When I lay me down to sleep

Child or man or woman; all, at journey's end - be it of just one day, or many, or of a lifetime - a well-worn bed awaits; of warm feather or of cold board. Shared with those loved, out of fealty, or some casual convenience, or necessity - or alone like the dead.

- Anne Dromache, December 10th 2020

Book 23: The olive tree bed

pp. 494-506

Penelope is no man’s fool – this she wants us to know. Sheltered from the carnage of the previous hours, and confronted now with the news of her husband’s return, whatever sympathies she may have towards this stranger, she tempers with caution, even suspicion. The years of estrangement have taught many lessons, and wariness of the motivations of others amongst them. And patience she has learnt. Long has she waited, she can wait some more – and be this truly Odysseus, he can too!

Embedded in the midst
of hallowed chamber,
Entwined the branches
of olive or of oak.
Sturdy, immutable.
A sign - of knowledge
and Nature's fidelity.

Anne Dromache, December 15th 2020

Penelope looks for a sign of truth from this man, who, scrubbed up by Athena, now even looks like Odysseus; some sign that only he and she share. And, it occurs to her, that it is there to be found in their marriage bed; for it is embedded in the very centre of their bed-chamber, a living reminder and an immutable sign of their union. Only Odysseus could know its secret. The recognition is complete. Together they weep and they sleep, and Penelope hears all; of the odyssey that will define her husband until the end of days.

book 24: restless spirits

pp. 507-525

It’s never over until it’s over – or until the end of song. And our singer can not resist an encore in the House of Hades – even the suitors deserve choral accompaniment as they exit life’s stage. And, should one listen carefully, one may well hear Agamemnon and Achilles in earnest exchange: each having found the end they deserved. And, for Agamemnon, the wife he deserved; unlike the bold Odysseus who, in the fair Penelope, one loyal and true.

As with his son, it remains now for Odysseus to be reunited with his father, Laertes. Remaining true to himself – how could it be otherwise – this too must he make complicated. There is no joyous greeting – no, not from Odysseus! – rather, another devised twist in the plot. Gladly, brief this diversion, for faced with a grieving father’s tears, the legendary gift of deceit deserts him and a son is revealed; and bitter tears turn sweet.

…Oh, and Zeus and Athena make arrangements, as they so often do, such that the strife on Ithaca finds, too, its end. With a minimum (!) of collateral damage as three generations stand side by side in a last bloody hurrah, a truce of sorts is parleyed; vengeful thoughts and deeds are put on hold. Forever? Or, until some fateful day, when the gods come out again to play?