WHEN I AWOKE, I was on my back, my armor in a neat pile beside me along with my rope (now in two parts). For a moment, I had to stop to think where I was, but the stout figure towering before me, burly arms crossed over his chest, brought me to my senses.
“Ignotus!” I cried, smiling to rise on unsteady feet.
“The name,” he answered, returning my smile, “is Ignatius.”
“Ignatius, then,” I whispered. I looked at him, wonderstruck. His broad wings, now folded behind his back, were not the only change in him. His stony gray skin was now as silver as his flashing spear, and the tunic over his shoulders glittered like snow. But more wonderful still was his face, which altogether shone with a light of its own. All the fierce nobility of a lion, the terrible sharpness of an eagle, the deliberate strength of an ox were bound up in those features, yet they formed a countenance distinctly like that of a man. Were I to say, “Here are his eyes, his mouth, his nose . . . ,” I would not do that face justice. For to look upon him was to see him all at once, and in this sense, he was as indescribable as before, only now words were inadequate. “Why did . . . how . . . what happened to you?” I said, my words punctuated by gasps.
But then Diomedes was beside me, bewildered and breathless. “Ignotus!” he cried, running to him with open arms.
The giant, resting one great silver hand on his shoulder, spoke warmly. “Do not cling to me,” he said, “but sit.”
Then, as we rested in the glow of the burning city, he told us the story of his transformation.
“I left you with a heavy heart,” he said as he settled beside us. He was a marvel to look upon, resting there on his haunches, terrible yet serene. “I left you in despair, and if truth be told, as it must be told hereafter, I had no hope of finding your bread. But neither could I endure your scorn.”
“I’m so sorry, Ignotus,” said Diomedes, punching the dirt with his sword.
“The name is Ignatius,” repeated the giant, patting Diomedes on the shoulder. His voice was slow and calm like the toll of a deep bronze bell. “But there is no need for apologies. Shame is a terrible thing. Terrible, yet sometimes necessary.” He left his hand on Diomedes’ shoulder. “After all, where there is no shame, there is no honor.”
Diomedes nodded.
“I was justly shamed. It was shame that drove me back into that storm in search of your bread. It was shame that goaded me through the storm to our shelter.”
“And is that where you found our bread?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered. “Exactly where you left it.”
I grimaced.
“Not to worry, Son of Adam. Had you not lost it there, I should never have found my true nature.”
“You found it in the shelter?”
“In a manner of speaking. Just as I found your bread, the Siren found me.”
“But I thought you were afraid,” said Diomedes.
“I was. However, I feared the bread more than I feared the Siren.”
“So it was poisoned after all,” I mused.
“No. But it holds a deep and ancient power. I knew I could not allow the Siren to have it.”
“So you ate it.”
Ignatius looked at me silently.
“I’m sorry, Ignatius. Go ahead. It’s your turn to talk. It’s just that . . . I don’t know . . . I’m just so thrilled to hear you speak. I mean, all this time I’ve been trying to get you to talk. And now here you are. And I like you so much now. Not that I didn’t like you before, of course. I liked you plenty. It’s just that . . . I like hearing you talk.”
“Then listen,” said Ignatius. “No, I did not eat the bread. It took all my strength of will just to hold it in my hands. But that, it seems, was enough. When I turned to face the Siren, I saw in her eyes my own new form, for she dropped her shield and fled.”
“So how did you find us?” asked Diomedes.
“I followed your sign, of course.”
“What sign?” we asked in unison.
“Why, the column of fire,” said Ignatius, with a laugh like friendly thunder. “And I knew it must be you. Only ‘resourceful Odysseus’ would come up with a sign so perfect.”
I studied my feet while Diomedes rolled his eyes. The sack with which Ignotus had struck him lay at his feet. He picked it up now. “So what is this, then?”
“That, dear friends, is a gift. A friendship-gift of thanks. A finer skin of wine you shall never find. I traveled a great distance to acquire it, but as parting-gifts go, you will find none better. The foulest waters will turn sweet if you add but a drop to the cup.”
I should have thought to ask him where he’d found it but was distracted by his last words. “Parting gift?” I asked. “Who is departing?”
“I am, dear friends,” he answered, and a look like sorrow crossed his face. “My nature now is changed. I cannot remain.”
“But how will we make it out?” cried Diomedes, tears welling in his eyes. “We barely survived this long!”
“Ignotus . . . ,” I said. “Ignatius, if this is about what we said to you before you left . . . we didn’t mean it. I hope you know that. We were frustrated and weary. We gave in to despair. We weren’t fair to you.”
“We really are sorry for that,” added Diomedes.
The giant nodded. “I thank you for your apology, friends, but it is unnecessary. Your rebukes were well earned. There was a strength in me that I had not the courage to use. You named what you saw.”
“I called you a coward,” I said, turning my eyes to the ground.
“So I was,” he answered. He reached out his silvery hand to touch my cheek. I looked into his face and felt a smile. “You named the evil you saw,” he said. “There is no fault in that. And besides, if anyone should know cowardice when he sees it, you should.”
“Thank you,” I answered. We smiled at one another. “Wait!”
But by then he had turned to Diomedes. “This is no longer my journey,” he said. “It is not possible for me to travel farther with you. Nor is it willed.”
I looked at the black earth beneath my feet and felt a certain hollowness return.
“Sons of Adam,” he said, “have courage. Here, where hope is so scarce, the slightest measure may suffice to conquer all.”
I snorted. “So we should just sit here and be hopeful.”
Ignatius turned to face me again. “Of course not. You must learn to use your arrows, after all.”
“Learn to use them?” I said. “How am I going to do that? I’ve lost half of them already.”
Ignatius leaned down until he and I were face-to-face. “Why, then, resourceful Odysseus, you must learn to use the eighth.” Then he stood up, spread his mighty wings into the hot air, and cast himself skyward.
As we watched him disappear into the smoke, I felt a little surge of gratitude, and the smallest hiccup of joy.
I turned to Diomedes. He was rubbing the back of his neck with a look of befuddled consternation. “Don’t look so gloomy,” I said to him. “We’re in better shape now than when we started.”
“It’s not that,” he answered, picking up the wineskin. “I just wish he’d hit me with the bread instead.”
He weighed the skin in his hands and shook his head, then turned to me and made a face. I laughed, and he did too, but it wasn’t quite the laughter of friends.