THE DREAMER'S LOOM Read online

  To move her thoughts to something else, Penelope stepped over to the table where the full quiver sat. Some arrows had a greenish-gray stain on the tips and were bound together into a bundle with black-stained leather thongs. She reached to pick it up and Odysseus caught her hand to stop her.

  "Carefully. Those arrows are poisoned. I traveled two moons to find the plant and learn to make that potion." He reached beyond her hand and picked up the quiver.

  Penelope kept her back to Odysseus and his father, waiting until they turned to another subject before she faced them again. She had learned many things about her husband that night, she realized. When he told a tale with no embellishments, he spoke simple truth about things that affected him deeply. The embellishments, the twisting of the truth, were for strangers, for people he didn't trust, people he manipulated with his story for the sake of protection or profit.

  How many stories he told her, she wondered, were simple ones and how many to turn her thoughts and feelings where he wanted them?

  She had been raised to believe the use of poison was a choice of cowards, yet she had never heard anyone speak disparagingly of Odysseus' bravery, skill or leadership. There had to be another reason for using such arrows. That they were bound meant he took precautions that they not be used lightly. But what use were they saved for?

  Her husband took few chances, she realized, unless he had a better than average chance of winning. He manipulated the conditions. She remembered Aias accosting her, thinking she was a servant girl to be toyed with. He had acted out of ignorance. Odysseus wanted her from the moment they met and had taken steps to kill others' interest in her. She knew he had held back his plan for the suitors' oaths until Tyndareos was desperate, willing to pay any price for help. Penelope felt some pride in a husband so cunning and clever, yet it disturbed her.

  How many people did Odysseus really trust? She had listened to snatches of conversations that came up the narrow stairs from the feasting hall when her husband led discussions. When he told her his plans and concerns beforehand, she could follow his trail of thought. Many times, he started in opposition to his true direction. Then, playing both sides of an argument or proposition against the other, he turned both sides to follow his lead. She admired his skill, his persuasiveness. Now, she wondered how many of his friends, his followers, realized that he manipulated them as easily as he did his detractors.

  There was only one man on Ithaka, besides Laertes, whom she knew Odysseus trusted with his deepest thoughts and secrets. Mentor, an elder of noble blood, a warrior crippled in a boar hunting accident. Odysseus had told her in simple words about the boar attack he suffered as a boy, earning the scar above his knee. Mentor had survived a similar attack, but nearly lost his leg. Penelope wondered if it was that shared experience, the pain and fears, which drew the two men together. Did it bridge the wall of stories and clever deceptions her husband used to protect everything dear to him? She only knew he never spoke a false word to Mentor in her hearing.

  "You're too quiet." Odysseus came up behind her to rest a hand on her shoulder. "Something troubles you?"

  "No trouble." She smiled at him, shivering a little at a sudden rise in the wind, the mumbling moan turning into a shriek. "I realize there is still so much I don't know about you. I feel myself a part of you, and a heartbeat later you are a stranger." Penelope shook her head. "This is foolishness. I'm just tired."

  "I should go home before the storm grows worse," Laertes said in the silence when Odysseus looked into her eyes as if trying to see into her thoughts.

  "It's bad enough already," she hurried to say. "Let me have Eurynome make up a bed for you."

  "No. Antikleia will send servants after me." He chuckled. "She treats me like an old grandfather with brittle bones. I can reach home long before the cold touches me, and prove to her I'm not helpless yet." Laertes rested his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. "Good-night, Daughter."

  "Please be careful, Father." Penelope stepped to the far wall, where cloaks and boots hung from pegs. She heard Odysseus' voice, but couldn't make out his words as he spoke with his father. Whatever the two men discussed, they both smiled when they joined her and she handed Laertes his cloak.

  The wind gusted in, tearing at the heavy doors like a wild animal when Odysseus pulled a bronze-bound panel open for his father to leave. The rain swirled in, heavy and stinging, with a core of ice in each drop. Penelope welcomed his arm around her shoulders, his warmth driving away the chill as the winter night tried to penetrate the hall. They watched until Laertes had turned into a shrinking black blot in the stormy night, before closing the door.

  "What were you two discussing a moment ago?" she asked, as they went back to the hearth.

  "Mother gave him detailed instructions to study you. She's concerned about your health." Odysseus picked up the bow and slid it back into its cover. He took special care to tie the cords that held the case closed.

  "She could have questioned me herself. I did invite her. When Eurykleia came with the dye from the new merchant, I sent the invitation. When Eurynome went down to borrow the smaller millstones, she repeated it." Penelope sat next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. "I try, but I don't think I'm a good daughter to her. Sometimes, I think she fears me. Other times she's so quiet, I fear her."

  "She loves you. My mother believes a husband's mother is best loved when she doesn't darken the bride's doorstep too often." He wrapped his arm around her waist. "That does not, however, prevent her keeping careful watch over us both."

  "I think she worries more than your father that I'm not fat with a baby yet."

  "Why do you say that?" His hand moved lightly up her side, his fingertips just brushing her breast, then down to cup the curve of her hip. She knew he wanted to make love to her, but he would not ask, because she had said she was tired. Penelope chided herself for her earlier thoughts. He was a tender, considerate husband and she had no right to doubt him.

  "You're not the only one who can see people's hearts and thoughts in their faces. I listen to what the servants say," she added with a laugh.

  "My mother worries about everyone. It's one of the few pleasures left in her life." Odysseus tried to smile, but she felt the hurt in him. "Did you know I had an older sister? No, no one would speak of her yet. Not if they thought my mother would hear. Ktimene died in childbirth. Her death separated Mother from us, as if part of her had already gone down to the shadows with my sister. My mother worries because she doesn't see the strength and life in you that I do."

  "Once we have a child, she will be more alive again?" Penelope didn't know if she resented this new pressure on her actions. She loved her mother-in-law protectively, as she had Helen. It hurt to take the duties of queen of Ithaka, because she knew Antikleia could have handled them if she had wanted.

  She was proud to lead in the night ceremonies in the cave. She was glad to give bits of advice to the women who sent servants and children to ask. It was a proverb that Ithaka's women accomplished more in snatches of conversation, messages passed in gardens and on the shore, than the men did in a moon of meetings. She knew the people would ask her to intercede for them before Odysseus when they came to know her better. She was the queen, responsible for the peace and prosperity of Ithaka.

  And Penelope knew the more pressure she felt to have children, the more she fought the idea. Antikleia's happiness was simply another gust in the wind pushing her. Another force she dug her heels in to resist.

  "She would be happy to have someone new to worry over." Odysseus drew her closer and pressed a kiss against her temple. "She sees you as a daughter. It's not just words to her."

  "She hardly speaks when we're together. I'm not sure how she feels about me. I know she worries for you, even when you're only gone for a day." A shiver wrapped around Penelope. "She started to tell me about a dream she had. You were in danger, living in rags, far from home. Gods prevented you from returning. Then she just stopped in the middle of the tale." />
  "She likely thought you wouldn't believe her."

  "Sometimes I have dreams that...hint at the truth," she murmured.

  "My mother has always worried overmuch for me. When I was a child, she worried I wouldn't grow to be a man. When I visited my grandparents, she worried I wouldn't return home alive. Then when she learned about the boar that caught me, she worried I would lose my leg--though it had already healed when she heard the tale. When I was old enough to look for a bride, she worried I would never find a girl who pleased me."

  "And now that we are married," Penelope interrupted, pressing two fingers over his lips, "she worries you will not be a father before she dies." She jerked out of his embrace, swallowing a tiny scream when he bit at her fingers. "Odysseus, we are having a serious conversation."

  "Must we?" He put a woebegone expression on his face. She smiled, relenting, and let him draw her onto his lap. "You feel badly because you don't carry a child yet?"

  "My duty--"

  "Your duty as a wife is between you and me alone. If I say I am pleased, that you are my treasure and delight, no one else's words matter."

  "I hear and obey, my husband." Penelope rested her head on his shoulder, her arms tight around him.

  "That's better."

  "I hear the whispers, when I'm alone in my garden. Everyone expected the first cloth from my loom to be a child's blanket. Yet it would be a waste of an excellent loom, to make it sit idle and my belly still flat." She wondered if now was a good time to tell him about the potion, or even ask his advice and explain why she took it.

  "I like your belly flat," he whispered, shifting his embrace so he caressed her hip and rested his hand on her belly. "Penelope, we will make a bargain. There is more than enough time for us to have children. You will use the loom, and I will start a new one just for children's clothing the day you tell me you are pregnant. Is that acceptable?"

  "You are the kindest, most understanding husband any woman could hope for." She accented her words with kisses.

  "See how understanding I am when you're too fat to share my bed," Odysseus grumbled.

  "I am not fat now." Penelope slid off his lap. He let go of her reluctantly. His eyes gleamed when she took his hand and led him across the hall to the door of his chamber.

  Chapter 12

  * * *

  "My daughter barely reached our home before the storm broke. She could have been lost, dead by morning!"

  The angry, cracking male voice rang up the stairs to Penelope's workroom. She paused, a warp thread in one hand, a weight in the other. Melantho and the other maids grew still.

  In the great hall below, several men of the island had come to Odysseus. To complain. Her husband had warned her when the ships were locked into the harbor by winter storms and hunting was impossible, the people of Ithaka grew short tempers. Quarrels and mediation were the main entertainments during the winter. Penelope had thought he teased until now.

  It jolted her when her name came up the stairs several times, on different voices. No tones had been flattering. However, with the last clearly spoken remark, Penelope understood. More young women had begun to join the ceremonies in the Goddess' cave. Five days before, with a storm approaching, Eurykleia had summoned her to lead a ritual to ensure safety for the island. No one had been lost in the storm, no animals had wandered lost and died, no homes had fallen in the terrible gales. But now it seemed a daughter or two had taken too long coming home. Their fathers blamed Penelope.

  "If you would speak with your wives, your mothers, you would know my wife has brought nothing new to Ithaka," Odysseus said. The reasonable tone of his voice reassured Penelope.

  "Foolish old women with nothing to do," another angry voice returned. His words echoed up the stairs. "They were the only ones who still held the old ways, until you brought that foreign woman among us."

  "Traitos is still angry I didn't beg for his daughter," Odysseus observed.

  His words earned a few chuckles from some men. Not enough, Penelope thought. It was hard to judge from such a distance.

  "The girls find merit in the old ways with your wife's support," another said. "She acts as a priestess."

  "My wife does not trouble me with such small things." A chair scraped on the floor tile. "You have brought me your grievance and your reasons. I understand your fears for your daughters and wives. Be assured I will act. My wife will mend her ways."

  "How?" Traitos demanded. "What will you do? This woman is cousin to Helen. Does she consider herself a child of the gods as well, and above our laws?"

  "What do you want of me?" Odysseus' voice grew deadly quiet, penetrating until Penelope thought the foundation stones rang in response. "Bring my wife out, strip her and beat her in front of you like a rebellious slave?"

  The silence echoed in the hall. Outside the walls, Penelope heard the first moans of a new storm. She stayed still, though she knew movement would keep her maids from hearing the rest of the confrontation.

  "A storm comes. Tend to the safety of your homes, and leave me to mine." His sandals made cracking taps on the floor as he moved off, away from the stairs. Penelope thought he led his unwanted guests to the doors himself, instead of waiting for a slave to take care of them.

  "Go," she said, finally standing. She turned, daring any of her women to smile or disobey. Even Melantho paled slightly and hurried from the room.

  Penelope sat down, still holding the thread and the warp weight. She tried not to listen to the sounds of feet leaving the hall, the thud of the door closing. By force of will, she returned to setting the new pattern on her loom. She had finished hanging the weights when Odysseus came to the door.

  "You heard?" he said, and leaned against the frame. That he didn't waste time on small talk made her uneasy.

  "How could I help it?" She didn't look up. Penelope ached at the wariness in his voice. She didn't want to see his face.

  "You will have more supporters soon, Penelope. Those for the Goddess and against me will turn to you now." A broken chuckle escaped him when she glanced at him, startled. "Likely, gifts will come from nobles and their ladies who haven't dared to declare themselves before. If they think we are divided, we can control them."

  "Aren't we divided? You said nothing in my defense. Those men have left thinking you are going to punish me. Punished for doing what you encouraged?"

  "I only said you would mend your ways."

  "How is that any different from--"

  "Be more careful. That's all I ask. Take better care of your followers." Odysseus crossed the room to stand before her. "That is how you will mend your ways."

  "My lord...some day, your scheming ways will be your destruction." Penelope closed her eyes. She sighed, bone weary though it was still morning. "Or perhaps your schemes shall be the destruction of my mind!"

  "No, my lovely witch." He drew her to her feet, holding her close. Penelope welcomed his warmth, enveloping her, soaking into her chilled flesh. "You are stronger than anyone can guess. You will stand when all others fail."

  * * * *

  She passed on the warning through Eurykleia to all the devotees of the Goddess. They held fewer ceremonies in the cave the rest of the winter. Penelope thought the Goddess understood. She was glad to spend more nights warm in bed, more often than not clasped in Odysseus' arms.

  Spring came too soon, with the people watching for her to swell with child. Penelope tried to ignore the pointed looks, the conversations that broke off when she passed by. She buried herself in the spring work--directing planting, buying new breeding sheep for her flocks, purchasing geese. She had her own geese in Alybas, pets that produced sweet eggs and soft feathers for cushions. As a spring festival gift, Odysseus ordered a pen built for geese and gave her a few precious scraps of gold to buy them. Penelope looked forward to watching the eggs hatch, though she knew some would ask why she didn't hatch a child of her own.

  With the softer weather, the ships rode the waves again. Odysseus began to make short,
overnight trips to Kephallenia or other islands allied with Ithaka. She didn't like those absences.

  Penelope was in her garden with Antikleia, discussing which plants to cultivate, the day the first ship arrived from far ports. She found it easier to work with her mother-in-law now. They didn't speak much, but she found the woman pleasant company. Especially when she sought advice.

  Odysseus came to the garden to find her. He waited, listening, saying nothing, until his mother had gone home.

  "Penelope, Agamemnon has sent for me. I must go to Mycenae," he said, leading her to a bench near the opening in the wall.

  "Mycenae? Agamemnon wants something badly, to send for you so early in the year." She repressed a shiver of apprehension as she sat.

  "Troy took nearly a fourth of the cargo in tribute from the first three ships through the Dardanelles. All Mycenaean traders. Agamemnon's man says he expects trouble this year, worse than the last five combined."

  "And he wants your advice." The only alternative, she knew, was a call for Odysseus to prepare for war.

  "He claims I must help him, now that we are kinsmen." He held her hand, toying with her fingers as he spoke, and didn't meet her eyes.

  "Something more bothers you. After being land-bound all winter, you should leap at the chance to travel." She caught at his hands to still them.

  "Sometimes, sweet witch, I wish you weren't so perceptive." Odysseus smiled and reached up to stroke her cheek. "I am most reluctant to leave you alone for as long as the journey and the council will take."

  "I could go with you. Klytemaistra is not my favorite cousin, but I would like to see her daughters."

  "Agamemnon already invited you, nearly made his request a demand." He shook his head, a short, sharp motion. "I won't chance taking you to Mycenae."