ECHO OF THE SIREN

ECHO OF THE SIREN

 

“Have you a death wish?” my son Telemachus asked, exasperated. “You are the only mortal to hear the song of the Sirens and live. Why in the gods’ names would you go back there?”

Next to him, Penelope stood silently, her smoldering eyes and clenched mouth showing pain and disappointment. I had fought so hard to return to Ithaca and been separated from my family longer than I could hope to be reunited. The ensuing years had only confirmed the rightness of my struggle.

But neither she nor Telemachus could understand. Once you’ve heard the Siren’s song, you can’t get it out of your head. For years, by force of will, I ignored it, and why not? I had a loving wife, a loyal son and grandchildren, and a thriving estate. The name of Odysseus held the respect of Achaea. But age had diminished my strength while, if anything, the memory of those seductive voices and lilting melody increased. I wasn’t fully here or there. It was the pleasure that sapped all pleasures, an itch with but one scratch.

A possible solution came to me while I enjoyed a glass of wine with some friends. None of us had the tolerance for alcohol of the old days, and after a few glasses, I grew sleepy. I recalled the appeal of drinking, especially among comrades, but I no longer felt it. Clarity was more important, and at my age, difficult enough to achieve, even without intoxicants. If the pull of wine had lessened its hold on me over the years, might the same thing have happened with the song of the Sirens? If I could survive one last encounter and learn that my memory had made the song more deadly than it was, I could spend my final years free. If I could kill the Sirens so that no one else fell under their spell, so much the better.

“And what if you are just as helpless against the Sirens’ song as you were as a younger man, and end up a pile of bleached bones?” asked Telemachus.

“Then I will be wrong attempting to do what is right,” I said.

Despite my prayers and sacrifices, no gods supported me. They’d saved me once, and I was no longer part of their plans. I chose my crew with care: veteran sailors, obedient, strong, and untethered to foolhardy ambitions. There would be no half measures this time. I needed seasoned men who would allow me to answer the call. The one exception was Korax, the son of Abas, one of my long-time friends.

“He has the strength and bravery to be a hero. All he lacks is a confrontation with danger,” said Abas, his son standing beside him. “We will not live forever. A new generation must carry on.”

I looked at Korax, his broad shoulders and eager manner reminiscent of myself as a youth. “We can use your strength at the oars, but you must obey my every command. Without unity, we will fail,” I said to him.

“You can depend on me,” said Korax. I wasn’t sure, but Abas had proved a good judge of character—he’d always been loyal to me—so I relented.

We set sail, receiving favorable winds and manageable weather. If Poseidon still held a grudge against me, other targets drew him from me. Weeks passed without incident. At times I forgot I was no longer the young warrior who braved any foe. Other times, encrusted with salt and grime, the safety of my crew weighing on my shoulders, I felt as old as Chronos.

Finally, that cursed rock in the smoothness of the sea came into view, subtly, like fear. I once again ordered my men to plug their ears with wax. If I fell prey to the Sirens, they were to leave me. Not even the wax could save them at close range.

One of the things I was depending on was my decreased hearing. I often asked people to repeat themselves, and initially blamed their mumbling, before I realized the fault lay with me. I was not deaf, however, and as we drew closer, I again felt the deadly melody infect my body. It was more a tug than propulsion, however. I climbed into a small boat. Though I could not see the Sirens, their song was everywhere, filling my thoughts, coloring my mood, and obscuring the sea and sky. Still, as I rowed toward the bone-strewn shore, I had at least the illusion that I maintained control over my older self. I could only hope that didn’t change as I got closer.

A splash shattered my concentration. I turned to see Korax shooting through the sea like a spear. The fool must have taken the wax out of his ears! It was not the first time a crewman disobeyed me.

“Go back! There is nothing here but your death!” I screamed as he approached.

“The Sirens are our friends,” he gasped. “You were wrong to deprive us of their music.”

I refused to be responsible for another death. I had to use what was at my disposal. When he caught up to my boat, I hit him on the side of the head with an oar. He howled, as did I as I leapt on top of him. In equal combat, his youth and strength would have overcome my experience, but he was weakened by his strokes. That didn’t stop him from battering me with his flailing fists. He would do anything to join the Sirens. Twice I forced his head beneath the waves, only to have it shoot above the water like a phoenix. The third time he rose, I punched him in the face, rendering him unconscious. With a final burst of strength, I tilted my boat and pushed him inside. I had no wax, nothing to tie him up with, and little time. If he woke up before I was finished with the Sirens—and for all I knew, their song would accomplish exactly that–he would attempt to finish me.

As I dragged the boat onto land, the Sirens, lower half bird, upper half female, stood swaying and singing on shore. Only three had caused all this tragedy. Their message was unchanged. “You are the greatest. Unite with us and become unstoppable.” I remembered it all as if it was yesterday. Nay, as if it was all happening now. The past welcomed me with smothering arms.

But it was as I hoped: the effect on me was different. I was no longer the greatest, in any sense of the word. Their appeal was to a younger me that hadn’t existed for some time. I could not be seduced.

One by one they stopped singing—Sirens aren’t stupid—and the tallest said, “You have come to kill us.”

I fingered my knife. With their lethal, intoxicating lies, they deserved death, but it was not to be from my hands. The speaker and her accomplices easily evaded my lunges. After several pathetic attempts, I replaced my blade into its sheathe.

“I cannot kill you,” I said. “But I can kill your song in my head, and warn others.”

Already the deadly memory of the Sirens’ song had been replaced by what I’d heard this day. An old man can remember but not fully understand the temptations of youth. Life is a test of keeping your hungers at bay until time sates them. As I rowed back to my ship and away from the Sirens’ song, instead of bewitchment, I felt a sense of mourning. I looked at Korax, who inexplicably remained unconscious. Perhaps Athena had not forsaken me after all. I patted my fallen crewman’s head. Sleep. You will be challenged on another day.

 

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Richard Zwicker is an English teacher living in Vermont, USA, with his wife and beagle.  His work has appeared in “Mythic”, “Stupefying Stories”, and “Penumbra”.  Some of his more than sixty published stories are collected in “Walden Planet” and “The Reopened Cask”, available on Amazon.  Besides reading and writing, he plays piano, jogs, and fights the good fight against middle age.  Though he lived in Brazil for eight years, he is still a lousy soccer player.

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