Page 102 of Circe

These gods, I thought. They always say the same thing.

“I do.”

My father’s skin flared blinding bright. His voice seared at my bones. “You would start a war.”

“I hope so. For I will see you torn down, Father, before I will be jailed for your convenience any longer.”

His rage was so hot the air bent and wavered around him. “I can end you with a thought.”

It was my oldest fear, that white annihilation. I felt it shiver through me. But enough. At last, enough.

“You can,” I said. “But you have always been cautious, Father. You know I have stood against Athena. I have walked in the blackest deeps. You cannot guess what spells I have cast, what poisons I have gathered to protect myself against you, how your power may rebound upon your head. Who knows what is in me? Will you find out?”

The words hung in the air. His eyes were discs of ignited gold, but I did not look away.

“If I do this thing,” he said, “it is the last I will ever do for you. Do not come begging again.”

“Father,” I said, “I never will. I leave this place tomorrow.”

He would not ask where, he would not even wonder. So many years I had spent as a child sifting his bright features for his thoughts, trying to glimpse among them one that bore my name. But he was a harp with only one string, and the note it played was himself.

“You have always been the worst of my children,” he said. “Be sure you do not dishonor me.”

“I have a better idea. I will do as I please, and when you count your children, leave me out.”

His body was rigid with wrath. He looked as though he had swallowed a stone, and it choked him.

“Give Mother my greetings,” I said.

His jaw bit down and he was gone.

The yellow sands faded to their usual color. The shadows returned. For a moment I stood breathing, unmoving, my chest filled with a wild battering. But then it was gone. My thoughts were loosed forward, skimming the earth, flying up the hill to my room where the spear waited with its pale poison. It should have been returned to Trygon long ago, yet I had kept it for protection and something else I could not name. At last, I knew what it was.

I went up to the house and found Penelope, sitting at my loom.

“It is time for a decision. There are things I must do. I leave tomorrow, I cannot say for how long. I will take you first to Sparta if you would go there.”

She looked up from the tapestry she was making. A wild sea, with a swimmer striking out into darkness. “And if I would not?”

“Then you may stay here.”

She held the shuttle lightly, as if it were a bird with its hollow bones. She said, “Would that not…intrude? I know what I have cost you.”

Telegonus, she meant. There was grief, and so there would always be. But the gray fog was gone. I felt distant and very clear, like a hawk borne upon the highest aether. I said, “He would never have been happy here.”

“But because of us, he went with Athena.”

It had hurt once, but that was only pride. “She is far from the worst of them.”

Them, I heard myself say.

“I give you the choice, Penelope. What would you do?”

A wolf stretched, her mouth squeaking a little with her yawn. “I find I am in no rush for Sparta,” Penelope said.

“Then come, there are things you must know.” I led her to the kitchen with its rows of jars and bottles. “There is an illusion upon the island to make it appear inhospitable to ships. That will remain while I am gone. But sailors are reckless sometimes, and the ones that are most reckless are often the most desperate. These are my drugs that do not need witchcraft. There are poisons among them, and salves for healing. This one causes sleep.” I handed her a bottle. “It does not work immediately, so you cannot leave it till the last moment. You will need to get it in their wine. Ten drops will be enough. Do you think you can do it?”

She tipped the contents, felt their weight. A faint smile touched her lips. “You may remember I have some experience in handling unwelcome guests.”