Odysseus said the last with such scorn, Mentor bowed his head, resigned to the fact that he’d already lost this argument an hour ago, when Odysseus had shaken him awake on his sleeping pallet. But he hoped to inject at least a small note of caution into their adventure. Anything to keep Odysseus safe—in spite of himself.
“How are we going to find this boar?” Mentor asked.
“I think we already have.” Odysseus knelt again and yanked Mentor down after him. “Smell that!”
Mentor sniffed but smelled nothing unusual. “I don’t—”
“Shhhhh!” Odysseus’ angry hiss silenced him.
They got down on their bellies and slid through the undergrowth, Odysseus in the lead.
I hope, Mentor thought, that my tunic can be mended. I am not so sure about my knees.
The bushes all seemed to have thorns, and the crawl took a long time. Mentor knew better than to complain again. He didn’t want to face more of Odysseus’ withering scorn. But at last they got through to the other side of the brambles. Odysseus squatted and signalled with his hand for Mentor to do the same.
“There—see that goat trail?”
Mentor squinted. “Yes—so?”
“There in the middle. Boar spoor. A whole pile of it.”
Mentor wrinkled his nose. Now he could smell it.
“Fresh too,” Odysseus said. “Probably his first of the day.”
“You’re certain it’s the right beast?” Mentor asked. Like Odysseus, he’d never actually been on a boar hunt, only heard the boasts of men when they had drunk too much wine at a feast. But he knew a boar was a fast beast and, when angered or even just slightly annoyed, a boar could be deadly.
“Deer keep free of these trails,” Odysseus said with great authority, though there was that deep line between his eyes again. “And the spoor is too big for sheep or goat.” He eased himself back into the bushes. Mentor did the same.
“You can’t be completely sure …” Mentor didn’t want to believe Odysseus. He didn’t want to encounter a real boar. Not now, with only his small javelin. His “sewing needle”. Not on such a lovely summer day. Not—
“There are lots of birds’ nests in these bushes,” Odysseus continued. “Eggs are one of a boar’s favourite treats. And if you will just shut up for a moment, Mentor, we might even be able to hear him coming.”
A hundred objections sprang into Mentor’s mind. But he could tell that Odysseus was in no mood for any of them.
Just then Odysseus’ eyebrows, like two wings of flame, went up, and his fingers tightened on the shaft of the great spear. “Listen!”
Mentor strained to hear something. Except for the breeze teasing the tops of the bushes, except for the faraway whit-whit-whit of a partridge, all he could hear was the dull drumming of his own blood.
And then he too heard the sound. It was a brutish commotion, as if some bulky creature was forcing its way through the bushes, trampling on the scrub; like a long and awful sentence punctuated with grunts.
“How close …?” Mentor managed to get out of his dry mouth.
“Let’s find out,” Odysseus said.
“Let’s not!” Mentor whispered, but it was too late. Odysseus was already crawling forward, already up on one knee, the long spear uplifted in his right hand. His left hand pointed towards the east.
Carefully Mentor poked his head up through the bushes.
The boar—black as a cave’s mouth—was a good bow shot away, ripping up bushes with its enormous tusks.
Suddenly, hiding in the bushes didn’t seem like such a good idea.
Mentor hissed to Odysseus, “It’s as big as a mule.”
“Bigger!” Odysseus smiled, then for a moment looked over his shoulder. “What’s wrong with you, Mentor? We’ve been on hunts before.”
“Hares,” Mentor said frantically. “Wild sheep. Deer. Nothing with tusks!” Mentor could feel his voice rise. “And this boar has already killed three men, has made orphans of nine children.”
“Then our glory will be all the greater when we slay it,” said Odysseus. His eyes were enormous.
CHAPTER 2: FIRST BLOOD
“WE NEED TO GET the boar’s attention,” Odysseus said.
“No, we don’t.”
Odysseus ignored him. “So this is what I want you to do.”
Mentor’s mouth went even drier, if that was possible. “Me?”
“Just stand up and wave your arms. Till the boar sees you.”
“Me?” Now his mouth felt like it was stuffed with Egyptian cotton.
“Stop worrying,” Odysseus said. “Boars have notoriously bad eyesight.”
“I’m sure that’s a great comfort.”
Odysseus sighed and shifted his weight. He put his left hand around his right wrist to help hold the weight of the spear. “Really—there’s nothing to worry about, Mentor.”
“I hate it when you say that.”
The big black boar had trotted over to another patch of brush and was now ripping it up and grunting with pleasure.
“Look,” Odysseus whispered, “I’ll be hidden right here in front of you. As soon as the boar comes close, I’ll jump up and spear him. Just like my father did when he and the other heroes slew the great boar of Calydon.”
“I thought the great boar of Calydon killed or maimed half of the men in the hunt before anyone slew him,” Mentor said.
“Do you want to be a hero or not?” asked Odysseus.
“Right now,” Mentor said carefully, trying not to let the hand holding the sewing-needle javelin shake too much, “I’m not sure.”
Odysseus sighed. “If we go back with no prize to show, we’re going to look like fools. Or worse. Like cowards!”
“We’ll only look like boys, Odysseus. Which we are.” Mentor knew the argument was already lost. There was no greater disgrace for an Achaean warrior than to be thought a coward—man or boy. He stood slowly and waved his hands. “This is a really bad idea.”
The black boar ignored him and continued rooting in the briars.
Mentor waved his hands more vigorously.
“Don’t you feel like a hero now?” Odysseus asked.
“I feel like a fool,” Mentor answered flatly. “I just don’t want to feel like a dead fool. How fast do you suppose that boar can run between its bit of brush and ours?”
“Not so fast that I can’t get my spear into it,” said Odysseus. He was holding the spear with both hands now. “Shout, Mentor! Let it know you’re over here.”
“Hoi! Widow maker! Over this way,” Mentor cried.
The black boar paused in its egg hunt and looked up. Its small piggy eyes searched out the source of the sound. Swinging its massive head back and forth, it finally focused directly on Mentor.
“Again,” Odysseus whispered. “You’ve got his attention now.”
Mentor’s lips felt more padded than his leggings. He couldn’t make another sound. The boar was now heading towards their thicket at a lope.
“Is it coming?” Odysseus whispered.
All Mentor could manage was a grunt, much like the boar’s.
Slowly Odysseus stood, peering over the bush. He could feel the boar’s hooves drumming on the earth. Then he saw it.
“What a monster!” he cried appreciatively.
Behind him Mentor was silent.
“I’m ready,” Odysseus cried. “Hold your ground, Mentor. Keep him coming.”
“I don’t …” Mentor managed to croak, “don’t think I could stop it if I tried.”
The boar was now only a few yards away. Its tusks seemed gigantic and sharp and curved and deadly.
Finally upright, Odysseus braced the long spear against his body, the bronze point aimed at the boar’s heart.
The boar lowered its head for the attack, grunted twice, and then ploughed into the brush.