Nerissa couldn’t move her arms or legs when she awoke. She thought that she was in a dream of snakes that bound her limbs. She tried to scream herself to wakefulness, but couldn’t. There was something in her mouth, another serpent. But no, it was unyielding, not alive. When she bit down, it felt like stiffened leather. Whatever it was, the taste was rancid. Realizing that she was already awake, Nerissa flailed on the cave floor. Only bare rock was beneath her. Someone had removed the deerskin.
It still was dark, but embers glowed inside the fire pit. She struggled to a sitting position against the wall. As her eyes adjusted to the meager light, Nerissa made out a human shape lying by the cave mouth. After watching it for minutes, she decided that it was a man. A living man whose chest moved slightly as he slept, not a corpse. And not a giant, either.
He must be a slave catcher who’d caught her here. But how had he tracked her through the storm? How had Tragus learned so fast which way she’d run? She worried that he’d demand her execution. Or simply do the job himself.
But if this was a slave catcher, his behavior seemed very odd. Why bind her with such care that she’d slept through her capture? And why stay in the cave overnight? Despite the rain, you’d think he would have been eager to collect his bounty. Why gag her mouth? What did he care if she screamed? And why use a piece of old leather instead of a cloth?
Another thing -- why hadn’t the slave catcher used her body? Most men would have done so, and certainly the sort to be slave catchers. As a matter of course, if not from lust. If this one was squeamish about her face, well, it was dark. Anyway, of the many men who’d raped her during the past year, all but Chymides Eight-Fingers had preferred to take her from behind.
In the dim light, Nerissa peered at the bonds around her arms and legs. They weren’t rope, she realized. At least not rope made in the modern way. They were woven from vines. She tried to gnaw at one, but the gag got in the way. Maybe that’s why he’d used it.
She wondered if it might be possible to talk her way out of this. Some clever ploy, like Homer’s idea of tricking Polyphemus into saying, “Noman attacks me.”
Let’s see, I can tell him there’s a treasure hidden up the hillside. If I offer to lead him to it, he’ll have to unbind my legs. My arms, too, so I can climb the slope. Then when we reach a likely spot, I can distract him somehow, grab a rock, and bash him on the head.
No, that will never work. This fellow’s much too clever. Look how easily he caught me… Or maybe he’s a devotee of Athena. That would explain how he knew about the Cave of Loizos. When it started to storm, he guessed that I’d come here.
Maybe Hesper told him I revere the Goddess -- she’s heard me often enough at my prayers. So I could tell him that Athena came to me last night in a dream. She said that we must sleep together, then we’ll both be blessed. I’ll tell him I must first build up the fire and make an offering. That way, he’ll untie my hands. After I satisfy him, it shouldn’t be hard to reach my sling. Even if he’s removed the stone that I had ready in it, plenty of others are here beside the wall.
Nerissa continued thinking through different plans until light seeped into the cave. Rhododactylos Eos, a phrase that Homer had recited, flitted through her mind. The rosy-fingered Goddess of the Dawn.
As the noise of bird calls reached them, Nerissa’s captor began to stir. When he awoke, he rose immediately and went outside. To empty his bladder, she guessed. Which supported her guess that he was a devotee. Most men would have simply sent a yellow arc against the wall.
When he returned a while later, the slave catcher poked the coals, ignoring her completely. He built them into flames with kindling, then larger sticks. Turning away, he spitted something on a sharpened stake. He set it between two large stones that flanked the fire. Soon, there came the delicious smell of roasting game. He must have caught some creature in a nearby snare he’d set during the night.
The light was still too dim to see his features, but he had a very strange profile. His face was extremely elongated, and his forehead bulged to an alarming proportion. His beard was long and dense, his clothing heavy for this time of year.
He didn’t speak or acknowledge Nerissa’s presence in any way. When the meat was done, he ate it all, down to the bones, including every organ. The light had grown strong enough to see that it was something squirrel-sized. He didn’t make an offering of the stomach or intestines, as far as she could tell. Then he drank from a container twice the size of an ordinary wineskin. She guessed that it was made from a doe’s hide. She sniffed the air, hoping to catch a fermented scent. If this was wine he guzzled, maybe the slave catcher would soon fall over drunk.
But it turned out to be water. Nerissa knew, because presently, he gave her a drink. As the man knelt beside her, she saw more of his face. His bulging forehead had lumps scattered across it like a collection of knobs on a pumpkin. His hair was tangled with so many thorns and twigs, it looked like a bird’s nest. His two eyes were uneven in alignment, the left one noticeably higher than the right. His ears were mangled savagely, looking more like dried pear halves than human features. His nose was twisted to the side so thoroughly, one of the nostrils was pressed closed. He made a wet sigh every time he breathed. Worst of all, his mouth was a ragged gash that seemed a cry of torment.
Oh, sweet Lady, is this why you led me here? Is he to be my husband? Did you find the one man ugly enough to make a proper match for me?
Nerissa blanched at the prospect offered by her beloved Goddess. She was being punished, like Aphrodite forced to marry Hephaestus. Except she was no beauty. She was as hideous as her intended mate. This man was no slave catcher. He was an outcast, dressed in the furs of wild beasts. Their tails hung down haphazardly. There was a rabbit’s scut at his right elbow and a badger’s tail at his navel. He wore no proper sandals, but had wrapped his feet in buckskin.
Gazing around the cave, she saw no modern items in it -- no pottery, cookware, cutlery, or tools. Her captor didn’t possess one item that came from skilled craftsmen. To live like this, he must have renounced all dealings with civilized people.
This man’s a hermit, Nerissa realized with dread. He bound me with the vines, not to drag me back to Tragus, but to make me be his mate.
A day and night passed without the hermit touching her. It made Nerissa fear him even more. If he didn’t want her body, what did he intend to do with her? Certainly, he couldn’t plan to return her as a captured slave. Not if he was hiding here away from men. Though he seemed to be an expert trapper, she saw no evidence that he’d ever traded furs for goods.
After the man went out, Nerissa sat shivering for hours. It wasn’t hard to imagine many ways that he might kill her. A slab of granite pressing down on her prostrate form, with more rocks added slowly, until the last few drops of blood oozed from her pores… Vines twisted tight around her throat, then released each time light left her eyes… A stake skewered through her body from one end to the other. A slow roast in the fire. Maybe as an offering to his savage Gods. Or maybe as a welcome change to his diet. She could picture him splitting her bones like he’d done with his akratismos after finishing the meat. She could hear him sucking out the marrow.
I shouldn’t fear death after all I’ve seen, Nerissa told herself. I’ll be reunited with my family. Wherever they might be, it can’t be worse than this.
But she couldn’t make her limbs stop trembling. It was one thing to die beside her loved ones. If she’d perished with Nikos and Philippos in the cave of Polyphemus, at least she would have had the comfort of traveling to Hades in their staunch company. Or if she’d been slain in battle on Imbrus, alongside Kestides and the elder cousins, she never would have had to endure all that followed.
But to die alone here, friendless and forgotten, to be the victim of this ogre, to suffer whatever death his tortured thoughts produced, to have her entrails studied before he savored them, to have the few scraps that he didn’t eat tossed out for the ravens, to have to bear the fear of it for weeks, until he settled on a pleasing method… it was unmercifully cruel for the Fates to spin such a bitter end to her hard life.
He finally returned as dusk approached. By the fading light, Nerissa saw he carried two limp hares, their long ears trailing in the dirt. He skinned then spitted them, built up the fire, and cooked them in its flames. Again, he didn’t speak a word or even look her way.
When the hares were blackened on the outside, he lifted the spit and began to eat. He didn’t bother to pull them off or let them cool. He ate quickly, greedily, taking large bites from each hare. If they burned his mouth at all, he gave no sign. He seemed to particularly enjoy their brains, smacking his lips with pleasure before guzzling a long drink from his water skin.
As it grew dark outside, Nerissa listened to him snapping bones and sucking marrow. She couldn’t help but cringe, knowing that he’d make the same noises when she was the meal he finished down to crumbs.
Oh merciful Athena, how did I offend You? It must have been unpardonable, for one as generous as You to turn Your loving face away. Yes, You needn’t remind me, I can’t pretend I don’t know when it was. It was that bitter morning I abandoned Euredon, wasn’t it? You’re right -- though he ordered me to leave him lying by the dead bullock, I’ve felt despoiled ever since. I know that I deserve whatever happens here, but I’m so afraid to die like this.
She heard the hermit take another drink, then rise. She couldn’t see him because he’d let his fire die to embers. His footsteps crossed the cave toward her. She shuddered violently. She tried to wrap her arms across her chest, but couldn’t. She’d forgotten they were bound. She wished that she could free them, if only to wipe the snot seeping from her nose.
Nerissa clamped her teeth shut. She didn’t want the man to hear them chattering with fear. Her bladder almost gave way, but she kept the leakage to a drop that slithered down her thigh. Through the sides of her mouth, she sucked in a deep breath. She prepared herself to die.
She wanted to find one good thing of Earth to bring with her. It might sustain her on the journey. But the darkness was complete in here. She couldn’t see a thing. And the savory aroma of roasted hare had faded now. The cave’s dominant scents of must and guano had returned. The air was quickly growing cold. The rock against her back was jagged and unyielding. None of these things were pleasant. So she turned to her best memories, of Father’s valor and his wisdom, of Vasy learning how to swim, of the bittersweet joy from loving brave Andrastus…
Something struck her on the chest. A tiny moan of fear escaped. Before she even braced for the next stone, Nerissa grimaced in disgust. She’d felt determined not to cry out from pain or dread or anguish. Now she’d revealed her cowardice at the first blow. And it wasn’t even heavy. In fact, the thing was very light. She could feel it sitting in her lap, no larger than a hemlock’s cone.
Nerissa waited for the next. If he meant to crush her slowly, by piling small stones into a mound, this would take all night. She vowed to remain silent. She mustn’t shame her family further.
She heard the hermit step away. She saw the silhouette of his legs pass by the fire’s coals. She heard him settle on his pile of furs across the cave.
Leaning down as far as the bindings allowed, Nerissa touched the object with her chin. It felt warm and greasy. After smelling the thing, she realized that it was the carcass of a hare. So he’d only cracked the bones of one. He’d given her this other for deipnon! But why would he do that? Was he fattening her before he feasted on her flesh, as they’d feared with Polyphemus? If her captor really was a cannibal, this torment might go on for months. She should just roll away, and leave the hare there in the dirt. If he saw she wouldn’t eat, he might decide to get it over quickly.
Still, the hare’s aroma was impossible to ignore. This close, it wafted to her nostrils, promising the best meal that she’d ever known. Nerissa felt so hungry, she couldn’t resist. She’d eaten nothing since that heel of bread. But her hands were bound, so she had to manage with her teeth alone. It took an hour, but she gnawed most of the meat. In fact, he’d left her quite a bit.
Nerissa managed little sleep, agonizing over every choice she’d made since that disastrous morning in Laedron’s field. She’d committed so many mistakes, and more than a few sins. If this torment was a judgment on her from Olympus, so be it. From this moment on, she vowed to bear her punishment without complaint. When the Fates finally decreed she might rejoin her loved ones, she must be able to meet their blameful eyes.
The hermit left again that morning, returned that night with animals he’d trapped, cooked them, and shared a carcass with her. Though bound and tethered to a thick stalagmite at the back end of the cave, Nerissa had enough room to relieve herself over a fissure. It was very deep and far enough from the altar that this didn’t seem a sacrilege.
Their routine went along unbroken for ten days. Nerissa learned to open her mouth when the hermit approached. After setting down her food, he’d give her a long drink from his water skin.
On the tenth morning, he released Nerissa’s bindings. He grunted loudly when he saw the places where she’d tried chewing through the vines. As it was, she’d made little progress, because the vines were very tough and something toxic in them numbed her lips. But it was impossible to tell if she’d enraged him by trying to escape. His expression always looked like fury.
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her out into the day. Accustomed to the murky cave, the brightness outside hurt her eyes. She raised her hands to shield them. He turned and pushed them down. He stared at her intently. He reached out, almost tenderly, and touched the thick scab that had formed over the cut across her cheek from Trumpet.
Nerissa flinched, though the hermit’s light touch didn’t hurt. He dropped his arm, then stared again. As she reddened with shame, he tilted his head, as if with perplexity.
Suddenly, he whistled. It sounded like a mistle thrush. When she didn’t move, he whistled again, jerked his arm, and headed off into the forest. It must be his signal to tell her she must follow. Nerissa reluctantly obeyed, but at a shambling walk. She felt too sore to move any quicker.
The man kept turning back and whistling at her. Sometimes the thrush noise, sometimes a whitethroat warbler, that seemed to mean turn left, or a woodlark that meant right. If he did a goshawk, it meant to stop immediately and stay perfectly still.
By midday, they’d checked all his snares. They found one hedgehog, still alive, but he quickly twisted its neck. They rested at a spring, where he refilled the water skin. Here, he also gathered a low-growing plant. It looked a lot like the colt’s foot she used to find for Mother at the spring that gave rise to the Meles. They checked more snares all through the afternoon, collecting two dead wood rats and a badger. They ranged over the high ridgeline, where the slope grew much gentler. Nerissa gazed across a wide swath of fertile land all the way to the eastern shore. Beyond an azure sea, she could make out the faint line of the mainland’s coast.
The first chance that I get, she vowed silently, I’ll escape and sail for freedom.
As the day grew long, the hermit set about collecting greenery. He had an expert understanding of just which plants were edible. He gathered leaves, roots, stalks and mushrooms in a wide variety of places. Along the way, he let Nerissa forage for nuts and berries. He found some boneset and also stripped some willow bark. Nerissa knew from Mother that this could be ground and brewed into a tisane that eased many aches. He next collected curling ferns and a type of mold growing at the base of an oak tree.
When they returned at dusk, something seemed different about the cave. She couldn’t think what had struck her as a change until the hermit began to cook. Ah, yes. There’d been a slight smell of incense when they’d entered. This must have been a feast day. People had visited the cave that morning. He must have known they’d come -- that’s why he’d brought her out along his route.
But he’d made no effort to move the stones that ringed his fire pit, or scatter the ashes, or hide the coals. The deerskin that he used as a pad for sleeping, and the furs that were his blankets, he’d left them where they lay. So the local Ithacans must know he lived here. They must tolerate his presence, believing that the Goddess inhabited this lunatic. The fire pit where he cooked must be the same one where they burnt their offerings. He didn’t want them learning of her -- that’s why he’d brought her with him.
Nerissa heard him grinding something on a stone. When he brought her food and water later, he also smeared a wet paste on her cheek. It smelled dreadful, but by now she didn’t fear he meant her injury. He’d heated the water this time, too. Probably, he’d infused it with boneset and willow.
What the hermit wanted was a mystery. Though he still bound her to the lyre-shaped stalagmite every night, the man was never rough. He showed no pleasure when he had to kill an animal, so she doubted he was planning some ritual murder for her. Because he also seemed to savor the food he caught, she’d stopped believing that he was fattening her to eat. He never raped her. If he satisfied himself some other way, it was never in the cave. And on those days he took her to the spring, he’d avert his eyes when she bathed.
This went on for months. The hermit continued to share all the meat he trapped. He made tisanes for her to drink and salved her wounds, the same as he salved his own. One day when it snowed heavily, he stayed inside all day and Nerissa had the chance to watch him mix one of his ointments. He made it from ground burdock root, oak gall, and the mashed liver of a fox.
In time, he came to trust her more. He’d leave her hands free when she’d eat. On cold nights, he’d let her sleep close to the fire. And though he still tied her far back in a descending tunnel when he went out alone, he’d leave a water skin close enough to reach with her mouth. Better yet, he no longer made her wear the gag.
But on feast days, which he always anticipated though she never saw him make calendar markings, he’d lead her early from the cave. And if she even touched a pelt, he’d snatch it from her immediately. Nerissa guessed he feared she’d make another sling, like the one he’d taken from her that first night.
A few times, he heard people approaching on an unexpected day. Then he’d race across the cave and gag her, throw her over a shoulder, and hurry out. They’d hide for many hours high up the mountain, until he was convinced the visitors had left.
On one of these occasions, Nerissa managed a brief cry before he could get the leather band into her mouth. He struck her chin, his fist shooting out so fast she never saw it. When she came to in the forest, he was rubbing salve onto the cut. It was the only time he hit her during these long months.
She never ran, because she never had the slightest chance. On the days her captor brought Nerissa outside, he never let her get more than two stadia away. She’d seen his speed and watchfulness. If she managed a few steps away, he’d overtake her in an instant. Inside the cave, she was either bound or sitting right beside him. And all the many days he left her alone in the deep tunnel, there were no sounds of anyone’s approach.
Nerissa never learned the hermit’s name. Or what he wanted, for that matter. Maybe her first thought was the same one he formed upon discovering her asleep. That Athena had sent her to him. That she was to be his mate. But not by force, which would be anathema to the Goddess. Could it be this hermit expected patience and kind treatment would make Nerissa fall in love?
The seasons turned. Though they sometimes came in view of the road, she never saw another person during all this time. How Nerissa longed that she might be discovered. She feared that some survivor from her clan would track her all the way to Ithaca, and then conclude she’d perished. She might as well be dead, enduring month after month of this minimal existence.
What if Andrastus were alive? What if he killed himself in grief over her disappearance? She tried to picture his handsome face. She saw it sag despondently.
Or Homer. What if he’d finished his poem and restored his reputation? Was it possible he’d summoned enough courage to face down Tragus? Not much chance that he’d remember her. It had been two years and their encounter no more than an unpleasant day to Homer. But what if his substantial pride had made him return to his cousin?
She could readily imagine the proud poet demanding that Tragus sell him his shepherdess, only to be told of her escape. Hearing that the slave hunters had given up the search, Homer would conclude she’d died fallen down some mountain chasm or maybe wolves had eaten her.
Though he wouldn’t care much for the opinion of a girl, she’d dearly like to hear Homer’s finished work. In Nerissa’s profound isolation, she’d spend entire days imagining how his epic sounded. And she could hear it well. Despite what Homer thought about her feeling for heroic verse, the same Muse spoke to her.
One day, she began setting line after line until they stretched to hundreds. She didn’t need parchment or even light. Inside her mind, she could see exactly how Homer would invent them. She had his meter and his language captured. She knew just how he’d twist her family’s banishment from Smyrna, the fight on Imbrus, their capture by Circe and the enchantress’s defeat. Nerissa composed all this in the poet’s style, then the lair of Polyphemus and the musicloving brigands, too.
Today, she’d described her imprisonment inside the Cave of Loizos. Which would have made a long and uneventful tale, except she related it as Homer would have done. He’d make this place an isle that Odysseus reached after a shipwreck. To him, the hermit would become a Goddess. Who’d force the hero to sleep with her, of course. And she’d be beautiful -- what man would refuse her? What man would even consider such a fate a hardship?
Only if he languished there for years. Then he’d weep, breaking his heart in tears and grief and lamentation. Nerissa remembered her phrase, the one that Homer had admired. Yes, it was the only time he’d praised her.
Maybe he did think something of her intellect. But in the end, Homer would decide to change these words, too. Something more suitable for a man. Because a girl could never be the protagonist of his tale. Though, when freedom finally came, the rescuer must be female, another Goddess. Who’d melt for Odysseus, as well. The abundance of his courage and his vigor would win her sympathy at last. So she’d insist the mortal must be freed. She’d send Hermes as her messenger -- that’s what Homer had made of Tenes, the youth who’d gathered herbs on Buskados. And Hermes would convince Odysseus’s love-smitten captor to relent.
When the hermit unbound her that evening, Nerissa took a thorn out of her hair and scratched her arm. Then using blood as ink, she inscribed lines on her robe. The hermit watched her do this in the firelight, but since she left no evidence on the cave walls or the floor, he didn’t take away her thorn. Maybe he thought the markings were intended for decoration, so he made no objection. Before the fire’s light grew low, Nerissa finished scratching out these words that twisted all day in her mind:
Unhappy man! to wasting woes a prey, No more in sorrows languish life away: Free as the winds I give thee now to rove: Go, fell the timber of yon lofty grove, And form a raft, and build the rising ship, Sublime to bear thee o'er the gloomy deep.
To stock the vessel let the care be mine, With water from the rock and rosy wine, And life-sustaining bread, and fair array, And helpful gales to waft thee on the way. These, if the Gods with my request comply (The Gods, alas, more mighty far than I, And better skilled in dark events to come,) In peace shall land thee at thy native home.
For the first time in months, Nerissa felt content as she lay down to sleep. Freed from her pent soul, she could almost see the lines glowing red on the fabric of her gown. She resolved to set down all the verses she’d composed. Her greatest hope was that some day she might read them to Homer.
At once, Nerissa heard another verse. It longed, as she did, to be free. It painted all the doubts she had about her future. Would she even wish to leave this cave if she knew what lay ahead?
Odysseus! Ah, wert thou allowed to know
What Fate yet dooms thee still to undergo, Thy heart might settle in this vale of ease. And O, these slighted charms might learn to please. A willing Goddess, and immortal life.
Might banish from thy thoughts an absent wife.
Nerissa wrote many more verses over the next five years. She now was twenty-two, at the middle of a mortal’s span of life. She only knew her age by keeping careful track on the passing seasons. The hermit certainly wouldn’t let her mark off days on the cave walls. She couldn’t keep a calendar on her chiton, either. During that first year of writing, she’d covered both sides of it with verse, but it had long since worn away to tatters. Besides, rain had smeared the thorn-drawn ink so thoroughly, she couldn’t read a word. Four years ago, the hermit had presented her with a warm robe made of furs. He’d burned the ragged chiton.
It mattered not a bit. Nerissa had each line of her epic firmly committed to memory. By now, she’d traced Odysseus's path all the way from Troy to Ithaca, blending his ordeal with her own.
She dreamed of reciting this to Homer, watching his haughty lips creep up with reluctant pleasure. She wondered if he’d made much progress on his work. She longed to flee before he finished. She doubted he’d accept any of her suggestions, but still... it would be a consolation if he did. Something to make sense of all the time she’d languished here.
Today, she’d finally allowed Odysseus to sail away. Though he might refuse to accept a single line, Homer would have to acknowledge there was some slight merit in her verse:Wretch that I am! what farther fates attend This fearsome life, and what my destined end? Too well, alas! the island goddess knew
On the dark sea what perils should ensue. New horrors now this destiny enclose;
Untilled is yet the measure of my woes;
With what a cloud the brow of Heaven’s crowned; What raging winds! what roaring waters round! 'Tis Zeus himself the vengeful tempest rears; Death, present death, on every side appears.
Joyous! thrice joyous! who, in battle slain, Pressed our great cause upon the Trojan plain! Oh! had I died before that famous wall! Had some distinguished day renowned my fall (Such as the morn when raining javelins fled From gallant Troy around Achilles dead), All Hellas paid me solemn homage then, And spread my glory to all sons of men. A shameful fate now hides my hapless head, Unwept, unnoted, and forever dead.
With the hermit busy grinding another batch of salve, Nerissa used a twig to write these lines in the fire pit’s warm ashes. She wanted to check her verse’s scansion. Doing this was never easy in her head. The iambic decameter was impeccable, she saw. Her absent and unwilling patron could have no complaint. She allowed herself a bitter laugh as she scattered the ashes.
The hermit looked up because it was unusual for Nerissa to make a sound. She only shrugged and pointed at the dying fire. It was useless trying to explain anything to this simple man, let alone the cause of her outburst. Imagine, she’d not only elevated Homer to a God, but a female one at that. By making the caustic poet her personal Muse, she’d emasculated him into the immortal sisterhood.