Bound

Within the hour the men had gathered themselves with the business of making way in open sea. Oars stowed, benches cleared, bailing seawater, and preparing the next meal. They moved about louder than necessary, proving their bravery to no one in particular.

A few gathered around me, asking of the song. Was it beautiful or was it sexual? Did they sing together or take turns? Were the songs familiar? Could I sing it for them? Could you see what they looked like?

I tried to answer. I told them the voices were potent, that they sang of the past, of Troy, and our time at sea. I could not articulate the experience. I watched their faces and saw that none of it landed. They grew bored of fishing details out of me or thought perhaps that the song had rattled my mind.

The latter felt true.

I did not tell them the song had known my name. Spoken like Penelope, like my mother. I did not tell them the ropes had kept me from the only thing I had ever wanted with my whole body. I could not say these things in a way that made sense. Words felt too inelegant for that craving.

Even now, in the midst of my story, I can close my eyes and hear the faint call. A thin cord tugging at my being, one that had never loosened, even after all these years.

The men were concerned and did not know what to do. I was offered food that I did not want, asked questions of navigation I was in no mood to answer. They even attempted to distract me with a lewd soldier’s song, that I quelled with a glare.

I moved to the stern and sat. The sun was the same sun. The water was the same water. The men were the same men I had campaigned with for a decade and I was alone among them. The song’s echo dulled me.

I rubbed my rope-burned wrists and discovered that the shooting pain was more real. It returned me to the present.

I pressed harder, this was not the only warning Circe had given us.