“An exile.” Bitterness in my voice. I could hear it myself, taste it on my tongue.
Odysseus made some slight movement—a shift of his feet, an arrogant lift of one shoulder. His cloak fell open. Something around his neck caught my eye—a twist of rough brown twine, hastily knotted as a loose necklace. Tied to one end, hanging against the king’s chest, was a sprig of moly-herb—slender stem, long, bright-green leaves, and a single white, nodding flower. I scoffed again, and my mouth fell open in an ironic, half-disbelieving smile. Moly was said to protect the wearer against evil sorcery. Odysseus may think his second-in-command was a fool, but nevertheless, the king feared the witch of Aeaea, feared my rumored power.
A heartbeat later, an icy realization struck me to stillness. Moly was long out of season; this plant should have been dead months ago. It never bloomed after the last frost of winter. I stared at the strange spectacle, awe-struck and distinctly uneasy.
As if Odysseus could hear my thoughts, he touched the herb charm where it lay against his chest and said calmly, “Hermes gave it to me. A ward against your spells.”
“That’s not possible.” I was and am a devout believer in the power of the gods, yet I knew that they did not simply appear to mortals, handing out charms to this man or that.
Odysseus lifted his hands, an ambivalent gesture. Did he mean to say that he could not explain the miracle of the fresh moly-herb? Or did he simply not care whether I believed his story?
The white blossom’s perfection, so far beyond its natural time, filled me with an eerie sense of foreboding. “You’re mad,” I said.
“I’m not. But I am quite tired from a very long journey. It has been…” He trailed off into brief silence; for a moment his eyes grew distant, and something fleeting and vulnerable passed across his face—through his very spirit. “A longer journey than you can fathom, my lady. I need to collect necessary supplies and be on my way.”
“I am glad to hear you intend to move on as soon as possible. But there are no supplies here; I have already told you as much. The mainland is a day’s sail away. I can show you which direction to take, and the best route to follow, but you must take your men and leave. They have done enough damage already, and I will not tolerate their presence—or yours—any longer.”
Odysseus tossed his head. “Do you truly suggest I follow your route? Why should I believe you?”
I laughed sourly. “Why believe me, a witch? Is that what you mean?”
All trace of arrogant humor vanished from his face, his bearing. “Are you a witch?” he asked coolly.
How I wished in that moment that I could answer him, Yes, yes! I am a witch! How I longed then for Hekate’s power. I would have called down all manner of curses upon that man, and every fool who followed him. I would have struck him blind, taken his tongue, stolen away his virility. I would have plagued every Ithacan with painful boils and water of the bowels. I would have called up a pack of wolf-shaped shadows, fire-eyed and hungry, to drive them from my shore.
But I had no powers, no defense against this haughty king with his domineering manner and offhanded insolence. In those days, Hekate did not hear me—nor I her.
“You’ll get no supplies from me.” All I could do was stand my ground. “What’s more, I’ll do whatever I must to defend my property and the people who depend on me.”
“Property!” Odysseus fairly hooted in amusement. “Again I say, woman: you cannot own property. It is not done. Best wake to the realities of the world, even if you are an exile stranded on a rock in the middle of the sea.”
I sprang to my feet, knocking over my stool and bumping the table; the pots of herbs rattled. This boorish creature had pushed me beyond the last reserves of dignity and restraint. He, a stranger who could not even see fit to wash the salt from his hair, thought to dictate what I could and could not do! My women and I had lived in harmony on this island—with our island—for seven years. We had not suffered for lack of any man’s interference. Perhaps the world would be a safer and better-ordered place if women tended to their own interests, rather than living in servility to men. I would certainly not be subject to this man’s whims, king or no. I brandished my staff and dodged around the oak table, charging toward Odysseus.
I don’t know what I had in mind, what I planned to do once I reached him. Perhaps I would have struck him across the head—or in the groin, doubling him up with pain. Or I might have rained blows upon his back, driving him all the way across my island and back onto his gods-cursed ship. But I never had the chance to learn what my sudden surge of anger and courage might have wrought.
Odysseus moved quickly, whipping a sword from beneath his cloak with such speed that I nearly ran my own body onto its wicked point. I staggered to a stop mere inches from the blade; the distaff fell from my nerveless hands, clattering on the stone floor.
My astonished stare rose slowly from the sword to Odysseus’s face. A terrible light glittered in his eyes—an unmistakable appetite, predatory and sure. I knew what that look meant. I had seen it on Lycus’s face, years ago—and yet the memory of that look, and everything it meant, came back to me with such vivid clarity that it might have been mere days or hours since I’d seen Lycus last.
“Well, well,” Odysseus said, grinning at my empty hands, at my distaff rolling useless under the table.
I could scream, I thought, and wake my friends. But they were exhausted after our long, fraught night; their judgment would be little better than my own. If they attacked the king or even tried to defend me, Odysseus might hurt them, too. Worse, he might rouse his men and turn them loose upon us.
Better for one of us to suffer than all seven, I realized with bleak acceptance. If I gave Odysseus what he wanted in that moment, then he would finally be satisfied. He would leave soon after, take his men, and I would never have to look at any of their faces again.
I lowered my hands to my sides. The smile I forced felt weak and quivery, but it seemed to please Odysseus. He licked his lips.
“There is no need for us to quarrel,” I said, amazed that my voice did not shake. “Why don’t you come along with me? To my bed.”
How did one morning turn to days? I look back now, and I ask myself—how did those first days of occupation turn to weeks, and weeks to months—to a year?