his homeland, Ithaca. Athena and Hera have been badgering me to help him, so I finally said I would.”
Aha,
I thought.
“Somebody’s got to talk to Calypso,” he continued, “persuade her to let him go. I know you have a lot to do . . .”
Not exactly,
I thought.
“. . . but I was thinking you might be interested.”
I faked a frown. “Let me make sure I understand you, Father. You’re asking me to visit a beautiful nymph on her own private island and bend her to my will?”
“Exactly. What do you say?”
I told him I would try to find the time.
So here I was, skimming across the vast ocean at dawn with a school of dolphins for company, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ogygia. Zeus had warned me that it was tiny, so every now and then I rose high into the air to get a bird’s-eye view. When I saw a perfectly round island and the lone man on its western beach looking out to sea, I knew I had reached my destination.
THIRTY-ONE
“You like to make men cry?” The moment I said it, Calypso flinched, and I cringed. We were in her cavern, a tall, rocky alcove where cooing seabirds nested in the upper ledges, and so far I had made nothing but mistakes.
I had barely stepped inside before blurting out Zeus’ decree. I had accepted her hospitality—nectar in shell cups, served at a pink coral table—with a gawky nod. Beneath her filmy gown, which changed from blue to green when she moved, her skin was pearly, her body sinuous. It was hard not to stare, so I stared.
And now I was insulting her.
Shouldn’t drink in the
morning,
I told myself, eyeing the translucent webbing between her fingers, the delicate filigree of scales around her wrists and ankles. They shone like silver.
Her eyes shone, too—with indignation.
“Of course not,” she said. “I love him. I want to make him happy!”
“Happy?” I echoed. “He’s out on the beach weeping, and the sun’s barely up! He’s miserable!” I’d gotten a good look at Odysseus on my way in. With his big shoulders hunched and tears sliding into his unkempt, grizzled beard, he was the picture of woe.
I saw that I had wounded Calypso again. She peered into her cup as if she might find consolation there, and her lovely mouth quivered. I waited, thinking she might reply, but she said nothing. In that brief silence I was able to muster my wits.
“Let him go, Calypso,” I said. “Zeus wishes it, and he himself sent me here to tell you. Obey him—you know you must.”
Her head dipped, acknowledging this, and I went on: “Besides, it’s the only way you’ll ever make Odysseus happy. Give him what he wants.”
She drained her cup. “I can’t bear to lose him,” she confessed. In an effort to stave off her tears, she swallowed, shook her head, and looked down again, but the tears came anyway.
I thought of the dead, their lives cut short, and of old Priam, kneeling before Achilles.
So much grief,
I thought.
And now here’s more.
I sighed, wondering if I could do anything to console her. “I know about loss, how painful it can be,” I said. “I’m sorry for yours.”
“Are you?” It was a whisper of resignation, hardly more than a sigh. I had the impulse to fold her in my arms and kiss her salty cheek. It wasn’t the nectar, either; my pity for her came directly from my sober heart.
“You’ll recover. In time.”
She collected herself, wiping her shining eyes, then clearing her throat. She blew her nose daintily on the hem of her gown before standing.
“You know,” I said, indicating my staff, Caduceus, “I can make you forget. After he goes, I mean.” Along with its other powers—inducing sleep, encouraging obedience, scratching an itchy back—Caduceus could erase bad memories. “Less pain that way,” I added.
She gleamed, even in the dim light of the cavern. “No,” she said. “I don’t want to forget.”
I’ll admit it: I was jealous of Odysseus for winning such love from her. And her resolve moved me. “I respect that,” I
Aha,
I thought.
“Somebody’s got to talk to Calypso,” he continued, “persuade her to let him go. I know you have a lot to do . . .”
Not exactly,
I thought.
“. . . but I was thinking you might be interested.”
I faked a frown. “Let me make sure I understand you, Father. You’re asking me to visit a beautiful nymph on her own private island and bend her to my will?”
“Exactly. What do you say?”
I told him I would try to find the time.
So here I was, skimming across the vast ocean at dawn with a school of dolphins for company, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ogygia. Zeus had warned me that it was tiny, so every now and then I rose high into the air to get a bird’s-eye view. When I saw a perfectly round island and the lone man on its western beach looking out to sea, I knew I had reached my destination.
THIRTY-ONE
“You like to make men cry?” The moment I said it, Calypso flinched, and I cringed. We were in her cavern, a tall, rocky alcove where cooing seabirds nested in the upper ledges, and so far I had made nothing but mistakes.
I had barely stepped inside before blurting out Zeus’ decree. I had accepted her hospitality—nectar in shell cups, served at a pink coral table—with a gawky nod. Beneath her filmy gown, which changed from blue to green when she moved, her skin was pearly, her body sinuous. It was hard not to stare, so I stared.
And now I was insulting her.
Shouldn’t drink in the
morning,
I told myself, eyeing the translucent webbing between her fingers, the delicate filigree of scales around her wrists and ankles. They shone like silver.
Her eyes shone, too—with indignation.
“Of course not,” she said. “I love him. I want to make him happy!”
“Happy?” I echoed. “He’s out on the beach weeping, and the sun’s barely up! He’s miserable!” I’d gotten a good look at Odysseus on my way in. With his big shoulders hunched and tears sliding into his unkempt, grizzled beard, he was the picture of woe.
I saw that I had wounded Calypso again. She peered into her cup as if she might find consolation there, and her lovely mouth quivered. I waited, thinking she might reply, but she said nothing. In that brief silence I was able to muster my wits.
“Let him go, Calypso,” I said. “Zeus wishes it, and he himself sent me here to tell you. Obey him—you know you must.”
Her head dipped, acknowledging this, and I went on: “Besides, it’s the only way you’ll ever make Odysseus happy. Give him what he wants.”
She drained her cup. “I can’t bear to lose him,” she confessed. In an effort to stave off her tears, she swallowed, shook her head, and looked down again, but the tears came anyway.
I thought of the dead, their lives cut short, and of old Priam, kneeling before Achilles.
So much grief,
I thought.
And now here’s more.
I sighed, wondering if I could do anything to console her. “I know about loss, how painful it can be,” I said. “I’m sorry for yours.”
“Are you?” It was a whisper of resignation, hardly more than a sigh. I had the impulse to fold her in my arms and kiss her salty cheek. It wasn’t the nectar, either; my pity for her came directly from my sober heart.
“You’ll recover. In time.”
She collected herself, wiping her shining eyes, then clearing her throat. She blew her nose daintily on the hem of her gown before standing.
“You know,” I said, indicating my staff, Caduceus, “I can make you forget. After he goes, I mean.” Along with its other powers—inducing sleep, encouraging obedience, scratching an itchy back—Caduceus could erase bad memories. “Less pain that way,” I added.
She gleamed, even in the dim light of the cavern. “No,” she said. “I don’t want to forget.”
I’ll admit it: I was jealous of Odysseus for winning such love from her. And her resolve moved me. “I respect that,” I
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