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The Odyssey: An Untold Tale
Ambrose was bored. He was hot and sweaty from the summer sun, and stiff and aching as well, tied up in the rigging as he was. As far as he could see there was nothing but rolling waves in every direction. He sighed and shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, even though he knew he would not find any relief until his turn at watch was over. Stealing a glance down at their leader, he felt a brief flash of jealous irritation. Lord Odysseus lay on a heap of discarded clothes, fast asleep.
The rest of the crew were likewise draped over whatever seemed even remotely comfortable, shirtless in an attempt to stave off the heat. Most of them were laying near their king, in the shade of the limp sail. Occasionally, the barest hint of a breeze tugged at the cloth, but for the most part it lay still.
Odysseus and his men had been gone from Circe’s island for almost a month when they began to notice how low on food they were running. It didn’t help that the ship, decrepit as it was from being buried on a beach for five years, was springing small leaks here and there. Most of them were small enough that the men were able to patch them without too much difficulty, but they didn’t want to take any risks. “The next island we find,” Odysseus had told his men, “We shall stop for a while. We can gather supplies, and make repairs to the ship.” But that was over a week ago now.
The soldier sighed again, leaning his head against the mast and staring into the horizon, his gaze landing on a dark spot far ahead of them. It wasn’t really fair, he thought to himself. Odysseus was their king, yes, and he was very brave. He seemed to have a sort of hero-complex, always trying to protect you even if you didn’t need protection. Ambrose was also well-aware of how smart Odysseus really was. Surely, the Gods had given him a mighty gift; the King of Ithaca was downright genius, and he was quick-witted as well. No long, slow thought-process for him. He conjured spur-of-the-moment plans whenever they were most needed, and they were good plans too!
The spot on the horizon drew closer, growing larger in Ambrose’s vision, but he was still wrapped up in his thoughts and did not yet realize what he was seeing. He couldn’t help but feel that he and the rest of the men were a little neglected. Did they not also leave their homes and go to fight the Trojans? Were they not just as brave and fierce of fighters? What of the men who died on those beaches, were they any less in valour than Odysseus?
Ambrose idly noted that the thing on the horizon had trees on it and what little breeze they’d had had died again and the sun was so hot on his shoulders and…wait a moment…
Ambrose blinked and started upright, almost falling from his perch. Squinting and shading his face, he began to grin, and gave a yell to his fellow soldiers below. “Land! Land up ahead!”
The effect was instantaneous. The men leaped to their feet, and Odysseus woke with a start, scrambling to his feet and drawing his sword. Ten years of war had made them all jumpy and quick to pull out their weapons. “What?” he cried, “What is it?”
“Land up ahead, Lord Odysseus! I see land!” Amborse called back, letting out a laugh from sheer joy. Finally some respite!
“Where?” One of the men called, looking out over the sea. “Dead ahead!” Ambrose answered.
“Man the oars! Make straight for the island! Quickly now!” Odysseus cried. The men scrambled to follow his orders, and Ambrose gave yet another sigh, but this one was of relief. Maybe they were getting somewhere after all.
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Odysseus closed his eyes and leaned his head back with a smile, breathing in the sweet scent of the island. Surely this was an island of dreams, placed here for them to find just when they were beginning to lose hope…their tiny ship wouldn’t have lasted much longer in it’s condition. They had done as best as they could to make it sea-worthy once more before departing, but Circe’s island had not the materials they needed for a complete repair job. Here they maybe could find better supplies, and restock food and water.
“Dion!” he called one of his men. The soldier, younger than many of the others, quickly appeared at Odysseus’ side. “My lord?”
“I want you and four others to remain here to guard the ship. Too many times we have been caught unawares; we cannot let our guard down any longer. I and the rest of the men shall go seek out water and supplies.” The man gave a short bow. “As you wish, Lord Odysseus,” he said, and then left to seek out a few companions to wait with him.
Odysseus led the rest of his men into the thick trees bordering the beach. The island was not as mountainous as Circe’s had been, but was still just as rocky. For the most part though, it was covered with trees. Not the stunted, twisted ones as was common in Greece, but tall, smooth, branching ones. A light mist wove in and out of the branches in places, and the men welcomed the cool air. There was just the barest trace of a path, much overgrown from disuse, heading inland through the woods. The men followed it eagerly, hoping it would lead them to water, or even better, a village.
After about an hour, the men were beginning to grow tired, and Odysseus called for a short halt on the top of a steep hill where there was a good view of the terrain ahead. The men gratefully cast themselves onto the ground. Odysseus remained standing, slightly away from the men, where it was quiet, while he looked out over the landscape.
“Nice view, isn’t it?” came a voice from beside him. Odysseus jumped about a foot in the air, then turned to glare at the mischievously grinning person hovering next to his elbow. “Hermes!” the king cried. “You startled me!”
“Sorry,” replied the God with an easy grin, not sounding very sorry at all. “Long time, no see, Odysseus. How goes the journey home?”
Odysseus crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “You know very well how I fare,” he said. “Why have you come to me?”
“Ooh, temper, temper!” wing-footed Hermes reprimanded him, putting one hand on his hip and shaking his finger at Odysseus, “You should be more respectful to a God, especially one who has come to help you.”
Odysseus bowed. “My sincerest apologies, Lord Hermes. I know not what came over me.”
“Ah, but I do,” Hermes said, his normally amused face turning serious. “You must beware, Odysseus. You will find the materials you seek, but have a care! Ahead lies an opponent that you will be hard-pressed to defeat. You will not be able to talk your way out of this fight, for this monster speaks no words, nor makes any deals.” Hermes glanced over to the Ithacan soldiers resting off to the side. “Send your men onwards, Odysseus. I fear I must give you alone my aid, if you so choose to accept it.”
Odysseus was far from stupid. He knew that if the God would deign to help him, then he would sorely need it. Quickly, he roused his men and ordered them forwards down the path, saying that he would catch up with them later, and there was something he wished to check.
When the last of his soldiers had disappeared down the misty path, Odysseus turned to Hermes and crossed his arms over his chest. “Now then, what’s this all about?”
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Cyril led the rest of the party onwards for what felt like ages. Their trek had started out the same as any other, but gradually, so that he did not notice until it had already engulfed them, the world seemed to blur. The forest around them seem grey and dim, and the only sign he had that the others still followed him was the sound of their swords and armour knocking against each other. Time appeared to be standing still, and he was plodding along in an endless void, tailed by clanking pots and pans…or perhaps time was going by so quickly as to not be seen, and he was the frozen one? Either way, he felt as though he just kept walking and walking, and yet arrived no where.
“Cyril,” one of the men called in a dazed sounding voice, “There are buildings to our right, sir.”
Blinking, Cyril shook his head, trying to clear away the fog that seemed to have wrapped around his brain. The greyness shrank back, but only slightly. Indeed, whoever had spoke was right; there were buildings to their right. There were also some to the left, and ahead of and behind them as well. Still woozy, Cyril swung his head around to look. “We’re in some sort of town…” he murmured. “But…where are the people?”
Buildings stood empty, doors swinging open unchecked. There was no sound other than those made by the soldiers, and there was no light of candles or hearths shining through the mist. There were no people in the houses or on the streets. There weren’t any animals either. Just mist, edging through abandoned market carts, left where they stood, as if the owner had left intending to return in a moment, but never made it back.
“It’s…deserted…” Cyril said. Just then, he sensed something else. He caught a whiff of the most delicious aroma he had ever had the pleasure to smell. The heady scent overpowered his senses, and even as he felt rather than saw his companions slump to the ground around him, Cyril felt himself drop to the dirt before darkness overcame his vision.
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“Have you ever heard, Odysseus, of the Mashaka?” Hermes asked, and when Odysseus shook his head no, the God smiled grimly. “I thought not. The Mashaka is a demon, a rather dangerous sort. This monster is so dangerous because it has no physical form; it is a spirit of sorts, luring in it’s prey with a sweet scent. You have already smelled it, even from the beach, even from where we stand. It is not strong here, which is the only reason you have not fallen prey to it yet.”
“What does this…Mashaka…actually do?” Odysseus asked hesitantly.
“Terrible things,” Hermes said, “The alluring scent has another effect as well; it dulls your senses and weakens you. When you are close enough to it, it lets out a blast of aroma which makes you fall asleep. And then…”
Hermes trailed off, and Odysseus waited an impatient moment before prompting him. “And then?”
Hermes sighed. “Then you begin to dream. Not a usual sort of dream either.”
“Nightmares?” Odysseus asked.
“No,” the God said. “You dream of memories long since past. And whichever emotion these dreams invoke in you, the demon feeds off of. It drains your life energy by way of dreams. Eventually, you die, as though you fell asleep and never woke again.
“Oh, Hermes!” Odysseus said with fear in his voice, “How do I fight this creature?! Oh, god, my men! My men do not know, and they go on ahead, blindly! I must find them!” Odysseus turned to run back after them on the path, but stopped when Hermes caught hold of his arm.
“Wait, Odysseus. Do you not wish to know why I come to warn you of this?” wing-footed Hermes asked him, and Odysseus reluctantly turned back to the God. “Even you cannot fight this monster when it has no solid shape to take. It would kill you before you even realized it was there. But…” a sort of half-smile flitted over Hermes face, “The Mashaka cannot kill you…if you are already dead.”
The God had buried the knife in Odysseus’ belly before the mortal king had any time to react. Odysseus gasped, his eyes widening as he stared into Hermes’ calm face. He would have fallen had Hermes not been holding him by the shoulder with one godly hand, the other still wrapped around the hilt of the blade. The King made a few gurgling choking sounds, feeling bile rise into his throat as blood dripped down his body, soaking his tunic.
“Do not fear, Odysseus,” Hermes said, “This is the Gods’ gift to you.” With a single motion he drew the knife from the wound, and Odysseus dropped like a stone. Hermes then knelt on the ground, cradling the gasping king in his arms. “Hermes…” Odysseus wheezed, “…why…?” He could feel a wave of icy cool spreading through his body from the knife wound, followed by an almost soothing numbness which dulled the pain.
Hermes lifted the bloodied knife so Odysseus could see it better. “This dagger,” said Hermes, “belongs to the lady Lachesis, one of the three Fates. Not too long ago, she appeared before me and bade me do this, for it will protect you from this monster. It is not your fate to die here today. This wound will not exactly kill you, but rather…put you outside the mortal realm for a time. The wound will heal quickly, and once the only thing left is a thin silver scar, you will be merely mortal once more. Do not take this gift lightly, my undead King.”
Wing-footed Hermes rose, helping Odysseus to his feet as well. He released the no-longer-mortal Kings shoulders and Odysseus swayed and would have fallen, but Hermes caught his elbow and steady him. His shoulders heaved as he struggled to regain his breath, and he eyed Lachesis’ dagger warily. “You could not…” he struggled to say, “have given me some warning?”
Hermes let out a bark of laughter and lifted up into the air, floating backwards a few feet, seeming to lay back in the air. “Oh, Odysseus,” he said mirthfully, “even in undeath you are still as witty as any mortal I have met. It is nice to see you put it to good use, for what better use than to lighten a mood?” He smiled and began to fly off. “I’ve bought you some time, Lord Odysseus. The rest, is up to you.” And with that he was gone.
Odysseus remained where he stood for a moment, just breathing, before gingerly feeling the wound with his fingers. He was surprised to find it already scabbed over, and, taking a step, he found he was able to walk without to much pain. Swiftly, he turned and began to walk quickly down the trail after his men.
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Soon he came across the abandoned village that his men had found earlier, and, searching the eerily quiet ghost town with as much haste as he could find, he finally spotted his soldiers. They all lay peacefully, curled up as though merely sleeping, but they did not twitch or stir. Even Erasmus, infamous for his snores that could wake the dead, lay quiet and still.
But where was the monster? During his passage from the hilltop where he had spoken to Hermes, Odysseus had carefully considered everything the God had told him, certain that a hint to killing the Mashaka had been included in the God’s speech. And indeed he thought he’d figured out a way. But oh, what a way! And if he was wrong…
Cautiously, he went to each of his men and began to check them, cursing when he realized that some of them were already dead. No wonder Erasmus was no longer snoring. But where was the monster? Odysseus could not see it anywhere, and he could not tell which, if any, of the men it was hiding in. And so when something in the still gloom finally moved, Odysseus was so deeply in thought he almost missed it, and jumped about a foot when he saw it.
A sparkling grey shadow was appearing above the body of one of his men. It hovered there, twinkling malevolently, growing larger as it withdrew from the man’s form. The soldier was no longer breathing.
Odysseus watched the spirit cautiously, his whole body tensed and his hand on his sword. The creature finally seperated from the corpse and drifted off to the side. It seemed to pause for a moment, and if it’d had eyes, Odysseus would have sworn it was staring straight at him. But he did not fear for himself; with the God’s gift, the Mashaka could not touch him. Finally, it moved again, gliding to the next man over, young Cyril, who had led the men from the hill. As Odysseus watched, it began to sink slowly in through his chest. Cyril seemed to sigh and relax as the spirit entered his body. Wait for it…there!
Odysseus let out a sob as the Mashaka fully took over Cyril’s body, for he couldn’t save the brave soldier, Cyril had been among the youngest of his soldiers, and now, he was the sacrifice. Drawing his sword, Odysseus went to the young man’s side and knelt by his body. He laid a hand on Cyril’s cheek and had to bite back another sob as the younger man seemed to lean into the touch. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, then, holding his sword high, he swung it down and buried it deep in Cyril’s chest.
The soldier’s eyes flew open and he let out a scream, but it was not his scream. The sound was an unearthly shriek, and the remaining living men woke from the demon’s spell and sprang to their feet, weapons drawn. Cyril’s body began to convulse as the spirit monster trapped within his body took in his death energy, and so died as well. Odysseus cradled Cyril’s body to his chest, weeping as he tried to restrain the soldier’s struggles. The rest of his men watched wide-eyed.
Finally, after several minutes, the struggles slowed to a stop, and Cyril’s half-glazed eyes found Odysseus’ own tear-filled ones. “Lord…Odysseus…” he murmured, blood rolling down from his mouth and nose, and Cyril niether moved nor spoke any longer.
Odysseus bowed his head in grief, ignoring the questions of the rest of his men. He responded to nothing until he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see wing-footed Hermes smiling sadly at him, kneeling on the other side of Cyril’s body. “You did well, my undead king,” he said softly, before turning his attention to the dead man that lay between them. He touched Cyril’s eyes with the tip of his wand, closing them gently, then kissed his fingertips and pressed them to Cyril’s mouth. He drew his hand away slowly, and as he did so, a grey shadowy form in Cyril’s image pulled away from the body as well.
Hermes rose to his feet, leading Cyril’s shade up with him. The shade frowned and blinked his eyes open, looking around himself, confused. When his eyes fell on his body and King Odysseus kneeling beside it with his sword buried in the corpse’s chest, his eyes widened. “My lord?” he questioned fearfully.
“Fear not, young Cyril,” Hermes said, and the shade twisted around to see the God standing behind him. “I am sorry that it had to be this way, if that is any comfort, but with your death, Odysseus was able to save the rest of his men. Is that not what you left Ithaca for anyways? To die for your country?”
“If necessary, yes. But I think I much prefered making the Trojans die for theirs instead,” Cyril’s shade answered, eyeing Odysseus, who was watching them. He turned again at Hermes’ hand on his shoulder. “Come, my brave warrier,” the god said. “You have lived well, and made such a difference in the world. It is your time to rest now.”
Cyril watched Odysseus a moment longer. “Farewell, my king. It was an honour to serve under you.” A trace of a smile passed over his silvery-grey face, and then he turned and followed Hermes to the Underworld.
Odysseus sat for a few moments longer, staring into space, before he took Cyril’s body in his arms and rose, turning to face his men, who watched him fearfully. “I will explain everything later. I’ll need…” he glanced around to count how many other men had been lost, “three of you to help me take the dead back to the boats. The rest of you continue on. There should be food and water somewhere near this abandoned village.”
Without another word, Odysseus went back down the path they had come up, though it was no longer shrouded in mist, and his men followed quickly behind, as they always had, as they always would.