Homer · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
So he finished, and all of them fell silent, held in a spell throughout the shadowy hall. Then Alcinous spoke in answer:
"Odysseus, now that you have come to my bronze-floored house with its high roof, I do not think you will be driven off course again before you reach home, no matter how much you have already suffered. And to each of you men who drink my aged, glowing wine here in this hall night after night and listen to the singer, I have this to say. The stranger's clothes already lie folded in a polished chest, along with the wrought gold and all the other gifts the Phaeacian counselors brought him. But come, let us each add a great tripod and a cauldron besides. Later we will gather contributions from the people to pay ourselves back, since it is hard for one man alone to give so freely."
So Alcinous spoke, and his words pleased them well. Then each man went home to his bed, and when the early-born, rose-fingered Dawn appeared, they hurried to the ship carrying the fine-wrought bronze. Alcinous himself, that sacred strength of a king, went aboard and stowed it all carefully beneath the benches, so that it would not hamper any of the crew when they bent to their oars in haste. Then the men went up to Alcinous's house and prepared the feast.
There the sacred strength of Alcinous slaughtered a bull in offering to Zeus, dark-clouded son of Cronus, who rules over all. They burned the thigh pieces and feasted gloriously, taking their pleasure, while among them the godlike singer Demodocus, honored by the people, made music. But Odysseus kept turning his head again and again toward the blazing sun, eager for it to set, for he longed with all his heart to be on his way.
As a man longs for his supper when all day long his two wine-dark oxen have dragged the jointed plow across the fallow field, and the sinking of the sun is welcome to him so that he may go to his meal, his knees growing weak as he walks, so welcome to Odysseus was the setting of the sun.
At once he spoke to the oar-loving Phaeacians, and to Alcinous most of all he directed his words:
"Lord Alcinous, most honored of all your people, pour the libation and send me on my way in peace, and may you yourselves fare well. Everything my heart desired has now been done: safe passage, and the loving gifts which I pray the gods of heaven will bless. And may I find on my return a wife without fault, and my loved ones safe and sound at home. And may you, remaining here, bring joy to your wedded wives and your children; may the gods grant you excellence in every form, and may no evil ever come upon your people."
So he spoke, and they all applauded and urged that the stranger be sent on his way, since he had spoken as was fitting. Then the mighty Alcinous said to his herald:
"Pontonous, mix the wine in the bowl and serve it round to everyone in the hall, so that once we have prayed to father Zeus we may send this stranger off to his own native land."
So he spoke, and Pontonous mixed the honey-sweet wine and poured it out to each man in turn. They poured libations to the blessed gods who hold the wide heaven, each from where he sat. Then noble Odysseus rose, placed a two-handled cup in Arete's hands, and spoke to her in winged words:
"Farewell to you, O queen, for all your days, until old age and death come to you, as they come to all mortal people. As for me, I am going home. May you take your joy in this house, with your children, your people, and King Alcinous."
With these words noble Odysseus stepped over the threshold, and mighty Alcinous sent his herald along with him to lead him to the swift ship and the shore of the sea. Arete sent serving-women with him too: one carried a freshly washed cloak and tunic, another was given the sturdy chest to bring, and a third brought bread and dark wine.
When they came down to the ship and the sea, the noble escorts at once took the gifts and stowed them in the hollow ship, all the food and drink together. For Odysseus they spread out a rug and a linen sheet on the ship's deck near the stern, so that he might sleep undisturbed. He himself climbed aboard and lay down in silence, while the crew took their places at the oarlocks in good order and loosed the cable from the pierced stone. As soon as they leaned into their stroke and churned the sea with their oar-blades, a deep and sweet sleep fell upon his eyelids, unbroken sleep, the sweetest kind, most like death itself.
And the ship, like a team of four stallions on open ground, all leaping forward together under the whip's crack, rearing high and eating up the road at speed, so the ship's stern rose up while behind it the dark wave of the loud-roaring sea surged and broke. She ran on steady and sure, and not even a falcon, swiftest of winged things, could have kept pace with her. So lightly she ran, cutting through the sea's waves, carrying a man whose mind matched the gods' for wisdom -- a man who before this had suffered many pains in his heart, crossing the wars of men and the harsh waves of the sea, but now slept undisturbed, forgetting all he had endured.
When the brightest star rose, the one that comes always heralding the light of early-born Dawn, then the sea-crossing ship drew near to the island. There is a harbor there called after Phorcys, the old man of the sea, in the land of Ithaca. Two jutting headlands, steep on their seaward faces, lean in toward the harbor and shelter it, breaking the great waves that rough winds drive against it from outside; and within, ships with good benches ride without need of moorings once they have come to their anchorage.
At the harbor's head stands a long-leaved olive tree, and near it a lovely, shadowy cave sacred to the nymphs called Naiads. Inside are mixing bowls and jars of stone, and there the bees store their honey. There too stand tall looms of stone, where the nymphs weave cloth of sea-purple, a wonder to behold, and there is water that never fails. The cave has two doors: the one facing north is the way down for men, but the other, facing south, belongs to the gods alone, and no man passes through it -- it is the gods' own path.
Into this harbor they rowed, knowing it well from before. The ship ran up onto the beach as far as half her length, driven by the strength of the rowers' arms. The crew stepped out onto the land and first lifted Odysseus from the hollow ship, rug, bright linen sheet and all, and laid him down on the sand still overpowered by sleep. Then they lifted out the goods which the noble Phaeacians, moved by great-hearted Athena, had given him for his journey home, and set them all together by the trunk of the olive tree, off the road, so that no traveler might come upon them and do them harm before Odysseus woke. Then they themselves turned back toward home.
But the Earthshaker had not forgotten the threats he had made earlier against godlike Odysseus, and now he sought out the will of Zeus, saying:
"Father Zeus, I will no longer be honored among the immortal gods, when mortal men -- Phaeacians, who are indeed sprung from my own blood -- show me no honor at all. I said that Odysseus would reach home only after suffering many hardships, yet I never meant to rob him of his homecoming altogether, once you had promised it and nodded your assent. But now these men have carried him sleeping across the sea in a swift ship and set him down in Ithaca, and given him boundless gifts besides -- bronze and gold in plenty, and woven cloth -- more than Odysseus would ever have won for himself out of Troy, even if he had come home safe with his fair share of the spoil."
Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered him:
"What is this you say, wide-ruling shaker of the earth! The gods do not dishonor you at all -- it would be a hard thing indeed to hurl insult at the oldest and greatest of us. As for mortal men, if any one of them, trusting in his own strength, refuses to honor you, you will always have your revenge on him afterward. Do as you wish, whatever pleases your heart."
Then Poseidon the earth-shaker answered him:
"I would act at once, dark-clouded one, as you say -- but I always fear your anger and avoid it. Now then, I mean to wreck that very beautiful Phaeacian ship as it returns from its escort duty, out on the misty sea, so that they will finally stop and give up ferrying every man who comes to them; and I will pile a great mountain around their city to hide it."
Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered him:
"Friend, here is what seems best to my mind: when all the people from the city see the ship being driven in and watch, then turn it to stone close to the shore, in the shape of a swift ship, so that everyone may marvel -- and pile a great mountain around their city to hide it."
When Poseidon the earth-shaker heard this, he set out for Scheria, where the Phaeacians live, and there he waited.
The sea-crossing ship came very close now, running swiftly on, and the earth-shaker drew near it and turned it to stone, rooting it fast to the seabed with a downward stroke of his flat hand; then he went away.
The Phaeacians, men famed for their ships, long-oared and skilled, spoke to one another in winged words, and this is what one would say, glancing at his neighbor:
"No -- who has pinned our swift ship fast in the sea as it was racing home? A moment ago the whole of her was in plain sight!"
So one man would say, though none of them understood how it had truly happened. Then Alcinous rose among them and spoke:
"Ah, now the old prophecy my father once spoke has come upon me. He used to say that Poseidon resented us because we ferried every man safely, no matter who he was, and that one day he would wreck a beautiful Phaeacian ship as it returned from escort duty on the misty sea, and pile a great mountain around our city to hide it. So the old man used to say, and now all of it is coming to pass. Come, then, let us all obey what I now propose: from now on, let us stop escorting mortal men, whoever comes to our city, and let us sacrifice twelve chosen bulls to Poseidon, so that he may take pity on us and not pile a towering mountain around our city."
So he spoke, and they were struck with fear and made the bulls ready for sacrifice. So the leaders and rulers of the Phaeacian people prayed to lord Poseidon, standing around his altar.
Meanwhile godlike Odysseus woke on his native soil, but did not know it, for he had been away so long; and besides, Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus, had poured a mist around him, so that she might make him unrecognizable and explain everything to him herself -- so that his wife, the townsfolk, and his friends would not know him before he had made the suitors pay for all their crimes.
For this reason everything appeared changed to their lord's eyes: the long paths, the sheltered harbors, the sheer cliffs, and the flourishing trees. He sprang up and stood, gazing at his own native land, then groaned aloud, struck both his thighs with his open hands, and cried out in grief:
"No -- into what men's country have I come this time?"
"Are they violent and wild, with no sense of justice, or do they welcome strangers and fear the gods in their hearts? Where shall I even take all these goods, and where am I wandering myself? I wish I had stayed there among the Phaeacians -- or else I could have gone to some other great king who would have loved me and sent me safely home. As it is, I do not know where to put these things, and I cannot simply leave them here, or someone else may carry them off as plunder. No -- so the leaders and rulers of the Phaeacians were not as wise or just as I thought,"
"since they carried me off to another land altogether, though they promised to bring me to clear-seen Ithaca, and never kept their word. May Zeus, protector of suppliants, who watches over all men and punishes whoever does wrong, make them pay for it! But come, let me count my goods and see that they carried nothing off with them in their hollow ship."
With these words he counted the beautiful tripods and cauldrons, the gold, and the fine woven cloth. None of it was missing at all -- yet still he grieved for his native land, dragging himself along the shore of the loud-roaring sea,
weeping many tears. Then Athena came close to him, in the shape of a young man, a herdsman of sheep, delicate as the sons of kings can be, a well-made cloak folded double about his shoulders, sandals on his gleaming feet, and a spear in his hand. Odysseus was glad to see him and went to meet him, and spoke to him in winged words:
"Friend, since you are the first person I have met in this place, greetings -- and may you come to me with no ill will, but rather save these goods, and save me too. For I pray to you as to a god, and I have come to clasp your knees. Tell me this truly, so that I may know for certain:
what land is this, what people, what men live here? Is it some clear-seen island, or a stretch of shore belonging to some rich mainland, sloping down to the sea?"
Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena answered him:
"You are simple indeed, stranger, or else you have come from very far away, if you truly have to ask about this land. It is not nearly so nameless as you think -- very many people know it, both those who live toward the dawn and the sun,
and those who live behind, toward the misty dark. It is a rugged place, not fit for driving horses, yet it is not entirely poor either, though it is not broad. There is grain in abundance here, and wine as well; rain never fails it, and the dew lies thick. It is good country for goats and for cattle; it has every kind of timber, and its watering-places never run dry. That is why, stranger, even as far as Troy the name of Ithaca is known -- and they say Troy lies very far off, in the land of Achaea."
So she spoke, and long-suffering, godlike Odysseus felt joy
rejoicing in his native land, as Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, had told him of it. And he spoke to her in winged words -- yet he did not tell her the truth, but held the words back again, always turning over in his breast some shrewd and cunning thought:
"I had heard of Ithaca, even in broad Crete, far across the sea -- and now I have come here myself, with these goods of mine. I left just as much behind for my children when I fled, since I had killed the dear son of Idomeneus,
swift-footed Orsilochus, who in broad Crete
used to outrun every hard-working man alive on foot. I killed him because he wanted to strip me of all the plunder I had won from Troy, plunder for which I had suffered so much heartache, crossing the wars of men and the harsh waves of the sea -- all because I would not serve his father as he wished, back in the land of Troy, but led my own band of companions instead. I struck him down with my bronze-tipped spear as he was coming in from the fields, lying in wait near the road with one companion. It was a very dark night, and covered the sky, so no one saw us -- I took his life without anyone knowing.
But once I had killed him with the sharp bronze, I went straight to a ship and begged the noble Phoenicians there, and gave them a good share of my plunder. I asked them to carry me to Pylos and set me down there, or else to bright Elis, where the Epeians rule. But a gust of wind drove them off course from there, much against their will -- they had no wish to deceive me. From there we were blown about and came to this place at night. We rowed hard into the harbor, and none of us thought of supper, badly as we all wanted one,
but we simply went ashore and lay down together beside the ship. Sleep came over me then, sweet and heavy, for I was worn out, and the crew took my goods out of the hollow ship and set them down right where I myself lay on the sand. Then they boarded ship again and sailed off toward well-settled Sidon, and I was left behind, my heart full of grief."
So he spoke, and the bright-eyed goddess Athena smiled,
and stroked him with her hand; and now she took the form of a woman, tall and beautiful, skilled in fine handiwork, and she spoke to him in winged words:
"Whoever meant to outdo you in cunning would need to be a sly trickster indeed, and would have to work hard at it, even if it were a god who tried you. You shameless, endlessly scheming man, never tired of tricks -- so even here, on your own native soil, you were not ready to give up your lies and the crafty tales that are so dear to your heart from the very roots. But come, let us speak no more of this, since we both know how to be cunning -- you are by far the best of all mortal men in counsel and in speech, and I am famous among all the gods for wisdom and cunning. Yet you did not recognize me,
Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus, who always...
"But we simply went ashore and lay down there, all of us, still by the ship. Then sweet sleep came over me, worn out as I was, and the others took my goods out of the hollow ship and set them down right where I myself lay sleeping on the sand. They went aboard and sailed off to Sidon, that city of good homes, and I was left behind with grief in my heart."
So he spoke, and the bright-eyed goddess Athena smiled and stroked him with her hand. She had taken the shape of a woman, beautiful and tall and skilled in fine handiwork, and she spoke to him and said:
"Whoever could outdo you in cunning, whatever tricks he tried, would have to be a sharp one indeed, a real thief — even a god would find it hard. You never quit it, do you, you stubborn, endlessly-scheming man, never tire of deception and the sly stories that are bred in your very bones, not even now, on your own native soil. But come, let's leave this off, both of us — we know the tricks of the trade well enough. You are far and away the best of all mortals at planning and speaking, and I am famous among all the gods for cleverness and cunning. And yet you did not know me — Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus, who always stands beside you in every hardship and watches over you. I even made you dear to all the Phaeacians. And now I have come here again, to help you weave a plan, and to hide the treasure the noble Phaeacians gave you on your way home — by my will and design — and to tell you all the sorrows that fate has decreed you must bear in your own well-built house. You must endure them, and you must not tell a soul, man or woman, that you have come back from your wanderings. No — in silence you must suffer many pains, and put up with the violence of men."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her and said: "It is hard, goddess, for a mortal to recognize you when he meets you, however sharp his wits — you take on every shape you please. But this I know well: you were kind to me before, back when we sons of the Achaeans were fighting at Troy. Yet once we had sacked Priam's steep city and boarded our ships, and a god scattered the Achaeans, after that I never saw you, daughter of Zeus, never noticed you come aboard my ship to keep some pain away from me. No, I wandered on and on, my heart torn inside my chest, until the gods finally freed me from misfortune — not until you encouraged me with your words in the rich land of the Phaeacians and led me yourself into their city. Now, by your father, I beg you — for I do not think I have really come to sunny Ithaca, but am wandering in some other land, and I think you are mocking me, saying this only to lead my mind astray — tell me truly whether I have really reached my own homeland."
Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena answered him: "Your mind always works that way, and that is why I cannot abandon you in your troubles — you are so courteous, so quick-witted, so level-headed. Any other man, wandering home after so long, would have rushed home gladly to see his children and his wife. But you — you do not care to learn or ask anything until you have first tested your own wife, who sits there in your halls as she always has, her nights and days wasting away in grief and tears. As for me, I never doubted it — I always knew in my heart that you would come home, though you would lose all your companions. But I did not want to fight my own father's brother, Poseidon, who nursed anger against you in his heart, furious that you blinded his dear son. Come, then, let me show you the ground of Ithaca, so you may be convinced. Here is the harbor of Phorcys, the old man of the sea, and here at the head of the harbor is the long-leaved olive tree, and near it the lovely, shadowy cave sacred to the nymphs called Naiads. This is the vaulted cave where you used to offer the nymphs many perfect sacrifices. And that — that is Mount Neriton, cloaked in forest."
With these words the goddess scattered the mist, and the land came into view. Then long-suffering, godlike Odysseus rejoiced, glad to see his own country, and he kissed the life-giving earth. At once he lifted his hands and prayed to the nymphs: "Naiad nymphs, daughters of Zeus, I never thought I would see you again — but now I greet you with joyful prayers, and I will give you gifts too, as I used to, if the daughter of Zeus who drives the spoil is kind enough to let me live and lets my own dear son grow to manhood."
Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena spoke to him again: "Take heart, and do not let these things trouble your mind. For now, let us stow your treasure at once in the depths of this wondrous cave, so that it stays safe for you there. And let us plan together how everything may turn out for the very best."
With these words the goddess went down into the shadowy cave, searching out its hidden corners, while Odysseus carried everything closer — the gold, the unbreakable bronze, and the finely made clothing the Phaeacians had given him. He stowed it all away carefully, and Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, set a stone across the entrance.
Then the two of them sat down at the foot of the sacred olive tree and began to plot death for the arrogant suitors. The bright-eyed goddess Athena spoke first, saying: "Son of Laertes, sprung from Zeus, resourceful Odysseus, think how you will lay your hands on these shameless suitors, who have lorded it over your house for three years now, courting your godlike wife and offering bridal gifts. She, meanwhile, mourns your return always in her heart, and gives every man hope, sending promises to each one separately, but her mind is set on something else entirely."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her: "Ah, then it truly seems I was fated to die a wretched death in my own halls, like Agamemnon son of Atreus, if you had not told me all this in proper order, goddess. Come, then, weave me a plan for how I can pay them back. Stand beside me yourself, breathe fierce courage into me, just as you did when we tore the shining headband from the walls of Troy. If you would stand by me with such spirit, bright-eyed one, I could fight three hundred men together with you, my lady goddess, if you helped me with all your heart."
Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena answered him: "I will indeed be beside you, and you will not escape my notice, whenever we set about this work. And I think that some of these suitors who are eating up your livelihood will spatter that vast floor with their blood and brains. But now let me make you unrecognizable to every mortal eye. I will wither the fine skin on your supple limbs, strip the golden hair from your head, and clothe you in rags that would make anyone sick to look at the man wearing them. I will dim those eyes of yours that were once so beautiful, so that you will look shabby and worthless to all the suitors, and to the wife and son you left behind in your halls. You yourself must go first to the swineherd, who tends your pigs but still bears you goodwill, and loves your son and level-headed Penelope. You will find him sitting among his swine, which graze near the Rock of Corax and the spring of Arethusa, eating the acorns that satisfy them and drinking the dark water that feeds the rich fat on their bodies.
"Stay there and question him about everything, while I go to Sparta, land of beautiful women, to summon Telemachus, your own dear son, Odysseus — he has gone to Menelaus, in wide Lacedaemon, to ask after you, to learn if you are still alive somewhere."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her: "Why did you not tell him yourself, since your mind knows everything? Was it so that he too might wander and suffer hardship on the barren sea, while others eat up his living?"
Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena answered him: "Do not let him weigh too heavily on your mind. I myself sent him on his way, so that he might win good fame by going there. He suffers no real hardship — no, he sits at ease in the halls of the son of Atreus, with everything in abundance around him. It is true that young men lie in wait for him with a black ship, eager to kill him before he reaches his own native land — but I do not think that will happen. Sooner the earth will hold more than one of these suitors who are eating up your livelihood."
So speaking, Athena touched him with her wand. She withered the fine skin on his supple limbs, stripped the golden hair from his head, and covered every limb with the skin of an old, old man. She dimmed his eyes, once so beautiful, and dressed him in another set of rags — foul, torn, grimed with filthy smoke. Over this she threw the great hide of a swift deer, worn bare of hair, and gave him a staff and a wretched, tattered bag slung by a twisted cord. And so, once the two of them had settled their plan, they parted — she then went to holy Lacedaemon, to fetch the son of Odysseus.