Odysseus in the Serpent Maze (9 page)

“You know we agreed on two swallows each a day, to conserve our supply,” Penelope said, putting a hand over the top of the krater.

“Well, a drop then, just to moisten my face. Even the pirates allowed that. I’m turning into a dried olive.”

“You look lovely to me,” Mentor assured her.

Odysseus stifled a groan. He wasn’t sure who he wanted to throw overboard first. Helen was insufferable, but Mentor was an embarrassment to Ithacan manhood. Only Penelope seemed to have any sense. Sense was what was needed on a voyage like this.

“Pig herder or prince,” Penelope said suddenly, “what we
really
need is a good pilot. Do you have any idea where we are?”

Odysseus rubbed his chin and wished he were old enough to have started a beard already. He made a show of scrutinising the horizon. There was no sign of land or a friendly sail, but at least the pirates had not caught up to them. Yet.

“From the sun’s position, I believe we’ve been drifting southeast,” he said with authority, though he hadn’t any idea where they’d begun. A deep crease appeared between his eyes.

“Where will that take us?” Penelope asked. There was a look in her eye that told him she guessed how little he knew.

“Far away from anywhere we want to be,” he told her honestly. He hadn’t meant to say that. It just popped out.

“Great!” Helen said. She made her way to the front of the little boat. Mentor followed.

The day dragged on and on. They were now so far from any land, there were no longer gulls calling above them.

Helen dozed, which at least meant that she was quiet. Mentor huddled near her, as if he could translate closeness into warmth. Penelope sat in the bow of the boat, keeping her own counsel. Odysseus was sure that she hated him. He wasn’t sure he liked her very much, either. It’s hard to like someone who has figured out your weaknesses.

There was little wind, and so the patchwork sail hung forlornly from the mast. The hot sun, the rocking waves, the silence in the sky soon had them all dozing fitfully.

Suddenly Odysseus jerked awake and gave a cry. Heading towards them was a wall of sea mist, looking like the gossamer skirts of a giant goddess. Something about the mist made him uncomfortable.

His cry wakened first Penelope, then Mentor.

Helen stirred slowly, her eyelids fluttering open. “What is it?”

“Just a sea mist,” Penelope told her, as a thick fog enclosed the boat in its chilly, clammy embrace.

“These mist banks are never very large,” Odysseus said. “We just have to wait them out.” He sounded confident, but was not. He wished he could put a name to his unease.

Helen turned over and started to fall asleep again.

Just then a high-pitched keening came from inside the mist, a sound both joyous and despairing. One voice, then another, then another sang out. Soon the voices were all around them.

“Was that you singing, Helen?” Mentor asked. His eyes seemed strangely glazed. “Surely such a song could come only from lips such as yours.”

Helen sat bolt upright. “Are you mad? My throat is parched. How could I possibly sing?”

“The singing, yes!” Odysseus cried. He had the same glazed look on his face. “It calls to me. Calls …” Getting up unsteadily, he started to put a leg over the side of the boat.

“No!” Penelope shouted. “Odysseus, what in Athena’s name are you doing?” She seized him by the arm and yanked him so hard, he fell over on to his back.

“The song, the women, they’re calling me,” Odysseus said again in that same dreamy voice. He smiled up at the sky.

Letting out a sudden shriek, Helen made frantic shooing motion with her hands.

Penelope turned. “What is it?”

“There! There!” Helen screamed. “A woman’s face. There. Now it’s gone.” She put a hand over her mouth, then took it away and screamed again. “Look! There’s another.”

This time Penelope saw it too. A pale, sharp-featured human face, long black hair flying in the wind. A flash of a wing behind it, and it was gone.

“The song,” Odysseus said again, starting to rise once more.

Penelope pushed him down again, then turned and grabbed Mentor’s wrist, for now he was halfway over the stern. She threw him next to Odysseus. Neither boy put up much of a fight.

Helen grabbed Penelope’s arm. “Are those things ghosts? Are we being haunted?”

“I think …” Penelope said, huffing a bit from the exertion. “I think they’re sirens. Half woman, half bird. Honestly, Helen, don’t you ever listen to the bards? The Argonauts battled sirens on their journey to get the Golden Fleece and—”

“I only listen to the love poems,” Helen said, shrugging. “The rest is just boy stuff. Shields and spears and swords.”

The keening was louder than ever, and wilder.

“Well, listen to
me
now. Sirens lure sailors to their death by singing. No man can resist them. Obviously neither can boys.” She kept her foot on Odysseus’ chest as he struggled once again to rise.

“Are you sure?” Helen asked. “Those sirens sound off-key to me. Father would never let them sing in
our
hall.”

Penelope shook her head with exasperation. “Helen, it doesn’t matter what they sound like to you or to me. To Odysseus and Mentor those songs are the most wonderful sound they’ve ever heard.”

The boys both stood up together, and it took all of Penelope’s strength to get them both shoved back down on to the bottom of the boat. All the while, the loud keening did not abate, and the boys struggled against her, though with little will.

“Helen, you’ve got to help me with these two, before they go and drown themselves,” Penelope called over her shoulder.

“Why?” Helen asked. “Why should I care if they go overboard? They lied to me and spoke roughly and wouldn’t let me have any water, and—”

“Because …” Penelope said, emphasising each word, “we … don’t … want … to … be … alone … in … the … middle … of … an … unknown … sea.” She grimaced. “Neither of us is a sailor.”

This argument finally moved Helen, and she sat down on Mentor’s chest, crossing her arms and looking quite put out. “Well, if the Argonauts battled the sirens and won, how was it done?”

Penelope’s brow furrowed as she tried to remember. With the constant keening around them, it was difficult to think.

She recalled the bard. He’d had one of those closed-in faces, his chin and cheeks freshly scraped free of any beard. When he told his stories to the accompaniment of the lyre, he had stared at the ceiling, and that made his throat apple bounce about. And …

Then she had it. “The great minstrel, Orpheus, was aboard and he sang to the men. His song was stronger than the sirens’ song.”

Helen sniffed. “So we’ll out-sing them then?”

“We can try,” Penelope said. “Though. I don’t have much of a voice.”

“My father,” Helen mused, “claims I sing like a nightingale.”

“Then sing, Helen!” cried Penelope as Odysseus once again began to struggle to his feet.

“Let me see,” said Helen, “there’s a spinning song my nurse taught me. Or the
Wedding Hymn of Alcmene
, Or—”

“For the sake of the gods, cousin—this is not a performance. Just open your mouth!” Penelope cried.

Helen started to sing. Her voice was little more than adequate, and she could only remember bits of a dozen different songs. After a few lines of each, she gave up. “It’s not easy singing out here with no one listening and throat raw and …”

Penelope had got behind Odysseus and kicked him in the back of the knees. As he sagged, she grabbed his tunic and pulled him over on to his back.

“I must go,” he said muzzily. “They have prepared a lavish banquet.” He sat up.

“Yes,” Mentor added, in a soft voice. “Listen. There are sweet wines and soft beds. I must go too.” He pushed Helen off his chest.

“This is
not
going well,” Penelope muttered, looking around the little boat. Then she saw what she had to do. Loosing the rope, she yanked the sail down and wrapped it around them, first across Odysseus, then Mentor.

“Help me, Helen,” Penelope said. “Wrap them till they can’t move a muscle.”

Helen got up and tried to tug at the linen folds, being careful of her nails. Finally, Penelope threw her on top of the boys.

“Just lie there. The combination of the sail and you might hold them for a while.”

“But …” Helen began.

“And don’t you dare whine, or I’ll throw
you
overboard with them and sail off on my own.” Penelope’s voice was so tight, Helen feared she might actually do what she threatened.

The keening around the ship had got progressively louder, and now a woman’s face once again appeared out of the mist. It was a predatory face, with a beaklike nose and sharp teeth. Behind that face beat strong wings, white as a gull’s. The siren’s voice pierced Penelope’s ears like needles.

Picking up the club, she advanced on the singing creature and swung with all her might, smacking the bird-woman across the cheek. With a shriek of pain, the siren shot up and out of sight.

Another siren wheeled out of the mist, talons extended, and Penelope gave her a crack across the leg.

The siren winged off, squealing, and a third flew down, took one look at Penelope waiting with the club, and spun away.

The mist around the boat disappeared all in a rush, and when it was gone, they were once again alone on the dark blue sea.

“What’s going on?” Odysseus said, trying to disentangle himself from the sail and failing. “Are you idiots trying to suffocate us?”

Penelope pulled her cousin up and then bent to help the boys get free of the sail. “I was
trying
to save your life. Right now I can’t remember why.”

O
NE DAY PASSED WITH
Penelope carefully rationing the water.

Then a second.

The sun beat down on them, and they took turns resting in the little bits of shade offered by the krater.

By the third day, when they were all burned by the sun, hungry, cranky, sour-mouthed and thirsty, Penelope said quietly, “There’s no more water.”

Her announcement was met with silence. No one was surprised, though Helen bit her lip to keep from crying out.

“Never mind, Helen,” Penelope said. “Let’s talk about Sparta. Listen—I’ll sing you a song.”

Mentor turned and stared out to sea, as if by looking hard enough he might discover land.

Odysseus nodded, drifting into a half sleep, where he heard a faint echo of the sirens’ song. When he woke, startled by Penelope’s real song, he found himself angry. Angry at the boar, who had gored him and so sent him on this death’s journey; angry at his grandfather, who’d hired an incompetent ship’s captain; angry at the pirates for their brutal stupidity; angry at Silenus for salvaging such a fragile craft; angry at Mentor so entrapped by a girl’s beauty that he was useless; angry at Helen, who’d surely sneaked more than her share of water. And mostly he was angry at Penelope for waking him.

Then he shook himself out of his anger.

In fact, Odysseus knew that Penelope was the one who’d saved them thus far with the krater of water and the club. It was Penelope who’d kept him—and Mentor—from diving overboard after the sirens. It galled him to admit it, but in her own womanish way, she was the
real
hero here.

And now she was standing and raising her arms.

“What are you doing?” Odysseus asked.

“The only thing left to us,” Penelope said. “Praying to Zeus for rain.” She looked up into the cloudless sky. “Father Zeus, lord of the storm, send us even the merest shower to lighten our sufferings. We will make sacrifices in your name when we’re on land once again.”

Not a cloud appeared in the sky.

“Silenus warned us not to rely on the gods,” Odysseus said. “Surely he knows them better than we do.”
If anyone is to blame for this mess
, he thought,
it’s the gods
.

Penelope looked over her shoulder at him. “I’m only asking for a little bit of water,” she said. “A favour anyone would do for a thirsty stranger. If the gods refuse us, then the dishonour is theirs, not ours.”

The hours dragged by and the girls slumped, shoulder to shoulder, at the front of the boat.

Odysseus couldn’t sleep. He kept thinking about what Penelope had said. He’d never before considered that the gods might do something dishonourable. He just thought they were usually too removed from all human endeavour to actually care.

The very fact that it was a girl who’d given him something to consider made him uncomfortable. Girls, after all, became women. Women were meant to run the household, do the weaving, cook the food, raise the families. They weren’t supposed to be on board boats, fighting sirens, battling pirates—unless of course they were Amazons.

And neither Penelope nor her cousin Helen was an Amazon.

They were Spartans.

He turned to ask Mentor what he thought, but once again Mentor was staring at the sleeping Helen the way a drunkard stares into his wine cup.

“Hsst, Mentor!” Odysseus poked him in the small of the back.

Mentor turned his sunburned face towards Odysseus and forced a smile. “Hsst, yourself. Have you a plan at last?”

“No plan yet. But there’s something I want to ask you. It’s about girls. And women.”

“Isn’t Helen wonderful?” Mentor had that dreamy look again.

Disgusted, Odysseus forgot everything he’d just been thinking and blurted out, “I think she’s a sorceress.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because she’s made a slave of you without the use of chains or bonds.”

Mentor sighed. “No spells are necessary, Odysseus. It’s her beauty that so affects me.”

Odysseus drew himself up. “Oh, she’s comely all right. If she were a slave girl on sale at the market, I
might
consider purchasing her. But you’ve let her unman you completely.”

Mentor turned to face Odysseus directly. “Odysseus, we’re inches from dying. Is it wrong for me to want her to find me worthy of her love before we cross over to the Underworld?”

“You’re supposed to worry about being worthy in the eyes of the gods, in the eyes of your fellow men—not a mere woman. What matters is your courage. Your honour.” He struck himself on the chest.