Odysseus in the Serpent Maze (21 page)

The prince picked up the sword and raised it in salute.

“You’re a worthy foe, Ithacan prince,” he called out. “The best of foes may one day be the best of allies.”

Recalling that for all his pride, Idomeneus had behaved with honour towards Helen, Odysseus cried out, “May the gods keep you safe till that time, Cretan prince. Now that your monster is dead, perhaps the Long Island will be a better place for visitors.”

“Helen,” Idomeneus called, his voice fading in the distance, “I promise I’ll see you again, however long it takes.”

Odysseus glanced over at the girls. Eyes shut, her head settled on Penelope’s shoulder, Helen looked fast asleep. But she was smiling.

The oarsmen rowed well, and soon the boat cleared the harbour rocks and was skimming along.

“Raise the sail!” Tros cried, and when the men had got the sail up, it bellied out at once with a strong wind from the south.

“The gods are favouring us at last,” the old captain said with gruff satisfaction.

“Those who help themselves, the gods favour,” said Odysseus. He started to smile, then raised a hand to his raw face. “Ouch!”

“Best not say that too loudly, lest the gods hear.” Penelope was suddenly at his shoulder. She handed him back the golden key. “And let me tend to those wounds. I’m sure the pirates will have a goodly store of medicines.”

They searched through the ship’s hold and found the fir-wood box that Autolycus had been sending back to Laertes, the one that had kept the boys afloat for so long.

Mentor laughed. “Your father will be pleased to see that!”

Penelope opened the lid, and Mentor let out a low whistle. The box was filled to the brim with gold and jewels.

“This must be the treasure Deucalion paid to buy old Silenus from the raiders,” Odysseus said, running his fingers through the loot.

“What does that stinking satyr have to do with anything?” asked Mentor.

“Oh, that’s right—you don’t know about that,” said Odysseus. “Well, better sit down, Mentor, for I’ve quite a tale to tell you.”

“What sort of tale?” Mentor asked suspiciously.

“A true one,” Penelope said. “A tale about a monster, a maiden, and a hero.”

O
DYSSEUS WOKE IN THE
middle of the night, aching all over. But it was not the hard pallet or the pain that had awakened him. It was the light.

Light?

In the middle of the night?

Standing about a foot off the deck in front of him was a tall, beautiful woman in a snow-white robe. The moon shimmered on her helmet, and the point of her spear caught fire from the stars.

“Athena!” he cried. Then he looked around. All his companions were fast asleep.

“They will not wake till I am gone,” said the goddess. “I am here for your eyes and ears only, Odysseus.”

“I’m listening,” he said.

“The gods have tested you, and you have triumphed over all their tricks, as I told them you would.”

“The gods?” Odysseus was baffled. “What part did they play in all this?”

“Did you think it mere chance that tossed you into the sea? Mere chance that the mechanical ship rescued you? Mere chance that you escaped from the Labyrinth?”

Odysseus shrugged. “I thought it was ill fortune that dropped me into danger, and my own wits and courage that got me out.”

“
I
have been your luck, Odysseus,” Athena said. “I sent the dolphins to save you, the warning to flee the workshop. The box, the spearhead, the satyr, the ship, the key—all mine to give.”

Odysseus spread his hands apologetically. “I’m sorry if I didn’t recognise your handiwork.”

“You were not to know,” she told him. “You were to find ways to use what you were given. And you proved that the age of heroes is not yet over.”

The Age of Heroes.
Odysseus grinned broadly. Then, as quickly, he grimaced because grinning hurt, even in a dream.

“And so I can tell you that you will take part in one final great adventure before the Heroic Age draws to a close.” The goddess’s face was both beautiful and terrible to behold.

Odysseus held his breath, waiting.

“You will sail to a far-off land and fight a long and dreadful war. Your journey home will be as long and as hard as the war itself.”

“You make the adventure sound terrible, Goddess.”

Athena smiled. “And who was it who said, ‘Any danger averted is an adventure.
If
you live to tell the story.’”

“Will
I
live to tell it?” Odysseus asked, leaning forward eagerly.

“Glory is not won cheaply, Odysseus,” she said. “If glory is truly what you seek.”

“What else is there?” His face was puzzled.

“A prince can find joy in seeing his people safe and happy, in the love of a good wife, in watching his baby son grow to manhood,” the goddess said.

Odysseus shook his head. “Only glory lasts. The bards’ songs give us that chance at immortality. Like the gods themselves.”

“Think carefully, Odysseus, what you lose by that choice,” Athena said. She hefted her spear. “But enough. I know your heart. I know your mind. Enjoy the present. You will have calm seas and favourable winds all the way back to Ithaca. A happy homecoming awaits you.”

Odysseus wrinkled his nose at the thought, then drew the golden key from his belt. “And what shall I do with this?”

“Give it to old Praxios,” said Athena. “He will need it when he goes searching for his master. Or keep it for yourself. Whichever you do, make certain it is kept away from your grandfather. The gods themselves tremble to think what might happen if a key that opens all locks should fall into his thieving hands.” Then she threw back her head and, laughing, disappeared.

Odysseus had never felt so awake in his life. He tapped the golden key against his palm, grinning.

Silenus had been wrong. The gods did have a sense of humour after all.

D
ID THE HEROIC AGE
—the Age of Heroes—really exist?

Yes and no.

No—there was not a time when the gods took part in human battles, nor were there goat-legged men called satyrs or hundred-headed snakes running around the Greek islands. There were no bird-women sirens swimming in the wine-dark sea.

But yes—there was once a rich and powerful civilisation in Greece where, though each city was a separate state with its own kingdom the people were united by a single language. There was also a thriving culture on the island of Crete, and the remains of the great palace at Knossos can still be seen. In that period—we now know from archaeological evidence—there was a real Troy and a real Trojan War, though whether it was fought because of the abduction of the beautiful Helen by a Trojan prince is debatable. That great civilisation was suddenly destroyed around 1200 B.C.

Five hundred years later, the blind poet Homer created the
Iliad
, a poem about the Trojan War, and the
Odyssey
, about the wanderings of the hero Odysseus. In fact, all that we know about Odysseus can be found in Homer’s epic poems and a few Greek folktales. We don’t even know whether Odysseus was a real king of Ithaca (or Ithika or Ithaki or Ithikai) or just a made-up legendary hero.

All that is related in those sources about Odysseus’ boyhood is that he was wounded by a boar on the slopes of Mount Parnassus where he was visiting his grandfather, the cattle thief and robber Autolycus.

But a man—even a legendary hero—must have a childhood and adolescence that foretells his future deeds. In the
Odyssey
and the
Iliad
we learn that Odysseus is a short, burly redhead who is not only a fine fighter but a grand and eloquent speaker. Like all Greek princes, he would have been trained in public speaking, but Odysseus outshines his contemporaries in storytelling. Known as cunning and crafty, he is in fact the cleverest of the Greeks, and not above playing mad when necessary. He is the one who figures out how to sneak out of the Cyclops’ cave by clinging to the belly of a sheep. He is the one who teaches his men to stopper their ears so that they might pass by the singing sirens safely. He is the one who invents the wooden horse trick that gets the Greeks (including his ally Idomeneus) inside the impregnable walls of Troy.

Fighter, storyteller, the wily Odysseus wanders ten years around the Mediterranean Sea with his men after the Trojan War as a punishment for offending the sea god, Poseidon. His adventures, as detailed in Homer’s epic poem, include gods, monsters, giants, sorceresses, and many a magical happening.

At last Odysseus comes home to his beloved wife, Penelope, and his son, Telemachus, whom he has not seen since the boy was a baby. All those long years her husband has been away, Penelope has kept 108 suitors at bay by her own wits, each night unweaving a piece of cloth she has promised to finish before choosing a new husband. Penelope is aided only by her handmaidens and by her husband’s trusted friend Mentor, and her wits are every bit as sharp as Odysseus’.

We have taken the Odysseus of the
Odyssey
and the
Iliad
and projected him backwards, using what archeologists have told us about the civilisation he would have inhabited if he had been a real man.

Or a young hero.

Jane:
When we began the first of the four Young Heroes books,
Odysseus in the Serpent Maze
, we were quickly heads down in the thirteenth century BCE. I remember feeling amazed each time we swam up to the surface, where we were using computers to write the books, not scrolls, and sending emails back and forth, even when we were living in the same country.

And look where we are now: We have cell phones that can take us from point A to point B and take and send photographs from any location; we have twitters and tweets and more. Does all this technology make it even harder to get into the Heroic Age mindset?

Bob:
When I try to think about being in a “mindset,” my mind goes completely blank. To give an answer worth reading, I would just have to make something up. In other words, lie.

Jane:
Well, after all, lying is what we do professionally—in other words, telling stories.

Bob:
I’ll give you the truth. Having written stories that span more than two thousand years, I’ll say that there is no mindset for each period. There is only a storytelling mindset, which is about plot and character.

Jane:
Absolutely. The story tells us where we are. Though I have to say, Plot Man, that I would have been well lost in the past without your compass, and your background in the classics. While we can both do the necessary research for details, you are the one who Finds Us a Plot. Me, I am the Follow-Your-Characters-and-Shout-at-Them-to-Slow-Down-and-Wait-for-Me kind of writer.

How do
you
invent plot?

Bob
: You’ll remember that we reached a point early in the
Odysseus
novel where Odysseus and his friends are lost at sea in a small boat. It took us quite a while to decide what would happen next: that they would come upon a ship, but one that appeared to be deserted.

It was asking questions about that ship that unfolded the plot for the rest of the book:
Why is the ship deserted? Who built it? Where did it come from?
Once we had answered those questions, the rest of the book almost wrote itself.

OK, it’s not that easy—but it was something like that.

Jane
: So, if you are stuck without a plot, ask questions! It’s a bit like being lost without a compass or a GPS. But you can find your way if you turn to the nearest friendly resident and are not afraid to ask questions.

Now that I have that handle on plotting . . . you may have talked your way out of being my cowriter, Bob!

The thing is, though, when we have two of us working on the same short stories (and we’ve done a bunch of those) as well as novels (four Young Heroes, four Scottish novels), we always come to a place where two heads really
are
better than one. And sometimes, when we can get your wife, Debby, in on our plotting sessions, the three of us come up with enough plot twists and turns to write a dozen more books. So look out, world!

I was born in New York City on February 11, 1939. Because February 11 is also Thomas Edison’s birthday, my parents used to say I brought light into their world. But my parents were both writers and prone to exaggeration. My father was a journalist; my mother wrote short stories and created crossword puzzles and double acrostics. My younger brother, Steve, eventually became a newspaperman. We were a family of an awful lot of words!

We lived in the city for most of my childhood, with two brief moves: to California for a year while my father worked as a publicity agent for Warner Bros. films, and then to Newport News, Virginia, during the World War II years, when my mother moved my baby brother and me in with her parents while my father was stationed in London running the Army’s secret radio.

When I was thirteen, we moved to Connecticut. After college I worked in book publishing in New York for five years, married, and after a year traveling around Europe and the Middle East with my husband in a Volkswagen camper, returned to the States. We bought a house in Massachusetts, where we lived almost happily ever after, raising three wonderful children.

I say “almost,” because in 2006, my wonderful husband of forty-four years—Professor David Stemple, the original Pa in my Caldecott Award–winning picture book,
Owl Moon
—died. I still live in the same house in Massachusetts.

And I am still writing.

I have often been called the “Hans Christian Andersen of America,” something first noted in
Newsweek
close to forty years ago because I was writing a lot of my own fairy tales at the time.

The sum of my books—including some eighty-five fairy tales in a variety of collections and anthologies—is now well over 335. Probably the most famous are
Owl Moon
,
The Devil’s Arithmetic
, and
How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight?
My work ranges from rhymed picture books and baby board books, through middle grade fiction, poetry collections, and nonfiction, to novels and story collections for young adults and adults. I’ve also written lyrics for folk and rock groups, scripted several animated shorts, and done voiceover work for animated short movies. And I do a monthly radio show called
Once Upon a Time
.