“Yes.” I gulped down the word, tasting the dizzying edges of freedom within it.
“I want you to say it.”
I held the prince of Ithaca’s gaze. “You have my word.”
“Good. You should know I take such a thing very seriously.” Hisgrip tightened just a fraction. “You do not want to disappoint me, Melantho.”
“I will not.”
***
Three days later, Odysseus set sail.
All of Ithaca was summoned to watch the prince and his army depart.
I sat on the harbor wall, heels scuffing against stone as the crowds churned before me, everyone eager to catch a glimpse of their beloved prince. On the water, Odysseus’s fleet bobbed proudly, the owl of Athena painted in bold colors on its sides to honor the Goddess of War and Wisdom.
The men looked uncomfortable in their armor, clunking awkwardly as they boarded their ships. Ithaca was not a military kingdom, so Odysseus had had to scrape together every last eligible man the island had to offer to create his “army.” It seemed an oversight, to leave the island so defenseless. But the war would be over quickly, so everyone kept saying. Agamemnon had rallied all of Greece to his cause. The Trojans would not stand a chance.
Odysseus was last to board, soaking in the adoration of his audience. It was a peculiar crowd, made up of wives and daughters and slaves and men too old or too young to voyage with him. But their love for their prince was undeniable, their cries lifting as Odysseus embraced his father. King Laertes gripped Odysseus tightly, unwilling to let go. Beside them, Penelope held Telemachus in her arms. She looked calm as ever, yet I sensed her unease. I could not pinpoint exactly what gave it away; I could justfeelit with a cold, prickling certainty.
Odysseus planted a firm kiss on Penelope’s lips, and the crowd roared. He whispered something to her—a promise, perhaps? Then the prince of Ithaca kissed his son’s head, and I saw the flash of sadness pass between man and wife as they gazed upon their child, both awarethat he might never know his father.
In that moment, an eagle soared overhead and let out a mighty cry: a sign from Zeus himself. The crowd gasped and cheered as Odysseus raised his fist in triumph.
In a flurry of activity, the men set sail. I cupped my hands around my eyes, watching the ships glide toward the horizon, dozens of bows slicing their path through the sun-gilded waves, heading to glory and bloodshed.
When I turned back to the harbor, I noticed Penelope was gone.
Instinct drove me as I hurried back to the palace, urgent feet carrying me up the many, many stairs, down the long, winding halls, and finally to Penelope’s door. But when I lifted my hand to knock, I found myself hesitating.
Would Penelope evenwantto see me? We had not spoken since Telemachus’s birth, and there was still so much uncertainty between us, so much left unsaid.
I realized then that the door was slightly ajar. Inching it open, I saw Penelope standing on her balcony with her back to me. From there, she had a perfect view of the glittering sea. Odysseus’s ships were dark smudges in the distance now, like a splatter of paint on the horizon. In the cot beside the hearth, Telemachus snoozed quietly.
She did not turn as I approached, but she always seemed to sense my presence, as I did hers.
I came and stood beside her, and as we silently watched Odysseus sail away, it struck me how truly alone Penelope was. Taken from her family, her home, and now abandoned by her husband in a land she barely knew.
Who did she have left?
I tried to think of something to say, something comforting or perhaps even a joke to ease the tension clenched around her body. But then I thought of all the times grief had visited me and how its hideous face was not one that could be chased away with something as useless as words. So I chose to remain quiet, hoping Penelope might find somecomfort in me sharing the weight of her silence.
“Odysseus told me of a prophecy,” she murmured after a time. “It said if he joins the war, he will not return to this land until his son is grown.”
I tried to swallow the disappointment at how painfully far away my freedom felt in that moment.
“But the prophecy said hewillreturn,” I said. “Can you not take comfort in that?”
What would I have given to know my mother might one day come back to me? To have someone offer me that tendril of hope to cling to in my darkest moments?
I wanted to say as much, to make Penelope feel grateful for this gift I would have traded my soul for. But when she turned to look at me, I felt my jealousy wither. There was such grief in her eyes, and I felt my own reflected within it. They were different breeds of grief, of course. Hers was new and raw, cut from fear for the future, not love for the past, while mine was a dulled, shapeless mass that had sunk to my core and taken root. Yet for all their differences, I still felt a connection woven through our pain, threading itself across that void between us.
“Thank you for being here,” she whispered.
Penelope then turned and headed back inside. She picked up Telemachus, cradling him to her chest as she wandered through her chamber, draped in hazy shadows and fresh sorrow. She reminded me of a solitary ship, gliding over a midnight ocean, her destination hopelessly unknown.
“It suits you, you know,” I said, leaning against the balcony archway. “Motherhood. You’re a natural.”
