Work Text:
Premise
Before our hero Ulysses fled from the goddess Circe, the wise woman warned him of the perils that would befall him and his crew if the men were to venture out into the treacherous open seas with an impending storm on the horizon.
Alas, the battle-worn hero did not yield to the mystic's advice, believing instead that she, though the utilization of her peculiar powers of seduction and manipulation, along with her esoteric knowledge in the occult, was attempting to secure his being, and condemn his life to becoming a permanent fixture on the damned island of Colchys with her.
Ulysses deftly waved off the woman, bidding her and her serpentine ways farewell, and set sail with the remainder of his crew and his son, and the ever-faithful Telemachus, at his side.
Whether Ulysses' decision was due to his immense pride and stubbornness, or genuine worries and concern, one will never know. What is known, however, is that the once-looming storm manifested itself with full force by the time Ulysses had sailed out into the open waters, his vessel set on an irrevocable course.
Tempestuous in her intensity, the savage astronomical beast attacked with full vengeance, a wrath which proved to overpower Ulysses' sturdy ship in a flurry of fatal winds and rushing waters. Men scurried across the deck, frantically trying in vain to tie down any loose articles and throw any insignificant baggage overboard, all in a futile attempt to secure control of their vessel - yet the vigorous squall prevailed unrelentingly.
A blast of wind struck the captain. He felt his body tumbling, tumbling further and further down, a seemingly endless spiral into a black abyss, leaving him with not even a tenuous grasp of control. He reached out in a instinctive motion, trying to grab a hold of something, anything, to remain standing upright. For some reason, he felt that if he were to fall now, he would tumble down and relinquish control of his body to the unknown and he would never be able to return. It was an irrational thought, but he had no time to process its roots; men were falling left and right, struck down on either side of him. Ulysses thought he heard his son's voice above the squall.
"Ulysses," a voice called to him, no sense of impending peril in its tone.
Ulysses tried to reach the voice, thinking it was his son's cry for help; he tried one last time to get a grip of something, but it was too late.
A rush of water pounded the side of the ship, flooding the already soaked deck.
Ulysses slipped, his attempt at retaining stable footing was washed out from under him as he fell into the pool of water beneath him. His head slammed hard against the wood flooring, dunking his soggy body further into the water's clutches.
He felt like his body was spinning, moving along to a foreign dance in which he was subjected to perform involuntarily, as if he was nothing more than a puppet doll. He was stuck in the middle of a vicious maelstrom, the force of which denied him the ability to even lift his head as a result of the onslaught of pressure pounding against him.
Ulysses fought to keep his eyes open, but the vertigo sensation was too overpowering for his weakened senses to combat. The blackness was engulfing him now; he thought he saw a wall of water above him. Drowning, a whirlpool swallowed him whole, its mighty maw not selective in the slightest - it was ravenous.
The last sight he saw before total darkness overtook him was of the wall crashing down over him, gulping down his vessel in an effortless crunch.
His mind went blank.
Ulysses' ship was sucked in by a forceful twist of wind, its powerful body reduced to a battered visage as the vessel was suddenly sucked out of existence, and into a wormhole of frigid darkness.
Part I
A loud grunt resounded across the deck, the intensity of which cut through the low sound of mellow waves slapping lazily against the side of the boat as it rocked lightly back and forth in the calm water.
Ulysses lifted his head, surprised to realize the unsettling noise had come from his own lips. The captain was even more surprised upon opening his heavy eyelids, to realize that he had fallen across the deck, his stout body laying precariously in a sprawling position, the likes of which must surely appear to be very unfitting of a captain.
I must have blacked out, he thought. He seemed to remember falling but his memory was sloshed to nothing more than mere colors, no images projected to the front of his brain as he tried to recall what had happened.
With another loud and painful grunt, Ulysses extracted his wayward limbs from their current compromising position. He then squeezed his eyes shut with a hard blink in an attempt to cease the ringing sensation suddenly assaulting his eardrums.
After sparing a few seconds for this meek attempt at re-composure, Ulysses looked up, his weary eyes suddenly widened in alarm at the sight before him. Upon exiting the wormhole, a disturbing change had forsaken him and his men, many of which, had mysteriously perished, even though there were no lingering bodies or bloodshed on the deck. This unbelievable change was thus solidified into reality in the wake of the next words he heard spoken.
"Ho!" announced Telemachus, his normally stalwart frame quaking back and forth and shaking his lean frame.
He jut out his arm in a grand swooping gesture, his face displaying an animated expressive countenance of astonishment as he pointed to a far-off spot with a wavering hand.
Ulysses' eyes widened further to the brink of straining as he followed his son's gaze. Behold!
Land.
The oddity of their situation escalated, for before their disappearance, there was no solid earth in sight as far as the eye could see.
Ulysses was at a loss for words. His mouth, usually set in a firm line of determination that conveyed authority and intelligence, was now reduced to being left ajar. Numerous words were forming at the tip of his tongue, words which he refused to give credence to out of fear that what his son saw was true.
The Greek extracted his cracked looking glass from his drenched coat pocket and fitted the cylinder object to his wary eye.
Land loomed ahead like a foreboding figment erected out of thin air, its ground appearing as solid as the wooden planks that composed their vessel. He saw it all: heavy thickets of forest pine, evergreen leaves flowing in response to the gentle flurry of wind with a delicate shake of their stringy stems; ship sails wavering back and forth in a graceful sway to the mellow symphony of breezy air.
Impossible.
The captain did a double take, squinting his eyes, not excusing the possibility that his vision was somehow altered by the temptress's magic hand.
The formidable expanse of lightly developed territory stretched across the ocean's edge, soft waves gently lapping up grains of sand and transporting it away into the water's depths in a repetitive motion. The land stood, as stable as Ulysses himself was standing at this very moment, its entire form seeming to make a mockery of the captain, a tease in which Ulysses' dumbfounded reaction was the punch line to a cryptic joke.
Telemachus proceeded to order four of the men who were straggling around the deck like intoxicated fools to steer the tattered remains of their barge to the port projecting outward from the side of the shore, its rectangular form a solid stretch of wood and pillars, a contrast to the whimsical qualities of the now tranquil sea.
The men jumped to their orders at the voice of their second-in-command, awakening from their dazed stupor to lasso the fraying ropes to the docking area and rein the ship in.
A mass of people clothed in absurd garments were huddled around the docking port, bustling about in hushed tones by the time the Greek vessel attached herself to the erect pillars. The strange people began striding towards the ship, the vigor in their strides almost palpable in comparison to the white parlor Ulysses' men has adopted, a countenance that could not be attributed to seasickness.
As the strangers scurried further onto the deck, fervor in their quick steps as they encroached, Ulysses' men moved to adopt a defensive stance around their captain, shielding him from this foreign threat.
Before the mass of strangers penetrated their vessel, Ulysses pulled his son's billowing shirt sleeve and beckoned him closer.
"Telemachus," he whispered into the youth's ear, "I fear that we have arrived in the midst of a most critical situation; these foreign people cannot be trusted, yet, I fear we have no option but to relinquish ourselves to them-"
Telemachus opened his mouth as if to interject his father's sudden change in strategy, but Ulysses deftly cut him off with a stern glare and a brisk wave of the hand; whatever defensive remarks the boy had were unimportant at this moment of crisis.
"We must surrender ourselves to them," he repeated, his words conveying a tone of distinct finality. "Over half of our men are missing, our ship is on the verge of ruins - " He didn't continue. He didn't need to. The point of his message was clear.
Telemachus bowed his head to his father, a display that begged the dual nature of understanding in the wake of defeat.
And defeated they were.
Ulysses glided his way across the soaked deck, his water-logged shoes making quick movements difficult. Cautiously, he pushed his way through his men despite their abrupt declarations of refusal, making his way to stand at the entrance of his vessel just as the swarm of foreigners made their final hurried steps towards him.
Part II
Fearing a disguised British invasion, agents of the Dutch West India Company seized the grotesque, drenched, alien men and impounded what was left of the battered ship.
Unbeknownst to Ulysses, by the hands of some cruel twist of nature, he and his crew had unintentionally arrived in the 17th century Dutch colony of New Netherlands.
Although he was being manhandled by strangers, Ulysses tried to retain at least a tad of chivalry and attempted to explain to the herd of ignoramuses that he was a lost Greek man, trying to find his way back to his home on the island of Ithaca and the love of his life, his wife, the Lady Penelope.
As Ulysses spoke, his words a mass of purely passionate tones, the throng of people before him stared with blatant clueless expressions adorning their pale faces, eyes bulging in awe not at the words spoken, but at the mere presence of this out-of-place stranger. It was not common for a crowd of money-minded merchants fresh off the boat from Holland to be well versed in ancient Greek tongues, the language itself having been distorted over centuries and was definitely not one of the languages of trade. Thus, Ulysses' statement of justification as to why he and his men were trespassing on this foreign land was wasted on them, although the Dutchmen seemed perfectly content to remain transfixed on Ulysses regardless of the nonsense the man was spewing.
One of the traders made a sound, awakening the other men from their dazed stares and prompting them all to voice their thoughts at once. The Dutch traders then spoke amongst themselves in hushed tones, deciding the fate of the strangers standing before them, even as Ulysses continued to speak. After a few moments of debate, one man's voice rose above the others, effectively quieting his companions and the Greek captain.
"We are agreed then," he said, "we will bring them to the governor."
The merchants nodded briefly and then gathered around the disheveled and soaking strangers.
Ulysses knew what was going on, he surmised as much from the body language of the men if not from their words. The Greek hung his head in defeat.
This was it, he thought.
Such an odd way to go out, he mused. He had always expect to be slain in the midst of battle, a hero's death. This unpleasant turn of events provided a bleak conclusion to his life in comparison to the grandeur of his own thoughts.
He could fight, but the scuffle would not last more than a few breaths. Maybe he could get in one punch, a possible swing, but that would be all. His insides felt like the gruel he ate for breakfast, his head was still clouded in a sheet of nauseating pain. It would be a waste of his limited energy to fight these men. And, even if by some stroke of the gods' goodwill, they managed to defeat these men, where would they go? This land was filled with others just like the ones that stood before them now. No, a wise man knew when to stand down.
Ulysses lifted his bowed head abruptly as another body was pushed against his side. It was Telemachus. He met his son's sorrowful gaze, returning the youth's despondent look with an exasperated sigh and slight shake of the head, effectively sealing off any escape plans his son had fool-heartedly concocted.
The Dutchmen surrounded the remaining Greeks in a tight circle, the man who has addressed them before stood at the helm of the group, leading them all on course to the Dutch colonial governor, the mighty Peter Stuyvesant, for questioning.
Part III
An aura of speculation existed around governor Peter Stuyvesant that served to shield the man from his citizens, cutting him off from the rest of the world as they attempted to propose theories regarding his personality and character.
Some desired for him to burn in hell.
Others prayed nightly for his well-being.
Stuyvesant dismissed the frequent speculation with an amused wave of the hand. He had no time in his busy schedule to entertain rumors, choosing instead to let his people think as they please. He was aware what they thought of him; how could he not be, when scandalous whispers travelled past his ears every time he walked down the streets or when he sat in the public saloon.
Nevertheless, no matter what the citizens' personal opinion of who Stuyvesant was, no one could deny that he was a commanding, dominating, and above all, fear-provoking challenger. However, even those select few who had been granted the privilege of Stuyvesant's intimacy were not privy to the inner workings of his intelligent mind. Some would say it was conceited, and maybe it was, for while he did not consider himself to be a vain man, the Dutchman considered himself to be god-like in every sense of the word. He felt as though he had been blessed by God's personal grace, his person bestowed with seemingly supernatural powers that gifted him impressive intellect and uncanny insight his enemies could only dream of. The Spanish feared him, the English hated him, for Peter Stuyvesant was a god on this earth.
The governor looked up from the numerous papers scattered across his desk as his office door creaked open, a cool breeze filtering in through the open space and ruffling the edges of his documents. Stuyvesant grimaced. If his door was closed, it was for a reason. He met the eyes of the man standing in front of the others, pushing his work aside with a sigh. This better be important, he thought, his disdain at having been interrupted evident on his sour face.
"Yes?" he said to no man in particular, his word opening up the air for the traders to speak.
"Sir," began the front-most man, his back rigid-straight as he addressed the formidable governor in his clearest voice. "We have apprehended numerous men of unknown origins after their tattered vessel docked illegally on the eastern port. These men," he moved aside and gestured to the men in question standing behind him, "appear as no man I have ever seen, and they speak in foreign tongues unrecognizable to my men's ears or my own."
A pause. "Curious," muttered the governor, his seemingly befuddled expression conveying both wonder and amazement. The traders stared at him, obviously not expecting such a response from their governor.
Stuyvesant stood, his eyes alight with a spark his men had never witnessed before. The governor walked towards the foreign men, his steps careful and calculated, the sound of his heavy boots breaking the quietness in the room.
Stuyvesant was well-versed in numerous languages and cultures, thereby he naturally recognized the attire these men were wearing even with its heavily tattered appearance. The abnormal spark remained in his eyes as he spoke, "Leave us. Take them outside and wait."
The traders realized whom their leader was referring to and took the rest of the strange men back outside, exiting the room and leaving Stuyvesant and Ulysses standing toe to toe. The door slammed shut, the sound barely registering in Stuyvesant's mind as he stared a moment longer, his piercing glaze fixed on Ulysses's face. It could not be, but appearances did not lie. At once, Stuyvesant understood everything his dunderhead cronies could not.
A gentleman at heart, regardless of what others thought, Stuyvesant prepared a fresh pot of tea for his foreign guest, waiting until the brew was ready and severed it himself to his companion. Ulysses waited until the other man sat before delving into his thrilling story, not even noticing the way the Dutchman was nearly sitting on the edge of his chair in anticipation. Ulysses's breath was near ragged as he finished, the cold air and his damp clothes further aiding to impair his usual collected demeanor. As he came to a close, he looked at the other man before him. Stuyvesant had not uttered a single word throughout the whole narrative. For the first time since he began his tale, Ulysses wondered if this other man even understood a word he was saying, for he simply assumed that Stuyvesant did due to his wish to speak to him alone.
Ulysses looked towards the closed door, a moment of weakness slipping out as his gaze expressed the concern he felt for his crew. He heard his companion grunt and his head snapped back towards the other man's aged face. A pair of worn eyes glittered helplessly back at him, the light in them working to rectify the twisted nature of the governor's face. Stuyvesant then did something only a handful of men had the privilege to say they have seen, he smiled. A true smile, his crooked teeth fully exposed as the man's lips parted open. Stuyvesant rose then, and still, without saying a word, he outstretched an arm, offering his crusty fingers for Ulysses to shake.
Ulysses returned the Dutchman's smile. Peace had been established. Stuyvesant commanded Ulysses and all his men be released to his care with no further questions asked.
For the next few months, Stuyvesant employed his most educated scholars and scientists to work with Ulysses and his crew in an attempt to discover a way for them to return to his own time. Although the governor himself had numerous colonial functions and overseas tasks to attend to, he unexpectedly maintained a relationship with the vagabond Greek. He made sure that Ulysses and his men were provided with clean quarters to stay in, and even insisted they have a bi-weekly attendant to ensure the dwellings were orderly.
However, progress was slow, and sometimes, adverse events that not even the god-like governor could foretell, can occur.
Part IV
Stuyvesant awoke in the early morning with an awful sense of foreboding lingering in the recesses of his brain, hampering the workings of his astute mind. He brushed it off. There was no time to worry about a feeling when there was serious work to be done.
Unbeknownst to Stuyvesant, British vessels from the King's Royal Navy that had set sail a few months ago were now nearing their final destination: the Dutch colony of New Netherlands.
There was an unrelenting wind that rose up after the daybreak, the likes of which carried on into the afternoon, only increasing in ferociousness as the hours wore away and serving to effectively hinder activities being undertaken at the ports.
Ulysses and Stuyvesant were exiting the saloon together, the younger Telemachus was trailing behind them as they sauntered to the docks, talking casually.
"BEHOLD!"
A sharp voice rose above the whistling wind, its tone a piercing cry cutting through the atmosphere. The words dried up on Stuyvesant's tongue. He didn't need to hear what was announced next, for he saw all too well.
"Ships! Ships on the horizon!"
The last of the expected cargo ship had arrived days earlier, carrying with them scarcely twenty men and much needed supplies. This looming vessel was large and grand, and there was not one or two of them. No. There was a whole fleet.
"IT'S THE BRITISH!" a disembodied cry was heard. Shouts rang out across the dock as men and women scurried to get a closer look, pushing each other aside with savage manners.
The British vessels loomed ahead, their sails waving in ragged motions as the wind carried the ships closer and closer with every passing minute.
The Dutch colony was highly unprepared for a British invasion, very highly underprepared in fact. They would not stand a chance if battle ensued. Stuyvesant knew this.
It seemed like not ten minutes had passed since the first declaration of a foreign invasion was heard, yet time was progressing in slow motion. Each minute felt like an hour. Stuyvesant felt as though he could not speak his words fast enough, could not dictate his orders quickly enough. He pivoted on the spot, his head orbiting to the call of his name spoken in a heavy accent.
Ulysses.
The Greek looked up to meet the gaze of his unlikely friend, determination shining bright in his dark eyes. Stuyvesant understood and nodded his head, sparing one moment to watch as Ulysses began commanding his own men into action.
The British warships arrived, their captain, Col. Richard Nicolls, stepped ashore, adorned in full military gear with a sheathed sword visible at his hip. The British King, Charles II, had gifted his brother, the Duke of York, the power to rule over New Netherlands, a power that was not the King's to gift. Nonetheless, the vexatious royal did what he desired.
"We must fight!" the Greek cried out, both honor and pride rang out in his voice; it almost gave the governor hope... almost. "Ulysses, my friend," Stuyvesant tried, hoping against all odds that a compromise could be. He desperately wanted to resist violence at all costs, knowing all too well that it would end in tragedy. But he also knew that these men did not trespass into his colony with the desire for a settlement to be arranged.
"We cannot! We are unprepared-" But the governor could not finish his sentence, all his focus forcibly shifting to the events transpiring before his eyes.
Ulysses, in a brash display of bravery, had unsheathed his own sword and was locked in battle with Col. Nicolls. Ulysses's men came out of the woodwork, emerging from their strategic positions and breaking off into sparring matches against the British soldiers, their figures scattering across the port in a blur.
No, there would be no argument, no negotiations. This was war.
It was soldier against warrior, British against Greek. A battle like this had never been witnessed before in the history of man. In horror and shock, in the center of it all, stood Governor Peter Stuyvesant. He was frozen in place, having remained in the same spot since the initial battle had ensued. The clashing of metal swords was ringing in his ears, mixed with the cries of British and Dutchmen alike as they were strung down in anguish. It was almost melodic how the sounds combined, the pulsing of the wind whipping wildly over it all.
"Take up arms, my friend!" yelled Ulysses as he heaved his ancient metal sword high above his imposing form and swung down with an intensity only a Greek warrior could muster. Stuyvesant shook; he was no coward, and he certainly was no stranger to battle. He heeded the Greek's words just as Telemachus tossed him a sword off of one of their fallen adversaries.
The Greeks and Dutch fought valiantly against their British foes.
It looked as though the tides were turning.
Literally.
The strong gusts of wind that had been plaguing the colony all day increased with gusto, forming a crescendo of such a magnitude never before experienced. The afternoon sky had transformed in the heat of battle, an eerie black and muted slate overtook the surroundings. Crimson clouds swirled and snarled, seemingly engaged in a battle of their own as they twisted in on each other like whirlpools in the sky. There was no hint of sunlight, no small sliver of shining light peaking through the darkness. The usually tranquil waters of the Hudson River were transformed into a catastrophic pit of agony. Rain began to pour down in torrents, soaking the men and mingling with the fallen blood smeared across their skins. The sky was collapsing in a frenzy all around the combat zone.
Ulysses paused, an action that would be considered a death warrant for a warrior in the mist of battle. But he couldn't stop himself. He looked up at the obsidian void above him.
Then, it hit him.
As the rain poured down in sheets around him, blurring his vision, the figure that was Ulysses stood up, looking taller than ever. This was it. This was what he was waiting for. This storm, it was a sign! It was speaking to him, he could feel it.
It's now or never.
This, right now, was his one and only chance to travel back through the portal that brought him to this alternate universe. This, right now, was his only chance of ever being able to see his love Penelope again. He had to go.
A thousand thoughts were swimming through the Greek's mind as he stood in the field of war. He thought of Stuyvesant. The man had shown him, a stranger in a foreign land, such kindness that none of the other's he met on his quest have shown him before. A ripple of guilt swept through him.
He's relying on me. He needs me.
The thought settled uncomfortably in the forefront of his mind, prickling his skin with shame and remorse as he made his decision.
This land, this era, was not his, and he didn't belong here. He needed to get home.
It happened in a moment, a flash, so quick it didn't compute within his brain. Ulysses signaled his men, dashing as he did so, to their vessel which was floating precariously on the rough sea. He didn't know how much longer the storm would last or how much longer the portal would remain open, but he knew he couldn't wait around to find out.
Peter Stuyvesant watched as the Greek allies darted away towards their ship, abandoning the fight, abandoning him-
Peter Stuyvesant watched as the man whom he considered a dear friend fled in the apex of a battle that he started.
A British soldier encroached on Stuyvesant, his footsteps a murmur in the rain.
Thunder crackled in the sky. The Greeks were all aboard their ship now. There was no time to let the governor know. Ulysses knew he needed to go. Now.
Lightning struck the side of the Greek vessel as it propelled into the open waters at top speed.
A shrill scream broke through the sound of the rain, piercing the air.
Ulysses whirled his head back as if by instinct, just in time to see the once stoic governor collapse onto the ground and wither a forsaken dance on the cold, wet dock.
A flash of lightening illuminated the sky, white light brightening the port in a blinding intensity. A beat and the flash subsided, leaving nothing but pure darkness. The Greek vessel had disappeared.
Epilogue
An old man stands on a worn dock, wood creaks underneath him, threatening to splinter into pieces beneath his feet. It doesn't, and the man pays no mind to it. A large black tricorn hat leaves his face a mere shadow to any onlooker. It wasn't a weapon, but it shielded him from the world nonetheless.
The year is 1672.
The month is January.
Wind pulsates across the air in a pounding motion, causing the elderly man to shiver as it passes through his moth-bitten winter coat. He knows he is not adequately dressed for the weather. He knows this because his son tells him every day, every time he ventures outside, but he never listens. There is no need.
The old man standing on the dock lifts his tired head, his weary gaze drifting out toward the river. He leans on his cane as he raises his head a little higher, remembering.
****************
Stuyvesant barely had time to react to the abrupt departure of Ulysses before he was overcome with pain so immense it overtook his senses, rendering him a hapless heap on the dank ground. He was struck, a British soldier had lashed at him, slashing off his leg in one quick swoop of his great blade. It was over. The last thing he remembered was a flash of white light before he succumbed to unconsciousness.
****************
Peter Stuyvesant stands on the dock of the Hudson River and gazes out to sea, with unseeing eyes. He lost his leg that faithful day, as well as his colony. The Dutch New Netherlands became the British New York and his status was reduced to servitude.
Stuyvesant usually spends his days on his farm, far from the Hudson, his two sons nurturing him as any respectable child would their deranged father. The ex-governor knows his days are coming to an end, but he had to come back one last time. To remember his old life; to remember the extraordinary Greek man named Ulysses; to remember that final flash of white light and the sting of betrayal.
****************
Peter Stuyvesant dies in August 1672. Cause of death: unspecified.