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xfilesinamajor · 14 days

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Six

Something about the air in this place puts all their nerves on edge. The ship is nearly consumed by the shadows of overhanding rocks, so numerous they could almost be called a cave. For an hour, it was a welcome respite from the sun. But it’s been far more than an hour since any sunlight shone through the gaps in the rocks above them. At first he thought it might just be clouds blocking it, but surely by now it’s nighttime.

Though if it’s nighttime, where are the moon and stars? Must be cloudy, too. That still doesn’t explain the mood that is slowly taking over the crew. First it was Melampos’ comment about the lack of fish. Slow fishing days are nothing new, but hasn’t even been a tug on a line or a crab caught in a net for long enough to become unsettling. It’s as if nothing lives here at all.

And it’s so quiet. Not so much as a gentle breeze to stir the water.

All the dark thoughts that he tries to suppress during the day—the ones that pierce him as he struggles to sleep, if the daylight hours haven’t provided enough stimulation to exhaust him—rise to the surface earlier than usual. Often he can hold them at bay until most of the crew has fallen into an exhausted doze, but not today. Eurylochus treats these thoughts as his enemies, populating his consciousness as hordes of faceless Trojans or the deadly swings of the cyclops’ club, but deep down he knows he can only outlast them for so long.

He didn’t think today would be the day they would finally win, but something about this place brings them all to the surface, leaking out of him like blood from a fresh wound. It’s what the thoughts are, really—wounds. Only it’s not blood leaking out of them, because these wounds are long from fresh. He has become a walking wound, swollen with infection, and the darkness and stillness of this place have pushed on him in just the right way to open him up.

The captain is standing at the bow, staring ahead as if he can see something Eurylochus cannot. It occurs to him that he can’t remember the last order Odysseus gave, the last time he spoke. “You’re quiet today,” he observes, resting his hands on the railing alongside his brother and looking down into the dark, still waters. He’s surprised at how even his voice sounds, given the effort he’s putting into holding back the secret that’s been poisoning him for months.

Odysseus lifts one shoulder in a small shrug, his eyes never moving from the curving shadows ahead. “Not much to say.”

He picks up on a slight tremor in his old friend, one that tells him that Odysseus’ even, disinterested tone is as false as his own forced calm. The captain is unsettled, too. And he’s hiding something. Most likely that’s his guilt—he’s always felt it more keenly than Eurylochus, and in these past months he has done many things which he could feel guilt over. The Odysseus who set sail with him for Troy so many years ago would be sick over the things they have done.

The things they’ve had to do. The Trojans, the cyclops, Circe, the sirens, the underworld, those were all necessary to the survival of the crew. He admired his friend for that, his dedication to protecting the lives of the remaining men. He’s made mistakes, even been careless at times, but there’s no denying that tries to do right by his crew. He was willing to stay awake for nine days, to the point of his own destruction, to get them all home.

It was Eurylochus’ anger and fear which had undone that. He made the mistake of worrying about his Ctimene’s brother more than the well-being of the whole crew for one minute, and the consequences were catastrophic. The guilt has been consuming him ever since, and now it bursts from his lips unbidden. “I have a secret I can no longer keep.”

Odysseus doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at him. It’s as he guessed, then—his captain already knows, or suspected. No wonder he’s lost faith in him. He tried to tell him sooner, damn it! As soon as they made it to shore after Poseidon decimated the fleet, he’d tried to explain. Ody wouldn’t listen.

That knowledge does nothing, sadly, to draw out the guilt from his festering wound.

“I opened the wind bag while you were asleep.” Still, Ody says nothing. Eurylochus looks down at his hands to find them shaking on the railing. He wonders vaguely if he’s going to be sick, but no, there’s no food in his stomach to expel. “I’m so sorry.”

The captain’s eyes never leave the water. It’s as if he’s not even really here. That thought catches in Eurylochus’ swirling mind. Which of them isn’t really here? Is Odysseus steadfastly pretending Eurylochus doesn’t exist…or is Odysseus someplace else entirely, far away from where his friends can reach?

He tries one last time, because he has to, because it’s Odysseus, because he needs to know. Even if his old friend hates him for what he’s done, he needs to know. This time he puts a hand on Ody’s shoulder as he speaks, with the hope that some physical contact will surprise him into a genuine reaction. “Forgive me!”

Odysseus does start at the touch, and though it’s only to shrug away Eurylochus’ hand, at last he acknowledges him. “Eurylochus. Light up six torches.”

Which is not an answer to his confession. Did he even hear it?

There’s no point in trying to talk to him like this. It’s a relief, in fact, to have something active to do. The darkness of the cave has all but swallowed the ship now, and soon they’ll need the light of fire to steer. It doesn’t occur to him to ask why the captain specified six—they try not to use more supplies than necessary, and that’s probably the number of torches it’ll take to get the job done. He walks away from Odysseus in confused relief, unsure how the captain feels about him but glad to have at last spoken the truth to him. Even if he didn’t hear it Eurylochus has said the words, and that’s something. The wound in his heart has stopped oozing for the moment, and he can go back to focusing on keeping the crew alive.

That starts with picking some men to hold the torches, so that they don’t crash into any of the jagged rocks forming the walls of this place. Ten of the crew were asleep, last he knew. They sleep on a rotation, so that there are at least twenty men rowing at all times. One rotation for sleep, one for duties around the ship, two for rowing. He himself takes partial shifts at the oars, sharing the load in the times when he’s not otherwise engaged. He’s one of the men, after all, and with a diminished crew they need all the hands they have. Besides, he likes rowing. It’s hard, mindless work that helps him sleep.

Maybe that’s why Ody sleeps so little. Mentally, there’s no doubt he exhausts himself, but it’s not the same as good physical labor. He wishes the captain would sleep more, though these days he would never dare to suggest it.

Eurylochus chooses to leave the men currently rowing. There are only twenty of them, and their strength is needed where they are. Two of the men who are supposed to be fishing are asleep, for which he can hardly blame them—there’s nothing to catch. Four men are still trying, one is up in the crow’s nest, and five are sitting on deck mending nets, sails, ropes, and weapons. All of which have seen better days, just like the crew.

Theasides is slumped over the sail in his lap, barely awake. He’s been struggling more and more these past weeks, to the point where he can hardly pull an oar through the water. It’s not just weakness from hunger, but something more. The reds and blues of bruising nearly cover his legs, and he often spits blood. No one says it, but they all suspect it’s only a matter of time until he succumbs to the illness. Maybe if they could find land—a better diet—a doctor—something—he can recover, but that becomes less likely with every day at sea.

Mentally, Eurylochus puts Theasides at the top of the list for torches. The once-burly man resents how useless he is becoming, and he fights against it. Holding a torch is a duty which will keep him awake and focused, make him feel important, and won’t tax his waning strength too much.

Who else? Melampos and Xanthippos can easily be pulled from fishing duty. That’s three. He scans the rest of the men sitting on deck, trying to decide who will benefit the most from spending the next few hours holding a torch. It’s not a difficult job, but right now it’s as critical as rowing. Maybe even more important. Without stars to steer by and the threat of a smashed hull lurking in every jagged wall, light is the only way they’re all getting through here alive.

“Eurylochus?” His eyes snap back to Anaxos, who’s stopped the diligent oiling of his sword to watch Eury’s movements with bright curiosity. He’s one of the oldest men on the ship, but it doesn’t show in the way he moves or speaks. Only his knotty fingers, the lines around his eyes, and his quiet wisdom belie his age. Eurylochus can recall at one point, years ago, thinking that Anaxos reminded him of his own father. These days, his father is such a distant memory that his brain rejects the comparison. Anaxos is only Anaxos, his crewmate and friend. “Any special reason you’re staring at us like that?”

Without the awful mood and darkness, Eurylochus might have smiled sheepishly at him. He hadn’t realized he was looking at them any differently than usual, but it’s just like Anaxos to be the one to notice. “We need light,” he answers bluntly. “Captain says six torches.”

“Only six?” Anaxos asks, and there’s a trace of surprise or disappointment in his voice.

Eurylochus answers with a shrug, since he trusts the captain’s judgement. “It’ll be enough.”

“Your eyes are better than mine,” Anaxos replies with a small shake of his head. He gives his sword one final swipe with the rag, shields it, immediately shivers, and gets to his feet. “I wouldn’t mind taking one, if you’re looking for volunteers. Never thought I’d say this, but I miss the heat we’d get on the beaches at Troy.”

He cracks a weak smile at the attempted humor. “It is cold tonight. You can have one.” Anaxos ducks his head in a grateful nod. Alright, now he’s got four torch men. Who else? He jerks his chin upward, indicating the crow’s nest. “Who’s up there right now?”

“Perimedes,” Telines speaks up. His hands deftly continue weaving a torn net back together as his eyes follow Eurylochus’ gaze. “He was talking about throwing himself off—but I haven’t heard a splash, so I guess he fell asleep.”

Eurylochus scowls. “He shouldn’t make jokes like that. Not after everyone we’ve lost.”

Telines smiles sadly. “I think jokes like that are the only reason he’s not one of them.”

That thought makes Eurylochus’ stomach tighten all over again. Telines is probably right about Perimedes. The fact that anyone on board can still make jokes at all is remarkable, from a certain point of view. He shouldn’t rebuke them for it. But there are so few of the crew left already, the thought of losing any more—of bearing the weight of any more friends’ deaths—is unacceptable. He already worries about Theasides and Perimedes, he doesn’t need Telines starting up with this macabre of humor as well.

It must be this place, or the darkness, or the cold. He’d better give Telines something productive to do as well. Something positive to focus on. He’ll give him some light.

That’s five. Good enough. He’ll hold the last one himself, unless another crewmate volunteers. Nodding to himself, Eurylochus heads to the crate where they keep their supplies, calling the names of his crewmates as he pulls out six wooden staves and a can of oil. “Telines! Anaxos! Xanthippos! Melampos! Theasides! Got a new job for you.”

Anaxos and Telines are already behind him, and the rest are hurriedly finishing up their current tasks. He douses a rag in oil, wraps it around the first stave, and hands it to Anaxos so that he can strike the flint. It takes him several tries to get a flame, but at last the first torch catches and blazes brightly, forcing back the press of the darkness.

Though the faces of his friends are worn, thin, sunburnt, dirty, they are nonetheless a welcome sight. Everyone steps closer to the heat and glow of the fire and Eurylochus bends to prepare a second torch. As he does, just for one brief moment, the warmth of hope flutters inside him to replace the heavy sickness of guilt.

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