“No. He refused her and prayed to the gods to free him. At last they forced her to let him go.”
I did not think I imagined the trace of satisfaction in her voice.
“When your son came, I thought perhaps he was hers. But then I saw the weave of his cloak. I remembered Daedalus’ loom.”
It was strange, how much she knew of me. But then, I knew about her too.
“Calypso fawned over him, and you turned his men to pigs. Yet you were the one he preferred. Do you think that strange?”
“No,” I said.
It was nearly a smile. “Just so.”
“He did not know about the child.”
“I know,” she said. “He would never have kept that from me.” That was pointed.
“I spoke with your son last night,” I said.
“Did you?” I thought I heard a flicker of something in her voice.
“He explained to me why you had to leave Ithaca. I was sorry to hear it.”
“Your son was kind to bring us away.” Her eyes had found Trygon’s tail. “Is it like a bee’s venom, that stings only once? Or like a snake?”
“It could poison a thousand times and more. There is no end to it. It was meant to stop a god.”
“Telegonus told us that you faced the great lord of sting-rays himself.”
“I did.”
She nodded, a private gesture, as if in confirmation. “He told us that you took further precautions for him as well. That you have cast a spell over the island, and no god, not even Olympians, can pass.”
“Gods of the dead may pass,” I said. “No others.”
“You are fortunate,” she said, “to be able to summon such protections.” From the beach came faint shouts: our sons moving the boat.
“I am embarrassed to ask this of you, but I did not bring a black cloak with me when we left. Do you have one I might wear? I would mourn for him.”
I looked at her, as vivid in my doorway as the moon in the autumn sky. Her eyes held mine, gray and steady. It is a common saying that women are delicate creatures, flowers, eggs, anything that may be crushed in a moment’s carelessness. If I had ever believed it, I no longer did.
“No,” I said. “But I have yarn, and a loom. Come.”
Chapter Twenty-two
HER FINGERS RAN LIGHTLY over the beams, stroked the threads of the weft like a stable master greeting a prize horse. She asked no questions; she seemed to absorb the loom’s workings by touch alone. The light from the window glowed on her hands, as if it wished to illuminate her work. Carefully, she took off my half-finished tapestry and strung the black yarn. Her motions were precise, nothing wasted. She was a swimmer, Odysseus had told me, long limbs cutting effortlessly to her destination.
Outside the sky had turned. The clouds hung so low they seemed to graze the windows, and I could hear the first fat drops begin to fall. Telemachus and Telegonus gusted through the door, wet from hauling the boat. When Telegonus saw Penelope at the loom he hurried forward, already exclaiming over the fineness of her work. I watched Telemachus instead. His face went hard and he turned away abruptly to the window.
I set out lunch, and we ate in near silence. The rain tapered off. I could not bear the thought of being shut up all afternoon and drew my son out for a walk along the shore. The sand was hard and wet, and our footprints looked as though they had been cut with a knife. I linked my arm through his and was surprised when he let it stay. His tremor from yesterday was gone, but I knew it would return.
It was only a little after midday, yet something in the air felt dusky and obscuring, like a veil across my eyes. My conversation with Penelope was tugging at me. At the time, I had felt clever and swift, but now that I ran it back through my mind, I realized how little she had said. I had meant to question her, and instead I found myself showing her my loom.
He had talked his way past the witch instead.
“Whose idea was it to come here?” I said.
He frowned at the suddenness of my question. “Does it matter?”
“I am curious.”
“I can’t remember.” But he did not meet my eyes.
“Not yours.”
He hesitated. “No. I suggested Sparta.”
It was the natural thought. Penelope’s father lived in Sparta. Her cousin was a queen there. A widow would find