe to put in your mouth, but do not let your tongue touch the berries or lap their juice. If you do, I have heard that goat's milk will ease the poison, but you must drink it soon after, or you will die.”

“Thank you, Brother Hedgehog,” I say. “Good hunting to you.”

“I thank you. Where is your master, Odysseus? Does he return soon?” he asks.

“I have heard that he sails back to Aiaia, but he will return home soon if the gods are willing.”

The hedgehog nods. “Few men return from that island, I think, loyal one. But if any man should, it will be your master.”

Then he waddles off to hunt for an ant mound. I don't dwell on his dispiriting words about Circe, for I have to return to the
farm. I circle the bush and find the stem with the most berries on it. Placing the stem between my jaws, I bite through it and twist it off, careful not to break any of the berries. Then, with the stem firmly in my jaws, I turn around and retrace my steps home. Selene casts her silver light in front of me, and I return to my master's land just before she sinks beneath the hills.

Noble Telemachos has left the leg bone of an ox near my bed and I crack it open, digging out the marrow with my teeth. I need to draw strength from that bone, the strength of an ox, for tomorrow night I may be fighting mountain wolves. I gnaw it for an hour, sharpening my teeth to fine points. Then I rest until I hear the dull bleat of a sheep. It's time to take them to the fields.

I bury the stem of berries to keep the goats from eating it—they will eat anything—and trot down to the sheep stall. A shepherd boy is there, and he unties the gate. The sheep come streaming out, and I lead them to a fine, grassy hill where, from the crest, I can watch them easily. All day long while they eat their grass, I rest and rehearse my plan.

The suitors arrive in midafternoon, but this day I don't growl at them as they approach the house. I remain high above on the hilltop, watching. Only my eyes move. Later, I see Telemachos leave the house and take the path that leads down to the
harbor. He whistles for me, but for once, I don't run to him. He whistles again.

Oh, the sting of that whistle! Menfolk will never know how a simple whistle from their master cuts into a dog's heart. It is born into us. We freeze! We listen! Our hearts race! Our tails wag! Every instinct I have told me to run to him; he would praise me, rub my back, and scratch my ears. Some dogs live for this. A silly barnyard dog does. A weak housedog does. A clumsy puppy does. But I am Argos, the Boar Slayer, and tonight I must kill wolves. I whimper once, softly, then I cover my ears with my paws and lie perfectly still while Telemachos gazes out over the fields looking for me. Finally he turns and heads down the path that will lead him to the harbor. Alone.

What if robbers waylay him? No,
I tell myself, he is godlike Telemachos, and he is armed with a sword.
What if a wolf sees him walking alone and attacks from behind? No,
I think, there are no wolves that close to the shore. He is going to the harbor to ask if any sailors have seen his father's swift boat while they sailed the islands. He does this every week, hoping to hear news that my master lives. I know the answer. He has been among the dead, but he still lives.

Finally the shepherd boy calls my name, and I begin to round up the sheep. I had kept them close together, much to their
dismay, so in a few minutes I have them streaming down the hill toward their stalls, where they will drink and ruminate their cuds, for they have no real thoughts. At least one will be taken for dinner this day, if the suitors have their wish.

Then I run to the place where I buried the berries and dig up the stem. Grasping it firmly in my jaws, I take the trail that leads west into the pine-covered hills beyond Mount Nerito. The wolves will reach it tonight coming from the other direction. Along the way, I stop at the goat barn at the far end of my master's land.

Several goats stand along the fence, chewing the grass between the rails. I drop the berry stem and trot over to them. I find a doe that has recently given birth and push aside its nursing kids until my own belly is full of goat milk. If my plan fails and I swallow poison berry juice, perhaps it will save me.

After several hours I reach the spot I've chosen for my plan, an overgrown valley with a small clearing surrounded by large rocks on two sides and a steep drop-off into a ravine on a third. A small creek trickles some distance away. Many deer come there to drink. And so do their hunters. But the location suits me: a mountain wolf pack cannot surround me here. Best of all, the place smells of boar, for it once served as the lair of a boar sow. Telemachos himself had killed it, with my help.

Luna has fallen, and rosy dawn is an hour away. The wolves will be stirring, hungry after a long night. It's time. I take the stem of berries and place it on the flat grass in the clearing. Then I lower myself onto it, crushing the berries with my chest, staining the white shield of fur there bloodred. Then I roll over and over on the berries, spreading their juice on my sides and back. I even, carefully, smear some of the juice on my muzzle, taking care not to lick it. Then I lie on my side and begin to whimper.

After a few minutes, a magpie lands on a tree above me.
Not now!
I think. I know him; he had been my messenger to the wolf pack earlier. Now I'm afraid he will spoil my plan.

“Noble Argos,” he calls down. “Are you wounded?”

“Yes, friend. A boar tusked me.”

I can't tell him the truth. Magpies are notorious gossips.

“Can you walk?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “I think not.”

“You must try, loyal one. The mountain wolves are coming. Get up, if you can, and flee!”

“How many are there?”

“Ten or more. It is the new pack from the west. They travel together. Hurry, Argos. Try to run! Their scouts will be here soon.”

“Let them come, magpie. I do not fear death. But I would not have you see it. Fly away and return when it is done.”

Then I close my eyes and wait, lolling my tongue, making myself pant. Finally, just as I hear the wolf pack scouts entering the clearing, the magpie leaves his branch.

“Die well,” he calls back to me.

I close my eyes and whimper loudly.
Oh, the shame of that sound.
But it works. It draws the wolves close. There are two, I think. I keep my eyes closed tight, but I hear them approach. They circle me in opposite directions, growling softly. Finally one of them finds the courage to speak.

“You are Argos, are you not?”

“I am,” I groan.

“Who has killed you?”

“A boar did this. He pierced my chest. I will die soon.”

“Sooner than you think, dog of man. My brother and I will tear your throat, and you will not threaten our pack again.”

I open my eyes. They are a skinny, mangy-looking duo, both dirty gray and barely two years old, with no status in the pack.

“You can kill me, it is true, brother. But what will your leader say when he finds that you robbed him of this glory? He will bite off your tails and then you will never mate, will he not?”

“He speaks the truth, brother,” the smaller one says. “There
is more glory in finding him and telling Lykaon. He will reward our loyalty with more food, and we will grow stronger. And we will keep our tails.”

I whimper again. “Go quickly, brave pups. I will not live long enough for your debate. And finding a corpse will not help you.”

“The Boar Slayer is right, brother,” the small one says. “We must hurry.”

“Live a bit longer, Argos,” the older wolf says. “To die like this, alone, would bring shame to your descendants.”

“He has no descendants, brother! All Ithaka knows that!”

They laugh madly.

I will rip out their hearts right now for that insult,
I think,
but I cannot do it now.
Instead, I whimper again and roll my eyes.

“He dies! We must hurry!”

I hear them run off. Apollo's chariot rises higher over the tree line.
Soon,
I think.
Soon.

Mountain wolves—even a pack of them—move silently in the hunt, but this pack is not hunting. They are seeking glory. I hear them howling and snarling from several stadia away. Only when they draw close do they stop their yelping. I open my eyes and wait. Their leader, Lykaon, shows himself first.
He is the largest wolf I have ever seen; his diamond-shaped head is as massive as a bear's, and his eyes glow with an evil intelligence
.
The rest of the pack clusters around him. The two scouts run up to me. The smaller one, showing off, nips my tail, and I lift my head, snarling and snapping my jaws. I just miss, and the smaller one squeals like a puppy.

Then I close my eyes as if exhausted.

“He still lives, Lykaon, as we said.”

“I can see that, fool. But he still has a bite to him. That is good. There is no glory killing a half-dead dog. Even one such as Argos.”

The wolves draw closer, but I have chosen my location carefully. Because of the boulders and the ravine, they must either stay behind their leader, where there is room, or squeeze in close to me and risk my sharp teeth. They choose to hide behind Lykaon.

I raise my head. “I die soon, Lykaon. Are you a buzzard that eats what is already dead? Why do you linger? Let me die with honor, with my throat in your jaws.”

Hearing this, he attacks, lunging for my neck.

But I am Argos, the Boar Slayer, and I am ready. I leap to my feet and meet his charge. Lykaon tries to stop and rears up on his hind legs in surprise. Then I pounce, locking my jaws on
his throat, and pulling him down. He's very strong, though, and he gets his legs under me and pushes me off, but I flip him onto his back and bite again. We roll over and over on the grass, biting and clawing, both of us trying to get a death grip.

Finally we separate for a moment, and then Lykaon charges again. This time I go in low and find his windpipe between my jaws and crush it. When I know the bite is mortal, I release him from my jaws. Suddenly, another wolf charges. He bites my flank, but I wheel away and send him spinning. Then I charge him and he retreats to the safety of the pack, which stands watching their pack leader die.

“Attack him, brothers,” Lykaon cries. He is nearly dead; his eyes have grown glassy, but his wolves obey him. First, a black wolf, a three-year-old with yellow eyes, rushes toward me. He is fast, and I feel his jaws on my chest. But I jump back in time and leave him with only a mouthful of fur. Poisoned fur. He begins to gag immediately. Another wolf leaps, a gray shadow, but I duck and he sails over me, landing near the ravine. I charge him and he stumbles over the edge, clawing with his paws at the rocky earth, trying to gain a hold. I bite his leg, and he falls.

“Avenge Lykaon!” a wolf behind me cries. Suddenly I feel two of them on me, biting my ear, my shoulder, my flank. But
they are smaller wolves, low in status, and not trained to fight. I spin round and round and they fly off, taking some of my flesh with them. I kill the one with half my ear in his mouth first. The other wolf is already sick from the poison berry juice I spread over my fur.

Then I throw myself into a knot of three wolves preparing to charge me. I bite and claw at them. They run away, back along the path they had taken. Four more wolves slink toward me, two from each side, cutting off my escape. But instead of charging them, I turn and run toward the largest boulder. One of the wolves tries to cut me off, but I cuff him with my paw, just before I leap to the top of the boulder. Then a silver-colored wolf scrambles up the boulder toward me, teeth flashing. I kick a rock down onto his face, and after that, he stays on the ground. I stare down at them. Three are dying from the poison; only four remain, and they are all wounded. I am panting and bleeding, but I have won the day.

“Wolf pack!” I cry. “Your leader is dead and only four of you remain alive. Return now to your hunting grounds on western Ithaka and remain there. I will not hunt you down if you stay on your territory, but will allow you to mate and raise your pups on this condition: you must hunt only wild game henceforth. You may not separate sheep from the flock or a
kid from its nanny. These animals belong to the men on this island, and the men owe their allegiance to my master, brave Odysseus, who returns soon. Keep this pledge, or I will hunt you down, one by one.”

The four mountain wolves turn to one another and appraise their many wounds. After a few moments, the largest one says, “We yield, Argos, slayer of boars and wolves. There is mercy in your terms. It was Lykaon, after all, who led us to this cursed part of Ithaka. Now that you have killed him, we can return to our dens and we will trouble you no more.”

“Well spoken, cousin,” I say. “Good hunting to you and your kin.”