Not a Time for Speeches

Flash fiction, 900 words. For IAM's July 17 prompt. Feeling classical.

IAM’s July 17 prompt. https://ironage.media/prompt/the-ophidians.html. Courtesy of Iron Age Media.

“Whoever said that two heads are better than one,” grumped Odysseus, “Never fought a hydra.”

The old man surveyed the battle from a cliff’s edge. The sea roiled below him, partly from the storm, but mostly from the writhing efforts of the many-headed serpent which had crawled from the inky depths to destroy Ithaca earlier that morning.

The survivors came forth to fight. What else was there? The harbor was wrecked, their boats were gone, anyone unlucky enough to be within the creature’s reach had been eaten, crushed, drowned, or unmanned by rank fear.

“The alchemists are creating the Unquenchable Fire as we speak.”   Telemachus was second in laurels only to his famous father, and Odysseus knew he longed to join the fracas.

But they both knew that strength of arm was futile against their enemy; only fire could harm this wicked spawn of Poseidon, and fire they would soon have. Until then, Ithacan lives bought time, not victory.

It was purported that Heracles had killed the Hydra – the, capital H, as in the only one – and yet here was another. Chop off the heads, burn the nubs, done. Easy enough … if you’re Heracles.

“Every last one of us will be dead before that coven of fools settles on a preferred recipe.”

Odysseus did not trust alchemists, sorcerers, witch-priestesses or the west wind. He didn’t trust the sea, the sky, or the land. He didn’t trust his son’s optimism or his wife’s pessimism.

He trusted what he could see with his eyes, and what he could see was that the cliff was made of badly eroded granite. He pointed this out to his son.

“O Athena, O Winged Victory! If that this cliff would fall into the sea and crush the blasted monster!” Telemachus cried out hopefully.

Nothing happened.

“Let the work of our hands implore the help of the gods, not the other way around,” Odysseus reprimanded gently. “What if the hydra were to bring the cliff down atop its own head … heads?”

“Why would it do that?”

“Because we are most vexing, son. Mother says so daily.”

Below, monstrous roars mixed with the death-shouts of brave Ithacans. Odysseus ignored them. He focused on the cliff stone, where it split and bolstered, the veins and boulders.

“Son, fetch a wedge and my finest mallet, the one that hangs highest in my workshop.”

Telemachus did so promptly, his swift feet challenging for glory the winds which blustered above the fray.

Odysseus pointed out a constellation of pressure points and weaknesses. Together, Telemachus steadying the wedge and Odysseus driving it in with force that echoed like thunder, they cracked the precipice formed by the ever-battle of Poseidon against Gaia.

“Now, son, we draw the monster.”

Telemachus hurried back from the cliff, drew his spear, and waited.

Odysseus hefted his mallet. It was made of pure iron, forged without head or handle, but as one piece, a bloom dark and whole. Once he had wielded it as if made of air. Now his time-ravaged hand ached to hold it. This would have to do. He aimed carefully.

The world unfolded in a moment as slow and melodious as Penelope’s lyre-song. One of the hydra’s heads rose above the cliff in languid dance.

Odysseus threw.

The world snapped back into fury in a spray of red mist and howls. One of the surviving heads turned toward the cliff.

Telemachus flung his spear. His arm was sure, his aim was true. The spear took an eye.

Now had the hydra found its hated quarry. Three more heads, wrathful at their temporary loss, abandoned the beach and slithered toward the cliff.

Odysseus stood on the edge.

“Come!” he shouted, wild triumph mixing with a dread that could not overcome it. He beat his fists against his breast and stomped his feet. Below he heard an ominous cracking. “Come!”

“Father, beware …” cried Telemachus, who, when he divined Odysseus’ full plan, fell silent with a dread he could not overcome.

The monster struck, smashing what was ready to fall. One head snapped out for its wintry meal, but Odysseus was too quick. Astride the head he clung, the sky and sea and stone coursing around him a dizzying maelstrom of shared doom.

Odysseus woke to silence, chill, and water. Was this, then, the Styx? No. Shades generally didn’t feel their knees throbbing and their lungs aflame. He swam upwards and burst from Poseidon’s hateful embrace.

The hydra lived, but it was crushed beneath the great precipice that once overlooked Ithaca Harbor. It struggled, but in a battle of strength, Gaia won.

Trembling with exhaustion, Odysseus limped to shore. But that he had perished gloriously; now he would have to witness Penelope learn of the madness that had possessed him, and the scolding that would surely follow. But oh, the rekindling that would follow next.

Speaking of kindling, Odysseus sat unobserved as the rest of Ithaca brought forth onagers bearing reeking bundles of pitch and sorcery. The men launched balls of Unquenchable Fire lazily at the captive beast until sea, stone, and flesh were alight with pungent flames.

The fell creature screeched in agony. The men, undaunted in their grief, cheered. The screams grew less, the cheers the louder.

“Father!” Telemachus had not joined such an inglorious, one-sided battle. He was scouring the shore with tender eyes, and so noticed what the dozens had not. “But your pallor! Has all light left you?”

“I’m old, not dead,” grumped Odysseus. “Let’s go home. We’ll find out in the hall tonight who cast the killing throw. That man will be feted. I don’t want to watch the rest of this.”

Odysseus allowed his son to support him the way back home, to find a woman of infinite patience would see to his many wounds, one by one.