Argos (14 page)

T
his morning I heard a ewe was missing from the neighboring farm. The shepherd dogs have been out all night searching for it; I heard their sharp barks growing more desperate as the sky changed from black to gray. Soon Apollo's chariot will begin its crossing, and the ewe will be found dead. Of that I am sure. By now an eagle has found it, or it fell into a crevasse while grazing beyond its pastures. These things happen to poorly watched flocks. When they find its carcass, the ewe's owner will beat his shepherd and then the shepherd will kick his dog. It has always been thus. Of course, my master never struck me. No man has. And lived.

The ewe has been found. Alive. I hear the excited barks coming from across the valley, so I leave my own flock to see it for myself. And one of the barks is unfamiliar to me, further piquing my curiosity. When I reach the neighboring pasture, I see three of my brother shepherd dogs standing in a circle, tails pointed toward the center, yapping happily to anyone who will listen about how the ewe was found. As I approach them, they roll onto their backs—as they should—until I tell them to stand up. “Which one of you found the sheep?” I ask. “And had the stupid creature fallen into a crevasse?”

The dogs lower their heads and will not meet my gaze.

“None of you found it? It returned on its own?”

The youngest among them, a mongrel with a brindle coat, finally answers. “A stranger dog found it. The ewe had escaped its fence and wandered near the goat path leading to the village. A thief walking along the path saw her and put a rope around her neck, with the intention of selling her at the market. The new dog followed his trail and caught up to him where the path narrows before the bridge.”

“Then what happened?” I ask. I know the place where the path becomes confined by a band of trees. There is ample
room for a dog to attack straight on, but hardly room for a man to swing a staff.

“She jumped the man from behind, biting his leg so he couldn't chase them. Then she took the rope in her mouth and led the ewe back here.” The mongrel finishes the tale by lashing his tongue across his muzzle. Despite his own failure to catch the ewe, he seems quite proud to retell the events.

“She attacked a man? On her own? What if he had struck her with a spear? A dog is worth more than a ewe!”

“The thief was drunk on wine,” a female's voice says from behind me. “I could tell by his footprints that he could not walk straight and so probably could not throw a spear.”

I turn to see her, although I had smelled her approach. She isn't very large, but she has a fine straight back and long legs. Her coat is the color of goldenrod, and her eyes smolder like volcanic rocks set deep in a well-shaped head. Her teeth glisten as she speaks.

“What does your master call you, Sister Shepherd?” I ask.

“I answer to Aurora,” she replies, lowering her head slightly. She is an alpha female, and so she does not roll onto her back.

“You did a brave thing, Aurora,” I say, making sure to glower at the other dogs, who would never have dared to attack a man, even if they had been able to track the ewe. “But now you
must be careful. The thief will return, claiming to your master that you attacked him for no reason. He will demand a ewe as recompense. And he might demand your death too. That is the law on Ithaka when a dog attacks a man.”

“The thief did not see me, I think. And before I bit him, I tracked him for some time, howling like a wolf. I even rolled in ash to change my coat to gray. He will think I was a mountain wolf, and he will brag to his friends that he survived a wolf attack.”

When she finishes this tale, my brothers sit on their haunches and howl. What imbeciles!

“And what are you called, sir?” Aurora asks.

Before I can answer, she saunters up to me and rubs her nose against mine. Perhaps this is custom elsewhere, but not on Ithaka. Still, her nose is soft and wet, and she smells of wild flowers. For a moment I forget my own name!

“He is Argos, loyal companion to brave Odysseus,” the brindle answers for me.

“Argos. I have heard that name even on my former home of Samos. You are the great boar killer, are you not?”

I nod. Words finally come to me. “Yes, I have killed many boars. The last one was as tall as a half spear, and he weighed more than two horses. Yet I have never covered myself in ash,
tracked a thief, and returned a ewe to my flock. Your deed was brave as mine. But tell me, when did you arrive from Samos?”

“Two moons ago my new master bought me from my former owner, who had given up his farm on Samos and was sailing to Carthage. When he stopped here for provisions, he sold me, thank the gods. I had already killed all the rats on the ship, but I am a shepherd, not a rat killer.”

“That is a task for cats, anyway,” I say. “We are meant for nobler pursuits.”

“Indeed, brave Argos. But now I must return to my flock. They are poorly trained and stray the instant I turn my back.”

“Where is your farm?”

“North of here, where the river makes its turn, in the shadow of the mountain Nerito. My master is called Okylaos. He is poor, but he treats me kindly so far.”

“I know that farm. There is an old olive tree there—the oldest on Ithaka, so I am told.”

“Yes, that is the one. It is a fine tree to lie under when Apollo's chariot is high and the days are long. Now I must return there. Farewell, sir.”

Before she can leave, I step close to her and bite her gently on the ear. That is the custom on Ithaka, and now the other dogs know that Aurora will one day be my mate. Then she trots off,
looking back once, at the top of the ridge, before disappearing from view. The other dogs, most notably fat Thenos, forget their place and begin to tease me. With three snaps of my jaw, though, I have them running back to their farms, tails tucked between their legs.

I am Argos, the Boar Slayer, and I do not suffer fools.

E
ach day for seventeen days, a different seagull has landed at the harbor with news that my master and his craft sail ever straight toward the Phaikakian land, as the nymph Kalypso had instructed him, guided by the constellation Ursa by night and Apollo's chariot by day. But on the eighteenth day, no bird appears. Then, on the nineteenth day, a bedraggled gull lands on the harbor, followed by a dozen more gulls, snapping their beaks and surrounding him. The bird's feathers are sparse and gray, and one of its wings juts out from its body most unnaturally. I run to him and cry, “Far-flying gull, what has befallen you? Did an eagle tear your wing? If so, thank Zeus himself that you escaped its sharp talons!”

The red-eyed gull shakes its head. “No, loyal one, no eagle
has come near me, nor did any other bird of prey seize my wretched wing. It was a god himself who did it; the earth shaker Poseidon has destroyed me, and perhaps your master as well.”

“'Twas Poseidon, Poseidon, Posiedon,” his fellow gulls scream.

Hearing this, my heart leaps, yet tumbles when I understand his words. “You were with my master, Sir Gull? What is his fate? Tell me quickly that I might know it!”

“Alas, brave Argos, I know little. But I will tell you what I can. Two days ago I perched on your master's raft as he sailed swiftly toward land. Far off we could see the mountains of the Solymoi and your master's heart was gladdened, for truly the endless sea will drive the strongest man mad. But behind the mountains a dark cloud formed where none had been before, and I knew that we were doomed. It was Poseidon himself who hid in the black cloud, and he sent winds from all directions at us at once. How your master's boat staggered in those winds! Then the earth shaker sent battering waves at us, waves so great that your master tied himself to his raft so that he would not be thrown far from it. I heard him cry, “Woe to me that I did not perish at Troy with my companions and covered in honor!”

“Woe, woe, woe!” his companions cry.

“Oh, say not those words, broken gull, for they tear at my heart!” I whimper.

“You asked to hear my tale, loyal one, and now you must hear it,” the gull whispers. His voice is growing weaker, and I fear that he is near his own end.

“Hear it! Hear it, hear it, loyal one,” repeat his flock.

“Poseidon sent yet another wave, black and terrible, and your master was thrown from his craft. Had he not tied himself to the mast he would have died then, but instead he pulled hard on the rope, and hand over hand he regained his purchase. Then came the bitter north wind, then the east, then the south, then the north again. The winds tore my wing and I landed back on the raft, near your master, unable to fly. Suddenly, a goddess appeared next to me. It was Leukothea, the goddess punished by Hera, and condemned to the sea.

“‘Poor man,' the goddess exclaimed as she surveyed your master. ‘What have you done to anger father Poseidon so greatly?'

“But your master could only shake his head and vomit forth seawater. So the goddess said, ‘Remove that heavy cloak you wear, mortal one. Untie yourself and dive into the sea quickly, for this raft will soon splinter. Take this veil instead and tie
it around your waist; it is immortal, and you will not drown as long as you wear it. Then swim hard with your two hands for the Phaiakian land that is your destiny. When you have reached land, remove the veil, and with your back to the blue sea, throw it behind you, taking care not to see where it lands.'”

“Did my master do as he was bidden?” I ask. “Did he abandon the raft wearing the immortal veil?”

“Alas, loyal one, I cannot say for certain. Just as the goddess herself sank into the wine-dark sea and your master tied the veil round his waist, Poseidon sent his largest wave directly at us. The mast snapped under its weight, and the raft was pitched high into the air. Your master and I were both thrown off, or perhaps he dived, I cannot say, but I flew above the broken raft for as long as I could, and I never saw your master again. Then the west wind carried me here, and it is on Ithaka herself I think I will meet my doom.”

“Doom. Doom. Doom.”

“But surely that is not your fate, brave gull!”

“Boar Slayer, a man can break his arm and live. A dog can break its leg and live. But a bird cannot break its wing and live for long. An eagle or a seahawk will find me. Why question the ways of the gods? We learn this when we are hatchlings. See? Above us the eagles are already circling.”

“They come. They come. They come.”

I look up and see what the gull said is true. Two black eagles circle in the sky.

“Go now, Argos,” the gull urges. “Perhaps Athena has left a message that your master lives.”

“Go! Go! Go!” his flock screeches.

I thank the gull and turn away, bounding up the hill toward my master's home. The shadows in the sky grow larger, but I do not look back. “Why question the ways of gods?” the gull had said. Then, as I trot toward the barn, I see it. A brown owl stares down at me from the peak of the roof. An owl at noon. My hair stands on end. Athena! The great bird stares at me, blinks slowly one time, and then it flies off toward the forest.
Surely my master lives,
I think. And with that happy knowledge, I run down to the goat pasture. Even those stupid creatures cannot spoil my day now.

T
elemachos has a burr under his skin. In the morning he sharpened his short sword until it gleamed, and then he tested its sharpness on his thumb. The drops of his red blood dutifully fell to the ground. Then he polished three javelins of different lengths and, after consultation with Eumaios, discarded two of his spears, keeping the one with the stoutest shaft, which I thought strange, because the longer javelins fly farther. Finally he strung his bow and sent dozens of arrows thudding into a gourd resting against a tree. Then I saw him collect water from the cistern and fill three bladders. A servant put figs and honey, along with dried meat, into two sacks, and then I followed Telemachos to the temple, where he left one sack as an offering to the gods, although I know
the priests will simply eat it once we leave.

Telemachos wants to hunt; that is the burr under his skin. The days are growing longer, and the deer are leaving the dark valleys and climbing up into the highlands searching for tender leaves. He wants to see if his arrows still fly true and if he has gained distance with his javelin. He wants to test himself after a long winter. As do I.

Finally, as the cook fires have begun to burn down to their embers and the last of the craven suitors have left, Telemachos comes to the barn where I lie. He kneels down so that I can lick his cheek.

“Loyal one, we hunt tomorrow,” he says. “We leave early, before Apollo's chariot reaches Ithaka, and we go alone. Are you ready?”

I lick his cheek again.
I am always ready to hunt.

Then he leaves, and after making a final round, I curl up for the night. I dream of giant stags and fleet-footed does, and they are no match for us.

We set off, as Telemachos had said we would, before dawn's first light. The morning is cool, and the grass is wet on my paws. We move swiftly along the goat trails that lead to Mount Nerito. I know a stream where the deer come to drink, and we
will find good hunting there. We reach a fork in the trail, and I proceed north, my nose to the ground.
Oh, to hunt like this every day. To forget about the stupid sheep and the stubborn goats is to be a hunter, and not a shepherd, and that is my true nature!

I move quickly along the new trail, turning my head left and right, looking for new tracks, stopping to sniff the morning air for new scents—the scent of my prey. Suddenly I hear a low whistle. I freeze. Again, I hear a soft whistle. I look back. Telemachos has not made the turn with me. He is headed in the opposite direction, south, to the scrubland. There are few deer there. Still, he is Telemachos, my master's son, and he has called me, so I turn around and run up to him. He pats my head, and we share water from a pig bladder. Then I start back along the northern trail again, raising my tail to show him I have caught a scent. Telemachos doesn't follow me.

“Argos!” he calls. “Argos, come!”

I turn around.

“Argos, come!” he calls again.

What choice do I have? I run back to Telemachos and this time take his mantle in my mouth, tugging it in the direction we should take.

“No, Argos!” he cries.

No?

The boy is young,
I think.
He has forgotten how to hunt deer.

Then Telemachos kneels and holds out his hands. I lick his palms. After a moment he takes my head in his hands and says these words: “Argos, we are not hunting deer. Today we are hunting boar.”

May the gods help us.

To track a boar can take days. There are not many left on this island, and they live in the most impenetrable terrain, places where few men will seek them. The boar does not feel the prick of a bramble on its skin or the rocks beneath its hoof, the sting of the wasp, or the bite of the coldest wind. Of all Zeus's creatures, the boar is the shrewdest, the meanest, the strongest, the smelliest, and the most fearless. And I am to help Telemachos kill one.

For two more hours we climb ridges and scramble down slopes, heading deeper into the narrow canyon that bisects southern Ithaka. Telemachos stays right behind me, completely silent except for his deep breaths from our quick pace, his hand gripping his javelin. We stop once to eat and drink quickly, but if Telemachos fears our quarry, he does not show it, because he doesn't linger over his meat and honey. Instead, we press on. I had heard last summer from a fox that a boar
had taken over its den near here, killing its kits and claiming the land around it as his own. This is the boar we hunt, and soon I smell him.

Since the boar has no enemies, it does not try to disguise its tracks or hide its spoor, yet at times they can disappear, and not even the best tracker can find them. How many hunters have died thinking they were tracking the boar when it was following them instead? How many hunting dogs have thought they were upwind, only to feel the boar's tusks bury into their exposed ribs? Surely the mischievous gods protect the boar for reasons unknown to me.

Apollo's chariot is high overhead, and I hope the boar is sleeping. Our best chance is to surprise the beast, startle it, and hope it runs from us, so that Telemachos's arrows can find its powerful hindquarters as a target. Then, once it is crippled, we can track it and finish our task with a well-thrown javelin.

That is what every boar hunter hopes for, to avoid a direct charge.

It is no hard feat to find evidence of the boar now. There are broken branches and trampled grass, hoofprints in the soft dirt, bark scraped from trees, and bristles dangling from thorns. Most telling of all, there is the silence. No animal chooses to live near the boar; even the birds hate them.

Telemachos senses the boar too. He crouches low and sniffs the air. Can he smell it as strongly as I can? How quietly we move through the scrub brush! How deliberately we place each step! Telemachos lowers his javelin and holds it at the ready. Ahead of us, I see a low mound supported by the roots of a large juniper. As we step closer, I see that the mound is larger than I first thought, and there is a small opening on one side that leads to a large hollow covered by roots and leaves. It would have made a fine den for a fox family, and now it belongs to a boar. Of that I am certain. I sniff the still air. I smell boar, but where is it coming from? The scent seems to come from two sides, from ahead and behind me. Since I can move more quietly than any man, I step closer to the den and peer inside. It is empty.

Then I hear it. The snap of broken branches, the cries of warning from the birds in their nests, the low grunt of an enraged killer. I bark and spin around. Behind Telemachos stands a boar sow preparing to charge. And then, behind me, I hear the roar of another beast. A male boar, tusks glistening with saliva, paws the ground. There are two boars, and we are between them.

No man—and few dogs—can outrun a boar, and we are on a narrow trail littered with roots and thick with scrub, so we
cannot escape. We have to attack to gain the upper hand, and when one is faced with two enemies, it is best to attack the strongest first. There is only one thing to do; I can only hope that Telemachos will follow my lead.

I charge the male boar.

The beast lowers his ugly snout and charges too. Then, just as we are about to collide, I change directions and turn suddenly. The boar follows me, and for that brief moment, just after he turns, his chest is exposed. Telemachos puts an arrow in it. Then the other boar charges. I have turned around again, though, and I run toward the second boar from the side. From the corner of my eye, I see Telemachos lower his javelin, preparing to thrust. I meet the second boar low and raise her front legs, exposing, for an instant, her gray belly. That is enough. Telemachos finds it with his javelin. The boar roars in pain.

Instantly I spin back and see the male boar, wounded but preparing to charge again. I bark, and Telemachos turns around to face him. Again I charge the male boar, but this time I meet him full on. Even with a death wound, his strength is beyond mine, but I only have to avoid his tusks and give Telemachos a target, so at the last moment I roll over onto my back and kick up with my legs. Again I expose his chest, and again an arrow strikes it. Then another. Each arrow weakens the boar
further, and soon he collapses. I roll away just in time to keep from being crushed. Meanwhile, Telemachos has turned back to the female boar, and he ends her life mercifully.

We have done it!

I run to Telemachos. There is blood on his leg, but it is boar's blood. He is unmarked. And triumphant. Then, suddenly, Telemachos collapses. I have seen this happen to young hunters. The blood lust leaves them and they faint. I lick the boy's face, and he stirs. Then I carry the sack of honey to him, and he dips his hands in it and licks them clean. Soon he is standing again, and we marvel at what we have done. Even my master never killed two boars on the same hunt! Our names will be sung in the villages and towns all over Ithaka, and honor will flow to the house of Laertes.

But the boars are too large to carry, and Telemachos has not even brought a knife, so we are unable to fashion a sled to drag the smaller one.

“Night is coming soon, Argos,” the boy says. “The craven suitors will arrive, and my mother is home alone, with just the servants to protect her honor. We will return tomorrow to collect our trophies.”

We hurry back to my master's estate and tell no one of our kill. The next two days, Zeus pounds Ithaka with rain and
lightning, so we remain inside. On the third day, Telemachos develops a fever. A week passes before he is strong enough to leave his bed. When he can walk again, he leads Eumaios and a group of servants to the site of our triumph to retrieve the bodies. Nothing of the boars remains but a single tusk. Still, we know what we accomplished.