But, I asked myself as I read and re-read James Lattimore’s translation of The Odyssey, what if all of this was just a pack of lies, a spin campaign to make Odysseus look good? What if the dreaded Kyklops was no monster, but simply a foreigner from a land whose ways weren't Greek ways? What if Polyphemus wasn’t even his name? From there, details seemed to fall into place.
Xenia in the Court of the Winds marks my first extended foray into using first-person point-of-view in storytelling. As I wrote it, and as I read it now, I hear Glaukos son of Lykaon speaking with a combination of voices—chiefly that of my father mixed with inflections swiped from Morgan Freeman. I did not mean for him to sound thus. He just did. Indeed, I stumbled across my narrator quite by accident one morning, as he was sitting alone in a walled garden on ancient Sicily. He wanted to talk, to tell this story; I listened, and I wrote it down. And because he was alone in that garden, I gave him a precocious granddaughter, Eirene, so he might have an audience beyond himself. I would like to hear more from good Glaukos. Perhaps he’ll have other tales to tell.
My thanks to Russ for the invitation, to Vicky, Amalia, David, and Libbie for their support and the generosity of their myriad gifts, and to Glaukos son of Lykaon for telling me this story of a poor, misunderstood Egyptian… .
Hekate’s Daughter
by Libbie Hawker
When we wrapped up A Song of War, the H-Team’s 2016 collaborative novel depicting The Iliad, the members of our merry band of historical fiction authors discussed a variety of settings and characters we might explore for 2017’s project. My fingers were crossed for ancient Egypt, a possibility floated by Kate Quinn and voted on with some enthusiasm by several H-Team members, but ultimately, I had to agree that it made more sense to follow A Song of War with a depiction of The Odyssey. I mean, what could be more logical? The Odyssey always comes after The Iliad. Always. Everybody knows that. So I signed onto our Odyssey project with no small amount of trepidation; despite hinting in my author’s notes in A Song of War that I might explore ancient Greece more in my fiction, I hadn’t yet done so, unless you count a trilogy of novels set in twenty-fifth dynasty Egypt, which, in my defense, was heavily influenced by Greek culture. But let’s be real: it’s still ancient Egypt, my home turf, my Easy Street. 2016’s intentions be damned: I still know as much about ancient Greece as I did when I wrote The Bow, my contribution to A Song of War—which is to say, nothing.
I had assumed that I would find this piece slow going and difficult to write, simply because I am still such a stranger to the setting. However, nothing could have been further from the truth. Almost from the minute I called “dibs” on Circe, the character began speaking to me, all but shouting her story into my ear. I was under a particularly nasty deadline with another book and couldn’t turn my attention to Circe’s story for some weeks, yet she would not let me rest; I lay awake at night imagining her origins, her history, the trials she faced that had led her to exile and to the stigma of being called “witch”. I have, in fact, never felt a character take on such a vivid and distinct life of her own inside my head, though I am the author of more than thirty novels under several different pen names, and no stranger to the curious intrusions and insistences of fictional characters.
My lack of familiarity with Greek culture didn’t seem to matter to the Circe inside my head. She demanded that her story be told, and told in a particular way. I suppose it’s no coincidence that she, of all the characters in The Odyssey, inspired me the most. I have always loved witches; they are my favorite of all the archetypal characters in the ancient craft of storytelling. Throughout recorded history, women have been labeled witches because they broke their culture’s mold of femininity. Not sweet, kind or nurturing? You must be a witch. Too headstrong, too sexy? You’re a witch. Do you have too much knowledge, too much power, or too much confidence? Do you fail to bow low enough at the altar of male supremacy? Tie her up to the stake, lads, and pile the kindling high: she must be a witch. What else can explain her dangerous female power? As a woman who breaks all the molds of expected and proper femininity, it’s no surprise that such characters resonate strongly with me.
The opportunity to explore the witch archetype gave me a much-needed outlet for expressing myself in the current political climate of the United States, where I live. In fact, it wasn’t until I began listening to Circe’s voice that I realized how badly my writing has suffered of late. I was feeling far more oppressed and hopeless than usual, and that dullness carried over into my writing. It had been a long time—far too long—since I’d felt eager to write anything at all. But Circe was exactly the antidote I needed to cure a serious and long-standing case of The Blahs. She made me excited about writing again. She is a strong, defiant woman who rises from the ashes of victimhood to claim and exercise the fullness of her power. She doesn’t care that you call her a witch. She owns the epithet, and like her herbs—like a whispered spell—she uses the name for her own purposes. Circe stands boldly astride not only her island of Aeaea—she also inhabits and owns all of Western mythology, embodying the first, the original, the most insidious witch of them all. She is the Mother of Witches, the genesis of our culture’s depictions of unchecked female power, and I love her for it.
I have learned better than to promise that I’ll write about ancient Greece in the future, but I will certainly write more about witches. Circe was just too much fun to work with, to listen to. I know I won’t be able to resist hanging out with her, or her archetype, for long. And I am looking forward to learning what those future women of pure, unapologetic power have to say—what they can teach me, and what they can teach us all.
My big, heartfelt thanks are due to my fellow authors who participated in this collaboration. Vicky, Russ, Scott, David, and of course, Amalia, whom I consider a personal friend—thank you for your help, your inspiration, and your guidance on all things Greek. I look forward to another H-Team project, but I won’t lie: I hope it’s set in ancient Egypt next time. Or maybe Salem, Massachusetts.
The Siren’s Song
by Amalia Carosella
In a world without gods or magic, how is a Siren born? What might a Siren be? Those were the questions that grabbed hold of me almost immediately when I was asked to join this crew and set sail into a retelling of The Odyssey. I knew immediately that it was the story of the Sirens I wanted to tell – and a voice kept whispering over and over in the back of my mind: Once, we’d had wings.