Sing to me, Muse, of the man of many paths, the wanderer, who roamed far after laying waste to Troy’s sacred heights. He saw the cities of countless men, learned their minds, and endured deep pain at sea, all in his struggle to survive and to bring his crew back home. But even so, he could not save them. Though he longed to, their own blind folly destroyed them-fools who ate the cattle of the Sun God, Helios, and so robbed themselves of the day of their return.
Tell us this tale, goddess, daughter of Zeus.
‘Suitors,’ she said, ‘since divine Odysseus is gone, let me finish this burial cloth for Laertes, so it won’t rot unused. It’s for the day death takes him.’
That’s what she told us. And we believed her. She worked at the loom by day—but every night, by torchlight, she unraveled it. For three years, we didn’t see the trick. But when the fourth year came, and the seasons had passed, one of her maids betrayed her. We caught her at it. And under pressure, she was forced to finish it.
“You gods are cruel, jealous beyond all others, always begrudging goddesses when they lie with mortal men openly, if one becomes dear to them. So it was when rosy-fingered Dawn loved Orion—the gods took jealous vengeance until Artemis, with her golden throne, struck him down with gentle arrows in Ortygia. So too when Demeter of the shining hair lay with Iasion in love and joy—Zeus, in wrath, killed him with a flashing bolt. And now you begrudge me this man, whom I saved clinging to a plank
She found him sitting upon the shore, his eyes never dry, his sweet life wasting away in longing for home. No longer did she please him. Though he lay beside her in the hollow caves at night, forced by need rather than will, each day he sat upon the rocks by the sea, groaning from his heart, staring out
over the barren water, shedding tears.
So speaking, the divine Odysseus stepped out from the bushes, breaking the thick foliage. In his hand he held a leafy branch, large enough to cover his nakedness. He moved like a mountain lion that stalks through wind and rain, confident in its strength. With blazing eyes and a heart driven by hunger, it enters sheepfolds or leaps upon deer—or even charges boldly into a sturdy home to satisfy its need. Just so did Odysseus approach the long-haired maidens, salt-crusted and desperate, his need urgent. Covered in brine and weary from the sea, he frightened them; they shrieked and fled along the shore.
All but one.
Only Nausicaa, daughter of Alcinoüs, held her ground. Athena had place dcourage in her heart and removed fear from her limbs.
As the song swelled, Odysseus wept. Tears streamed down his cheeks, hidden beneath his hands.
So I spoke, but his ruthless heart gave no reply. Instead, he sprang up and laid his hands on my companions, snatching two of them together and smashing them against the ground like puppies. Their brains flowed out and soaked the earth. He cut them limb from limb to make his meal. He ate like a mountain-reared lion, leaving nothing behind—entrails, flesh, and bones filled with marrow. We could only weep and raise our hands to Zeus, seeing this terrible deed; helplessness seized our spirits.
When the Cyclops had filled his great belly with human flesh and unmixed milk, he lay down inside his cave, stretched out among his sheep.
“Cyclops, you ask for my famous name. I will reveal it, and you will give me the guest-gift as you promised. My name is Nobody. My mother and father and all my companions call me Nobody.”
So I spoke, and he replied at once from his ruthless heart: “Nobody I will eat last, after his companions. The others will come first. This shall be your guest-gift.”
‘Who are you among men? Where is your city, your parents? I am amazed that you drank these drugs and were not enchanted. No other man has ever endured these drugs once he drinks them and they pass the barrier of his teeth. But surely you are Odysseus, the versatile one, whom the golden-wanded Hermes always declared would come here, returning from Troy on his swift black ship. But come now, sheath your sword. Let us both then mount my bed, that mingling in love, we may trust each other.’
So she spoke, but I, wishing in my mind, pondered how I might seize the soul of my departed mother. Three times I attempted it, and my spirit urged me to seize her, and three times she flew from my hands like a shadow or a dream. And a sharp pain increased in my heart even more, and addressing her with winged words I spoke: ‘Mother mine, why do you not wait for me, eager as I am to seize you, so that even in Hades we might throw our beloved hands around each other and enjoy cold grief? Has noble Persephone sent me a phantom to deceive me, so that I may lament and moan even more?’
“Do not speak to me soothingly of death, glorious Odysseus. I would rather be a laborer and serve another man—a man with no land and little to live on—than to be king over all the perished dead. But come, tell me of my son. Did he follow me to war to become a leader, or not?”
‘Come hither, renowned Odysseus, great glory of the Achaeans! Stop your ship so you may hear our sweeter voice. None has ever passed this way in a black ship before hearing the honey-sweet voice from our lips, but he returns having delighted in it and knowing more. For we know all that happened in wide Troy, what the Achaeans and Trojans suffered by the gods’ will, and we know all that happens on the bountifully yielding earth.’
All deaths are hateful to wretched mortals, but to die by hunger is the most pitiful fate. Come now, let us drive off the best of Helios’s cattle and offer a sacrifice to the immortals who hold the wide heaven. If we ever reach Ithaca, our native land, we will build a rich temple to Helios Hyperion, with many fine gifts inside. But if he grows angry over his horned cattle and wishes to destroy our ship, and the other gods consent, I would rather die once swallowing a wave than waste away slowly here on this deserted isle.’
Thus speaking, he entered the well-settled house and went straight towards
the hall, among the noble suitors. But Argos, the fate of black death took hold
of him, immediately upon seeing Odysseus in the twentieth year.
Just as a man turns a paunch full of fat and blood around a burning fire, eager for it to be roasted quickly, so did he turn, pondering how he alone might lay his hands on the shameless suitors, being one man against many.
Then Athena came near him, descending from heaven. She appeared in the form of a woman and stood above his head, speaking to him: “Why do you lie awake again, most wretched of men?
So they spoke, the suitors. But Odysseus of many devices, immediately when he took the great bow and saw it everywhere, as when a man who knows the lyre and singing easily stretches a cord around a new peg, fastening both ends of well-twisted sheep-gut, so without effort did Odysseus stretch the great bow. Taking it in his right hand, he tested the string, which sang beautifully, like a swallow’s voice.
Resourceful Odysseus then stripped off his rags and, holding the bow and the quiver full of arrows, he leapt upon the great threshold. He poured the swift shafts out before his feet and spoke to the suitors: “This final contest is accomplished. Now I shall see if I can hit another target no man has struck yet, and if Apollo grants me glory.”
Thus he spoke, and having fastened a ship’s dark-prowed cable to a tall pillar
of the dome, he stretched it high up, so that no one might touch the ground
with her feet. And as when long-winged thrushes or doves strike against a net
placed in a bush, seeking a nest, and a hateful bed receives them, so their heads
were all in a row, and around each of their necks were nooses, so that they
might die most pitifully. They twitched with their feet for a little while, but not
for long.
Thus she spoke, testing her husband. But Odysseus, grieved, addressed his faithful wife: “Woman, this word you have spoken is truly painful. Who has moved my bed elsewhere? It would be difficult, even for a skilled man, unless a god himself, coming easily, wished to set it in another place. No living man, even young and in his strength, could easily move it, for a great sign was crafted into that bed. I myself labored on it, and none else.
As when land appears welcome to swimmers whose well-built ship Poseidon has shattered in the sea, driven by the wind and the strong wave, and few have escaped from the gray sea to the shore by swimming, and much brine encrusts their skin, but they joyfully set foot on land, having escaped evil—so then to her was her husband welcome as she gazed upon him, nor yet did she completely release her white arms from his neck.