Aglaope smoothed her grandmother’s white hair. “I hope Persephone will let you see it. Perhaps she will bring you with her to serve upon Olympus when she goes, and grant you the merest glimpse of the world below.”
But Thelxiope said nothing in response, and Aglaope’s breath caught with fear until she saw her chest rise and fall, rise and fall, steady still, if not particularly strong. She kissed her grandmother’s forehead and left her to her sleep—praying the gods would give her happy dreams, at least.
That night Aglaope soared over the moon-silver sea, the cool night air beneath her wings and the stars bright and friendly above, welcoming her home. She dipped and dove and spiraled through the sky in ever-broadening circles, until she found herself at Circe’s shores. Fire and lamplight flickered through her wide palace windows, and bursts of laughter drifted out, so loud they drowned even the pounding heartbeat of the surf.
It was only a dream, she knew, flaring her wings and dropping effortlessly to the earth. It was only a dream, but she could not stop herself from peeking through the open windows, from placing her hand upon the smooth stone wall and leaning in, searching for a glimpse of the hero and the god she longed for.
There were so many men, a handful of handmaidens floating between them, pouring wine and smiling. So many, and how could she know for certain who might be Akheloios in such a shining mob? And the more she searched, the more her mouth began to water, her stomach grumbling and growling at the succulent meats, the steaming loaves of bread and glistening honeyed fruits and nuts, left half-eaten and abandoned upon pushed-away plates. Food enough to feed her family for an entire season, all prepared and put out in one wasteful meal.
Surely this was some cruel trick of Circe’s, to draw her here while she dreamed. To give her a taste of freedom and flight, only to show her the feast of food and supplies that the witch would never share. This was her punishment, all the more powerful for the delay, waiting until there was nothing left of the falcon to quiet the hunger in her belly when she woke.
Circe herself was unmistakable, of course, lying upon a golden couch, her gown a floating gauze, as though she had clothed herself in clouds. A man’s head rested in her lap—a dark, stocky fellow, worn to weathered lines by sorrow and grief, with a neatly trimmed dark beard, shot through with the barest hint of white. Of all the men in her hall, why Circe had chosen such a strange one, lacking all grace, Aglaope did not know.
But then the man looked up, sharp eyes locking upon hers, widening in surprise, and she felt as though a spear had flown through her heart, pinning her to the ground. Akheloios. It had to be. For who else but a god could see her so clearly in a dream?
He lifted his head from Circe’s lap and rose, his movement as fluid as the sea despite his odd size, and Aglaope startled, her wings flaring wide, and sweeping down hard against the earth, launching her into the sky.
“Odysseus?” Circe’s voice rose sharp and musical above the ruffle of Aglaope’s wings and the rush of wind in her ears.
Odysseus-Akheloios, Aglaope thought, her chest tight with the knowledge—the gift of this dream, granted by the gods, by her father.
And when she glanced back down again, soaring high, she knew he watched her fly with pride.
* * *
IV
“I saw him,” Aglaope murmured, keeping her voice too low for her mother to hear. Dawn had not reached her rosy fingers across the sky quite yet, but Aglaope did not have long before the sun called her to the spire again. “Odysseus-Akheloios, feasting in Circe’s hall with all his men. The gods granted me a vision.”
“Ahh,” her grandmother sighed. How long she had been awake before Aglaope had risen, she was not certain, but surely Thelxiope had not slept much or well. “What did he look like, child?”
“Like nothing I would have imagined,” she admitted, ducking her head. “I expected someone tall and lithe, shining and glorious but he—he was brown as his ship and built wide. Like an immense amphora, low and solid and thick. I confess, I did not see why Circe had chosen him. But then he looked at me. Through me. And I knew. I knew, Grandmother. He will come and sweep us all away from this wasteland, you will see. Now that he has seen me, I cannot imagine Circe can hold him long.”
“And how long has she held him already?” Thelxiope wondered.
“Long enough that he is clearly bored of her,” Aglaope said. “His expression was as dull as rock until he caught sight of me, peeking through the window. And then he rushed to his feet, pushing her away as if he cared not at all! If you had only seen his face, then. The brilliance of it. He could only have been a god.”
“Odysseus-Akheloios,” her grandmother breathed. “A fine name.”
“I am certain I could grow to love him, even if he is not so fine when he is still. But the river’s beauty and strength is in its movement, is it not? That is how the sweet water cuts its way across the land and finds the sea—by rushing, fast and furious. And it is only fitting that Odysseus-Akheloios would be the same.”
Thelxiope smiled. “What do you know of the river’s power, girl, born upon this rock?”
Aglaope flushed. “Akheloios told us it was so, did he not? And we have seen the power of the rains, the channels it has carved even upon our own island.”
“Perhaps that is so,” she agreed. “Perhaps it will all be as you say. I can only pray as much. But be careful of getting your hopes too high, my dear one. No matter how constant our prayers, the gods must have their way.”
“You sounds like Mother, now,” Aglaope said, drawing back. “Surely you at least must understand. This is where I find my joy, my nourishment, as she would say. Not in song, as she does, the work of my voice, the fetter that binds me to that spire all day long. No. But in the hope for something better that might come. The dream of a future that is not spent singing, luring men and ships to their doom. Surely you cannot begrudge me that.”
“No, Aglaope, no. Of course I do not. I only fear that should it not come to pass, you will grow bitter and lost. And who will console you, when I am gone?”
“Then you cannot go,” she said, grasping her grandmother’s hand. “Only stay with us a while longer, and I will bring you with me when Odysseus-Akheloios comes. We will travel together to the rich lands beyond and eat at banquets until our stomachs burst!”
Thelxiope smiled faintly, her gaze shifting to the sky, ever lighter. “Only sing for me, girl, and I will be well-satisfied.”
Aglaope sighed, and rose to her feet. Dawn had arrived, and if she dallied any longer, even for her grandmother’s sake, she would surely catch the sharp edge of her mother’s tongue—a miserable way to begin, and bound only to upset them both, and leave her throat tight with anger and emotion, and her voice hoarse by sunset.
“Enjoy your rest,” Aglaope said. “And save your strength until I return again.”