Eulises
It's quite dark by the time I make my way up the old path to the hunting cabin. I have go slowly for poor Argos, who insists on following me, tail wagging all the while.
A gunshot rings out, I duck behind a tree, tugging the dog with me.
"It's me, damn it!" I cry, angrily.
"You're not dead, boy?" My father grunts, still reloading his shotgun.
"Why would I be dead?!" I growl, ducking out from my hiding place, hands up a bit all the same.
"Now that you say that, I honestly don't know. It's not like we've even heard from you in years," he growls, putting down the shotgun.
"But still, would I be dead?" I ask, offended.
"Clearly not, get over here, let me look at you, my eyes aren't so good in the dark," he says, motioning me up.
"Then please do not shoot at things?" I say, coming up anyway.
"Stupid idiot," he grabs me and pulls me tightly into his withered arms, studying my face.
"I can prove it's me," I say, quietly, realizing that he's studying my features for I'm unrecognizable, practically, after all these years.
"I know my boy," he says, clutching me to him now. I melt into his arms, sobbing bitterly. I had no idea how I needed to be touched with kindness till this moment.
"What happened to you?" He asks, putting a hand through my hair, touching a scar on my forehead. It's not new, but it is to him.
"Long, long, very long story. I'm home now," I say, my voice cracking.
"Yes, you are," he says, clapping my shoulders, "Come inside, you look like the dead, boy."
"I've been," I mutter, following him into the small cabin. He's got a fire going, and weapons hung on the walls.
"Sit down by the fire, you're soaking, did you swim half the way home?" he asks.
"Ah, sort of, actuallyâ,"
"Here, have a drink," he says, pouring us each a shot of whiskey. I slump next to the fire, Argos curls up next to me, head on my knee.
"Thank you," I accept the shot. No sooner does it hit my throat than I'm dry heaving it back up.
"What's happened to you?" my father asks, patting my back as stomach acid drips down my face.
"Things I cannot name, but I don't know what's wrong currently," I say, my voice hoarse.
"When did you last eat anything? You're skin and bones," he says, straightening up.
"I don't know," I admit. It had to have been---with Calypso perhaps? I didn't eat the night before and I trusted nothing after she told me I was free. But how many days ago was that?
"I know what the problem is, here, all I have is soup, sit thereâ," he goes to get it I suppose.
"Where is my wife?" I ask, when he returns.
"At the house, I would expect," he says, sitting opposite me.
"And who are those men, in my house?" I growl.
"Oh. Those boys, they all have it in their heads they're going to marry your girl," he scoffs, "Don't look like that, Eulises, she'll have none of it of course. They're doing some sort of sit in to ensure that she actually speaks to them which she does not."
"Where's my son?" I ask, flatly.
"With his mother I'd expect. He has it in his head that he's going to get rid of those men on his own, which involved driving them to distraction apparently. I removed myself to stay out of his way," my father says, settling in his chair. "Eat that now."
I don't move. My hands are shaking too violently to lift the spoon to my lips and I know it. I'm clenching my fists so as to stop the trembling, but it's not working. Argos leans forward to lick at the bowl which sits on the floor. I push it gently closer so that the scrawny old dog can have it.
"Don't---,"
"He looks hungry," I say, stroking the dog's ears with one hand.
"Your hands are shaking."
"Yes, thank you."
"Eulises," he sighs.
"What do you want me to say? I'll say it," I sigh.
"I'm not going to make you tell me what happened to you," he says, heavily.
"Good," I say, continuing to pet the dog.
"But this is all I'm going to get? You appear dressed as a beggar, clearly having crawled through a sewer, with nothing but the clothes on your back?" he asks.
"Have I ever come home empty handed, father?" I ask, tossing him my bag.
"No, now that you say that, you have not. I did think that your greatest trick would just be returning however----boy, what am I going to do with you?"
"I wouldn't know," I say, as he sorts through my treasures in the bag.
"Did you steal this or no?"
"Now, you could say I deserve treasure after what has happened to me."
"Eulises," he sighs.
"Put that someplace safe?"
"I will at that, your mother was right. Of course, you come back from the dead, rich as a king, show up at my door," muttering as he goes to lock up the treasures.
"Can I borrow a sword?"
"You're going to go kill those men," he realizes.
I nod, smiling a little.
"You're going to eat something, then you're going to clean up a bit, and then in the morning we'll go find your wife and boy. If they're not at the houseâ,"
"I didn't see them. I didn't get inside," I growl.
"If they're not at the house they could be with friends or just out for the evening, we'll go back to the house together, in the morning, even if those men don't recognize you, they know damn well who I am. They may think I'm dead, but that will only help us," he says, stubbornly, "Now you need to rest. You're safe home now, boy."
I start weeping a fresh at that, just staring into the fire. He gets me bread and more soup and moves the dog.
"You're going to eat this."
"In a while," I say, feeding bits of it to the dog.
"Do you---you think it's poisoned?" he realizes.
I nod.
"You seriously think I, your own father, would poison you?"
"I'm not completely positive that's who you are," I say, calmly.
"What has happened to you?"
"I don't wish to speak of it. I wish to speak of home. Tell me of home, father," I say, my voice cracking, as my fingers work through the dog's thick fur.
"Telemachus is a holy terror, real chip off the old block, you would be proud; he's an absolute nightmare the best of times. Your wife is as pretty as ever, she misses you though, for weeks after your letters stopped coming she and the boy would be out waiting for the post, day after day."
I nod, "I tried."
"I know you did. Your mother---" he breaks off.
"It's okay. I know she's dead," I say, softly.
"Of course you do," he sighs.
"I spoke to her, she bid me to go home, but I couldn't hold her shadeâshe was a shade, I tried to embrace her and I could not, three times I tried. She wept over me once more," I say, quietly.
"Of course you and your mother conspired one last time," he says, tears glittering in his own eyes, "I miss her every day you know. Not even having you here to comfort me or mourn her together."
"I'm sorry."
"I know it wasn't your fault," he says.
"There you're wrong it would seem everything is my fault, my decisions my errors, the stupid died and I hated them for it, but they get to be dead and I get to be here. I can't even enter my own home," I say, voice trembling again.
"You will, it's just tonight. And I for one am glad you're here with me," he says, putting a hand on my shoulder, "Now eat your food, or I'll call upon your mother's shade to come be cross with you."
"She'd come at that," I laugh, a little, before obeying. That's how we find out that I can't actually stomach any food.
"Do you actually remember when you last ate?" he asks, rubbing my back. I made it outside to vomit this time.
"No, I actually do not," I growl, "It was---days at least."
"Impossible child. Exactly like your mother. You know when she was having you she was throwing up every hour but she'd timed it so that she knew when she would vomit on average and then refuse to eat if she thought it was too close?" he ushers me back inside, "Sit down. I'll bring you broth."
"I'd sooner the whiskey then sleep," I say, slipping out of the chair he put me in to go back to my spot by the hearth.
"You'll drink this, that will get something on your stomach," he says, bringing me back a bowl of just broth from the soup, "Now don't go giving that to the dog. Do you remember me bringing you out here, as a boy, when the bitches were whelping, and you'd forever be sitting in a box of puppies feeding them your own meals?"
"I remember mother giving me to you and bidding you take me someplace before she sold me to travelling minstrels," I say, dryly. I know he's talking of old times for my benefit knowing I cannot speak yet of where I've been.
"She did love you. You were too much alike," he says, tears in his eyes though of speaking of her.
"Do you bring Telemachus out here?" I ask, quietly.
"More often than not. The boy is too clever by half, talks a mile a minute like you, but smiles like his pretty mother."
I nod, tears trickling down my face.
"You're home now, that's all that matters," he says, squeezing my shoulder.
I eat the broth, slowly as I can, and do keep it down. Then he brings me a change of clothes. I ignore them, accepting only the blanket and lying down by the hearth.
"Come, I'll make your bed up," he says.
"I can't sleep on a bed," I admit, looking up at the firelight casting shadows on his craggy face, "Not since the war."
He nods a little, not daring to ask more.
"I'll be fine here," I say, quietly.
"In the morning, I'll take you to your mother's grave. Then we'll find your boy and wife," he says.
I nod.
"Shh, get some sleep now," he says, putting his hands through my hair one more time. Then he himself does not go to be either, instead sitting up in his chair, as if to watch me sleep lest I vanish into the night. I do not. I lie down to sleep my face in the dog's sweet smelling fur, the fire at my back.