EARLY STAGES OF STORY, Greek mythology

Prologue

As I look back over my life so far I am filled with mixed emotions to say the least. On the surface it would appear that I have a simple, happy life. I have a beautiful wife, two strong sons, and a daughter, with a face many compare to Aphrodite herself. My humble home sits on the beach on the coast of Rheakos, underwhelming in comparison to many homes on the island, but it is all we need and as grand in my eyes as the great castle of King Georgio. However the setting for which I will hopefully see out my days with my family did not come about through careful planning and common circumstances. In fact, I am ashamed to say my darling wife and children do not even know me by the name I went by for the first thirty-eight years of my life. For their and my own safety it has been crucial my past remain unknown. If I am going to tell my story I want to do so without misleading or omitting information, even if it means black marks on my name. Though the secret of my identity does help ensure safety to my family, I believe the shock and shame they would feel when finding out some of the truths to my past would hurt more than a spear through the chest. I write this now, only so the truth will not die with me. However, I feel in the interest of fairness to all concerned, it is best that I start at the very beginning.

Chapter 1

I was born in the small village of Chelase. My mother’s name was Kalliope, meaning ‘beautiful voice’. To me that is what she has always been. My mother died not long after giving birth to me. Somehow, through a combination of stories my father had told me and my desperate longing to know her, I have always heard her voice guiding me through dilemmas in my life. She was a kind hearted and beautiful woman. My mother’s friends would often talk to me as a young child.

“You have your mother’s eyes,” they would tell me with compassion and hurt in their eyes. “She loved you and your brother more than anything, Telemachus.”

Telemachus. It was a name which was actually chosen by my brother, Braetus. His favourite tale was that of Odysseus and his travels and battles with the Cyclops and the seas. My parents would tell him a different part of it every night before he went to sleep. The first time he saw me when he was nearly five years old, my parents asked him what he thought my name was. He thought for a minute and with no doubt or question in his voice replied, “Telemachus”.

Telemachus it was. Telemachus was the son of my brother’s hero, Odysseus. Meaning ‘battle from afar’, it seemed somehow fitting for me, in that during my adolescence I always wanted to be as far away from any sort of trouble as possible. From the time I was a toddler I was an especially timid child, always preferring to find a way to get away from conflict rather than deal with it head on. In saying that, I did have my ways of avoiding trouble. I was what my father used to call, a ‘thinker’. Well if I am being completely honest, the word ‘thinker’ was usually preceeded by words such as ‘weak’, ‘lazy’ or ‘cowardly’. My father was especially tough on me, with my back-footed ways and fear of failure. I was always afraid that if I tried to excel at anything, I would end up falling short of whatever mark it was I was reaching for, and my father would be even more ashamed of me than what he already was. Things weren’t made any easier by the fact that Braetus was a daunting figure and complete athlete who seemed to complete every task set for him and conquer any obstacle in his way. Braetus was everything my father wanted in a son, and everything I knew I was not, and never would be. Braetus was tall, strong and handsome. By the time he was fifteen he was the envy of every boy in the village, and the desire of every young lady. His fame and status in the village reached its peak when word spread that he had hunted and killed a wild boar with his bare hands. Of course no one actually witnessed this incredible deed other than Braetus and his small pack of followers who would swear on the name of Zeus that anything he said be nothing less than the absolute truth. Many predicted Braetus would be a great warrior, or even king. There were only five years between us in age, yet to me the difference between us seemed as monumental as that between man and God.

My father, Adrastos, was a very highly respected man in our village, and across the whole of Greece his name was famous as a great man and warrior. He grew up in the same village in which I was born and raised. My Grandparents both died of disease when he was just a baby, and my father was raised by the local priest who was a good friend to them. He had a simple upbringing with an ongoing teaching of peaceful behaviour and love for his fellow man. However when he was thirteen, a band of Alothian soldiers rode through Chelase on their way to join the rest of their army in Pythos. After hours of drinking, one of the soldiers forced himself on one of the local women. My Father and the Priest were in town trading fruit at the time. How my father always wished they had stayed home that day. The Priest saw the woman resisting and pleaded with the soldier to let her go. When the priest put himself between the soldier and the woman, the soldier put a dagger into the Priest’s neck and he was killed instantly. After that awful incident my father would never be the same. He no longer believed in the good of man, or natural justice. He would often say to me, “There is no justice other than that in which we create for ourselves. An eye for an eye.” In all the years I knew my father, I had never seen one moment of weakness. However I always knew his soul ached for his adoptive father, who was taken from him without due cause.