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Telemachus listens to his parents talk. They talk more than any two people he has ever met. They talk in a way only they seem to understand; quickly, hushedly, with their eyes flashing and mouths quirking up oddly, in the way that only their smiles do. He knows he is their son because he too has a lopsided smile. He knows he is their son because when they talk, he understands.
He watches them now, both relaxed and still unwashed in the late morning at the breakfast table. His legendary, bard-uttered father, who blinded the cyclops and slaughtered the sirens and sacked the city of Troy, is losing at knucklebones to his mother. Not only is he losing, he is losing very badly.
“A very dirty trick, wife,” his father is saying, tossing the bright jut of bone and watching the rest scatter. “I have met man-eating pirates that play cleaner knucklebones than you.”
“Why didn’t you marry a man-eating pirate then,” she murmurs, catching deftly with the back of her hand. Telemachus feels himself smile at his mother’s mischief. A year ago, when he first heard them speak like this, he took his father and mother to be angry at one another. He quickly learned their sparring to simply be that of equals; like athletes lazily tossing a discus between each other, just for the pleasure of it.
“They were severely lacking in those the day I anchored my ship in Sparta. They only had an unimaginably beautiful woman who is a filthy cheat at games.”
“We actually had plenty. I beat them all at a knucklebones contest for your hand.”
“My valiant wife. And did you cheat then, as you are now?”
His mother looks up. “We’re both cheating, Odysseus.”
His father turns to him. “Son, will you stand for this?”
It no longer feels like a character from a beloved vase has suddenly been brought to life. It feels, oddly enough, like he is talking to his father. Telemachus goes to his mother, wraps his arms around her shoulders from behind, and inspects his toss. His father does it quickly, but he’s changed the order of one of the throws. “She’s right, you’re both cheating. What? I will always defend my man-eating pirate mother.”
His parents are snickering. His father says, “The pirates were actually quite benevolent people. Have I told either of you about them?” Both the story and Telemachus’ joke distract his mother, and his father releases his bone so swiftly that it takes her half a minute to notice it has even happened.
“Conspiracy,” she accuses them both once she realises, eyes bright. It is then that he notices the soft pink glow on her cheeks, the dark gleam of her hair. Perhaps the goddess has blessed her this morning, for reasons only the goddess would know. “For such a crime I ought to have the cook prepare cold porridge for dinner.”
“ Mother ,”
“Penelope, a deeply unjust punishment,”
“Conspirators get what they deserve.”
“I said man-eating pirates were benevolent -!”
Her smile is the sort that only came once a year before his father came home. She says, “Not this one, sweetest.” His father’s efforts have been in vain; she has long been winning before his trick. His mother completes her final toss, and the game ends. She smiles triumphantly, reaches over and kisses his father. He knows how rare a marriage for love is; rarer still that it is his parents who have been so lucky. Telemachus loudly proclaims his disgust, as if he were a young boy. His mother says, “Save your congratulations. This pirate is in need of a bath.”
His father’s eyes dart to him. “Hunt?”
Telemachus grins. He’s already reaching for his bow.
. /
“My men knew we were in danger when I would start saying your mother’s name under my breath,” he is saying. “I haven’t lost the habit. I still say it whenever I need to concentrate.”
The rabbits they have shot are still warm in his hands. Telemachus feels himself smiling. He says, “We used to do something similar. Whenever she would lose something- a key to the storage room, or an earring, or a spool of yarn, we would both ask for you to help us find it.”
The air between them softens with what his father does not say. Eventually; “It’ll be cold porridge for a week if she finds out you told me that.”
“I know. Don’t say anything.”
“I won’t.”
They ride through the sparse trees. Telemachus looks over at him. It is still so strange to him to see his own features in another man. In this man. With pride, he recognises the tremor in his father’s strong jaw, the . The question Telemachus has had on his lips all morning comes back to him. He realises that if there is any time to ask, it is now.
“Father.”
“Yes, my boy?”
“When were you going to tell me that mother is with child?”
He can hear the smile in his father’s voice. “We were going to tell you soon. It has been three months.”
“I…used to dream of having a brother, or a sister. I didn’t know it-...I didn’t know it was possible; she is in her forty-fifth year.”
His father turns to him, and with a shock, Telemachus realises his silver eyes are shining with tears. “We didn’t either, really. It must be her nymph blood. Her body does not age like ours do. She looks the same as she did when I married her.”
Telemachus is shaking his head in disbelief. His father says it. “You will be a brother, Telemachus.”
Something rustles in the brush. They stop. He sees his father reach for an arrow, sees his lips moving, imperceptibly. Then, he thinks better of it, lowering his bow. “Why don’t you take this one?”
It’s a partridge. Telemachus releases his arrow and watches it puncture the soaring bird right in the eye. He feels his scalp prickle with the slow realisation that he has made a miraculous, perfect shot. They are both cheering and whooping like boys.
“Unbelievable,” his father is clapping him on the back. “My son.”
/
A year later.
Odysseus watches Penelope press her mouth to the soft shell of their baby’s ear. He wonders if love isn’t kept in the heart, but in the throat.
Their baby is sleeping on his wife’s chest. Penelope is heavy-lidded and drowsy in the afternoon sun. The light softens the black waves of her hair to gold. He comes over to them both. He remembers the ocean he had to cross, the last time. Today, it has been a matter of walking up stairs and opening a door.
“Where have you been, beloved?”
Penelope's voice is like the silt that dances in the river. He says, “Telemachus and I were carving.”
She considers this. His hand moves as it would in a dream; always, first, to the bright cut of her cheek, then, to the softness of his son’s hair.
“Carving,” she repeats. She is still warm from sleep, pliant and gentle and heart-stoppingly beautiful. “And what have you been making?”
“Telemachus is making his brother a bird.”
“And you?”
He feels suddenly embarrassed. He reveals the comb; presses it into her palm. He watches her brows raise, her soft smile; watches her admire the spiralled pattern on its ridges.
“For me,” she says. It makes him aware of the lump in his own throat.
“For you.”
“Thank you.”
It should feel ridiculous. He’s nearing his fiftieth year. And yet, he is helpless when she gently puts their baby in his hands. His youngest son has silvery eyes, and his mother’s olive skin, and he is fussy and terribly behaved. Odysseus feels terrified. It is a miracle that his eldest son loves him, even though he still barely knows him. He has been watching, over two years, his son slowly learn that he is not the bard-uttered legend Telemachus has always known him as. But this child will know him, and somehow, that is just as terrifying. Odysseus wants to whittle the ocean into a crib; wants to weave the sunlight into a quilt for this child; still, for both of his children. Their baby is stirring awake, and blinkingly grabs one of his fingers with the whole of his tiny hand. He lies back, lets the baby lie on his chest.
His wife sits up and watches them. Odysseus’ eyes slide shut when she reaches out to run her fingers through his hair.
“Your father wants us to name him Poliporthes,” she’s saying.
It makes him open his eyes. “What?”
She’s trying not to laugh. “I know.”
“ Destroyer of cities ?”
“I said I thought it was a bit much.”
“It’s ridiculous .”
“Come on,” she’s saying, lying on the other side of his chest. “I think we should indulge him. He never asks for anything.”
Odysseus looks at their child, who is marvelling at a bubble of spit coming out his own mouth. “ Destroyer of cities , Penelope?”
She’s covering her laughing mouth. “Stop saying it.”
“I’ll stop saying it when you start making sense. Destroyer of–”
“Stop, stop, stop.”
He keeps saying it because it makes her laugh. He says it that evening at supper and it makes her choke on her wine. He says it later that night when they’re trying to sleep, and it sends both of them into hysterics. She’s saying, We’ll never sleep if you keep saying it . He laughs so hard that his stomach hurts, and the past twenty years feel, for a moment, like a distant dream. In the end, they decide to keep the name, because of how much joy it brings them both. Telemachus gives him a nickname- Polykarpos , for his love of berries, and the sweet stained grin he has on his face after eating them. Penelope calls him sweet one , calls him bright-eyed , calls him laughter , clarity and beloved . Odysseus calls him by the name Laertes gave him. He knows sacking a city isn’t much to be proud of, but Odysseus calls him Poliporthes and wonders if his wife’s laughter could fit into a name, into a lineage. When he sees Poliporthes smile like his mother, Odysseus thinks, perhaps it can.