Ithaca by Patrick Dillon

earth. He fought alongside Hercules and Jason—fighters from so long ago that these days they’re talked about like gods. The chief of Pylos is small and bald, with a large head surrounded by wisps of snow-white hair.
    Our ship crunches sand, but when I jump down onto the beach, my knees give way. The motion of the sea, fear, exhaustion—suddenly I don’t have any strength left. All I can do iscling to the ship’s prow with the warm, salty water tugging at my calves. I can feel the heat from the fire.
    All I can think is I’m alive .
    One of the priests calls out, “Who are you? Where are you from?”
    The old chief lifts one hand to silence him. When he speaks, his voice sounds too loud for his frail body.
    â€œWelcome to Pylos,” he says.

I ’m Telemachus of Ithaca.”
    I can see the effect it has. Eyes widening, groups drawing together, and a whisper running all along the beach: “Odysseus’s son . . . Odysseus’s son . . .”
    I hear Mentor clamber down onto the sand beside me.
    â€œOdysseus’s son?” I step forward, and Nestor grips my hand with fingers as dry and light as twigs. Up close, his eyes are covered by a milky film. People say Nestor is a hundred years old, maybe even more. I feel a papery hand pass over my face as if a moth is brushing it in the night. “And is this my old friend Mentor? I see him now. Polycaste, bring a cup of wine for our guests from Ithaca.”
    A sulky-looking girl is standing behind him. She’s about my age, and looks bored. She takes cups of wine from a servant and passes them to us without a word or smile. She’s taller than me, with curling, golden hair, a round face, and strongly marked black brows.
    â€œMy daughter,” Nestor explains. “My youngest daughter. I have many children, you know. All now scattered except for Polycaste, the comfort of my old age.” He turns back to me. “Odysseus’s son. Odysseus’s son. Do you bring news of your father?”
    It takes a moment for me to realize what the question means. “I came here for news.” I can’t keep the disappointment out of my voice.
    â€œFor news of Odysseus? We have no news here. I am sorry—sorry, indeed. But still, if you are searching for him, then perhaps we can help. Odysseus’s son, here in Pylos! A great day, to be sure. We will talk of Odysseus later. Tomorrow. Perhaps. Tonight we must celebrate your arrival.” It feels like he’s getting into his stride. I can’t get a word in edgewise. “And Mentor, a pleasure to see you again! But look at you both, half dead with exhaustion. No easy journey today, I imagine. We have been celebrating the festival of Poseidon, an old tradition at Pylos begun by my father more than a hundred years ago. We like to keep up the old traditions, whatever the young think of them . . .” He glances at his daughter, who rolls her eyes. “But here you are, standing on the sand while the night grows cold. We must go back to my house and take care of you!”
    No news of Odysseus. The disappointment leaves me numb. I’m tired. We’ve just escaped drowning. Ithaca feels a long way away. For a moment I wish I’d never left home. Even the olive groves smell strange in this new land. The priests' robes are different from the robes on Ithaca. There’s an odd perfume coming from the fire, some kind of incense, and the line ofmountains above us is nothing like Mount Nirito at home. Everyone looks threatening. One of the fighters is missing an arm. Another has a scar where his left eye should have been. Feeling lost and scared, I watch the group by the fire break up as mules are led forward. The altar is packed into a wooden crate. Four soldiers lift Nestor’s litter on poles. Polycaste mounts her mule, waving aside the soldier who steps forward to help. I find myself heaved onto a saddle and clutch the wooden pommel.
    Servants