Gilded Cage

Penelope pauses at the fork in the passageway, torch in hand. It’s almost funny, the way the tunnels seem to challenge her at every turn. To the right is the nursery, built for her family when they were all children. To the left is the way out, the way she’s taken nearly every day for meetings of the Rebellion. 

Yes. A rebellion. The word still gives her tingles of excitement as she thinks of following in the footsteps of all the great heroes, like Theseus and Perseus. Everything has been set up: A tyrant on the throne, civil unrest, etc., etc. However, though it’s exciting, it’s also terrifying, since the “tyrant king” is her own uncle, Roland.

However, though it may be her uncle, he is a tyrant nonetheless, which was why Penelope joined the Rebellion. She knew the man was pure evil, since he had paid some type of shaman to curse their family to never have sons, who might have been able to inherit the throne. Even so, she had had some small amount of pity for him, but he had cracked her at dinner today, in front of many important lords. As they say, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Which was why Penelope was leaving to hide out at the Rebellion headquarters. If she could make her feet move down the passageway that led to it.

Penelope isn’t really sure what’s stopping her. Perhaps it’s the memories of the colourful walls that Mother painted before she died, or the rows upon rows of bookshelves. Penelope only ever had two memories of her mother, named Catherine. The first was of Mother in a simple frock and bonnet, painting the walls vibrant colours. The second took place as Mother brushed her hair one day when she was young.

It was a chilly morning, and Penelope’s sisters were eating breakfast near the fire. It was just Penelope and her mother in front of the vanity. Her mother was brushing her hair.

“Do you know your namesake?” Her mother had asked, out of the blue.

“No.” Penelope had answered, in that precocious way all young children seemed to have.

“You’re named after Penelope from the Odyssey. It’s a fascinating story, really.  It begins like so:”

Not long after, her mother died in childbirth, and the baby would have been a boy. Penelope was four. 

Penelope could never quite remember how Mother had phrased it, but she had read the Odyssey many times; both the Greek and English version. She knew what Penelope of Ithaca would do; follow her heart. But here, this Penelope didn’t have the same courage or faith in true love. She didn’t even have a love. 

She can go back. She knows she can. Go back and live out her life in comfort. But was living in a gilded cage with a rabid animal better than living freely out there in the world where she would be forced to be on the run? Penelope doesn’t know. 

All she knows is that she isn’t brave. She’s bookish, and wild. Reading about journeys into the unknown and standing up to fearsome rulers was far more fun than actually doing it. Doing it was downright frightening. She finally understood Aeneas’ famous line from the Aeneid: “I fear the Greeks, even when they bring gifts.”. Penelope had feared her uncle today, even when he had showed up at her door with a pair of expensive boots, an apology, and a fake smile sometime after dinner.

Will her fear drive her out of this God forsaken place then? No, Penelope senses it won’t. Her fear of the consequences of her leaving far outweighs her fear of living with her uncle. With a tiny sigh, Penelope turns toward the path that leads to her nursery.

Wait! A little voice inside of her calls. Penelope has never experienced having an inner voice before. Don’t go there. You’ll never be able to return to the Rebellion. You’ll never be able to fight against Roland’s tyranny! Penelope shook her head. She was too tired of fighting. Do the right thing! Do what Penelope would have done! Okay, so you don’t have a “love”. You don’t need one! You love your family. 

That was true. Penelope did love her family. Sweet-tempered Aislinn, ushering her out of the room during Roland’s fits of anger. Quiet Cecilia, whose paintings—so like Mother’s—sang Penelope to sleep when the days were dark. Wild Iris, who always seemed to come to dinner with grass stains on her stockings and flowers in her hair, and taught Penelope to ride a horse. And of course, her father, Stefan, who bought her new books every so often and made sure she was well.

You don’t want to leave them to Roland’s wrath, the voice adds, gentler now. Think of it as doing for them, for your mother. As justice for the curse Roland put on her. Penelope slowly turned back to the path on the left.

She would do it; walk to the great unknown, if only to protect her family. She might not be brave, but she most certainly is selfless. Penelope glances one last time at the tunnel to her nursery, to her childhood. The Odyssey is there, and the Aeneid, and the Iliad. There are also Mother’s murals, and so many other aspects of her childhood. Leave them be, the voice whispers. Penelope closes her eyes and takes a step down the left corridor.

To her freedom.

To her one hope to protect her family

To anywhere but this gilded cage.

She leaves the books be, back at her former home. Penelope finds that she isn’t as upset as she thought she might be. She supposes she doesn’t need her stories anymore. These days, she writes her own. And one day, far in the future, when Roland has been defeated and a new ruler established, she will write her story. The Epic of Penelope, or maybe The Tales of Penelope. She isn’t quite sure what to call it yet. She isn’t sure about much, but she does know that right now, she is on the right path.

There’s no turning back now. No hope of ever returning to that semi-peaceful world. Penelope will be fighting for the rest of her life; fighting for freedom. It’s both a daunting and exciting prospect. Good-bye world, Penelope thinks, I will come back for you someday.