Odysseus: The Return

4

The echo of Polyphemus’ ranting rang in my ears for the whole stretch of sea that separated us from the low island and stuck in my heart like a freezing blade.

When we went ashore on the island, we learned that our comrades had been struck by foreboding when we failed to return. Eurylochus had readied a strong combat unit with archers and heavily armed warriors to set off for the mainland in search of us. But the great exultation that greeted us soon faded when it became clear that a number of the men who had set out with me were no longer with us. In so many years of war the bonds between the men had become very deep. They’d always protected one another on the battlefield and every fallen comrade represented a wound in their hearts that wouldn’t be healed. It was like they were all members of the same family.

The men had not whiled away their time in our absence — they’d hunted, and captured a good number of wild goats. They were divided up, and we included the sheep we’d managed to carry off from the cyclops’ flock. In all, the crew of each ship were allotted ten animals, with eleven for me, out of respect.

The cyclops’ curse still sounded in my heart. I dragged a fat sheep to the seashore, skinned it and burned the thighs and the best parts in sacrifice to Zeus, in the hopes that this might ward off the ill omen that chased me over the waters as I escaped from that cursed, lawless land peopled by creatures without respect for gods or men. I thought of Calchas, of what he’d said to me that day long ago under the wild fig tree of Troy. I wished he were present, so he could tell me whether the god was pleased with my offering, or disdained it. I could not tell on my own. I sacrificed the animal for nothing, I know that now, but then I still nourished hope.

When I returned to our camp, the men had butchered other sheep and goats, opened jars of wine and lit fires to roast the meat. We ate and drank until sunset on the sand still warm from the rays of the sun. Everyone was quiet. Those who had encountered the cyclops wanted to forget and the comrades who had stayed on the island sensed that something awful had taken place but didn’t have the courage to ask. Little by little, as time passed, as I breathed in the scents of land and sea, watched the stars glittering in a clear sky, listened to the bleating of the kids tagging along after their mothers as they wandered the fields, I could almost forget what had happened. I even had a brief, fleeting sensation that nothing had happened, nothing at all. That I’d dreamed it all up. Perhaps I could even believe that; I’d understood by then that things were true if we believed them. My thoughts went back to my adolescence. .

‘Atta, when I was at grandfather’s house, I saw the goddess Athena.’

‘Sleep, my son.’

What would King Laertes my father have said to me at that moment had he been present? If I told him: ‘Atta, a giant with a single eye in the middle of his forehead, as tall as a pine tree on Mount Neritus, devoured six of my comrades’?

‘Sleep, my son.’

Yes, sleep, heart of mine, sleep if you can.

‘What happened to the men who are missing?’

The voice was Eurylochus’.

‘Ask the others. I’m tired. Too tired, understand? Tomorrow we’ll leave here — we have a long voyage ahead of us. We have to get home, and do you know why? Because even on this side of the wall of fog we crossed — When had that happened? — the sun rises in front of us and sets behind us. When we reach Ithaca and we enter the great port, when we have mourned our dead and embraced our loved ones, all of this will vanish. For always, like a nightmare at the rising of the sun.’

Eurylochus said no more and walked away. I stretched out on the sand and covered myself with my cloak. Distant in the night, on the mainland, I heard a groaning like that of a dying animal. A long suffocated wail. A shrill wind whistled back from the sea.

At dawn, we loaded the ships with everything that the land could offer us, especially reserves of fresh water. We drew up along the shore facing the mainland. We called out the names of our fallen companions ten times each, and then each crew of men boarded their own ship, went straight to the rowing benches and took up the oars.

We sailed into the open sea and my ship once again led the others. A brisk, hot land breeze pushed us north and west. There was no way to fight it. We sailed for days and nights as the wind shifted eastward and gained in intensity. Elpenor was at the helm of my ship and Eurylochus was checking the tautness of the rigging and the direction of the sail. A great sadness gripped my heart because I knew that we were getting further and further away from our homeland and because I mourned for the comrades I had lost. If only I had left them in the land of the flower-eaters! They would still be basking in the rays of the sun. Instead they wandered in the gloom of Hades, lamenting their lives lost. I thought I had been acting for their best interests, but the gods and fate decided differently from what I intended.

It was a little after midday when Eurylochus approached me: ‘Why won’t you tell me what happened to the men who didn’t return with you from the mainland?’

I had been hoping that he would not ask again, that he would understand that the memory of what had happened was too bitter for me to recount. I had to answer him this time, and I told him the whole story. If he didn’t hear it from me, he would have heard it from the others.

‘You have nothing else to say to me?’ he asked again when I had finished.

I knew what he meant. ‘If you already know, why are you asking me?’

‘Because I want to hear it from your lips and I want to know what awaits us.’

The wind was getting stronger and bellying the sail, the mast was groaning under the stiff gusts. All of the beams were creaking. The men dipped their oars into the sea only when they thought it would lessen the strain of the helmsman.

‘The monster shouted out a curse. He invoked Poseidon, asking him to prevent my return.’

Eurylochus looked down to hide a scowl. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the worst. But what I told him then had the ring of truth. ‘He cursed my name,’ I said, ‘but as you know, my friend, my name. . my name is No One!’

Eurylochus smiled and so did I. This meant that my comrades had not repeated quite everything. On the third evening of our voyage, the wind started to drop off and to shift slowly westward. The setting sun was, in fact, directly in front of me, and the foaming sea was dark as wine. The light that flooded the ship made it look as if it were made of copper.

Eurylochus approached me again. ‘What is that?’ he asked.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Down there, look at that line of white foam. The waves, they seem to be dashing against something.’

‘An island?’

‘That’s what it looks like. Or a peninsula, perhaps. What shall we do?’

‘Go ashore,’ I said. ‘It’s always best to have as much fresh water on board as we can, and the men can eat fresh food, although we’re not running out of what we have. We’re strong. We can defend ourselves in the face of danger, and the mass of land doesn’t look that big. Give orders.’

Eurylochus didn’t wait to be told twice. He ordered Elpenor to veer slightly north towards the line of foam, which could now be seen much more distinctly. The men put their backs into the oars to help the manoeuvre. The foam was turning pinker as we watched, and the wind getting weaker until it had died down almost completely. We struck the sails and rowed towards the shore in a semicircular formation.

As we approached, an astonishing vision appeared before our eyes. The sea was covered with floating stones, so close to one another that they seemed to be an extension of the land. Behind them we could see tall walls made of bronze or copper and, beyond that, a column of smoke slowly rising towards the sky. A deep, loud rumble sounded like it was coming from the bowels of the earth. An island, floating on the sea.

We looked at one another, wondering what to do. Recent memories made me wary of braving danger in an unknown land, but this place was clearly inhabited, and we could not avoid meeting the local chief or lord, whoever that might be.

I ordered the ships to remain at the mouth of the port and had a boat take me to the shore. I spoke with Eurylochus before leaving: ‘You remain here with the rest of the fleet. I’ll just take a few men. Don’t approach land until you hear from me. If by dusk tomorrow you hear nothing, turn your prows to the sea and continue on your own to Ithaca. You will assume command.’

We embraced because we didn’t know whether we’d ever see each other again, and I went ashore with the men I’d chosen. We walked towards the wall, which was reflecting the last rays of the sun. There were no other ships in the port, no houses along the path leading to the wall, no flocks at pasture. We were armed under our cloaks and I told my men to be ready for anything.

We finally arrived at the city gates. The doors were carved with figures of fantastic, unfamiliar animals. At the centre was an eight-pointed star, with four long points and four shorter ones alternating. From inside came the sound of flutes and cymbals, as if a celebration were under way, with singing and dancing. The air was completely still. Not a puff of wind, not the slightest breeze. I found it very odd to be on an island without feeling the wind’s breath. I remembered my youth on Ithaca well: every afternoon, whether it was winter or summer, the wind would pick up and swiftly cross the channel between my island and Same, ruffling the forest leaves with a thin breeze that soon became blustery, and could turn very cold in the wintertime.

I knocked with the pommel of my sword and waited. Just a few moments passed before the tall doors began to turn on their hinges and opened wide. We entered cautiously, hands firmly on the swords we held under our cloaks, and proceeded towards a deserted courtyard, following the sounds of merrymaking, which seemed to be coming from inside the palace. There were no guards, no warriors, nor were there any weapons hanging from the walls. They were decorated, instead, with ornamental objects: masks of unknown creatures and of men and women with unfamiliar features. Fanciful figures, symbols perhaps, cast in gold and silver surrounded them. The men walked behind me, murmuring low-voiced at the wondrous things on view. The light of the day was quickly fading but another light in front of us filtered from under a solid bronze door adorned with friezes of gold, silver and red copper, polished to a high sheen.

That door also fell open before we could make a move, letting us in to a big hall with tables prepared for a feast. At the head, on a silver throne, sat a strong-limbed man, not yet old despite the thick head of smooth white hair that shone like silver framing his face. All around him, reclining on couches covered with linen and purple fabrics, were young men and women, drinking wine from magnificently crafted glittering cups.

‘Welcome, foreigners!’ he said to us. ‘Come forward. Here you will be treated well.’

My heart leapt in my chest. What a difference from the atrocious welcome of the savage cyclops! Well, he’d got what he deserved, in the end, and although his curse dogged me I was not sorry that I had blinded him and condemned him to a lifetime of darkness.

Servants immediately added places at the table close to the throne for all of us, and when we had satiated our hunger and thirst for good wine, our host asked us to speak up: ‘Who are you, my guests? Where do you come from? What has brought you here? Not many men have ventured this far.’

I spoke, as I always did, and as always I did not tell the whole truth: ‘We are Achaians. We were returning from the war after having destroyed the walls of mighty Troy, but a strong gale dragged us far off course. For nine days and nine nights the storm tossed us on the sea. Then the wind let up and the waves carried us to your island. May the gods give you health and prosperity in exchange for your hospitality.’

‘Are those your ships that wait at the entrance to the port?’

‘They are. We did not want you to imagine that you had pirates at your gates.’

‘You did well. I have no weapons, as you can see, but I can count on much greater forces, and that’s why anyone who dares to come here with hostile intentions pays a high price. But send one of your men, now, to tell the others to join us. Here they will find water and food; they will have nothing to worry about. The news of the fall of Troy has reached our ears. Tell me about it, I pray you, for my curiosity is boundless, and my sons and daughters will be glad to hear your story as well.’

We stayed for one long month at the court of Aeolus, his wife, and his sons and daughters, all united in marriage amongst themselves. Every day, as evening fell, the king invited us to his table, ready with a thousand questions for me about the war, its bravest heroes, our most daring endeavours. He never tired of listening to my stories and I never tired of telling them. This is how a guest repays the hospitality he receives, by recounting events that the master of the house will never be able to see or experience in person. I could feel his interest becoming keener day by day. He asked about Hector and Achilles, about Great Ajax and about the king of Achaian kings, Agamemnon. At times he even clapped his hands like a child when I began my tales.

The strangest thing was that he never asked to know my name, as was the right of any host with his guest. Nor did I tell him who I was. He called me his ‘guest’ or his ‘dear friend’ and that was fine with me. One evening it was I who bid him to speak: ‘Oh lord who reigns over this island, I would like to ask you some questions, for I am always desirous to learn that which other men do not know.’

‘Speak, then, and I will answer you.’

‘From the moment we arrived, I have never felt a breath of wind. How is this possible? I have never seen an island without wind, although the islands are quite numerous in my homeland and I have visited a great number of them.’

‘I shall tell you why: I am a tamer of winds and I have power over them. This power has been given to me by the gods. They know well that I have never abused this gift.’

‘I had imagined as much,’ said I, ‘and I would thus appeal to you for that which lies closest to my heart. My companions and I have suffered greatly under the walls of Troy and on our voyage at sea as well. Our greatest desire is to see our home again, the land where we were born and where we have our houses and our families. On this unfamiliar sea we despair of finding our way. Help us, I beg of you, tell us how we can find our home again.’

The lord of the winds smiled: ‘I will be glad to do so, because I have much enjoyed this time with you. Prepare for your departure and tomorrow I will join you at the port.’

We took our leave, rendering homage to him and to the queen, and returned to our ships. I was happy because I felt that the end to our troubles and tribulations was near. Would we have to cross the wall of fog again? Would we return to familiar waters, recognize the invisible paths of the sea?

The next day, the ships were ready, loaded with food and water, and the men were sitting at the rowlocks, their hands gripping the oar handles. When Dawn tinged the sky and the sea foam pink, Aeolus, the lord of the winds, appeared on a litter borne by eight servants. Next to him was a well-sewn skin, its mouth closed with a silver chain. He stopped in front of me: ‘Listen well to what I am about to tell you, even if it seems impossible to believe. In this bag, I have trapped every unfavourable wind that could push you off your course. The only one I’ve left free is Zephyr, which blows from the west. All you need to do is steer straight and you will arrive at your island.’

I never took my eyes off Aeolus as he spoke. I was careful not to miss any tiny movement of his face or his lips, any change of the light in his eyes, and it seemed to me that, after having pronounced the last word, a shadow crossed his features. It was barely perceptible, and yet his mouth seemed to twist into a mocking, or perhaps pitying, smile. I swiftly told myself that I was imagining it, because my heart wanted to believe completely in his promise. When I thanked him I had tears in my eyes. His servants stowed the big sack, made of a single bull hide, under the planks at the stern of the royal ship, my own, and I went aboard. I had the signal for departure hoisted and the horn sounded once, twice, three times.

The fleet made a wide circle inside the port, then my ship ventured out into the open sea and behind us the other ships, sailing in an oblique line so that I would never lose sight of any of them, by day or by night. My eyes turned back to seek out Aeolus, the tamer of winds, and the walls of his city reflecting the light of the sun. I left a lookout at the bow and went to the stern so I could govern the steering oar myself. All day and all night.

Is it possible for a man not to sleep? Even as an entire day elapses, or two, or three? One would say not, but if you keep your thoughts anchored to the tasks you attend to, every strain becomes bearable. You continue to tell your heart: do not sleep, heart of mine, hold out, you’re already within sight of your island, you can already smell the scent of myrtle on the breeze. Your ship has already been sighted from the high palace on the mountain. A procession is being prepared to come and meet you. Your standard has told them that the king is back. Your son is leading the procession, garbed in blinding bronze, and behind him is the queen his mother, your bride, even more beautiful than when you left her. .

Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake. I trusted no one, perhaps not even myself. I didn’t want any unexpected event to surprise me, didn’t want to let destiny or some god play a trick on me. The most dangerous was not Poseidon, even in his wrath. The worst was Hypnos, the sleep who is brother to death. He swirled around me, tried to seduce me with the never-changing sing-song pounding of waves against the prow. I envied my men as they stretched out on the rowing benches at night and, covered with their woollen cloaks, slept.

I wouldn’t have thought it possible that a man could go for two days without sleeping. And yet three, four went by. The wind was as monotonous as the waves, always the same, blowing and singing the same song with the same voice. I forced myself to keep thinking that with each passing hour I was that much closer to having my desires come true. That bitter nostalgia that Penelope had once sung about in Sparta was about to end. But even that gentle voice was turning into a tedious, formless refrain. Sleep, the twin of Thanatos, wanted me to surrender, wanted me to crawl under the benches in exhaustion, oblivious to my surroundings, so that he could freely command my destiny. ‘But I am Odysseus son of Laertes, king of Ithaca, destroyer of cities and I will not yield.’ Thus I sought to inspire strength and pride into my weary heart.

Every now and then, during the day, I would allow myself a moment of watchful rest, certain that I could never fall asleep under the blinding sun, with the screeching of the seagulls, given my obligation to lead the fleet. I’d learned to sleep while awake and to remain alert in my sleep, calling on my goddess, who I hadn’t heard from in such a very long time. The men couldn’t understand what I was up to. They thought that I had lost my faith in them or that folly was fogging my mind.

‘Why don’t you try to sleep for a short while. What is this delirium?’ asked Eurylochus. ‘You’ve always trusted me with the steering oar, and I’ve never given you anything to complain about.’ But any voice that spoke to me in that way was the voice of the god who wanted to put me to sleep and deprive me of my return, and I became even more strongly convinced that I could not surrender, could not allow anyone to touch the helm.

Four, five, six days passed. I was performing a miracle, something that no one before me had ever succeeded in doing. The longing for sleep turned into pain, becoming sharper and sharper. Pain that did not help me stay awake, but only hurt me; my heart, my eyes, my mind. At night I could hear the harpies cawing from the yard at the top of the sail. They were perched up there, rapacious, just waiting for me to fall asleep so they could tear me apart. How often I drew my sword! The boundaries between day and night, wakefulness and sleep, madness and reality, no longer existed, and this generated a weary anguish in me that weakened me without disabling me, annihilated me without killing me.

I spent the seventh and the eighth day in the same way. I ate often, but in small quantities so as not to burden my stomach nor weigh down my eyelids. I could not become accustomed to my condition. The brief snatches of rest seemed to help at first, but then seemed to make me even drowsier. The smell of land was wafting out to me or perhaps I was already asleep and dreaming. The last night was the longest and the most difficult. I felt tormented, and the men watched me with eyes full of dismay. They didn’t recognize me any more; I had become a stranger to them.

On the ninth day, just before dawn, I saw a dark mass on the horizon and the outline of a mountain that I could not have mistaken for any other on earth.

Ithaca.

My island, her fragrance, her colours, her surroundings were for me like the body of the bride I had so long desired. My eyes, red from such inconceivable strain, filled with tears and the salt burned them. I would soon touch the stones and sand, the rocks, the bushes. . I would see my son.

For a moment I thought it was a dream, as the dawn showed her rosy fingers behind the dark mass of the mountains. Then I plunged into total unawareness.

When I opened my eyes, a storm was raging.