So this is the second version of a flash fiction piece written for my Flash Writing course last semester. It's based on the story of Odysseus in the Trojan Horse, as recounted in Book IV of the Odyssey. The word polutlas is a Greek epithet applied to Odysseus, and means "much-enduring".
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He can’t endure much longer. How
long have they been in this hellhole? Odysseus has no idea. Hunger and sleep
compete for his attention. Anticlus, who has started to snore, is shaken
violently awake; hands are clamped firmly over his mouth to prevent any sound
escaping. The reek of urine and sweat fills every nook of the small space. The
chamberpots are nearly overflowing. The water-skins are nearly empty.
They need to strike soon.
A decade of occasional battles
and innumerable dice games. Ten dark winters spent huddling alone before a
sputtering fire. He hasn’t touched a woman since he last touched Penelope.
It has been too long.
Odysseus recalls the almost unbroken
tension of the past hours. The enemy's initial skepticism had quickly given way
to thunderous sounds of merriment and echoing voices celebrating victory. Yet
not even then could the Greeks cramped in the Horse afford to relax – the
slightest whiff of suspicion could mean ruin. Now, at long last, the voices outside
have subsided into snores, and the moans of copulating couples have ceased.
Odysseus’ hand hovers over the
trapdoor.
He tenses. Voices, incoherent but
definitely approaching.
He makes out a male voice, deep
and slurred with drink: "Helen". A woman's gentle murmur in reply. Then,
so close that he can touch the speaker but for the rough wood separating them, a
clear, high voice.
"Menelaus. Menelaus, it is
I."
Menelaus jerks up, his eyes wild
with shock.
"I'm here, my love. I've
missed you so. Come out to me."
Menelaus’ mouth opens –
Odysseus’ sword is at his throat. A small pinprick of blood trickles down the blade.
Menelaus pants, but stays silent.
Helen's voice continues
relentlessly, morphing as it calls to Agamemnon, then Diomedes. More and more
men become agitated as they hear their beloveds beseeching them individually with
such haunting clarity. Helen had known these women, no doubt, and could
reproduce every lilt and cadence of their voices perfectly. All around Odysseus,
men are in tears, shaking with suppressed sobs. It has been too long.
Odysseus moves to stand firmly
on the trapdoor.
The deep male voice, impatient
this time, is heard again, persuading Helen to come back to bed. Odysseus takes
a breath, lets it out slowly.
"Odysseus."
He stiffens.
A torrent of memories, unearthed
by the sound of Penelope's voice. The first time he heard it in her father’s
palace, warm breezes blowing in from the sea. The low murmur of her laughter
and the way she would brush her arm against his. The day he hid from her in the
apple orchard, making Penelope frantically call his name: “Odysseus.”
Odysseus’ hand hovers over the
trapdoor. His fingers grasp the catch
He can almost see Penelope’s
face, smell the fragrance of her hair, feel the soft down of her neck as they
embraced on the beach that last morning.
It has been too long.
All around him are the faces of
ragged men. Faces that have grown old and scarred with his; faces
sleep-deprived and tear-streaked. Faces that now stare silently at him.
Helen calls one last time.
Odysseus lets go of the catch,
curls his hand into a fist, and waits.
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