Odysseus in the Serpent Maze

CHAPTER 22: HORNED BEAST

ODYSSEUS COULDN’T STOP IMAGINING Penelope wandering along the twisted tunnels of the Labyrinth.

Is she frightened? And then as quickly, No, she’ll be brave.

But he knew that being brave, without weapon or friend to help, would not be enough.

Not against a beast in the dark.

He started pacing the cell restlessly. “Helen should have been back by now.”

“Maybe she was caught,” Mentor said.

“Maybe lost her nerve, you mean,” Odysseus countered.

Mentor bit his lip. “You haven’t given her enough time.”

“How much time do you think Penelope has?” Odysseus said.

“Hush!” Praxios suddenly stood, finger to lip.

They shut up at once. There was a rustle above them, then a loud clink.

They looked up, then down. A gold key glinted in the straw.

“Now get on with it,” Helen whispered, starting to move away.

“Wait,” Odysseus called. “We need one more thing.”

“I can’t do any more. Idomeneus is probably already looking for me.”

Mentor called, “Please, Helen. This and nothing more.” He looked over at Odysseus.

Odysseus nodded. “Distract the guard, Helen. Or he’ll cut us down as we try to leave.”

“I thought you were a hero,” she said.

“He is a hero,” Mentor replied angrily. “He saved me from drowning, got us away from the pirates, fought the bronze dog and …” His voice ground to a halt.

Odysseus bit his lip. “Helen, we’re two boys and”—he looked over at Praxios—“and a craftsman. The guard’s a grown man with a sword. You figure it out.”

“And how am I supposed to distract him? This grown man with a sword?”

“Just be yourself,” Odysseus said.

Mentor kicked him in the shin.

Helen knelt again and whispered through the grate. “If I do this, then everyone will know I helped you to escape.”

“Everyone will know anyway,” Mentor said. “And in Sparta you’ll be known for your bravery as well as your beauty.”

“Do you want Penelope rescued or not?” Odysseus went to the heart of the matter.

“You’d better succeed, after all the trouble I’ve gone through,” Helen said. Then she was gone.

They were silent until they heard the murmur of conversation in the outer hall where the guard stood watch. Trusting it was Helen—not just another guard—Odysseus slid the gold key into the cell door lock. He turned it gently until it gave a satisfying snick, and the door opened.

“Sandals off,” he whispered. Then, turning to Praxios, he took the old man’s cloak.

They found themselves at the far end of a long corridor. Clear on the other side the burly guard hunched over, talking intensely with someone hidden from their view.

Their bare feet made no sound on the stone floor, and they crept up behind the guard until they could hear Helen’s voice saying, “Should I turn left at the grain store?”

“No, mistress. Right at the store. Left at the stables.” The guard spoke with the same irritation Odysseus did when talking to her.

“You’ve been”—she sighed loudly—“so helpful. And I’ve been such a silly goose.” She put a delicate hand on his arm.

“No, mistress,” he said, only this time he sounded as if her beauty had suddenly fuddled him.

It was then that Odysseus pounced, pulling the cloak over the guard’s head and drawing it tightly around his thick neck while Mentor made a dive for the guard’s legs.

The guard let out a bellow, which was muffled by the cloak, and kicked out before Mentor could reach him. He spun around, groping blindly for his sword. Odysseus was shaken this way and that, just as he’d been by the bronze dog. Only this time he lost his grip and tumbled across the floor.

Staggering across the passage, the guard was like a blinded beast. Helen kicked a little footstool in his way, and he tripped over it before he could rid himself of the cloak. Stumbling forward, he cracked his head on the wall and dropped senseless to the floor.

“Oh!” Helen cried. “I think I’ve broken my toe.”

Odysseus scrambled over to the guard, drew the man’s sword from the scabbard, and set it aside. Mentor hastened over as well. Only Praxios stayed back, huddled against the wall.

“He’s still breathing,” said Mentor. “Use your belt to tie his hands behind his back,” Odysseus said. “Then we’ll lock him in the cell.”

“Isn’t anyone going to say thanks?” asked Helen.

The deed done, they hurried back up the stone corridor, only this time with their sandals on. Odysseus paused to pick up the heavy bronze sword. Mentor snatched a torch from the wall.

“Now, Helen, where’s that Labyrinth?” Odysseus asked. He wished the sword were lighter. He would need two hands to wield it.

Helen shrugged and spread her hands helplessly.

“I know where the Labyrinth is,” Praxios said. “Every Cretan knows. If only to avoid the place. It’s close to the dungeon so they don’t have far to transport prisoners.”

They followed the old man out through three more sets of doors, then down a grassy slope, and between a pair of broken pillars. There a flight of wide stone steps led down into the earth, disappearing into darkness. Surprisingly they passed no one—guards or otherwise—along the way.

When Odysseus commented on that, Praxios shook his head. “Why should they bother guarding it?” he said. “Who goes in doesn’t come out.”

“It shouldn’t be that hard to find the way back,” Odysseus said. “We can make marks on the walls and follow them out.”

“It’s not that simple,” Praxios told them. “Nothing the master ever did was simple. As soon as a person sets foot inside the Labyrinth, the whole thing changes.”

“Changes?” Helen asked. Her face went bone white under the Cretan powder.

“The very walls shift position,” Praxios said. He rubbed his hands together, as if in admiration of the craft.

“Then how did Theseus escape, with all the children of Athens?” Odysseus asked.

“Ah—Theseus. It’s always Theseus,” old Praxios said, his bird eyebrows fluttering. “The hero who escaped. I’ve never told the truth of it before, because we all need to believe in heroes, eh? Well, Theseus was not so much a hero, my children.”

Odysseus’ mouth turned down in a sour expression, but it was Mentor who asked, “If not a hero, then how did he escape?”

“Ah,” said Praxios brightly, “the master jammed the mechanism for him. Theseus was from Athens and so was Daedalus, who had been a prince there once. And pretty little Ariadne, Minos’ daughter, had fallen in love with Theseus. She was a particular pet of the Master’s. He did it for her.”

“I don’t suppose you know the secret for jamming it yourself?” Odysseus asked. He put down the heavy sword for a moment, letting it rest against his leg.

Praxios lifted his hands apologetically. “The Labyrinth is as much a mystery to me as you. I was only a boy when it was built.”

Odysseus looked down into the darkness and swallowed hard. He’d never told anyone, not even Mentor, but dark caves and tunnels made his stomach hurt. He preferred hunting monsters in the light.

Helen put a hand to her mouth. “We can’t leave Penelope …” Her voice trembled. Her eyes teared up. The black make-up around her eyes ran down her cheeks in streaks.

“We’re not leaving anyone down there,” said Mentor.

“Especially Penelope,” added Odysseus. He took a deep breath and lifted the sword again. His father once said that being brave was overcoming fear. No fear, he’d said, no courage. Odysseus admitted to himself that he was afraid.

No, he thought suddenly, not afraid. Terrified.

He put that thought aside. There was another problem that had to be dealt with as well.

“Praxios,” Odysseus said, “where are the slave pens?”

“Down by the harbour,” Praxios said. “So they can be loaded and unloaded quickly. We do quite a trade in slaves.”

“Then,” Odysseus said, “you three go on down to the harbour. See if you can find Tros and his men.”

It was Mentor who guessed first. “You can’t mean to go into the Labyrinth alone, Odysseus. That’s crazy.”

“No sense all of us going in,” Odysseus said. If he was going to get weak-kneed in the cave, he certainly didn’t want anyone else to see. Besides, this was a good plan. If he managed to free Penelope, they couldn’t waste time trying to find the sailors and the boat. And if he didn’t get her out … well, at least Mentor and Helen could get off the island. “You need to free Tros and find his ship to get us all away from here. Trust me—your job will be harder than mine.”

Helen laid a hand on his arm. “Be careful, Odysseus.”

There was something in her eyes he’d never seen before. A real concern for someone other than herself. It brought out her true beauty and, for the first time, he knew he was seeing her as Mentor did. As men would see her for years to come.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

Mentor handed him the torch silently. There were tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Odysseus looked away before those tears called out his own.

Then he started down the steps, the heavy sword upraised in one hand, the flickering torch in the other. Halfway down he turned and looked back. Mentor was staring mournfully at him.

“Getting in is one thing,” Mentor said. “But you heard Praxios. No one who’s gone in has come—”

“I’ll worry about that when it’s time to leave. With Penelope,” Odysseus said. “Now—go!”

This time Odysseus didn’t look back. He continued down the stairs until reaching the bottom, where a long, black passage sloped underground. He rested the sword blade on his right shoulder and raised the torch.

“Athena, if you’re ever going to help me, help me now.”

Cautiously he advanced step by step, remembering the Cretan prophecy: when maiden meets the horned beast at the heart of the Labyrinth, then will you find your heart’s desire.

Just as he was pondering this, a huge block of stone crashed down behind him. The floor began to swivel. He realised that the entire passageway was revolving on some sort of axis.

Feeling seasick, his stomach lurching as the floor and walls moved on unseen rollers and wheels, Odysseus staggered a few feet forward, then steadied himself. Ahead were several long passages stretching away into darkness. Behind …

Behind, where there had been a passage, was a solid rock wall.

He held the torch up higher. There was nothing to indicate that any one way was better than any other, so he shrugged and set off at random, the sword against his shoulder even heavier than before.

The corridors bent to the left, then to the right, doubling back on themselves. Again and again Odysseus ran into dead ends, retraced his steps, only to feel the stone floor tip, roll and change.

I’m being herded, he thought. I’m being forced to choose a single path. But there was nothing he could do about it. He went forward, he went backward, he went forward again.

Then ahead of him, he saw something humped up in the passageway. He held the sword out in front, the torch high, and ran forward. Anything to relieve the monotony of the place.

But he pulled up short when he saw what the hump really was: a human skeleton, its clothes shredded and stained with dried blood.

“Penelope,” he whispered, even as he saw that the skeleton wore a man’s tunic.

He stood very still, listening, the upraised sword trembling as his tired arm shook.

The Labyrinth was as silent as …

As a tomb.

“Not a good thought,” he told himself, and moved on.

He found a second skeleton. Then a third. He thought they might be old. That the beast who had ravaged them might be old. Might even be dead.

He wondered if he should call out to Penelope. To let her know he was looking for her.

“Stupid idea,” he whispered to himself. It would alert the beast.

He didn’t want to alert the beast.

And then he heard a sound from ahead in the dark corridor.

Clip.

Clop.

Clip.

An animal’s hooves on the stone floor.

Not dead, then, he thought. Meaning the beast. Hoping he meant Penelope. He set down the torch and moved out of its light.

It was easier holding the sword in two hands. Much easier.

He held his breath and went around a bend in the passage.

Clip.

Clop.

He raised his sword in both hands and waited, his palms sweaty. He hoped the beast could not smell him.

But he could smell the beast now: musky stink of a meat eater.

The hoofbeats came closer.

They were almost on top of him.

Releasing all his fear in one horrific battle cry, he leaped out of hiding and swung the sword.

A bulky figure reeled back, dropped a little light, and avoided the bronze blade by inches.

“Great Paaaaaan!” the old satyr exclaimed. “Is that any waaaay to greet aaaan old friend?”