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Once upon a time, there was a kinder, gentler world ruled by more generous fates. But even in this softer design, there still sat a sacked and burning city of Troy. With retaliatory forces coming soon, Odysseus, King of Ithaca, Son of Laertes, a man still changed by war and time, called to the Greek soldiers to turn back. Now was the time, something told him, to declare victory and vamoose.
While others’ men did not listen, Odysseus’s loyal fleet followed him to the beaches where he debriefed them. Helen would return to her husband. Hector and his heir were dead. They had won this war, he declared to thunderous cheers.
But before setting off for his yearned-for Ithaca, a thread of thought snagged Odysseus’s famous mind. He had his men gather some of the spoils of Troy. Not heavy treasure, he chastised, but food, drink, and of course, some live animals. There, before their boats and the pyre that had become of Troy, Odysseus and his crew made a sacrifice to the gods—Zeus for his all-mighty power, Athena in gratitude, and Poseidon to ease the waters.
Then Odysseus, Eurylochus, and Polites boarded along with Elpenor, Perimedis, Lycaon, Amphialos, Alkimos, Amphidamas, Antiochus, Anticlus, Antiphus, and the rest of the total 600 men. They rowed and sailed, full speed ahead, out of the Aegean sea, through the Cretan sea and around the peninsula. They sang so loud all the world’s woes—any lingering hunger or grief or guilt or bloodlust or hubris—were drowned out. None sang louder than Odysseus opining for Penelope back home. A song they’d heard many times.
“You old wind bag,” Eurylochus would tease.
“Leave him be.” Then would say Polites, catching the two in his open arms.
All the men they’d lost, all the brutality they’d seen, all the suffering they themselves had wrought, the world could find another time to punish them. Because as they sailed the Ionian Sea, Ithaca—sweet Ithaca—finally came into view. Clouds parted, waves shrunk, and 600 men, all alive and healthy, docked on its shores. Were their shadows, lengthening like ghosts on the river Styx, aware of the horrors avoided?
People rushed to greet them with smiles and hugs. As much as Odysseus loved his people, he couldn’t help push through the crowd, searching for one face and one face alone. Then he saw her, running indecorously, outpacing even the spry boy beside her: his bride, his wife, the love of his life, Penelope.
The Queen of Ithaca leapt into Odysseus’s strong bowman arms. Their embrace felt millennia in the making. Their kiss gave years back to his life. He lifted Penelope off the ground with one arm, and in the other scooped up his hesitating son. Even in the years that had passed, Telemachus was unmistakable, with Penelope’s hair and Odysseus’s own sharp eyes.
Though shy at first, Telemachus soon launched into questions and excited recounting of his own hijinks. Hand-in-hand, and flanked by Eurylochus and Polites, the little family walked to Odysseus’s palace, where his aged mother cried and beckoned him to her. She pinched and kissed his cheeks. His father, with sheep in tow, celebrated Odysseus’s return and called for a feast.
A feast for 600 men and their families took up all of Odysseus’s rooms and gardens and spilled out into the streets of Ithaca. Young men who maybe, in another time, would have been Odysseus’s enemies, were themselves swept up in the festivities and drank to the health and happiness of their brave, strong king.
Odysseus let neither Penelope nor Telemachus out of his sight until nearly dawn the next day, when the child had fallen asleep, his dogs acting as pillows. Some of his men still partied drunkenly while others had found a partner and a private corner. Odysseus didn’t need to search. He and Penelope sneaked back to their room where the olive tree around which he’d built their bed bloomed. Fresh-smelling blossoms fluttered down. He swept one from Penelope’s hair as he lay her down on the silks. As she undid his armor and its weight fell away, so too did any thought other than her and their olive tree.
In the morning, Odysseus would wake covered in petals and kiss marks. He would look at his still dozing wife, then eventually take in his rooms. Penelope’s loom was limned in the light from the window. On it was strung a short, sweet tapestry, waiting to be cut from the warp. It depicted a wife, a husband, and a son, all living and growing together as one happy family.
Because even in this nicer tale, Penelope still had to wait and Troy still had to burn. What if the tale we wove let Astyanax stay cradled in Andromache’s arms? What if Achilles and Paris both lived into another book? Could there have been a once upon a time where Agamemnon was honest and compassionate? What stories could have come from Helen staying home? The borders along Penelope’s tapestry went back to the start and begged the question: what if there had never been a golden apple or beauty contest? If we imagine the gods without cruelty or vanity, what of humanity?