Weather grew colder and windier; the nights lengthened, the mornings were laced by frost. As winter crept ever nearer, we were all forced to eat ash-laden bread and dried-gull stew, stretching the last of our sad cache to its frightening limits. Odysseus did mingle whatever supplies remained aboard his ship with our depleted stores, but he’d had only a few sacks of flour and a crate of salted fish left over from his long, meandering journey.
Early on, I’d clung to a hair-thin strand of hope that Odysseus would leave before the real hardship of winter set in. That strand soon frayed and broke. A strange lassitude had fallen over the Ithacan king. He seemed dully resigned, suddenly bereft of some crucial drive. Although we had little food, and winter still lay before us, he seemed content to linger on Aeaea for the rest of his life—even if his life was shortened by starvation. His men were either too loyal or too witless to speak to him; they did nothing to bestir their king from his bed of surrender. It seemed to me that the island itself had placed Odysseus under some queer spell. I was not the witch the Ithacans believed me to be, yet something had enchanted Odysseus, trapping him in a web of idleness.
Now and then, I wondered whether he had fallen in love with me—whether I had inadvertently mired him here. It was difficult to imagine that Odysseus loved me, for I was constantly cold to him. Never a moment passed between us but I made it clear, with narrowed eyes or sulky mood, that I hated him and wished him gone forever. And yet, I was seldom free from his attentions. Often, after he had ushered me into my bedchamber to use my body without my leave—without even a tender touch, and even Lycus had tried to be tender, now and again—Odysseus would reminisce about a time when his life had been easy and joyful. Before.
“Before, we had a great feast every autumn. We killed a young bull and roasted it, and we sang and danced for as long as there was still meat on the carcass. What a way to see the winter come in!”
“Before, I would sit up for hours, sometimes all night, listening to my harpist play—just for the pleasure of it. Before, I had an excellent harpist, back in Ithaca. What I wouldn’t give for some music now.”
Odysseus spoke so often of before that I came to feel some familiarity with the time and place, myself. I never know what he referenced, though. Before what? I could have asked him, but I did not care. I had no desire to learn the inner workings of my captor, the secrets of his heart and mind. I only wanted him to fall asleep as quickly as possible, so I could escape from the bed all the sooner, and wash the feel and stink of him from my skin.
I suffered in Odysseus’s possession. I will not lie to you, nor soften the telling of my story. He never beat me, nor did he shout—but I suffered nonetheless. It’s a peculiar sort of pain, to know yourself owned—to understand that even the most secret parts of your body may be invaded and used at will. That knife stabs deep; the wound bleeds freely. But even that hurt was nothing, compared to the pain of losing my friends—the women who had been my companions and lovers for more than seven years. They still lived, of course, but the strain of our circumstances quickly tore apart the bonds between us. I had thought those ties stronger. It caused an ever-present, impossibly heavy stone to weigh upon my heart, when I understood how easily men could unravel us. I could scarcely look any of my friends in the eye. Within days of the Ithacan occupation, the other women had noticed how frequently Odysseus came to my bed. I feared they thought I wanted Odysseus—enjoyed all the disgusting things he did to my body. I might have explained it all to them, might have told them I knew Odysseus would kill me if I resisted, and then he and his men would do to them, my beloved friends, whatever they pleased. I tried, now and then, to speak of it, to apologize, to beg their forgiveness and plead with them to see that I had not chosen this life of degradation and servitude. But whenever I tried to speak of Odysseus, the words froze in my throat. I could only hang my head, and nurse my shame in silence.
With time, I suspected that at least some of the other women must have fallen victim to the Ithacans in the same way. Or perhaps one or two of my friends became willing lovers to the less boorish men. But I could never bring myself to speak about that, either. I don’t know which I would have preferred: that my friends were abused, or that they lay with our invaders of their own free will. Each possibility seemed as loathsome as the other.
If I’d ever thought my subjugation to Odysseus could at least get no worse, the gods contrived to teach me a lesson. After three months of the Ithacan presence, when the dark of winter had descended fully, my monthly flow ceased. As cold with the dreadful knowledge as I was with winter’s chill, I walked up to the high promontory, my feet dragging, clumsy. There I sat for hours, all the windy day long, staring far across the gray, foam-tossed sea. This fear had haunted me since the first time Odysseus had taken me, and its persistent whisper had never ceased. Silphium did not grow on Aeaea; I had never thought to trade for it. What need had we, a society of women, for the womb-cleansing herb? I had expected this outcome, had waited for the inevitable with numb certainty. Now, at last, my fate was sealed.
By the end of the summer, I would bear a child. Odysseus’s child.
Each time that thought reared up in my mind, striking like a snake, flooding my veins with its hot poison, despair pummeled me with its brutal waves. I could not do it—carry and birth a child with my captor’s face. His arrogant smile. His cold, mocking eyes. I would not do it. As the sun set, faded reds and oranges bleeding into the cloudy sky, I picked myself up and went to the edge of the promontory. It was a long plunge—down and down, to the waves breaking on the sharp rocks, to the froth rippling around the hull of the Ithacan war ship. I contemplated the drop for a long time. The wind pulled at me, whipping my chiton and cloak, tangling my dark hair—urging me to make the leap.
But I could not move. My feet remained rooted to stone. Some force stirred inside me, so small I could not see it, could not name it. But like a tiny seed, it was uncoiling, growing. It was not the child that made me cling to life—no. It was something gifted only to me. It whispered in my heart with a voice I alone could hear.
I will give you vengeance, it promised, and power, my daughter—if you only choose to live.