The Adventures of Ulysses (15 page)

“No,” said Eurymachus. “It cannot be done. I will not even try. This is a trick, another miserable, deceitful trick. Shroud that is never woven, bow that cannot be bent, there is no end to this widow’s cunning. I tell you she is making fools of us. She will not be taken unless she be taken by force.”

A great shouting and clamor arose. The suitors pressed close about Telemachus, hemming him in so tightly he could not draw his sword.

“Stop!” shouted Ulysses.

He cried it with all his force, in the great bellowing, clanging battle voice that had rung over spear shock and clash of sword to reach the ears of his men on so many fields before Troy. His great shout quelled the clamor. The amazed suitors turned to see the old beggar stride out of the shadows into the torchlight. He came among them, grasped the bow, and said, “I pray you, sirs, let me try.”

Antinous howled like a wolf and sprang toward Ulysses with drawn sword. But Telemachus stepped between them and shoved Antinous back.

“My mother watches from her chamber window,” he said. “Shall she see you as cowards, afraid to let an old beggar try what you cannot do? Do you think she would take any of you then?”

“Yes, let him try,” said Eurymachus. “Let the cur have one last moment in which he pretends to be a man. And when he fails, as fail he must, then we’ll chop his arms off at the shoulders so that he will never again be tempted to draw bow with his betters.”

“Stand back,” cried Telemachus. “Let him try.”

The suitors fell back, their swords still drawn. Ulysses held the bow. He turned it lightly in his hands, delicately, tenderly, like a bard tuning his lyre. Then he took the cord and strung the bow with a quick turn of his wrist, and as the suitors watched, astounded, he held the bow from him and plucked the cord, making a deep vibrating harp note. Dumbfounded, they saw him reach into the quiver, draw forth an arrow, notch it, then bend the bow easily, powerfully, until the arrowhead rested in the circle of his fingers, just clearing the polished curve of the bow.

He stood there for a second, narrowing his eyes at the mark, then let the arrow fly. The cord twanged, the arrow sang through the air, and passed through the axe-rings, all twelve of them.

Then, paralyzed by amazement, they saw him calmly sling the quiver over his shoulder and straighten up so that his breastplate gleamed through the rags. He stood tall and, throwing back his head, spoke to the heavens:

“So the dread ordeal ends, and I come to claim my own. Apollo, dear lord of the silver bow, archer-god, help me now to hit a mark no man has hit before.”

“It is he!” cried Antinous. “Ulysses!”

He died, shouting. For Ulysses had notched another arrow, and this one caught Antinous full in the throat. He fell, spouting blood.

No suitor moved. They looked at the twitching body that had been Antinous and felt a heavy sick fear, as if Apollo himself had come to loose his silver shaft among them. Eurymachus found his tongue and cried: “Pardon us, great Ulysses. We could not know you had returned. If we have done you evil, we will repay you, but hold your hand.”

“Too late,” said Ulysses. “Your evil can be repaid only by death. Now fight, or flee.”

Then Eurymachus raised his sword and called to the suitors, “Up, men! Rouse yourselves, or he will kill us all as we stand here. Let us kill him first.”

And he rushed toward Ulysses and fell immediately with an arrow through his chest. But he had roused them out of their torpor. They knew now that they must fight for their lives, and they charged across the yard toward Ulysses in a great half-circle.

Ulysses retreated slowly, filling the air with arrows, dropping a suitor with each shaft. But still they kept coming through the heaped dead. Now he darted backward suddenly, followed by Telemachus and Eumaeus, the swineherd, who had been protecting him with their shields. They ran into the dining hall and slammed the great portal, which immediately began to shake under the axe blows of the suitors.

“Overturn the benches,” cried Ulysses. “Make a barricade.”

The neatherd had joined them. And now Telemachus and the two men overturned the heavy wooden benches, making a barricade. They stood behind the wall of benches and watched the huge door splintering.

It fell. The suitors poured through. Now Ulysses shot the rest of his arrows so quickly that the dead bodies piled up in the doorway making a wall of flesh through which the suitors had to push their way.

His quiver was empty. Ulysses cast the bow aside and took two javelins. But he did not throw. For the suitors were still too far away, and he had to be sure of killing each time he threw.

A suitor named Agelaus had taken charge now, and he motioned to his men: “Let fly your spears—first you, then you, then the rest. And after each cast of spears let us move closer to the benches.”

The long spears hurtled past the rampart. One grazed Telemachus’ shoulder, drawing blood. And Ulysses, seeing the blood of his son, lost the battle-coldness for which he was famous among warriors. For the first time he felt the wild, hot, curdling rage rising in him like wine, casting a mist of blood before his eyes. Without making a decision to move, he felt his legs carrying him toward the great hearth. There he knelt and grasped the ring of the firestone—a huge slab of rock, large enough for a roasting ox. The suitors, charging toward the wall of benches, saw him rise like a vision out of the past, like some Titan in the War of the Gods, holding an enormous slab of rock over his head.

They saw their danger and tried to draw back, tried to scatter. But Ulysses had hurled the slab. It fell among the suitors and crushed them like beetles in their frail armor.

Only four of the suitors were left alive. Now Ulysses and Telemachus and the two servants were upon them—one to each and each killed his man. Then Ulysses and Telemachus raised a wild, exultant yell. Dappled with blood, they turned to each other, and Ulysses embraced his son.

“Well struck,” he said. Then, to Eumaeus, “Thank you, good friend. Now go tell your queen, Penelope, that the contest has been decided, and the winner claims her hand.”

“Father,” said Telemachus. “When I reach my full strength, shall I be able to bend the great bow?”

“Yes,” said Ulysses. “I promise you. I will teach you everything you have to know. I have come home.”

M
ANY OF THE WORDS
we use in present-day English have come from ancient Greek myths and legends. These names from the adventures of Ulysses have become familiar words to us:

Calypso,
whom Ulysses meets on the island of Ogygia, sings a sad song at his departure. Do you know of a song sung by the natives of another island, Trinidad?

Gorgon,
the hideous face upon Athene’s shield, was a woman with snaky hair. A glimpse of her turned anyone to stone. Nausicaa sees her in a dream, and her father’s sailors are turned to stone when Poseidon flashes the shield before them. Today, any ugly or repulsive woman might be called a
Gorgon.

Morpheus,
the shaper of dreams and the bringer of sleep, almost tranquilized Ulysses’ men forever. A powerful narcotic drug now carries his name:
morphine.

Oracle.
Ancient men consulted oracles, mediums by which the gods revealed hidden knowledge and future events to mortals. Teiresias foretells Ulysses’ future, and Alcinous is warned of strangers by an oracle. What kind of information today might we describe as
oracular?

Siren.
You remember the ugly bird-women who lured poor sailors to their doom. But the songs were beautiful enough to drive Ulysses mad. Today, a
siren
is any alluring, dangerous female.

Tantalus,
whom Ulysses hoped to meet in Hades, has been given a terrible punishment there. He is perpetually tempted by food and drink, which are always just beyond reach. What do we mean today when we speak of being
tantalized?

Titan.
Calypso, larger than life, was one of the breed of Titans, tremendous in size and strength. Our word is
titanic.
What might it mean?

Asimov, Isaac.
Words from the Myths.
Houghton Mifflin: Boston, 1961.

Bulfinch, Thomas.
Bulfinch’s Mythology.
Dell Publishing Company, Inc.: New York, 1959.

Colum, Padraic.
The Children’s Homer.
The Macmillan Company: New York, 1946.

Evslin, Bernard, and Dorothy Evslin and Ned Hoopes.
The Greek Gods.
Scholastic Inc.: New York, 1966.,

———.
Heroes and Monsters of Greek Myth.
Scholastic Inc.: New York, 1967.

Hamilton, Edith.
The Greek Way to Western Civilization.
New American Library: New York, 1948.

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copyright © 1969 by Scholastic Inc.

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