Page 103 of Circe

Wherever Telemachus was, he did not return for dinner. No matter, I told myself. The time when I had softened like wax was past. My path was laid before me. I packed my things. There were a few changes of clothing and a cloak, but the rest was herbs and bottles. I picked up the spear and carried it out into the warm night air. There was spell-work to do, but I wanted to go to the boat first. I had not seen it since Telemachus began his repairs, and I had to be sure it was ready to sail. Streaks of lightning flashed over the sea, and the breeze brought a distant smell of fire. It was that last storm I had told Telegonus to wait for, but I did not fear it. By morning it would blow itself out.

I stepped into the cave, and stared. It was hard to believe I viewed the same boat. It was longer now, and its bow had been rebuilt and narrowed. The mast was better rigged, and the rudder more trim. I walked around it. At the front a small prow-piece had been added, a seated lioness with her jaws open. The fur was in the Eastern style, each lock separate, curled like the shell of a snail. I reached to touch one.

“The wax is not set.” He stepped out from the darkness. “I have always thought every ship needs a prow spirit.”

“It is beautiful,” I said.

“I was fishing in the cove when Helios came. All the shadows disappeared. I heard you speak to him.”

I felt a flare of embarrassment. How baleful and outlandish and cruel we must have seemed. I rested my eyes on the boat so I would not have to look at him. “Then you know my exile is ended and I sail tomorrow. I asked your mother if she would go to Sparta or stay. She said she wished to stay. I offer the same choice to you.”

Outside, the sea made a sound like a shuttle weaving. The stars were yellow as pears, low and ripe on the branch.

“I have been angry with you,” he said.

It surprised me. The blood rose stinging to my cheeks. “Angry.”

“Yes,” he said. “You thought I would go with Athena. Even after all I have said to you. I am not your son and I am not my father. You should have known I do not want anything Athena has.”

His voice was even, but I felt the sharp edge of his reproach. “I am sorry,” I said. “I could not believe that any in this world would refuse her divinity.”

“That is amusing coming from you.”

“I am not a promising young prince of whom great things are expected.”

“It is overrated.”

I ran my hand across the lion’s clawed foot, felt the sticky sheen of the wax.

“Do you always make beautiful things for those you are angry with?”

“No,” he said. “Only you.”

Outside, the lightning flickered. “I was angry as well,” I said. “I thought you could not wait to leave.”

“I do not know how you could think that. You know I cannot hide my face.”

I could smell the beeswax, sweet and thick.

“The way you spoke of Athena coming to you. I thought it was longing. Something you kept close, like a secret heart.”

“I kept it close because I was ashamed. I did not want you to hear how she had preferred my father all along.”

She is a fool. But I did not say it.

“I do not want to go to Sparta,” he said. “Nor do I want to stay here. I think you know where I would like to be.”

“You cannot come,” I said. “It is not safe for mortals.”

“I suspect it is not safe at all. You should see your face. You cannot hide either.”

What is my face like? I wanted to ask. Instead I said, “You would leave your mother?”

“She will be well here. And content, I think.”

Wood dust floated past, fragrant in the air. It was the same smell that rose from his skin when he carved. I felt reckless suddenly. Sick of all my fretting and convincing, my careful plotting. It came to some by nature, but not to me.

“If you want to join me, I will not stop you,” I said. “We leave at dawn.”