Текст книги "Heroes"

Автор книги: Valerio Massimo Manfredi

Соавторы: Valerio Massimo Manfredi
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

When the aurora rose from the east to illuminate the world he was far away: on his right loomed the high rocks of Cape Malea.

He would never know what fate befell the comrades who remained behind. In his heart he hoped that they had been spared and that, with Diomedes gone, the city would no longer have any reason to destroy valiant men, formidable warriors.

But I imagine that a wretched destiny awaited them, no different from the fate of Agamemnon and his comrades when they returned to their homeland. The only word that was ever heard about those men was that Sthenelus had become Aigialeia’s lover. I believe that it was the queen herself who spread this story. Since she could no longer reach Diomedes and kill him herself, she hoped that Rumour – a winged monster with one hundred mouths – could overtake him more rapidly than her ships, shattering his mind and making him die of desperation.

Sthenelus died with his sword in hand, honourably, as he had always lived, toppled from his chariot by the cast of a spear or perhaps pierced through his neck by an arrow. The horses harnessed to his chariot were no longer the divine steeds that Diomedes had taken from Aeneas and he could no longer fly like he had over the plains of Ilium, swifter than the Trojans’ arrows, faster than the wind. A man of no worth, perhaps, tore the armour from his shoulders as he fell, crashing into the dust. And watched as his soul fled, groaning, to the Kingdom of the Dead.

2

The sun had set and all the paths of land and sea had darkened when Agamemnon’s fleet cast anchor at Nauplia. Victory weighed more heavily upon his shoulders than defeat would have and the gods had chosen for him to behold his homeland under the veil of night as well.

He descended from the ship and breathed in the unforgettable odour of his own land. For a moment that scent rushed to his head like the aroma of a strong wine. But then it swiftly called to mind his daughter Iphigenia, sacrificed on the altar to propitiate their departure for war ten years before, and he realized that all the glory he had won, that the priceless treasure that he was bringing back – the one and only reason that he and his brother Menelaus had set off this war – were not worth the breath of his lost daughter.

How bewildered were her eyes as they took her to the altar! He remembered how she had drunk the potion that would numb her, believing that it would induce the sacred sleep of prophecy. ‘The goddess will appear to you in a dream,’ they had told her, ‘because you are pure. To you she will reveal the reason for her ire. She will tell you why she will not send favourable winds and allow the fleet to depart. When you awaken you will reveal her words to us.’

He, the Atreid, remembered how he had turned away from the altar when the priest grasped the flint knife he would use to open the vein of her neck. He had to be present so that the sacrifice would be accepted, so the gods would be satisfied with his pain and with the life of a still-innocent child.

He thought of how the demon of power invades the soul like a disease. A king is branded by the gods, cursed by a destiny impossible to avoid. Kings are made to do things that no other man could do, in good and in evil. They give death like the gods and suffer like mortal men, and they cannot count on one or on the other.

I have long pondered on what Agamemnon did to achieve his ends and I have asked myself if it is possible for a man to go so far solely to lay claim to power. Still today I cannot answer that question. But in the light of what happened later, perhaps an explanation does exist; perhaps his intentions were good, perhaps he thought he could save his people from total disaster and ward off the end awaiting them all.

As king, he knew that the war would bring death to thousands of his people’s sons. As king he showed them that he was prepared to offer the life of his most beloved daughter.

If this is true, then his death was a terrible injustice. After suffering all that a man could suffer in his life, he was made to suffer the most shameful death, the same that would have befallen Diomedes had he not been so prudent.

Agamemnon had the Trojan prisoners disembark, and among them Cassandra, daughter of Priam, but left the spoils of war on board the ships; he would send men and carts the next day from Mycenae to load it all up and bring it to his palace. His charioteer accompanied him, as did all his most trusted comrades, the noblemen who had fought by his side during the whole war. The others remained on the beach to sleep and wait for the booty to be divided up the next day so they could return to their families. They could not go home empty-handed after having been away for so long.

Silence shrouded the countryside, but as the armed column passed, the dogs sleeping in front of the sheep pens and the farms awoke and started barking, and a horn sounded from on high. But its long, wavering blow was full of anguish, as if it signalled the passage of an invading enemy.

When Agamemnon came within sight of Mycenae, he realized that the city was expecting him: armed guards on the bastions held flaming torches, and more torches were burning at the sides of the great gate. The coat of arms of the Mycenaean kings, two gold-headed lions facing each other on either side of a red column over a field of blue, stood out on the huge architrave, on the gigantic jambs, over the wide black opening. The king was moved to see his emblem, the symbol of the mightiest dynasty of the Achaeans, but the dark gateway below loomed before him like the door to the House of Hades. The soldiers on the bastions clanged the spears against their shields to greet him, as his horses plodded up the ramp that led to the palace.

Beyond the gate, to his right, more torches illuminated the tombs of the Perseid kings, the first to have reigned over the city. They had descended from Perseus, the city’s founder, he who had defeated Medusa. The sacred enclosure had been restored when the new Pelopid dynasty had come to power, signifying continuity and respect for tradition. On the other side of the valley, the enormous stone dome of Agamemnon’s own tomb rose on the mountainside, the tomb he had prepared for himself before he had left for the war. One day he too would rest under that immense vault, wrapped in white linen, his face covered by a golden mask that would perpetuate his features through eternity. . if it was the will of the gods to grant him a dignified death and the honour of solemn funeral rights, at the end of his existence.

But no one stood along the street, the sounds of the horses’ hoofs and the chariot’s wheels rang against dark walls and closed doors. The hinges of the gate groaned behind him and it swung shut suddenly with a loud clang. Many of his comrades put their hands to the hilts of their swords. The eyes of Cassandra, who stood beside him on the chariot, were as empty as the circle of the new moon. But as he was about to descend in front of his home, she touched his arm. He turned towards her and she whispered something into his ear. Agamemnon’s face turned white with the pallor of death: only then did he realize that he had been tricked. He realized that the Achaeans had fought for ten long years in vain and he understood that the princess was giving him the chance to save his life. But his was a life worth nothing now.

He entered the palace and the maidservants knelt and kissed his hands as though he had been away just a few days, off hunting boars. Then they led him to the bath chamber to ready him for meeting the queen. Cassandra and his comrades were taken to the throne room.

Agamemnon allowed them to remove his armour, to undress him and bathe him. The girls’ hands lingered on his hard body, furrowed with scars, they squeezed hot water on his shoulders from big sea sponges, they poured scented oil on his head.

He died that night.

They say that the queen’s lover, Aegisthus, smote him down during the banquet, as he ate. He lowered the axe on his neck and Agamemnon fell to the ground like a bull slaughtered at the manger. But he did not die then. He dragged himself across the floor, bellowing and spurting blood from the wound. He tried to defend Cassandra as the queen murdered her with a dagger. He died at her feet as the palace rang with the cries of his comrades who were falling one after another under the blows of their assailants. They fought to the very end, bare-handed, even with arms maimed and legs crippled, because they were the best of the Achaeans, chosen by Agamemnon to depart with him for Troy.

The floor was slick with their blood and the commander of the guards could barely stand upright as he passed from one to the other to cut the throats of those who were still alive. Their bodies were all buried together in a large empty cistern, before the sun rose and the people of the city could discover what had happened. Then the maidservants washed the throne room floor and purified it with fire and sulphur.

On that same night, other armed men left on war chariots, directed towards Nauplia, where the fleet was anchored. Queen Clytemnestra had ordered them to seize the king’s ship but her designs were not to be fulfilled. Before entering the city, Agamemnon had ordered his shield-bearer Antimachus to climb up on to the hill that overlooked the city. He had told him: ‘I fear that some sort of misfortune may befall me. I do not know if the queen’s heart is still true to me. Go all the way up to the top of the hill; you’ll be able to see the palace perfectly. When the banquet is finished and the lights are extinguished in the rooms, I shall go up to the tower that stands over the chasm with a lit torch in hand. When you see me, you may enter the palace yourself, you may eat and drink and take your rest. But if you do not see me, this will mean I have been betrayed. Light a fire on the top of the hill. The wind will lick up the flames and make them visible from the sea. The men will know what to do.’

Thus had said the king, and Antimachus had obeyed him. When he heard the cries of the wounded, when he saw his comrades’ corpses being carried out of the palace, he understood what had happened. He lit a fire and the flames rose high, driven by the wind that blows all night on the hilltop, and his signal was seen from afar by the sentries standing watch on the deck of the king’s ship. They knew what Agamemnon wanted and they set fire to the ship, burning it with all its treasures. The other ships weighed anchor and sailed off into the night.

No one was ever to know what became of his men. Perhaps some of them sought a new land to settle, perhaps others became pirates and brought ruin to the coast dwellers. Perhaps others still found a hidden landing place and secretly reached their homes and re-embraced their wives and children.

One day later, a messenger from Queen Aigialeia arrived at Mycenae bearing news of what had happened at Argos.

Clytemnestra received him alone, towards evening, in a throne room dimmed to hide the signs of her sleepless night, the circles under her eyes and her ashen cheeks. She learned that Diomedes had barely managed to escape death but that his fate would certainly catch up with him on the sea where he had sought refuge; the hostile wind and waves would take care of him. Clytemnestra had the messenger report back to Aigialeia that Agamemnon had died in expiation for his crimes and that Menelaus had not yet made return. And in Crete they had had no further news of Idomeneus. She had even sent a ship to Ithaca, to her cousin Penelope, and was awaiting her answer. As soon as Helen returned, the queens would once again reign over the Achaeans.

The messenger departed as dusk fell and Clytemnestra remained alone next to Agamemnon’s throne. The silent, empty room still echoed with cries and curses, as though the slaughter would never end.

In the meanwhile, Diomedes’s ships were far off at sea and had rounded Cape Taenarum, passing within sight of Abia, the city that Agamemnon had promised to Achilles had he agreed to set aside his ill will and return to combat. A pale sun lit the houses facing the sea, the fishing boats and the ships pulled aground on the beach. The season for navigation was over.

They were entering the kingdom of Nestor and Diomedes pondered whether to stop and ask for hospitality or to continue north, where it was said that the passage to the Land of Evening could be found. Those who had been there spoke of vast plains on which thousands of horses grazed and of tall mountains always covered with snow that only Hercules had ever crossed, when he had set off to reach the Garden of the Hesperides and the house of Atlas, who bears the sky upon his shoulders. It was an incredibly rich land, crossed by the Eridanus river, which was said to be so wide that the sea itself changed colour for a huge expanse at the river’s mouth and became fresh-watered. There lay the Electrides islands, where drops of pure amber fell from the sky at night and were harvested by their inhabitants, who sold them to the merchants that ventured so far.

Diomedes knew that Nestor would ask him the reason for this voyage; why he had abandoned his homeland after years of yearning and endless war. Nestor would offer him his fleet and his army to help him win back his city and his kingdom. But Diomedes would have to refuse, and explain that there was no life left for him in Argos or in his palace.

And so Diomedes preferred to continue on. From the railing of his ship he saw Nestor’s palace brushed by the last glow of the sunset as it stood against the sky already dark. The lamps and torches were just being lit in the palace halls, fires were being kindled in the hearths, maids were taking out the cauldrons and putting meat in them to boil. The king was just coming down from his rooms to share a banquet with his strong sons and their blooming wives. Diomedes thought of how good it would have been to sit down together and hark back to all the misadventures of the war, to drink wine and take pleasure in the songs of the poets until late at night. Lamps were being lit in the houses of the fishermen and craftsmen and he envied them as well; he would have much preferred to be a poor man, a man of no means, but to have a house and a table to sit around with his children and wife, to talk about the changing weather and the labours of the day. Instead he travelled towards an unknown destination on the back of the cold, sterile sea.

The lights of Pylus reflected in the water and accompanied him for a while before they were extinguished by the night which swallowed sky and sea. Not a sound was left in the air, only the swash of water against the ship and the whisper of wind in the sail.

The pilot governed the helm, keeping his eye trained on the star of the Little Bear. The king had ordered him to follow it until he told them to stop. For days and days they would ride the waves towards night and darkness, leaving behind daylight and sun until the water of the sea changed colour and its taste became sweet to the palate. The mouth of the Eridanus.

Exhausted by fatigue and by the emotions that racked his soul, Diomedes finally fell asleep on a bed of pelts, laying his head on a coil of rope, and he dreamed he was in his palace, lying next to Aigialeia, nude and white-skinned. Her hair gave off an intense scent, her lips were half open, her skin made golden by the reflection of the lamp. He drew closer to caress her but his fingers touched cold, slimy scales, as if a serpent or a dragon had slithered into his bed. He suddenly felt its fangs sink into his hand, and his flesh became livid and swollen with poison.

He slept fitfully as his comrades took their turns at the helm and stirred up the flames in the braziers so the ships would not lose sight of one another.

At dawn they sighted the islands of Ulysses: Zacynthus first, then Dulichium and Same, and then Ithaca itself. The first were illuminated by the sun, but the last was still shrouded by the night, cloaked by the shadow of the Thesprotian mountains.

Diomedes planned to berth at Ithaca after hiding the other ships behind the little isle of Asteris. He wanted to know what had become of Ulysses, whether he had reached his homeland or was still afar, but he dared not reveal himself to queen Penelope without knowing what she had in her mind. If he found Ulysses, he would ask his advice for the journey he was embarking upon, because no one knew the perils of the sea as he did, no one could counsel him as Ulysses could.

He went ashore without weapons, dressed as a simple merchant, and he walked to the palace.

There was a boy of about ten playing in the courtyard with a dog. The boy asked him: ‘Who are you, foreign guest? From where do you come?’

‘I am a sailor,’ he answered. ‘I left Pylus last night and I wish to see the king. Take me to him, if you can.’

The boy lowered his head. ‘The king’s not here,’ he said. ‘They told me that he was coming back, that he would be here any day. But the days go by and he has not returned.’

Diomedes looked at the boy and he recognized him. He clearly saw Ulysses’s features: his dark eyes which flashed with ever-changing light, his wide cheekbones, his thin lips. He felt moved; he remembered when he was a little boy himself, sitting on the palace steps waiting for his father who was fighting far away. And he remembered when glorious Tydeus finally returned. He was stretched out on a ox-drawn cart, suited in his armour, covered by a blood-red cloak. His ashen face was wrapped in a bandage that held his jaw shut. His body jolted whenever the wheels hit a hole or a stone, and his head banged against the wooden cart. Women dressed in black raised piercing screams. .

He laid a hand on the boy’s head. ‘Telemachus,’ he said. ‘You are Telemachus.’

The boy looked up in surprise: ‘How do you know my name? I’ve never seen you.’

Diomedes answered: ‘I knew your father, king Ulysses. I was a friend of his. I recognized you because anyone could see that you are his son.’

‘Do you think my father will come back?’ asked the boy again.

‘I do,’ replied Diomedes. ‘He will return with the swallows and bring you beautiful gifts.’

‘Do you want to see my mother?’

‘No, my son, I do not want to disturb the queen and distract her from her pursuits. She must have much to do in the palace.’

The young prince insisted: ‘Please come, it will make my mother happy to speak with a friend of my father’s.’ He took him by the hand and led him into the house.

Diomedes followed. Penelope had never seen him, after all, and he thought he could keep his identity a secret.

The queen received him in the grand hall. Her nurse set out a stool for him and put bread and wine before him. Penelope was small, but very beautiful. Her hair was dark and her eyes light, her hands were tiny but strong, her hips were round and her breasts were high and firm like all the women of Sparta.

‘Did you fight the war?’ she asked him.

‘Yes. I was with Diomedes.’

‘Why did you abandon your king? Is he dead?’

‘It is as if he were. But why, queen, do you ask me of Diomedes? Why don’t you ask about Ulysses, your husband?’

‘Ulysses. .’ The queen dropped her head and the two curls adorning her temples shadowed her cheeks. ‘We’re waiting for him. He should be back soon. . don’t you think?’

‘Ulysses did not come with us. He returned to Troy, where Agamemnon had lingered to sacrifice one hundred oxen to the gods in expiation for the war. We knew nothing more of him. . but I am sure that you will see him again. Perhaps he tarries in order to plunder the coasts and augment his spoils. Or perhaps the bad weather has delayed him, and he waits in a sheltered place for better conditions. Ulysses is prudent; he always calculates the risks he must face.’

‘He didn’t want this war. He did not want to leave, to leave me, our son. .’

‘But he is the one who won the war. The city fell thanks to his stratagem.’

‘My cousin, Queen Helen. . has she returned?’

‘No. She was with Menelaus but they disappeared one night before we rounded Cape Sunion. Perhaps the wind carried them astray, to Cyprus or to Egypt. Who knows?’

‘Why, when I asked you about Diomedes, did you say to me: ‘It’s as if he were dead?’ Tell me the truth. Has he been killed? Imprisoned upon his return?’

Her voice betrayed a touch of trepidation, as if she feared the worst. It seemed that somehow, she knew something.

‘Queen Aigialeia laid a trap for us. I barely managed to save myself, with some of my comrades. We know nothing of our king. That is why I said: ‘It’s as if he were dead.’ He loved his wife. It was easy to take him by surprise. The bitch betrayed him after he had escaped so many perils on the fields of Ilium.’

Penelope shivered. ‘Do not say that. War is much harder on women than on men. What do you men know of what passes through the mind of a woman living alone for years, for thousands of days and nights, in expectation? In continuous illusion and continuous delusion? Love can be transformed into hate. . or into madness. And madness can strike indiscriminately, like an illness. Queen Clytemnestra. . she too. .’

‘Has betrayed her husband?’ asked Diomedes.

‘No. She too. . pursues an ancient destiny. Long ago the queens reigned over this land, and a great goddess, the mother of all living things, reigned in the heavens. The race of the queens lives on. While men destroy themselves through war, the queens are preparing for a return to the time when the ancient order had not been disrupted, when the wolf grazed alongside the lamb, when Persephone had not yet been carried off into Hades, when eternal spring reigned always.’

‘The conspiracy of the queens. .’ whispered Diomedes. ‘They say it has gone on for centuries. Medea against Jason, Deianeira against Hercules, Phaedra against Theseus, the fifty daughters of Danaus who slaughtered their husbands. Are you among them? Are you preparing to murder Ulysses? You will never succeed. No one can surprise him through deceit. I know him.’

A ray of light lit Penelope’s forehead: ‘You know him? Give me proof, if you want me to believe you.’

‘He has a scar on his left leg and a birthmark over his knee. He has a wide face and thin lips. Broad shoulders and chest, long legs for his stature. And a strange smile. . he always smiles as he is about to deal the death blow. . Why do you want to kill him, wanaxa? Why?’

‘No,’ said Penelope. ‘I will not kill him, though I have been asked to do so. And do you know why? Because it is not he who chose me, but I who chose him. My father Icarius was against it, but I covered my face as soon as I saw him because I knew he would be the only man of my life. I covered my face with a veil so he would understand I wanted to be his bride. He or no other. I chose him: he was the poorest of the kings, sovereign of dry, rocky islands, but his voice was resonant and persuasive. When he spoke everyone listened, enchanted.

‘He did not want this war. The blood of the ancient race lives in him as well. He opposed force with astuteness. . in vain. When Agamemnon’s messenger came to ask him to depart for the war, he found Ulysses ploughing the beach with an ass and a bull at the yoke. They took Telemachus from his cradle and laid him down before the beasts. Ulysses rushed to gather the little one to his chest, proving that he could not be mad. They gave him no choice but to leave. . He made a wedding bed for me amidst the boughs of a tree, the arms of an olive tree, like a bird’s nest. What other man would have done the same? The kings of the Achaeans built nests of stone for their brides, gelid walls that ooze blood.’

‘How do you know about Clytemnestra? And about. . Aigialeia. . you knew about her too, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. All of the kings will be driven away: Idomeneus from Crete, Diomedes from Argos, Menelaus from Sparta. . or killed. Clytemnestra will kill. If she hasn’t already.’

Diomedes hid his face in his cloak. ‘Oh great Atreid!’ he murmured to himself. ‘Watch your back! We are no longer beside you, we are no longer. . we are no longer.’ He wept. The tears fell copiously from his eyes, they dripped from the golden curls of his beard.

‘Who are you?’ asked Penelope.

‘My name is Leodes.’

‘Who are you?’ demanded Penelope again.

‘A man on the run. . I would have liked to ask counsel from your husband, wise Ulysses, before facing the unknown but the gods have denied me even this.’ He rose to leave but Penelope stopped him. She had a sly look in her eyes, as if seeking his complicity.

‘Tell me: he sent you, didn’t he? He is hiding nearby and he sent you to discover the truth and report it all back to him. I know, that’s the way he is, and I’m not offended. I understand him. Tell him that I understand but that he must return immediately, I beg of you. I’m sure that I’m right, aren’t I? Am I not right?’

Diomedes turned away: ‘No, wanaxa. I’m sorry but you are not right. I’ve told you the truth. Ulysses left us at Tenedos and he turned back towards Ilium.’

Penelope began to tremble. Her lips trembled and her hands trembled and tears trembled under her black lashes. ‘I beg of you, do not torment me,’ she said. ‘Do not continue lying to me. You have put me to the test. If it is he who sends you, run to tell him that our bridal chamber is intact, I have conserved it like a sacred enclosure. Tell him to come back. I beg of you.’

Diomedes rose to take his leave. In his heart of hearts he envied the son of Laertes, for his bride loved him still.

‘I’m sorry, wanaxa. I’m not who you think I am. I seek Ulysses as well and I do not know where he may be. But if one day he does return, tell him that a friend came looking for him, a friend who was at his side on the fields of Ilium the night he donned the helmet of Merion. He’ll understand. He will tell you all about me. Now please allow me to go, to straighten my bow towards the northern sea. Farewell.’

He walked away, and Telemachus scampered after him. ‘Tell me,’ the boy said, ‘have you seen him of late? What does he look like? What does my father look like?’

Diomedes stopped for a moment. ‘He looks like you imagine him. When you see him, you’ll recognize him.’

‘I don’t want to stay here to wait for him,’ said the little prince. ‘Take me with you to search for him at sea. I’ll work for you, I’ll earn my bread as a servant. Please take me with you so I can find him.’

The hero ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t, although I wish I could.’

The boy stopped following him and sat on a stone to watch as he walked off in the direction of the port. A dog ran up to his young master and curled up at his feet. He stroked and hugged him tightly, calling him by name: ‘Argus, Argus.’

Diomedes turned at the sound of that word. He looked at the boy and the dog and he said: ‘When your father comes back, never let him leave again.’

He continued down the road and reached the port as night was falling. Some fishermen had approached the comrades he had left behind on the ship and were talking to them, trying to sell them the fish they had caught in exchange for resin and pitch, if they had any. Diomedes went aboard and had them cast off. His comrades began rowing and he steered towards Asteris, where the rest of the fleet was waiting. The men slept on their rowing benches and set off again at dawn. A southern wind had picked up and the ships hoisted their sails. The current carried them north as well, towards darkness and night.

His pilot, Myrsilus, asked him: ‘Was there news of Ulysses? Did you see him?’

‘No,’ answered Diomedes. ‘He has not returned. I begged him not to go back to Ilium, remember? The weather was worsening. Perhaps the storm caught them as they were leaving and the wind cast them up on some unfamiliar beach. Ulysses is the best of us all on the sea. If he has not returned, who could have been saved? What have you learned of the route which awaits us?’

‘There is land before us, towards the west,’ replied the helmsman. ‘Some say it is an island, others a peninsula. Land lies to the east as well. Not one of these Ithacaeans has ever gone far enough north to find other lands in this direction. But they have heard tell that the winds are perilous and unpredictable, the reefs treacherous. The land which stretches out to the north is different from ours; it is low to the sea, often enveloped in mist and clouds. The sun’s rays don’t touch it for long periods of time, neither when it rises in the morn nor sets in the evening. The people who inhabit these lands are strangers to all and their language is incomprehensible.’

‘That is where we shall go,’ said the king. Then he went to the bow and stood there, motionless, his head in the wind and the sun on the blond hair that fell to his shoulders. He threw off the humble cloak that he had worn to Ithaca with a mind to surprise Ulysses. But Ulysses was not to be found. His voyage would lead him into the unknown, and only the memory of his friends could follow him there.

They sailed for many days, and stopped every night on dry land, where a promontory stretched out from the continent into the sea or where an island offered shelter. A few of the men would go inland to look for food and water. They cast out their nets sometimes and caught fish or gathered up crabs, shellfish and other sea foods along the beaches.

The coast did not change much; inlets and promontories, islands small and large. At the horizon, towards the east, a chain of mountains always followed them, some low and others tall, towering over the sea. They often saw men fishing near the coast, tossing their nets from small boats carved from a single tree trunk. Sometimes, at night, they would see lights twinkling in the dark, fires burning on the mountain tops. They would hear shrieks echoing amidst the craggy cliffs, sounding like the cries of eagles.

The further north they travelled, the more the sky became grey and dark, mirrored by the sea.