Watch where the birds fly

The last thing Odysseus remembered was a startled, frightened cry: “Captain?!” And the back of Polites, flying somewhere forward, shoved away by his own hands. Then it was as if the roof of the cave had collapsed onto his head. After that, there was only pain. There was no peace, no Underworld with its asphodel meadows — pale, sorrowful flowers. Only pain, pain, pain — crimson-black and deafening, crushing thoughts the way a child crushes a fragile flower petal. Pain gripped him in enormous paws; pain rumbled, growled, and bleated; pain smelled of smoke, filthy wool, and sheep dung; pain was warm and tasted unctuous and sweet when it was forced down his throat. No asphodels. Only pain and darkness streaked with crimson. And this went on for an eternity. And then a little while longer. Until Odysseus became aware of himself lying on filthy skins in the darkness, surrounded by the smells of smoke, rancid fat, and blood. The pain still gnawed at his body in waves of barely tolerable agony, but at least he understood he was alive. And he regretted it. Voices woke him. One was deep, resonating in the walls and bones; it held within it the whisper of waves and the grinding of colliding stones, like a storm surge crashing onto a pebble beach. A frightening, unfamiliar voice. The second was coarse, guttural, almost bestial, as if the speaker’s throat was not meant for human speech. Frighteningly familiar. His thoughts stirred with difficulty in his head, assembling themselves into familiar shapes, like fitting together shards of clay to understand what had been broken. The Cyclops. The thought brought a wave of cold terror. Odysseus was still alive… and the Cyclops was still here! Where were the others?! Polites… was he alive?! Odysseus didn’t hear any familiar voices, no shouts from the crew. Only the two were speaking. He could only assume the worst… Were they all… dead? Odysseus tried to open his eyes, but something seemed to have sealed his eyelids shut from the outside. His thoughts were hazy; terror coiled in his chest like a cold serpent. And the pain gnawing at his body wouldn’t even allow him to raise a hand to feel his face. He could only listen, slowly piecing together the fragments of foreign words into coherent speech. “So, where did these thieves stick you?” Despite the power that filled it, the first voice was good-natured, almost cheerful. “In… in the heel…” Odysseus would never have thought the Cyclops, the huge, malevolent monster, could sound so embarrassed. “In the heel?” The creature’s interlocutor burst out laughing, like cliffs rumbling under the blows of a storm. “Mortals have a strange habit of aiming precisely for such spots!” What is he talking about?… Odysseus thought wearily, wincing at another flash of pain. Then he suddenly remembered Achilles and smiled at the bitter irony. But… how would a Cyclops on a lost island in the middle of the sea know about the events of the recent war? And what thieves did he mean? Could it be… “So, a bunch of mortals killed your favorite sheep, then they put you to sleep with poisoned wine, stabbed you in the heels with a sword, and escaped because you couldn’t catch them?” the other speaker summarized the whole story, as if taking pity on him. “And now you have the audacity to whine to me and ask for medicine for your heels?” “Escaped!” A wave of relief washed over Odysseus, even dulling the pain slightly. He didn’t dwell on why he had been left behind — perhaps they thought him dead, or simply couldn’t save him. The important thing was that the other warriors, Polites, Eurylochus — they had escaped. “But Daaad…” the Cyclops now sounded even more sheepish. “They didn’t all escape! I managed to kill several earlier. Made soup out of them later. And I, well…” “Dad”? Could this enormous monster truly be but a child, complaining to his parent?! And… soup?” Odysseus remembered the sweetish broth they had forced down his throat, and his whole body convulsed with nausea. He must have made a sound, because the voices stopped. Then the Cyclops’s father sighed, as if accepting the inevitable: “Now, what is it… again? I thought as much — the medicine wasn’t for your heels.” “He said he’d give me the wine for my sheep, but the wine was poisoned, so it doesn’t count!” Polyphemus said quickly. “There was lotus in the wine; he thought I was stupid and wouldn’t recognize the taste. He said it was a trade. But a little lotus is okay, just a tiny bit, don’t be mad! I only slept for a minute, and they didn’t manage to steal anything! But they killed my sheep, my Rammie, and I raised her from a lamb, from this tiny, tiny thing, when her mother abandoned her…” “Gods, spare me your agricultural sentimentalities!” Odysseus could practically hear the Cyclops’s companion roll his eyes. “What is it now, another wounded wolf?” “They left him behind, but he was still alive,” Polyphemus answered irrelevantly. “He said it was a trade, and I thought… Well, a life for a life. A trade, you see?” The Cyclops repeated Odysseus’s own words with a strange, childish pride, and Odysseus felt a sour bile rise from his stomach. His life… for a cursed sheep? A trade?! “So you kept one of the thieves for yourself, instead of your sheep?” Again, laughter that made the walls vibrate. “You amaze me, son! Why do you even bother with such riffraff? Fine, show me.” The stone floor of the cave crunched under heavy footsteps. There was a sigh, filled with lazy disgust. Then, from somewhere above, a torrent of cold, salty water crashed down on Odysseus! He arched his back and choked, unable even to cry out against the tearing pain that had become the terrified shuddering of his body. The cold seeped into his bones; the stream hitting his face prevented him from breathing… “Dad, you’ll drown him!” Polyphemus protested, alarmed, somewhere nearby. “I’m washing him,” his interlocutor snorted. And it stopped; the water vanished as if it had never been, carrying away the stench of rancid fat and rotting blood, leaving behind a salty freshness. And Odysseus finally managed to open his eyes… …and met the gaze of a pair of gleaming, pupil-less eyes, clearly not of human origin. A perfectly sculpted face, black locks with a lapis lazuli sheen, a stature twice that of a man. Even in this state, Odysseus could recognize a god when he stood before him with an astonished smirk. “Well, what a surprise. Has Odysseus himself, King of Ithaca, famed trickster and Athena’s favorite champion, truly fallen so low as to rob Cyclopes?” Poseidon chuckled, tilting his head in puzzlement. “And to get caught at it?” For a moment, Odysseus felt an irrational surge of shame. Indeed, being caught stealing was disgraceful for a king, even though they hadn’t actually taken anything. Not that they hadn’t intended to… Then realization struck. The Cyclops was Poseidon’s son. They had attempted to rob the son of the very Lord of the Tides! “Lord… Poseidon…” he rasped, with the last of his strength, not even knowing why. It would be foolish to ask the father for help after nearly robbing his son. He could only be grateful that good-hearted Polites had limited himself to the heels, rather than inflicting more serious damage on the monster. Indeed, Odysseus himself was only alive due to that mercy… Poseidon, meanwhile, thoughtfully rubbed his chin: “Athena doesn’t know you’re alive, does she? Or perhaps she no longer needs such a broken toy?” Odysseus nearly jolted with indignation at such words… but quickly realized he hadn’t seen Athena since that battle which had ended so sadly. Before that, she had been with him, scolding him for talking to Polites, reminding him again that Odysseus was her warrior, her champion, who could not deviate a single step from her design. And now… she had simply left? Without even a goodbye? Was he truly that hopelessly broken? The pain said yes, but Odysseus didn’t want to believe it. He still had to return home, had to finally see his beloved wife and son! “P-please…” he breathed with difficulty, unable to even finish the sentence. Poseidon was not the most merciful of gods, especially under these circumstances… but Odysseus had to at least try. “Quiet,” the god suddenly was beside him, a cool hand touching his temple, soothing the crimson flashes of pain. “Don’t babble. I already know what you want to ask. It’s a pity to see a worthy warrior in such a pitiful state, but I won’t grant you a merciful death. You are my son’s prize, and I won’t deprive him of his entertainment.” Odysseus choked on a gulp of air and decided that asking for anything more was unwise. The mercy of the gods proved far too cruel… “Da-ad?” the Cyclops watched their exchange in astonishment. “You know him?” “In a manner of speaking,” Poseidon shrugged, turning back to his son. “You’ve indeed captured a notable prize, a true king, even if from a small island. Also a fine strategist and a rare chatterbox, nicknamed ‘Silver-tongued.’ He could have told you many stories… it’s a pity he won’t last long. Medicine for scratches won’t help with these fractures, and your splints made from branches are fine for sheep, but not for men.” “But Daaaad…” Odysseus heard with astonishment, in the tone of the accursed, man-eating monster, a pleading note, almost a whine. Poseidon was silent for a while. Odysseus even fancied that his gaze turned back to him, heavy and oppressive as a coastal cliff. And Odysseus involuntarily held his breath, not knowing what he was waiting for, or what he dared hope. --- Polites had a problem. He could no longer smile. Whenever his lips instinctively tried to form the familiar expression from childhood, the image of Odysseus’s broken, blood-soaked body would flash before his eyes. Instead of a smile, a grimace appeared, and every crew member who saw it would pale and look away. They all knew that Odysseus had taken that blow meant for him. And not all of them thought that Polites — good-natured, chatty Polites, not particularly useful in battle or at the oars — was worth it. And now Polites couldn’t even be his usual optimistic, good-natured self. How could he meet the world with open arms when it had so easily, so casually, taken away the most precious thing? His best friend — unique and irreplaceable, whose place in his heart was now a bleeding wound, every shared memory a blow to the gut. It was Polites who had convinced him to trust those little fluffy creatures. Polites who had found out about the cave… Did he even have the right to smile anymore? There were plenty of other problems. They hadn’t replenished their supplies. And Eurylochus — ever skeptical of Odysseus’s plans, always so sure he “knew better” — had, with the loss of the captain, suddenly lost all his fire. He constantly complained of hunger, and in his eyes there was a quiet “we’re never making it home.” And he was far less skilled with sea charts than Odysseus. Polites often woke in the night in the common cabin to the flicker of a bronze lamp and the irritated pounding of a heavy fist on a paper-strewn table — sounds born of pure despair. And Eurylochus came from a noble family; he had been taught this. Not like Polites himself… A cold despair hung like a shroud over the fleet, and in the fleeting glances the crew cast at Polites, he more and more often saw “it should have been you.” Then he remembered. “Watch where the birds fly!” Polites burst into the cabin, waving his arms. Looking up from the map, Eurylochus stared at him as if at a ghost, and Polites belatedly realized his lips had curved into the habitual smile, joyful because of the realization. It slid away immediately, washed off like sand by a wave. “Follow the birds,” he explained more calmly. “They’ll lead us to land. I know, this advice… it’s not the best, and it led to trouble, but if… if we don’t land, just travel from island to island, maybe…” He trailed off, flustered. Eurylochus sighed: “I think we angered the gods by entering that cave. They won’t let us return so easily. But we can try…” A few hours later, they were gazing at the rocky base of an island floating in the sky. --- The Cyclops’s hands were scorchingly hot, enormous, rough. They caused pain without even meaning to. Polyphemus cooed some nonsense in his growling voice, covering him, adjusting him, moving him, forcing that disgusting broth down his throat. And every movement sent explosions of searing pain through him. Odysseus hadn’t thought anything could be worse than this. But he obediently swallowed the vile stuff, trying not to think about what it was made of. He still had to survive. Survive, heal, and return home. Poseidon’s hands were cool and confident. They caused pain deliberately, and with full right. Odysseus howled aloud when the crooked branch splints were carelessly ripped off and the barely-knit, misshapen bones were rebroken with a sickening, wet crunch. Then something living seemed to crawl over his skin, encasing each injured limb in a rigid, straight cage. Only much later would he see that it was coral — hard as iron, yet light. Then a cool rim was pressed to his lips, and a searing relief flooded his body — burning like an extract of sunlight. The pain didn’t vanish, but it receded, hiding like a snake in its hole. “There now, good boy," he was made to drink it all, and was carelessly tousled on his matted, uncombed hair. “You might just survive now.” The god’s gleaming eyes flickered with strange curiosity in the cave’s twilight; his perfect face swam in the fog of pain. Odysseus didn’t know whether to thank or curse such cruel mercy. It seemed that even the Cyclops’s club had brought far less suffering… “By the way, I spoke with Athena. And she agrees that my son is within his rights, since you were caught attempting theft from his home. So don’t expect her help. It seems she has little use for a crippled, captured thief.” There was a distinct cold amusement in the god’s voice. This stirred another pain, one that had barely subsided. Athena… hadn’t come to see him, no matter how he called or prayed. He had felt only something like deep disappointment from her before the link they’d shared for so many years snapped with a quiet chime. And truly, why would the goddess of wisdom want a crippled, captured thief… Odysseus shook his head desperately, refusing to accept it. “No, I… We didn’t try to…” Poseidon laughed, like a storm surge crashing against a stone shore: “Still have the audacity to lie to a god’s face? My son heard your minions complaining about lack of supplies. I only let them go because they didn’t manage to take anything. And the exchange of a sheep for my son’s king suited me just fine.” He casually shoved Odysseus back onto the pile of skins, eliciting a stifled cry of pain, and disappeared into the depths of the cave. “Polyphemus,” the divine voice thundered, once more making the walls tremble. “I spent Apollo’s own potion on your toy. So don’t you dare kill him on a whim, understood? Restrain your anger, even if he annoys you. And if you tire of him, or if he can’t live here and falls sick from the winter rains, you will not ‘set him free’ — you will give him to me. It will be amusing to see the look in Athena’s eyes when she sees her former star pupil sitting on a chain by my throne.” Odysseus shuddered involuntarily. So this was his fate now. A prisoner either in the Cyclops’s filthy cave, or in Poseidon’s divine palace. With no hope of ever escaping, no chance of ever seeing his family again… Penelope… Telemachus… Had he betrayed them with his impulsive decision to save Polites? Would he have made a different choice, now that he knew the consequences? Odysseus remembered the fear in his friend’s eyes as the club came swinging down, and he flinched. Could he have made any decision at that moment? Could he have thought at all? He had thrown himself in front of Polites without a second thought. He simply couldn’t bear to let the world extinguish that light — that beautiful spark that had warmed his soul through ten bloody years of war. Athena would say he had gone soft. Perhaps she would have been right. --- “Play!” “Play!” “You want to play?” “Do you want to play with us?” “With us and our master!” “Let’s play!” Tiny, translucent beings, like animated gusts of wind, swirled merrily around Polites standing on the deck, ruffling his hair and jostling him. It seemed they very much wanted to play. But Polites looked at them with something close to horror. Too much they resembled those cute little ones who had lured them and Odysseus into the cave. “I don’t want to play,” he repeated, for the umpteenth time. “And with all due respect, I apologize for all of us that we disturbed you. We’ll wait for the birds and sail away.” “Birds?” “Birds!” “Why birds?” “We’re like birds, too!” “So why do you need birds?” “No reason. Just because,” Polites shook his head desperately. He shouldn’t reveal his only hope to such mischievous creatures. Since when had he become so distrustful? From the moment he realized that kindness and trust could come at too high a price. The broken figure, drenched in blood. No time to take the body, no time even to leave two drachmas or cast a symbolic handful of earth upon the corpse, so as not to condemn his best friend’s spirit to wander the earth unburied… All because of his own trustfulness. The bulk of the floating island loomed overhead, offering pleasant shade on a hot day, but cautious Eurylochus ordered the ships to keep their distance, even though the winds seemed purposely nudging them closer. The playful creatures darted about the ship, peering into every crevice, magnifying every whisper into a many-voiced squabble. Eurylochus fled from them into the cabin as soon as they started tossing around the phrase “everything changed since Odysseus.” Polites wanted to flee too, but he only blinked away tears behind his glasses and stubbornly scanned the skies for a single winged silhouette. And finally, he found one. The little tricksters reluctantly backed off when the fleet distanced itself from the island. But for a long time, Polites still felt a gaze on his back from that direction, and among the crew, unpleasant whispers circulated: “Cursed…” “Odysseus would have thought of something…” “Without him, we’ll never get home…” “Better if it had been Polites left behind… or Eurylochus…” As if those playful little winds had dragged to the surface all that had been brewing in men’s hearts. All that could soon lead to mutiny. Eurylochus started keeping his sword closer to his bed and didn’t hold back his fists when crew members got too talkative. Polites began practicing a fake smile. And equally fake assurances that everything would be alright. People flinched and looked away from him. But they soon grew accustomed and began to smile back, hiding their eyes. The world was still worth living in. Ithaca was still waiting for their return. The next island was dead and rocky. But seagulls nested in the cliffs; their eggs and chicks provided some supplement to their meager rations. On the next island, they found goats. And Eurylochus, pale with hunger, first insisted on thoroughly scouring that scrap of land before believing the goats were truly wild and could be hunted. But it wasn’t enough for nearly six hundred men. The birds couldn’t tell them where exactly Ithaca was. Paranoid Eurylochus dared not stop at large, inhabited islands to try and barter food for Trojan treasures. He feared — reasonably enough — that they, weakened, would simply be killed for the gold. And Polites found no former fire within himself to argue with him. Yes, that was the nature of the world. Not kind at all. Despair mounted. But he continued his fake smile and hoped with all his might for Odysseus's final advice. The advice meant to save them all. Only weeks later, exhausted, barely able to stand from malnutrition, did the sailors reach their native shores. All of Ithaca rushed out at the sight of the convoy of twelve battered ships following a flock of birds. The shore became a place of weeping and reunions. Wives snatched their long-awaited husbands; children grabbed fathers they scarcely recognized and led them away, offering their shoulders to lean on. For them, it was over. Now they could go home to peace, safety, and finally, food. But for Polites and Eurylochus, one final, most important, and most sorrowful mission remained. So, straining their last reserves of strength, they began to climb the winding, paved streets toward the palace that overlooked the city. Ithaca had barely changed in the past ten years. A few trees had grown, a few houses had sagged without a firm male hand to maintain them. But it would be all right; the men were back now; they would fix it. They had returned, yes. But not all. Polites silently blinked back tears, realizing that Odysseus would never again set foot on this worn paving. He would never hear the distant squabbling of fishermen in the port, nor the bleating of goats on the pastures. He would never smell that utterly unique scent — sun-warmed stone, the sea, and the fresh leaves of olives on the plantations. The scent of home. Odysseus was never coming home. The royal palace was unusually bustling. Strangers loitered in the corridors and halls, watching them with curiosity and threat. A grey dog lying on the threshold lifted its head, sniffed the air hopefully, then whined in disappointment and laid its head back down. Young serving maids paid no attention to the two gaunt, disheveled travelers, likely taking them for beggars or wandering bards. Only the old nurse, Eurycleia, gasped when she saw them and hurried to the women’s quarters. By the time they reached the throne room, Penelope was already there, in hastily donned royal robes, strands of hair escaping her coiffure. She didn’t even say anything. Her gaze flew to the empty space between them; her lips trembled, and her eyes glistened with tears that welled up but did not fall. A boy of about twelve, standing by the throne, with the queen’s blue eyes but the familiar — oh, so familiar — features of a young face, looked up at the unannounced guests with curiosity. And Polites felt the mosaic floor of the throne room suddenly strike his knees. He found himself on them, forehead pressed to the dust, soiling his red headband. “Forgive me, oh Queen! I bring ill tidings. Our fleet has returned from the war. Almost intact. We lost a few. But… your husband, my precious friend… Odysseus… he was among them.” His voice broke; tears dripped into the dust, but he had to tell her now, himself, before the rumors reached her. “He died, slain by a monster, a Cyclops. He died saving my worthless life.” If Penelope hated him now, let it be from his own words, not the slander of others. She knew that despite the differences in their families’ standing, he, Odysseus, and Eurylochus had been childhood friends; she knew how dear they were to each other. Odysseus had called Polites Telemachus’s “second uncle” in all seriousness, trusting him to play with the tiny, laughing infant. And Telemachus had reached for him. And now… Something heavy crashed beside him with a clatter. Eurylochus’s voice was muffled, strained: “Forgive me as well, Queen Penelope. I can no longer carry this burden. It was I, as first mate, who failed to ensure we had enough provisions for the voyage. Because of me, they had to seek food in the monster’s cave… and Odysseus became its victim.” For a moment, everything froze; even the air seemed to still, saturated on this hot day with the cold finality of death. From the direction of the throne came a stifled, choked sob. Then light footsteps followed, far too light even for the graceful Penelope. Polites cautiously raised his eyes. Young Telemachus stood before them, a frightened resolve in his eyes, which were bright with tears. “My father… he was a hero, right? He killed monsters and saved people? Really, truly? Not just in stories?” “Yes,” Polites breathed, swallowing the tears still streaming down his face. “He saved me from the monster. Like a true hero.” He didn’t mention that the monster had been the victor. He simply couldn’t. “He saved us all during the war,” Eurylochus rumbled. “He didn’t lose a single man in ten years of fighting. A true hero.” From the throne came a deep, trembling breath. But when Polites dared to look higher, he saw Penelope had already composed herself. Back straight as a spear-shaft, regal set of her shoulders. Only in her eyes did unshed tears treacherously glisten. “You are right, my son,” she said quietly. “Your father was a hero, and he died as a hero. There is no point in blaming anyone for his death. He acted according to his duty.” The strange, invisible weight that had been pressing Polites’ shoulders to the floor suddenly seemed to crack. He still blamed himself, still infinitely blamed himself. But suddenly, it was a little easier to breathe. “But…” he sighed, knowing he had to deal this unfortunate, suddenly orphaned family one more terrible blow. “We couldn’t even bury him. He won’t await reunion with you in the underworld; he’ll remain a wandering spirit in the Cyclops’s cave.” Penelope paled. Telemachus shook his head stubbornly: “I’ll grow up and find this Cyclops! And I’ll bury all his victims, however many there are! Now I know for certain I’ll become a legendary hero, just like Father!” “Oh, my boy…” the queen groaned, covering her mouth with her hand. Polites and Eurylochus started, exchanged a glance, wondering how something so simple and obvious hadn’t occurred to them before. Of course, the island still had to be found, and the monster killed. But it was a plan. The plan they had needed all along — simple and clear. They nodded in unison, filthy, ragged, half-dead from hunger, but filled with resolve: “We’ll help you!” And the horror in Penelope’s eyes slowly gave way to understanding. And resolve. --- “Tell me another story? I’m bored…” Polyphemus deftly chopped a ram’s carcass with a huge knife, tossing the pieces into a cauldron big enough for Odysseus to bathe in. The pleasant aroma of roasting meat filled the cave. “You already know all my stories…” Odysseus shrugged, wincing at the pain in his not-yet-fully-healed bones, and took a few awkward steps toward the hearth. A thin but unbreakable chain trailed behind him, attached to the coral splint on his leg. Odysseus wasn’t mad enough to attempt escape while his fractures were still mending. But Poseidon had only laughed and reminded him of his own titles, like “greatest trickster” and “silver tongue.” Deep down, Odysseus had to admit the god was right. Polyphemus was so simple-hearted that the King of Ithaca might not be able to resist talking his way to freedom, despite all the prohibitions. The chain — thin but indestructible — was a symbol of Poseidon’s power here. Power over him. “Then again!” Polyphemus declared. “The one about how you found that boy pretending to be a girl!” “Ah, Achilles,” Odysseus settled onto his pile of skins by the fire and reached for a rough cup of watered wine, which the Cyclops now traded cheese for, especially for him. He didn’t drink himself anymore — said it brought back bad memories. “Aren’t you tired of it?” “Nope,” Polyphemus stirred the sizzling meat. “By the way, Father’s coming for dinner tonight too. He says I’ve gotten better at cooking.” Odysseus might have suspected it was related to his advice about wild garlic and herbs. But he strongly suspected the clink of the chain played a far greater role. The god’s gleaming eyes lingered on him more and more often with a strange, unreadable expression. Especially since Odysseus had finally bothered to comb his hair and trim his overgrown locks with a found, dull knife. Those looks should have been frightening. But Odysseus had nothing left to lose. And he wouldn’t mistake a deity’s interest for anything else, not since his first meeting with Athena. Odysseus had nothing left to lose, but it seemed he had something to offer. Which meant the game was afoot. The mind of a brilliant strategist knew no rest. For he still had to return home…