Song of the Bard

I was in the last line of the chorus, I think after the second or third verse, when my voice nearly caught. There, looking like a goddess, and appearing to be on the verge of tears, stood Penelope. I'd seen her before, but never this close. Even in her plain distress, she was so lovely to behold, it was all I could do to sustain the note still hanging in the air, like a single leaf, struggling not to alight on the ground. Nothing has ever made me stop my song before, but she almost has. And then she cries out, pleading with me to spare her, and sing something else. Now, embarrassed, I fall silent, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, unwilling to leave for fear.

I was compelled to sing, was merely walking along when some of the lovely Penelope's suitors grabbed me and pulled me into the palace. They shoved a harp into my hands with little reverence for the fine, ornate beauty of the instrument. They have no appreciation for beauty—except, that is, Penelope's. Thinking of Penelope, my train of thought wandered to her husband, be he dead or alive, and I began to sing of the homecoming from Troy. I meant it as a tribute to heroes like Odysseus, but I should have figured it could have been taken differently.

Like it has now. I'm quite embarrassed, but Telemakhos defends my choice of song. I don't really believe it deserves such a defense, because it was rather careless of me, but I think maybe by now, it has less to do with my song, and more to do with Penelope's open grief. He's rather hard on her, I think, although he does make sense. He reminds her how many others lost their lives at Troy, that it isn't just her husband. He makes excellent points, but I can't help but resent the harsh quality in his voice. He didn't know his father. Everyone in Ithaka loved Odysseus, even those who didn't know him well, but Penelope, his wife, would have known him best. Of course it would be painful to listen, and it hasn't even been so long! And yet, nodding like a chastised child, she retreats to her room, obviously thinking over his words. I turned around. Seeing this scene, the men have turned rough and rowdy, each swearing that he alone will win Penelope. I pity her, and her son, Telemakhos, but there is nothing I can do to control the men, so I quietly slip away from the messy scene, out into the daylight and fresh air.