The Hall of the Witch

The island of Aeaea rose from the sea like a dark jewel set in polished turquoise. Odysseus stood at the prow of the small raft he had built from the last wreckage of his ship, the salt wind drying on his lips, and felt the old, familiar weight of dread settle behind his ribs. He had lost count of the years. He had lost count of the men. The faces of those who had followed him from Troy were beginning to blur in his memory, becoming a single long lament of names he could no longer speak without tasting ash.

Only a handful remained now. Eurylochus. Polites. A few others whose courage had outlasted their luck. They had drawn lots on the beach that morning. Eurylochus had led the first group inland while Odysseus waited by the shore with the rest, the black hull of their makeshift vessel half-pulled onto the sand. When Eurylochus returned alone, his face was the color of old bone, and the story he told was worse than any storm.

“There is a hall in the center of the island,” he said, voice shaking. “A woman lives there. Tall. Beautiful. She sang as we approached. The voice… it made the hair on my arms stand up. She invited the men inside. She gave them wine and cheese and honey. Then she touched them with a wand, and they—” He swallowed hard. “They became swine. All of them. They fell to their hands and knees and their faces stretched and their voices turned to squealing. She drove them into the sties behind the hall as if they had always been animals.”

Odysseus listened without speaking. The sun was high and the air of Aeaea was thick with the scent of strange flowers and crushed herbs. Somewhere in the forest a lion coughed. Somewhere farther away a wolf sang a long, lonely note that did not sound entirely like a wolf.

He took the small pouch Hermes had pressed into his hand on the lonely beach the night before—the white flower with the black root, moly, the herb that could turn aside Circe’s magic. He slipped it inside his tunic, against his skin, and felt its cool weight like a secret. Then he ordered the remaining men to stay by the raft and walked alone into the trees.

The path to Circe’s hall was not difficult to find. It was as if the island itself wanted him to reach her. The trees leaned back. The undergrowth parted. Birds with feathers the color of polished bronze watched him from the branches and did not fly away. The air grew warmer the deeper he walked, heavy with the smell of cedar smoke and something sweeter, like crushed myrtle and warm skin.

He heard her singing before he saw the hall.

The voice was low and clear, neither young nor old, the kind of voice that could make a man forget the sound of his own name if he listened too long. It rose and fell in a language he almost understood, weaving through the trees like smoke. Odysseus kept one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other near the pouch of moly, and stepped into the clearing.

The hall of Circe stood in the center of a wide, manicured grove. Its walls were of polished stone the color of dark honey. Grapevines heavy with purple fruit climbed the columns. In the open courtyard before the great doors, lions and wolves and mountain lynxes lay in the sun like house cats, their eyes following him with an intelligence that made his skin prickle. None of them rose. None of them growled. They simply watched, as if they already knew the ending of the story that was about to begin.

Odysseus walked past them and into the hall.

The interior was cool and dim after the bright sun. Braziers burned with sweet resin. Low tables of black wood stood laden with silver bowls of fruit, wheels of pale cheese, and pitchers of wine so dark it looked almost black. At the far end of the hall, on a raised platform draped with deep violet cloth, Circe sat before a great loom.

She was exactly as Eurylochus had described, and nothing like the stories at all.

Her dark hair fell in thick waves past her shoulders, partly pinned back with a comb of carved bone. The short tunic she wore was the color of crushed grapes, the fabric fine and soft, ending high on her strong thighs. A wide belt of dark leather cinched her narrow waist, hung with small golden charms in the shapes of animals—boars, lions, wolves, birds. Over her shoulders hung an open black cloak lined with deep red. Her arms were bare. Her legs were bare. Her feet were bare against the polished floor. When she turned her head to look at him, her eyes were calm and absolute, the eyes of a woman who had never needed to raise her voice to be obeyed.

She smiled, slow and knowing.

“Odysseus of Ithaca,” she said. Her voice was the same one that had been singing, low and rich. “Son of Laertes. Sacker of cities. Man of many turns. I have been expecting you.”

She rose from the loom in a single fluid motion. The golden charms on her belt chimed softly. The short tunic clung to the firm curve of her breasts and the tight line of her stomach. When she walked toward him, the muscles in her bare thighs flexed with each step. She stopped an arm’s length away and looked him over from head to foot, unhurried, as if she were inspecting a new animal that had wandered into her courtyard.

“Your men are in the sties,” she said. “They are well enough. They have grain and water and soft mud to lie in. They do not remember their names. It is kinder that way.”

Odysseus’s hand tightened on his sword. “Change them back.”

Circe tilted her head. The corner of her mouth curved. “Or what? You will cut me down where I stand? You could try. Many have tried. The floor of this hall has drunk the blood of better heroes than you.” She stepped closer. The scent of her reached him—crushed herbs, warm skin, a faint metallic note like the edge of a knife. “But you will not. You are tired, Odysseus. I can see it in the way you hold your shoulders. I can see it in the shadows under your eyes. You have been running from the sea and from the gods and from your own name for so long that you no longer remember what it feels like to stop.”

She reached up and rested two fingers against the side of his neck, feeling his pulse. The touch was light, almost clinical, yet heat bloomed under his skin wherever she made contact.

“I can make you stop,” she said softly. “I can make the running end.”

Odysseus caught her wrist. Her bones felt delicate under his fingers, but the strength in her arm was unmistakable. “I have the herb of Hermes,” he said. “Your magic will not touch me.”

Circe’s smile widened, delighted. “Ah. The white flower with the black root. Moly. Yes. I can smell it on you.” She leaned in until her lips were nearly brushing his ear. “It will keep me from turning you into a swine. It will not keep me from turning you into something far more interesting.”

She pulled her wrist free with casual ease and turned away, walking toward one of the low tables. The black cloak swayed behind her. The short tunic rode up slightly with each step, revealing the lower curve of her ass. Odysseus’s mouth had gone dry. He told himself it was the heat of the hall. He told himself it was the residual terror of the lions outside. He did not fully believe either excuse.

Circe poured dark wine into two shallow silver cups. She brought one to him and kept the other for herself. Their fingers touched when he took it. Her skin was warm.

“Drink,” she said. “It is only wine. No potions. No powders. I do not need them with you.”

He drank. The wine was rich and heavy, tasting of blackberries and smoke. Heat spread through his chest. Circe watched him over the rim of her own cup, her dark eyes half-lidded.

“Your wife is still waiting,” she said conversationally. “Penelope of the white arms. She weaves by day and unweaves by night. She is clever. I respect that. But she is mortal. She will grow old. Her breasts will sag. Her cunt will dry. Her mind will soften. You will return to a woman who is no longer the one you left, and you will hate yourself for noticing.” She sipped her wine. “Here, nothing ages unless I wish it. Here, you could stay as you are—strong, sharp, desired—for as long as the stars keep their places.”

Odysseus set the cup down harder than he intended. “I did not come here to listen to you insult my wife.”

“No,” Circe agreed. “You came here to rescue your men. And you will. I will change them back before sunset. I give you my word.” She set her own cup aside and stepped into his space again. This time she did not stop at an arm’s length. She came close enough that the front of her tunic brushed his chest. He could feel the firm shape of her breasts through the thin fabric. “But first you will stay for a while. You will eat at my table. You will bathe in my water. You will lie in my bed. And when the moon rises, you will decide whether you still want to leave.”

Her hand rose and rested flat on his chest, over his heart. The golden charms on her belt pressed against his thigh. Odysseus could smell the clean sweat at the base of her throat. He could see the faint freckles scattered across the upper slopes of her breasts where the tunic dipped.

“You are already hard,” Circe observed mildly, glancing down. “Interesting.”

Heat flooded Odysseus’s face. He had not noticed. The soft pressure of her body, the scent of her, the low confidence in her voice—it had all slipped under his guard while he was busy trying to hate her. Circe’s fingers trailed down his chest, over the ridged muscle of his stomach, and came to rest just above the obvious bulge in his tunic. She did not grab him. She simply let her palm rest there, feeling the heat of him through the cloth.

“I could take this from you right now,” she said quietly. “I could put you on your knees on this floor and make you beg to put it inside me. You would do it. The moly protects your shape, Odysseus. It does not protect your will.”

She stepped back as suddenly as she had come close. The loss of her warmth was almost painful. Circe gestured toward a side doorway hung with heavy curtains the color of old blood.

“There is a bathing pool through there. Hot water. Clean towels. Oils that smell of myrrh and cedar. Wash the sea off your skin. When you are done, come back. We will eat. And then we will see what kind of man you still are under all that cleverness.”

She turned and walked back toward her loom, the black cloak flaring behind her, the short violet tunic clinging to the tight curves of her ass and the strong lines of her thighs. Odysseus stood frozen in the center of the hall, heart hammering, cock aching, the taste of her wine still on his tongue.

He should have drawn his sword. He should have forced her to change the men back at once and left the island before nightfall. Instead he found himself walking toward the curtained doorway, the pouch of moly heavy against his skin, the sound of Circe’s soft humming following him like a hand at the small of his back.

The bathing chamber was carved directly into the rock of the hill. A wide pool of steaming water occupied most of the space, fed by some hidden spring. Soft towels and glass vials of oil waited on a stone ledge. Odysseus stripped and sank into the heat with a groan that felt dragged up from the bottom of his lungs. The water eased the deep aches in his muscles. He closed his eyes and tried to summon Penelope’s face. For a moment he saw her clearly—the calm dark eyes, the way she smiled with only one corner of her mouth when she was amused. Then the image flickered, replaced by Circe’s sharper features, her knowing smile, the way the violet tunic had clung to her breasts when she leaned in.

He cursed under his breath and scrubbed the salt from his skin harder than necessary.

When he returned to the main hall, clean and dressed in a fresh tunic Circe must have left for him, the tables had been set with more food. Roast meat. Fresh bread. Bowls of glistening olives and ripe figs. Circe reclined on one of the low couches, the black cloak discarded, the short tunic riding high on her thighs as she popped a fig into her mouth. She licked a drop of juice from her thumb and looked up at him.

“Better,” she said. “You look less like a drowned rat and more like the man who thought he could outwit the gods.”

She pointed to the couch across from her. Odysseus sat. They ate in silence for a time. The meat was perfectly cooked. The wine kept flowing. Every time Odysseus reached for his cup, Circe’s eyes followed the movement of his throat as he swallowed. The air between them grew thicker, charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

At last Circe set her plate aside and rose. She walked around the table until she stood in front of him. Without asking, she stepped between his knees, forcing his thighs apart. Her bare legs brushed the insides of his. The hem of her short tunic was close enough to his face that he could see she wore nothing beneath it. The dark thatch of hair between her thighs was neatly trimmed. The soft lips of her cunt were already faintly flushed.

“Look at me,” she said.

Odysseus looked up. From this angle she seemed taller, more powerful. The golden animal charms hung just above his eyes. The firm undercurve of her breasts was visible where the tunic gaped.

Circe’s fingers slid into his hair, not quite pulling, just resting there with quiet ownership.

“Your men will be men again by nightfall,” she said. “I keep my word. But you… you are going to stay longer than that. Not because I will force you. Not because I will threaten you. You are going to stay because the thought of walking out of this hall and never feeling my cunt around your cock is already starting to hurt.”

Her other hand reached down and cupped him through the fresh tunic. Odysseus’s hips jerked. A rough sound escaped his throat. Circe stroked him slowly, almost thoughtfully, feeling him thicken and lengthen under her palm.

“There it is,” she murmured. “The truth always lives lower than the mind. Your clever head is still talking about Ithaca and duty and the faithful wife. Your cock is already negotiating the terms of surrender.”