Sean McMullen - The Way to Greece

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The Way to Greece

Sean McMullen

The Sixth Scroll

The shores of the Underworld were of clean, yellow sand under a bright blue sky, nothing like the

gloomy imaginings of our childhood dreams. The River Styx had been different too: not murky vapours

and turgid waters, but mountainous waves, slashing rain and howling winds.

By the time the storms abated, we had been swept far from the coast. The navigator had been trained to

follow coastlines, as Phoenicians prefer to do, and had never been out of sight of land for more than a

few days at a time in the whole of his life. It was all that the crew could do to keep our pentaconter afloat

as it was driven east. Oxhide sea-anchors kept the ship aligned with the mountainous waves yet water

still poured over the decks and down the hatchways. We bailed in the murky grey daylight, we bailed in

the pitch blackness of the night. Driving rain soaked anything that had escaped the waves. Phoenician

sailors and Egyptian warriors alike began to suffer from exhaustion and exposure. Some died.

The skies remained overcast after the storms and we drifted with the currents and winds, hopelessly lost

in mid-ocean. The waves were still huge and the wind was unrelenting, keeping us too busy to brood

about where we really were. Phoenicians are lost without a coast to navigate by, and now we were in a

nothingness of water that stretched to infinity. There was little more that we could do except run with the

winds and currents. The ship's leaks worsened by the day as the pegs and tenons that held the planks of

the hull together worked loose. Earlier damage by marine worms in the hot regions beneath the path of

the sun worsened the leaks, and after five weeks the crew was spending more time bailing and caulking

than sailing the ship.

The sea itself gave us no comfort. The dark green waves were free of flotsam and we saw no birds.

There were no changes in sea-swell to indicate land nearby, and the bottom was deeper than our

sounding line could reach. Some of the crew muttered that we were in the River Styx, and the Egyptians

said that we had sailed into the waters of the firmament. Two suicides were added to the earlier deaths

from exposure. The Captain steered for what seemed to be north, hoping at least for better weather.

Slowly the weather did grow warmer, and the sun was visible more often.

This gave us new optimism. We began to catch fish again, and this seemed to prove that we were no

longer in the waters of death. Then the navigator noticed a subtle change in the sea-swells, and the more

experienced crewmen nodded at his words. Land was near. Another day passed, then a low, scrubby

shore appeared. Everyone who could be spared from bailing went to the oar benches, from the Egyptian

envoy to myself and the cook.

We approached a gently sloping, sandy beach on an incoming tide, but the weakened hull cracked under

its own weight as the water receded. Exhausted, we staggered around on the wet sand hammering in

stakes and tying the ship fast before the next tide came in.

The young Greek scholar read slowly, struggling to cope with the idea of what he was holding as

much as the text itself. It was an epic, but actually written down as if his teacher Thales had been

speaking words onto the Egyptian papyrus: yet another revolutionary innovation of the brilliant

philosopher.

The scrolls were piled beside an outdoor baking oven, and charred scraps and edges showed that

some had already been used to start fires. Pythagoras was at once puzzled and offended. Why

burn such a wonderful work? It was both a fantastic idea and an incredible story; it was written

as if Thales had actually been on that strange and frightening voyage himself. He picked through

all the remaining scrolls. Most were old accounts from Thales' olive oil merchanting, but a few

more were part of the same epic. A scroll headed by the numeral 7 continued the narration.

The Seventh Scroll

Having a ship to rebuild distracted the crew from our plight. The planks of the hull were removed one by

one, checked for damage, then replaced or reused. Fortunately our pentaconter had been carrying spare

timbers to repair other ships in the fleet. We steamed these in wet sand then chiselled and bored the slots

for the pegs and tenons. The native timbers were hard, heavy and difficult to work, yet were well suited

for use in the frame. Two months after we had made landfall the ship was stronger and more seaworthy

than when it had first been launched. That was just as well, as nobody knew what to expect when we

tried to sail home.

The Captain called a meeting between himself, Mos the Egyptian and our navigator Solinon. Mos insisted

that I, Thales of Milatos, attend also, to keep a record of what was discussed. The meeting was held at

the crest of a high sand dune so that no others could creep close to listen. Authority would not last long if

the desperation and indecision of those in charge was known. The Captain always chose to speak

standing, as it displayed his size to best effect. He was not a charismatic leader, and tried to impress

people with his sheer bulk.

"In ten days the ship will be ready to sail," the Captain announced, smiling broadly with the little good

news that he had. "It will sit steadier in the water, and we have removed the ram so that it will handle

better in heavy seas."

"What of the worms that ravaged its timbers?" asked Mos.

"The worms were dead or dying in the wood. I think that they can only live in the hot regions beneath the

path of the sun."

He said this brightly, with scarcely a quaver in his voice. The Egyptian smiled too, but not Solinon. Our

skilled and exceptional navigator sat fiddling with his beard, baffled by the totally unfamiliar land, sky and

ocean. Although he was fit, well muscled and in the prime of life, he now seemed flaccid, like a

half-empty wineskin.

"So where do we tell the crew to steer?" he asked.

"We have a coast to follow," suggested the Captain. "The sun is in the, ah, north, so we should follow the

coast north until we reach India."

"But this land may be an island," said Mos.

"You have no proof of that," the Captain replied hesitantly, then glanced to Solinon for aid. Solinon was

silent, almost in a trance.

"No proof?" said Mos eagerly. "Of course there is proof. Look out over the waters of the bay: black

swans. Go into the forest and you will find monkeys that carry their young in pouches. The deer have

pouches too, and they hop instead of running. This place has to be an island, and a very isolated island,

otherwise we would at least have heard legends of such wonders."

"This is the Underworld," muttered Solinon.

The other two were hoping for a more constructive opinion, and silence followed his words. Distant

hammering echoed across to us as the crew repaired the pentaconter with nowhere to go. Guards with

spears and bows patrolled at strategic approaches, but the thin, black natives had learned to avoid us.

"We have two choices," said the Egyptian. "The first is to go back the way we came. We could row for

the sunset until we reach Africa."

"And how many sunsets did we see in all those storms?" Solinon snapped. "Besides, we could barely

keep the ship afloat while running with the winds and currents. How long would we last while fighting

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