Argos (11 page)

A
strange dog is trotting up the road leading to my master's estate. I can see him from the ridge near the sheep paddock, and I follow him as he draws closer. He is sturdily built, although his ribs show through his fur, and he holds his head erect. His short fur is a mottled mix of brown and black, and his tail is not more than a stump. Truly he is a mongrel, yet oftentimes, they are more intelligent than well-bred dogs, which do no work, but eat from the hands of their noble owners. When I approach him, he rolls onto his back, as is the custom everywhere.

“I am Argos, the Boar Slayer,” I tell him. “Please rise.”

“I am called Epirus,” he answers after he stands up.

I do not recognize his accent.

“Well met,” I say. “What brings you to the estate of Odysseus? We do not need shepherds or guard dogs. Are you hungry, for you look poorly fed?”

“Alas, Argos, it is true. I am hungry, but so is my master, Galenos. We arrived here on your island not long ago from Samos to see a healer, and already we are destitute, having been robbed twice.”

“Twice! That is two times too many, Epirus. Tell me what happened. You said you came to see a healer?”

“Yes, a man who is said to have knowledge of herbs to cure many things. My master's eyesight is failing him, so we came to your isle with the hope that the healer would offer relief. Instead he charged my master all his coins before applying the cure, a paste that burned my master's eyes and has rendered him blind. So now my master has been robbed of his possessions and his sight. Surely he has been stolen from twice, would you agree?”

“Yes, he has been doubly aggrieved. But tell me, what was the healer's name?”

“A name I shall never forget, Boar Slayer. His name is Callius.”

I knew he would say that name. And I know what I have to do.

After a moment to think, I say, “Epirus, return here with your master, Galenos, later today. My mistress is kind to supplicants, and she will feed you both. Of that I am sure.”

Epirus smiles and licks his lips.

“I thank you, Argos, and we will come as you suggest. But what of tomorrow and the next day? My master is a philosopher, not a beggar. He knows many things, but not how to live as a blind man with his hand out.”

“Alas, it is true, Epirus. If we do not eat every day, our stomachs pinch, and then even a philosopher cannot think. But tell me, does your master know numbers and letters, stars and stories, and all the things that wise men should know?”

“Yes, he does, Argos. On Samos he was a famous philosopher and tutor, and much loved by all his pupils. But here he is just a blind and hungry man.”

“Friend,” I say, “you need tell me no more. Bring your master back today when Apollo's chariot is past its meridian, and we shall see if the gods are good.”

“I will do so, Argos. I leave now so that I can return soon with my master.”

The dog turns and lopes away, back toward the village, and I check on the flocks, which are grazing happily on tender spring grass.

Apollo's chariot climbs higher and soon passes overhead. The tutor Callius arrives, late as usual, and enters the house. I follow him inside. He smells of stale wine and garlic and immediately scolds the servant girl for not bringing him cold water to drink. In his hands he carries a scroll for writing and his leather strap. When he puts them down to take his cup, I snatch up the scroll in my jaws and carry it away. The fool runs after me.

I run slowly, looking back to make sure he stays close enough to think he can catch me. Twice I put down the scroll, only to snatch it in time to run away again. Eventually I lead him to the sheep's barn. The door is open, as I knew it would be, and I run inside. Callius follows me, and once I am inside, I drop the scroll. How he curses me then! What vile things he says! Still, I let him pick up the scroll before I show my teeth. He retreats to the back of the barn, afraid of my jaws, and then I run out and push the door closed with my nose. And then Telemachos, who has seen it all, bars it.

I hear a bark and look up the path. Epirus and his master, a white-bearded old man with a cane, are making their way slowly toward my master's estate. Telemachos runs over to the old man and offers his arm. Soon the blind man is seated at our table, and servants are bringing him barley soup and thick
bread, and Epirus is chewing on an ox bone. While he eats, Galenos tells Telemachos stories of great warriors and poets and the names of Achaian kings long dead and forgotten. After some time my mistress comes in, bows, and touches Galenos's feet, as is the customary way to greet an elderly philosopher.

Then, rising, she turns to Telemachos and says, “Son, where is your tutor? Should you not be with him now?”

“He is late, mother,” Telemachos says. “He is always late. But Galenos is also a tutor.”

Then he begins to recite the stories that the old man had told him. “You see? He knows many things that Callius does not.”

At the sound of the tutor's name, Epirus raises his ears and Galenos turns his head, blinking his sightless eyes.

“His tutor is Callius, my queen?” asks Galenos. “Bald, fat Callius?”

“That is he, and he
was
my son's tutor,” my mistress says. “But he is no longer, if you will take his charge.”

“I would be honored to do so,” the old man says, smiling. “May I start immediately? This Callius fellow has filled the boy's head with nonsense and errors, and there is no time to lose. Fortunately, young Telemachos is very intelligent, and so it will not take long to set him right, with words and not straps.”

Telemachos jumps up and embraces my mistress.

“You see, Mother?” he whispers. “Not every tutor is cruel. Galenos is kind and smart too!”

Later that afternoon, as Apollo's chariot passes over Mount Nerito, Telemachos lifts the bar on the barn door, and Callius staggers out into the open. Epirus is waiting for him. My new friend chases Callius down the trail that leads to the harbor, and I do not bother to learn his fate. There are some things not worth knowing, the philosophers will tell you.

W
ith the owl having left, I am desperate to learn my master's fate after leaving Aiaia, but what birds fly near there? I wondered, for the fish near Aiaia swim deep below the surface.

“There is only one bird who might,” a gull tells me one morning. “Seek out the black sea raven, whom some call cormorant, and who dives deep and feeds near that island, where other seabirds do not. There is a nesting colony of cormorants south of here. Perhaps they will have news. But tread carefully near their nests, loyal one, for they are fierce mothers.”

“Fierce, fierce, fierce,” his brethren echo.

I thank the gull, and now that the sheep are put to pasture, I have time to run south and seek the cormorant colony. Hermes himself puts wings on my feet, and I run fast along the shore
until I see a secluded cove, protected from the harsh wind, and I hear the squawking of a hundred sea ravens. I approach them slowly but try not to appear stealthy and arouse suspicion. I do not wish to feel a hundred beaks pecking on my head.

When I am close, I bark once and sit down to wait for their nest mother to come to me. A few moments later, I hear the beat of powerful wings, and a large black-winged cormorant alights near me. Her underside is as white as a cloud, and her bright eyes shine like embers.

“Greetings, Deep Diver,” I say. “I hope your nests are full.”

“They are indeed, Argos,” she says, snapping her long, pointed beak.

“You know my name?”

“Of course. We have been waiting for you.”

“You know then what I seek? To learn of my master's fate upon leaving Aiaia?”

“Yes, I know his fate, for I perched on the prow of his ship myself. I would have come to you sooner, but I could not leave my eggs. Now that you are here, I will tell you what I saw, but you must promise to keep your hackles down and growl not, for I won't have you upsetting my sisters.”

“So I promise, Nest Mother. Tell me and spare not my feelings, for I would know the truth.”

The cormorant stretches out her black wings and begins.

“On the deck of the great ship, your master's companions wound the stern ropes waiting for his command, but before great Odysseus could give the order to row, fair Circe sent a following wind that filled the sails, and soon their black prow sliced through the sea, with the steersman holding her steady. Then did your master address his companions sorrowfully.

“Standing at the bow, he said, ‘Friends, it is not right that only I know what the goddess has divined, so I will tell you all that we can escape destruction.'

“‘Tell us everything, brave one,' one man cried, ‘for we are your stalwart companions and have suffered much, though without you we would all have perished.'

“Hearing this, your master told his companions about the Sirens.

“‘Tie me hard, in hurtful bonds,' he commanded, ‘for I would hear them sing. Your ears, though, will be stopped with wax, for to hear their voices would lead to calamity.'

“Quickly the men did what your master said, some lashing him to the mast while others melted the wax. Fair Circe slowed the wind so that the preparations could be made, and just as the last man's ears were filled and the final knot was tied around his feet, the sweet song of the Sirens could be heard above the wind.

“‘Come this way, honored Odysseus,' they sang. ‘Stay your ship so that you can listen to our singing, for no one has ever not stopped to hear us, the songs that spring from our lips, without being well pleased. We will sing of the war with the Trojans and your mighty feats.'

“So they sang in sweet melodies, and your master was enthralled, begging his men to slow their oars and steer toward the island. But noble Eurylochos and loyal Perimedes rose up straightaway and fastened more bonds to him and urged their companions to row the harder. Soon they had passed that haunted island and lost the sounds of the Sirens' enticing song. Then, and only then, did they untie their brave leader, who was bruised and bleeding from straining against the lashes, yet he thanked his men and called them noble.

“Then, after a short time, a lookout cried that he saw smoke and heavy surf. So frightening were the sea swells that the hardened sailors dropped their oars and prayed to their gods. With no one rowing, the black ship stilled, and your master had to go up and down the ship admonishing his men and urging them to be brave.

“‘Dear friends,' he cried. ‘Did we not face that most terrible evil, the Cyclops, together? Did I not lead you safely from him? I think that this day you will also remember how I lead you
from harm! Dip your oars deep into the breaking water and stay away from the smoke of the cauldron and crashing waves. Row toward the sea rock. That is our best way.'”

“But surely he told the men about Skylla?” I ask the cormorant. I can't believe my master would lead them unknowingly into grave danger.

“No, Argos,” the cormorant replies. “Of that plague he said nothing. What could he do? Since the monster cannot be killed, his only choice was to lose six men, or risk losing the entire ship.”

Poor master! What terrible lives men lead in order to amuse their gods.

“So steering clear of the dread whirlpool, they rowed toward the sea rock. And there terrible Skylla swooped her long sharp arms down toward the black ship and snatched six of your master's finest men, his best rowers, who were stationed at the stern, and hurled them down onto the rocks. Then, as they cried out for your master to rescue them, she ate his fallen men. It was the most pitiful scene I have ever looked upon.”

Deep in my chest a growl begins to form, but I do not make a sound.

After a moment, the cormorant continues.

“After finally escaping Skylla, as Circe promised, they sailed
swiftly toward the island of Thrinakia, ruled by the god Helios, where his fat sheep and oxen bleated and mewed. Your master's men begged him to stop and purchase or steal at least one of the beasts so that they might offer a sacrifice to their fallen comrades, and feed themselves fresh meat as well.

“Then did Odysseus repeat to his crew Teiresias's warning that they must not touch the flocks belonging to Helios, for the gods would punish them if they did. But led by Eurylochos, the men pleaded to be allowed to harbor on Thrinakia, promising your master they would not slaughter any ox or sheep. Odysseus relented, and so they rested in the harbor and ate the food Circe had given them, then mourned their lost companions before settling down to sleep.

“During the night a storm came, and then after, the next day, the winds blew in from the south and east, hard winds that kept them from sailing. The winds came the next day and the next day after, and did not stop for thirty days, pinning your master and his men on the island, and eventually their food ran out.

“I would have brought them fish, loyal one,” the cormorant says, “but even I found little food in the water, and so I could not help them.”

I nod my head to thank her and ask her to continue. Slowly
I feel my hackles rising as I sense where the story is heading, so I urge her to be quick.

“After their provisions were depleted, your master's men turned to hunting and fishing, but the island had few animals except for livestock, and the rocky coasts tore their nets and left them empty. Soon hunger pinched their stomachs and left them too tired to hunt. One morning Odysseus left his men in order to find a quiet place to pray to the gods for mercy, to still the fierce winds and give them a course to sail. But instead of answering his prayers, the gods laid a blanket of sleep on him. While he was gone, Eurylochos called the rest of the men together and gave them evil counsel.

“‘Listen to me, companions,' he said. ‘Surely no death is worse for wretched mortals than to die of hunger. Yet all around us, sheep and oxen grow fat in the meadows, while Odysseus prays to the gods for direction. Come, let us slaughter one of Helios's oxen; there are many and one will not be missed. Then, when we return to Ithaka, we will build a temple in Helios's honor and ask for forgiveness. But if this angers him and he dooms our ships to sink, I would rather eat waves than eat nothing, growing ever weaker on this desolate island.'

“Hearing this, the men agreed and selected a handsome, horn-curved ox and slaughtered him, burned his entrails, and
made libations to Helios, before cutting the meat and cooking it on spits. Late in the evening, when sleep had left your master's eyelids, he rose and made his way back to where his men were camped. As he drew closer, he saw the cookfires and the wind brought him the scent of cooked meat. I heard your master cry, ‘Father Zeus, why did you lull me to sleep? Now my men have committed a deed most monstrous, and we are cursed again!'

“Just then, although the night was clear, a bolt of lightning split the sky,” says the cormorant. “Zeus was angry, and Odysseus knew they were doomed. He woke his men, crying, ‘Faithless men! Why did you break the one promise I asked of you?'

“But none of his men answered truthfully, instead blaming the other, until Eurylochos said, ‘What is done is done, brave Odysseus. Surely the gods will not punish us for eating the food they put before us! We have promised to build a temple for Helios when we return, and we will do so. Eat with us, regain your strength, and with Zeus's help, we will soon leave this cursed land.'

“But before Odysseus could answer, they all heard the bellow of an ox, though there was none close by. Again they heard the sound, and one of the men who had been watching the
cookfires cried out for Zeus's mercy, for the sound of the oxen was coming from the meat on the spit, and they knew then they would not be forgiven.

“For six more days your master and his companions remained on the island, filling their bellies with meat and praying at night for mercy. On the seventh day, the hard eastern winds died, and the men made their black ship ready, hoisting its white sails to catch the western wind. I perched myself on the prow again, and later that morning they departed.”

“Soon they were on the open water, and the cheer in them rose as their sleek vessel put the dread island behind them. Then, late in the sun-filled afternoon, the sun disappeared and a dark cloud hovered over the black ship. The peaceful western wind grew hard and bitter, and then a terrible wind snapped the forestays and sent the mast crashing down on the steersman, pounding him dead. But before Odysseus's men could take their oars, Zeus hurled a bolt of lightning down upon them, throwing all the men from their ship into the gray water, where they bobbed like sea crows until they drowned.

“Thus did the gods punish them all, save your master,” says the cormorant. “He was able to cling to the broken mast and float above the waves while his companions met their fates.”

I whimper now, like a young pup first weaned, and I am not
ashamed of it. I cannot bear the thought of my master alone on that cold black sea, clinging to the shards of his swift ship.

“But he still lives, does he not, Sea Flyer?” I ask with dread in my voice. “What happened then? Did help arrive?”

“Alas, Argos, I could do nothing but give him hope. I stayed near him, flying circles above him by day, and at night. I perched on the mast itself, so your master would not be alone. When he hungered, I caught small fish for him, which he ate as we birds do, in one swallow.”

“I thank you for staying with him,” I say, and she nods her head in acknowledgement. “But tell me, where did the currents take him then?”

“The currents took your master back toward Skylla and dreaded Charybdis,” she replies, “but this time Zeus protected Odysseus, and terrible Skylla did not swoop down with her fierce claws, and Charybdis only spun your master and threw him back into the open sea still perched on the mast. I followed him for nine more days, bringing him fish to eat, and on the tenth night the currents brought him to the island Ogygia, home of the lovely nymph Kalypso, who talks with mortals. There she oiled his flesh and fed him meat and figs. But she laid a trap for him, as well.”

How much more can one man suffer?

“What kind of trap, black-winged one?” I ask, feeling my hackles rise again. “Surely the nymph will protect him!”

The cormorant does not answer. Instead she turns over shells strewn along the water's edge, as if looking for food. I press her more firmly. “What manner of trap was it, sea raven?”

Finally the cormorant lifts her beak. “Remember your promise to me, Boar Slayer,” she says firmly. “Raise not your voice again.”

I clamp my jaws shut and wait. The cormorant lifts her long neck to look back over to her colony and then says these words.

“While your master slept, exhausted from clinging to his mast for ten days, cunning Kalypso had her servants chop down all the large trees on the island and burn them!”

But I am puzzled. “Why would she do this?” I ask. The cormorant stares at me with her yellow eyes until I answer my own question.

“With no trees on the island,” I say finally, “my master cannot construct a boat. He is trapped!”

Then, despite my promise, I race through the cormorant colony, barking and snapping, spilling nests and crushing eggs beneath my feet.

It is the most shameful moment of my life.