Mentes must have sensed a shift for he jumped on the opening. “I will ready a ship for you, outfit with a crew loyal to your House,” he said quickly. “Gather stores, and guest gifts. But don’t tell anyone what you are up to, especially your mother.”
Telemachus opened his mouth to protest—everything was moving too fast—when a movement caught his eye. A sleepy-eyed youth shuffled into the courtyard. His hair was long and tousled, his cheeks smooth, and his face and form as slim and graceful as a year-old buck. He wore only a loincloth and when he emerged out of the shadows, his skin glowed like sunlit honey. When the youth grinned at Mentes and Mentes beamed back Telemachus felt it like a physical blow to the chest.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” the youth called out. “I would’ve joined you—.” He stopped, spotting Telemachus.
Telemachus stared back coldly. So, this was his new boy.
“Good morning, my love,” Mentes boomed.
Telemachus blinked, the hot searing sensation pushing deeper. Here was final proof: he’d been replaced. He was no longer wanted.
If this is what it feels like to be a man, perhaps I’m better off running back to my mother’s house, Telemachus thought sourly.
But it was too late for that, wasn’t it? His beard was in and he’d long since passed the age where he could pretend to be a boy. His outside form no longer matched how young he felt on the inside. And that, according to Mentes, changed everything.
Telemachus took one last loud gulp of his wine and placed the earthenware cup carefully on the wooden table as if it were made of precious glass. Without looking at the youth again, he cleared his throat and turned to Mentes. “Thank you. When do you think your crew would be ready to set sail?”
“By this afternoon,” Mentes said. “So you’re going to do it?”
“Yes. I will meet your crew at the docks.”
He left Mentes’s house with as much straight-backed dignity as he could muster.
* * *
PENELOPE
On the western side of the craggy mountain, the small train of women climbed a high path that overlooked the wine-dark sea. Soon they would be within sight of the Great Mother’s sacred cave. Ithaca’s rocks glinted in the brilliant sunshine like the jagged black teeth of an open-mouthed monster. Waves crashed and boomed against crags below them as if reminding them of what was at stake.
At the holy site, they poured libations of milk and honey before the cavern’s entrance. A massive beast’s thighbone protruded over the opening, the calcified rock reminding Penelope that the Goddess had ruled during the age of giants too. Passing under the massive bone into the cave was akin to entering the Goddess. There was no guarantee that she would be allowed to return. And so the purification process began.
The queen’s women collected wood and started a fire with the sacred embers brought from the palace’s shrine. Penelope poured blessed wine over the flames for the Ancient Deathless One. The sacrificial wine, heavy and sweet with an anodyne from Egypt—sent from her own cousin Helen—was the perfect bringer-of-dreams for a night spent in congress with the Mother.
Danae and the two girls drank it too, though their mixtures were not as strong. The Goddess might choose to speak with them as well but they also needed to stay firmly in this world should the queen need them.
When night spread her cloak of darkness fully over the land, they stood before the roaring, crackling fire. Danae sponged the queen’s naked body with fresh water warmed near the fire as Penelope allowed the sacred wine to expand her awareness. One moment she was brushing her fingertips across the stars, the next she was in Danae’s warm palm next to the glass vial of amber body oil.
Her ladies chanted songs of praise. Penelope’s body resumed its earthly size and she became exquisitely aware of Danae’s hands, massaging the fragrant oil into her scalp, then her neck and shoulders. A deep warmth spread in her belly as images and sensations, long buried, bubbled to the surface—of the feel of her husband’s large hand sliding between her legs; of his low growl of lust the first time he’d drawn the raw, wet animal release from deep inside her; of the way she would sink her teeth into the spot where his jawline met his throat to distract him from his endless storytelling and put his mouth on her instead.
Danae and the girls threw sacred herbs upon the fire and moved, arms up, within and throughout the dark and heavily scented plumes of smoke. When the last of the herbs had been sacrificed to the fire, it was time for the queen to enter the sacred cave.
Someone put her offering basket in her arms. Cradling it against her chest, Penelope raised the basket lid and peeked inside. Her offering did not move and Penelope felt her heart squeeze.
Goddess, please don’t be dead. Not yet. Please.
She poked the snake’s head gently with one cautious finger and life returned to its dull eyes, its tongue flicking out in a slow, sleepy question. Penelope replaced the lid and breathed a deep sigh of relief. After what could have been three breaths, or half the night, Penelope entered the cave alone, but not before each girl embraced the queen for luck and safe-keeping, for there was no guarantee the temperamental Goddess would not choose to drag her down into the depths, keeping her for herself inside the belly of the mountain.
With the only light coming from a small earthenware oil lamp she balanced atop the offering basket, Penelope breathed in the cool, dank air of the first cave. Many years ago, at the height of all Ithaca’s troubles, a holy woman had taken her into these caves and shared with her the secrets of its passageways. Enter the far left cavern, and take the ancient rock-hewed steps down until you can go no further into the deepest center. There, you will hear the echoes of the drips from the weeping walls and in the center you will find the pale great mother as she stretches down from the high cave ceiling to touch and merge with the smaller phallus-rock jutting up from the ground.
Penelope placed her sacrificial offering before the cold, dripping formation and prepared the space for dreaming. She swept the ground clear of rocks and the small, scattered bones of prior sacrifices.
There she laid out her weavings—one for the ground and one for around her shoulders should she grow chilled. She knew the Mother blessed her weavings for the Goddess herself had planted in her mind the designs, patterns, and colors that had brought Ithaca such renown. And it was through the exports of her unusual designs and dyes that Ithaca’s economy had remained alive for all those long years of the king’s absence.
The queen sang words of praise until the tones echoed and thrummed into her breastbone, unsure whether she dreamed the sound or the sound dreamed her.
When the time was right, she asked the Goddess outright: was it true her husband lived and was returning to Ithaca? And if so, how did the Goddess want her to respond? What should she do to maintain the peace she had worked so hard to attain?
She waited in the cold, dripping space to receive either a vision, a dream, a word, or snatch of a song. Anything that the Goddess might use to guide her.