On Sunday March 8, I commenced getting fictional with the first instalment of a “legendary history” short story, Ithaca.

Ithaca, was originally published in JAAM in 2008 (the same year my first novel, Thornspell, was published), edited by Tim Jones.

Since the “getting fictional” commenced on International Women’s Day, it seemed fitting to feature my take on one of the great legendary stories, told from the point of view of the woman at the heart of the tale.

The first two instalments are here:

Ithaca: Part 1

Ithaca: Part 2

Now onward to the third and final instalment.

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Ithaca: Part 3

© Helen Lowe, 2008

… After that there is nothing I can do except wait – for the day when Eurykleia bends close, stooping after a fallen spindle. “Tomorrow,” she whispers, just the one word.

He is to come first to Eumaeus’ cottage, that is the plan, and I am to have nothing to do with what unfolds then, at least until the time comes to “recognise” him in the hall. Later however, Eurykleia reveals both the hour and way of his coming, up by the steep cliff path from a little used cove – and I know that I will have to at least try and see him, this gold bought champion, this stranger.

There is an old wall that runs along a steep earth bank behind the orchard, close by Eumaeus’ cottage. The trees grow tall there and hang over the wall, so that it provides both a vantage point and cover for anyone watching the narrow path, up from the sea. And no-one from the house ever goes there now, for the orchard, like the wall, is falling into ruin under the suitors’ influence. There will be no-one to see me as I stand in the shifting shadows, my mantle drawn up and covering my hair.

I hear him first, the sure but heavy tread as he comes swiftly on, despite the steepness of the path. His physical appearance matches his footsteps: this man is stocky rather than tall, but powerfully built, with shoulders like a bull. He carries a spear, as any man might, and wears no armour, but the powerful muscles in arms and legs make it plain that he has lived in it. His hair, in the glinting light, is streaked with grey, but thick still, and curly as a ram’s fleece.

Yes, I think, detached, he could definitely pass for Odysseus as he once was, just older now, battered and more careworn. He will do, yes.

But I am conscious too of my sadness, deep as a well.

The man pauses, taking stock of his surroundings, of the orchard running wild and the house roof seen beyond it, through the trees. At first the rough-hewn face is impassive, but then I see the slow dawn of wonder, and the longing of the far-farer who yearns for home. Longing, however, does not dim the keenness of his eyes. They pierce the net of leaf and shadow to find me, watching from the wall. Our eyes meet, each holding and measuring the other, then he raises his spear in the salute one makes to a Queen.

The next moment Eumaeus is there, with his dogs swarming and barking around him, but I do not wait. I step down from the wall, silent as a leaf falling, to make my way back to the house and my place there. I can feel the inevitability of events, unfolding around me, and know that it will all happen exactly as we have planned. It should feel like a weight, the heaviness of the crown and the cope that I have borne for so long, settling on my shoulders – but my returning feet are light as that long ago girl’s.

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“© Helen Lowe” means that although I’m delighted for you to read, and I hope enjoy, this story here, no part of Ithaca may be copied, reposted,  adapted, or reproduced in any way without my prior consent.