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Odysseus son of Laertes, king of Ithaca, is carving an army made of wood.
It spreads across a long table once used for holding court. The palace has other courtrooms, other receiving rooms and tall-roofed dining halls. It will not be missed, and so he uses it.
He begins the wooden army in the year after he returns from the war in Troy. Seated on the palace steps by the square where children gather to play dice and games of strategy, he first takes his dagger to a block of wood.
“What are you carving?” a few of the children ask, the younger ones hiding behind the backs of their older, braver siblings.
“I don’t know yet,” the king replies. “But I think it’s important.”
“Can we watch?” a boy proposes bravely.
The king nods.
“The company might do me some good,” he muses and beckons them forward.
Spurred on by his encouragement, some of the younger children emerge from behind their siblings, and together, the small group of children sits on the steps and watches him work. The next day, they wait at those same steps, eager, and the king returns at the same time – in the coolness of the late afternoon – to carve his block of wood. He smiles at them in that fond, quiet way in which he does everything, and they beam back, full of light and happiness.
Every subsequent afternoon – after the king finishes his duties for the day – more and more children gather at the steps to watch the king and his dagger and block of wood, their games discarded in favour of curiosity. Sometimes, his mind will wander, his heart will fill with tenderness, and stories will flow from his lips: Perseus and the Gorgon Medusa, Heracles and the Nemean Lion , Jason and the Argonauts. One child asks about the hero Achilles, and the king laughs.
“Surely you have heard enough about my generation of warriors. Some of you are even younger than the fall of Troy,” he muses. “Ask me about my father’s generation or the generation before him. I have no stories for you from that city.”
And so, the children do, and slowly, the wooden block takes shape.
“It is an infant,” the king tells them when he is finished, smiling sadly down at it, “wrapped in a swaddling cloth.”
It is passed through the crowd by the gentler older children, who lean down to show the younger ones but do not let them touch it. The infant is precious, the children sense, and not to be tampered with by tiny, grubby hands.
“Be careful,” the king warns, lurching down the steps towards an older girl when she fumbles and nearly drops the carving. He catches it in two outstretched palms and smiles softly up at her, pressing it back into her hands in forgiveness. “He is scared of heights.”
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The next trinket the king carves is a sheep, its head pierced by a pointed arrow. The children pass it through the crowd, cooing at its fluffy wooden pelt and worrying over the weapon in its head.
“Why is it hurt like that?” a young girl asks the king, turning the sheep over in her small hands.
“Foolishness,” the king responds lowly, watching his reflection in his carving knife. “Greed.”
The children often wonder if the king expects them to understand his words. He says things that sound like they should have weight to them, but the children feel like outsiders – surveyors of a story that ended before it could be told or witnesses to a language whose other speakers have long turned to dust, which the king now speaks only to himself.
Still, they sit – cross-legged on the steps or perched on crates and low stone banisters – and listen to their king, for there is no greater wisdom than Odysseus’s.
The king cradles the first soldier he carves tightly, holding it close to himself and not letting the children pass it around like they did the sheep or the infant.
“This soldier is precious, my friends,” he tells them gently. “I should like to keep him safe.”
The wooden army’s first soldier has lively wooden eyes and a little wooden headband. He wears glasses and is small enough to be encased in one of the king’s large hands. When nightfall comes, and the king stands and walks up the steps to return to the palace, the soldier’s sharper details draw blood from his palm with how tightly he grips it, and, though the children will not see, the queen takes that hand in hers later that night and peppers soothing kisses into the skin there.
“I did not notice…” the king murmurs, standing in the middle of their room.
“I know,” the queen says, looking at him with sad, loving eyes. “There are too many things in your head, husband. Politics is rotting your precious mind.”
“Lucky, then, that I have a wife and son and many young friends to remind me of the sweetness of life,” the king replies with a small quirk of a smile.
“Mm,” Penelope hums fondly. “Your young friends who are choking up the palace steps.”
Odysseus laughs, and the whole room embraces his laughter, which does not reverberate against its walls nearly as often as it should.
“The very ones,” he says, and slips his soldier onto the desk in the corner of the room.
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Fourteen soldiers follow the first, each one with their own defining features, though none as tightly cradled as the one with the wooden glasses.
“Do they have names?” an older boy asks.
“Ah,” the king says, grinning, and leans forward to pat the lad heartily on the shoulder. “An important question.”
“Well? Do they?” the boy’s younger sister asks.
“They do,” the king replies, but he does not elaborate.
“Do you not know them?” a child guesses, and the king shakes his head.
“I know them,” he says.
He does not elaborate.
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After those fourteen soldiers, the king enlists the children to find some larger blocks of wood.
“A few thick branches, perhaps,” he advises, bringing them to the forest bordering the town. “We can chop them into blocks.”
The children went to their fathers the night before to ask for permission to go with him to the forest, and a few hang back from the rest of the group now, ordered by cautious parents to stay within the city bounds.
“But you’re the king,” a boy points out.
“I am,” the king replies, an axe held loosely in his right hand, his wooden carving knife sheathed around his waist. “But your parents' wishes are still important to me. No parent should be forced to send their son or daughter away. What if I did not return you to them?”
“You are the mighty Odysseus; you will protect us,” the child says surely.
“You are safer out here,” the king replies firmly. “Do not argue with me.”
So, the stragglers wait at the city bounds, playing dice to bide the time, while the king sends the others out in all directions. Younger children are hoisted onto the shoulders of older ones while others race through the trees and kick up leaves with shouts of joy. The king walks calmly through the forest, his eyes sparkling in amusement at each child he passes. He watches them work and works himself, scanning the forest floor.
Every hour or so, a young boy – a fast runner and the group’s designated herald – taps him on the shoulder and leads him to a small group gathered around a fallen branch or log. The king inspects it, then chops it into pieces with his axe, allocating a block to any nearby capable child.
By sunset, the wild children flock around the king like goats to a goatherd, carrying their sleepy siblings on their hips and blocks of wood in their arms. There are twelve blocks in total, and they drop them in an empty stable at the palace before returning to their homes with their mouths running like a river with stories of their escapades.
“You have strange habits, Odysseus,” the queen tells the king when he returns to their bedchambers in the fading evening light.
“Oh, my love,” the king says jovially, “do not tell me you thought you married a normal man.”
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The children make bets to guess what will be carved into the twelve large blocks – monsters, one boy suggests, for the soldiers to fight, or tents for them to live in.
It takes over a week for the first block to take shape. First, the faint outline of a hull forms. Then, a thin, amorphous mast and set of oars. Over time, the details become more refined, and soon, each and every crevice of the block has been thoughtfully carved.
“A ship,” the king says when he finishes it, though the children already know. “The first of twelve.”
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The king’s fingers are littered with fresh nicks and cuts as he works through the twelve ships. The motions of his dagger are imprecise and shaky, uncharacteristic of the man who wields it.
“Are you nervous?” a girl asks.
The king chuckles, a tremor running through his voice. “I– yes. I suppose I am.”
“What about?” another child pipes up. “You are Odysseus.”
“Hm,” the king hums. “You are right. That is what I am nervous about.”
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One afternoon – after court has been held and the politics of the day are done with – when the king is midway through the second last ship, he does not appear on the steps. Instead, a man with a laurel wreath in his black hair is waiting for the children at the king’s usual time. He sits on the steps, bent over the finished eleventh ship, which he slowly turns over in his soft hands.
The children approach him carefully.
“Are you Prince Telemachus?” they ask.
“I am,” the man with the laurel says. “My father is unwell, but he asked me to show you this.”
He holds the ornate wooden ship out to the tallest, oldest boy of the group, who stands at the front and holds a toddler on his hip. The boy directs it to his younger brother, who passes it around the gathered children.
“He’s…” the prince begins.
“Nervous?” a small girl suggests, quickly shushed by an older child.
The prince considers this for a moment.
“Yes,” he says. “I suppose he is.”
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The king has dark circles under his eyes and a softer, more quiet voice when he emerges from the palace with his small block of wood and carving knife a few days later, but he smiles all the same when he sees the children.
“My wife worries, so you must not strain me today,” he tells them as he sits.
“What does that mean?” the children ask, and the king chuckles.
“I’ve no idea,” he admits. “But I will carve in silence this afternoon. You are welcome to stay.”
A few children leave to play games or return to their homes, but most do stay, content to talk amongst themselves and watch the king work. He has returned to the usual size and shape of a soldier, the twelfth ship seemingly discarded for now. But as he carves out the figure’s fine details, a long, flowing dress is revealed. The figure’s hair is also longer than the soldiers’, reaching its waist and pooling over its shoulders, and it becomes clear that it is intended to be an old woman.
The king holds the woman close to himself like the soldier with the wooden glasses and does not let the children touch it. When he finishes, he stands silently and goes back to the palace.
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“Are you tired?” a girl asks when the king pauses his carving once to rub his red-rimmed eyes.
The king smiles weakly and nods.
“I am, yes,” he says.
The girl frowns. “Don’t you sleep?”
“Mm, that is the dilemma,” the king acknowledges.
He doesn’t continue, and the girl is left wondering whether she was meant to understand.
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“I am undertaking my largest task yet,” the king tells the children one afternoon. “I have many soldiers to make. I cannot promise I will not bore you.”
The children grin at him. One boy – only four years of age – who has settled his sleepy head in the king’s lap, looks up at him.
“You could never be boring,” the boy mumbles groggily. “You are Odysseus.”
Odysseus chuckles, pleased.
“There’s the spirit,” he remarks. “I will be glad of your company, then.”
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A year and a half passes before the king finally announces he is finished. During each long afternoon, the older girls braid flowers into his hair, the boys find him wood to carve when he runs out, and the younger children sit and listen to his stories. There is never a dull moment with the king and his carving knife and block of wood.
Though there may be times of silence – when the king sits wordlessly and carves with a cloud of somberness around him – the children find ways to entertain themselves. The more energetic ones play dice in the square and climb the nearby fig trees, while some stay with the king and sit with him in his strange melancholy, exchanging quiet conversation when the hours begin to stretch.
When it has been a year and a half, a wooden army – five hundred and fifty-seven men strong – stands on the long table in one of the palace halls. The soldiers gather by their ships wearing wooden armour and carrying wooden swords, each one much the same as the others. The children find them special nonetheless, even though there are many hundreds of them. There is something about each individual soldier that makes it feel so much more than a wooden figurine.
The king stands in front of his work, leaning back on the balls of his feet with a hand brushing against his chin, the other tucked around his chest. The speared sheep and the swaddled infant are also with the soldiers, sitting by one of the ships.
The children gasp and hold their mouths agape in wonderment as they walk alongside the table, gazing at the many hundreds of soldiers in awe.
“Is it finished?” one of them asks.
“No,” the king replies, and they cannot help but beam.
The king does not return their brightness. He is sombre, as if the thought of adding to his beautiful army fills him with misery. His mood is not noticed, though, by the throng of children, eclipsed by the excitement of pacing the grand hall.
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The children are equally as delighted when the king creates a handful of sirens, content for them to pass them around and admire their terrifying faces.
“Have you ever seen a siren before?” a boy asks, and the king nods, met with a roar of excitement from the group.
That afternoon, the king tells the children the first story that involves himself. The morning after, he and his wife gaze out of their balcony to see them playing in the square with sticks for swords and twigs for arrows, half of the group screaming in mock pain as the other half yell battle cries and swing their makeshift weapons.
“It doesn’t bother you?” the queen asks.
“No.” The king shakes his head. “It’s just a story, after all, and it has lived for far too long in my head.”
The queen hums in acknowledgment, laughing as an older boy – presumably Odysseus – begins a heartfelt speech to Siren Penelope.
“Besides,” the king adds, “they make it seem so trivial. I’d forgotten memories could be like that.”
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The sirens are followed by six more soldiers. The king’s hands shake as he carves them.
“Are you nervous again?” a girl asks. “Why?”
“I am a king,” the king says. “Sometimes, kings must make choices that will still make them nervous, even after years have gone by.”
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The king carves another animal: this time, a cow. He does not let the children touch it.
“We must be careful with it,” he says when they protest and claw for the wooden cow with the big wooden eyes and the thin wooden tail. “Bad things happened the last time it was hurt.”
The children huff and grumble – as children do – but do not argue any further. After all, he speaks with authority. And perhaps a hint of desperation.
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It takes over three months for the king to carve thirty-six more soldiers. He grew faster and more skilled with his design over the year and a half he spent carving five hundred of them, but he is slow now – almost reluctant. Twice, the prince with the laurel wreath appears on the steps in his father’s place, offering a half-completed soldier and his apologies for the king’s absence.
“My father is a healer,” a worried child tells him the second time.
The prince shakes his head.
“My father does not need that sort of healer,” he says, and the children notice that he is tired like the king – with grey bags under his eyes and a weary voice. “But thank you. He will be back with you soon.”
When the king does return to the steps, he has a soft wisp of a voice and uses it sparingly.
“I am grateful that you are still here, friends,” he says warmly, taking out his carving knife and block of wood from the small satchel he keeps them in. “My son says you worried about me nearly as much as my wife. And she is watching from our balcony in the palace right now, so I consider that an achievement.”
The children laugh, put at ease by his words, and watch as he begins to carve.
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In the third month, the king carves the thirty-sixth and final soldier of its series. It is more detailed than the rest, with a large sword slung over its shoulder and its hair cropped short.
“Why does he get a big sword?” a girl asks.
“Because he is strong,” the king replies and holds the soldier tight.
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The twelfth large block of wood becomes the twelfth and final ship. The king pays special attention to it, adding signs of wear to its hull and sail, as well as an uncountable number of tiny black lines resembling tally marks on the front deck.
He sets it gently down on the table in the hall, moving the soldiers around to make space. Upon it, he positions the two soldiers he favours the most, leaving a small gap between them.
“Is it finished?” the children ask again – as they did when they were last in this hall.
Odysseus shakes his head.
“Some day, I will join them,” he tells them. “Before I do, I will carve a wooden soldier who holds my sword and has my wild hair and ask my son to place it on this table when I go. Until then, the army will be unfinished.”
It’s an ending of sorts, this moment, and the children can sense it.
“Do you want to hear their names?” the king asks after a short silence, and the children nod eagerly.
Odysseus spends the rest of the afternoon walking down the table, pointing out each soldier and recalling their names.
“That’s the name of my mother’s brother,” a child says once.
Then, “My grandfather had that name,” and, “My father’s friend was called Perimedes.”
“These men are the lost soldiers from the Trojan War,” an older boy realises when the king is midway through his catalogue.
The king pauses to say, “They are.”
He searches their faces for outrage but only finds reverence. The children look upon the soldiers with newfound sympathy – respect for Ithaca’s dead.
The king continues his catalogue, and the children listen even more closely. His voice cracks on the names of his two favoured soldiers – eager Polities and strong Eurylochus – and eyes shine when he finishes. He stands at the end of the table and looks out at the army that sprawls over it with a distant gaze, and the children soon filter out of the hall, returning to their homes as the sun has started to dip below the horizon.
“Come to dinner, my love,” the queen says softly from the large doorway when the cool evening light has settled upon them and the king has not yet moved from the head of the table.
“I will,” the king murmurs, looking at his wooden army. He nods, takes a steeling breath, and draws his shoulders back, pushing himself away from the table. “Yes. I am done. I will.”
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Everyone who visits the palace knows of the wooden army. It is not difficult to miss; the door to the hall is always open unless the king occupies it. Locating the king , however, is a separate task. During the day, he is engaged in politics and council meetings and is impossible to catch for anyone but his wife. In the afternoons, he can be found running wild with the children of Ithaca, hoisting them onto his shoulders to carry them past the finish lines of makeshift race tracks or teaching them to navigate the forest and distinguish edible plants from poisonous ones.
The king of Ithaca has finished his army made of wood. He now carves the long ears of a bunny rabbit and a set of ornate dice for a child’s poorly younger sister.
He smiles more often now, the heavy burden of his grief made easier to carry by the joy he fills his life in equal parts with. The walls of his bedchambers are growing more used to his laughs, and he does not take ill nearly as frequently as he used to.
If you do happen to locate him and find yourselves on the topic of his wooden army, he will happily lead you to the hall. There, he will show you his handiwork: the newly painted ships, the sharpened points of swords, and the detailed crevices of thick armour. He will tell you not to knock the swaddled infant off the table and brush tender fingers over the tiny faces of the soldier with the wooden glasses and the soldier with the big sword.
If you listen closely, you can hear each figure’s story, whispered in the gnarled wood that makes them.
If you are patient, you can hear them from the king himself.