Odysseus in the Serpent Maze

EPILOGUE: THE GODDESS SPEAKS

ODYSSEUS WOKE IN THE middle of the night, aching all over. But it was not the hard pallet or the pain that had awakened him. It was the light.

Light?

In the middle of the night?

Standing about a foot off the deck in front of him was a tall, beautiful woman in a snow-white robe. The moon shimmered on her helmet, and the point of her spear caught fire from the stars.

“Athena!” he cried. Then he looked around. All his companions were fast asleep.

“They will not wake till I am gone,” said the goddess. “I am here for your eyes and ears only, Odysseus.”

“I’m listening,” he said.

“The gods have tested you, and you have triumphed over all their tricks, as I told them you would.”

“The gods?” Odysseus was baffled. “What part did they play in all this?”

“Did you think it mere chance that tossed you into the sea? Mere chance that the mechanical ship rescued you? Mere chance that you escaped from the Labyrinth?”

Odysseus shrugged. “I thought it was ill fortune that dropped me into danger, and my own wits and courage that got me out.”

“I have been your luck, Odysseus,” Athena said. “I sent the dolphins to save you, the warning to flee the workshop. The box, the spearhead, the satyr, the ship, the key—all mine to give.”

Odysseus spread his hands apologetically. “I’m sorry if I didn’t recognise your handiwork.”

“You were not to know,” she told him. “You were to find ways to use what you were given. And you proved that the age of heroes is not yet over.”

The Age of Heroes. Odysseus grinned broadly. Then, as quickly, he grimaced because grinning hurt, even in a dream.

“And so I can tell you that you will take part in one final great adventure before the Heroic Age draws to a close.” The goddess’s face was both beautiful and terrible to behold.

Odysseus held his breath, waiting.

“You will sail to a far-off land and fight a long and dreadful war. Your journey home will be as long and as hard as the war itself.”

“You make the adventure sound terrible, Goddess.”

Athena smiled. “And who was it who said, ‘Any danger averted is an adventure. If you live to tell the story.’”

“Will I live to tell it?” Odysseus asked, leaning forward eagerly.

“Glory is not won cheaply, Odysseus,” she said. “If glory is truly what you seek.”

“What else is there?” His face was puzzled.

“A prince can find joy in seeing his people safe and happy, in the love of a good wife, in watching his baby son grow to manhood,” the goddess said.

Odysseus shook his head. “Only glory lasts. The bards’ songs give us that chance at immortality. Like the gods themselves.”

“Think carefully, Odysseus, what you lose by that choice,” Athena said. She hefted her spear. “But enough. I know your heart. I know your mind. Enjoy the present. You will have calm seas and favourable winds all the way back to Ithaca. A happy homecoming awaits you.”

Odysseus wrinkled his nose at the thought, then drew the golden key from his belt. “And what shall I do with this?”

“Give it to old Praxios,” said Athena. “He will need it when he goes searching for his master. Or keep it for yourself. Whichever you do, make certain it is kept away from your grandfather. The gods themselves tremble to think what might happen if a key that opens all locks should fall into his thieving hands.” Then she threw back her head and, laughing, disappeared.

Odysseus had never felt so awake in his life. He tapped the golden key against his palm, grinning.

Silenus had been wrong. The gods did have a sense of humour after all.