Odysseus, the great teller of tales, launched out on his story: "Alcinous, majesty, shining among your island people, what a fine thing it is to listen to such a bard as we have here—the man sings like a god. The crown of life, I'd say. There's nothing better than when deep joy holds sway throughout the realm and banqueters up and down the palace sit in ranks, enthralled to hear the bard, and before them all, the tables heaped with bread and meats, and drawing wine from a mixing-bowl the steward makes his rounds and keeps the winecups flowing. This, to my mind, is the best that life can offer. But now, you’re set on probing the bitter pains I’ve borne, so I’m to weep and grieve, it seems, still more. Well then, what shall I go through first, what shall I save for last? What pains—the gods have given me my share. Now let me begin by telling you my name…so you may know it well and I in times to come, if I can escape the fatal day, will be your host, your sworn friend, though my home is far from here. I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, known to the world for every kind of craft—my fame has reached the skies. Sunny Ithaca is my home. Atop her stands our seamark, Mount Neriton’s leafy ridges shimmering in the wind. Around her a ring of islands circle side-by-side. Dulichon, Same, wooded Zacynthus too, but mine lies low and away, the farthest out to sea, rearing into the western dusk while the others face the east and breaking day. Mine is a rugged land but good for raising sons—and I myself, I know no sweeter sight on earth than a man’s own native country. True enough, Calypso the lustrous goddess tried to hold me back, deep in her arching caverns, craving me for a husband. So did Circe, holding mejust as warmly in her halls, the bewitching queen of Aeaea keen to have me too. But they never won the heart inside me, never. So nothing is as sweet as a man's own country, his own parents, even though he's settled down in some luxurious house, off in a foreign land and far from those who bore him. No more. Come, let me tell you about the voyage fraught with hardship Zeus inflicted on me, homeward bound from Troy... The wind drove me out of Ilium on to Ismarus, the Cicones' stronghold. There I sacked the city, killed the men, but as for the wives and plunder, that rich haul we dragged away from the place—we shared it round so no one, not on my account, would go deprived of his fair share of spoils. Then I urged them to cut and run, set sail, but would they listen? Not those mutinous fools; there was too much wine to swill, too many sheep to slaughter down along the beach, and shambling longhorn cattle. And all the while the Cicones sought out other Cicones, called for help from their neighbors living inland: a larger force, and stronger soldiers too, skilled hands at fighting men from chariots, skilled, when a crisis broke, to fight on foot. Out of the morning mist they came against us—packed as the leaves and spears that flower forth in spring—and Zeus presented us with disaster, me and my comrades doomed to suffer blow on mortal blow. Lining up, both armies battled it out against our swift ships, both raked each other with hurtling bronze lances. Long as morning rose and the blessed day grew stronger we stood and fought them off, massed as they were, but then, when the sun wheeled past the hour for unyoking oxen, the Cicones broke our lines and beat us down at last. Out of each ship, six men-at-arms were killed; the rest of us rowed away from certain doom. From there we sailed on, glad to escape our death yet sick at heart for the dear companions we had lost. But I would not let our rolling ships set sail until the crews had raised the triple cry, saluting each poor comrade cut down by the fierce Cicones on that plain. Now Zeus who masses the stormclouds hit the fleet with the North Wind—a howling, demonic gale, shrouding over in thunderheads the earth and sea at once—and night swept down from the sky and the ships went plunging headlong on, our sails slashed to rags by the hurricane's blast! We struck them—cringing at death we rowed our ships to the nearest shoreline, pulled with all our power. There, for two nights, two days, we lay by, no letup, eating our hearts out, bent with pain and bone-tired. When Dawn with her lovely locks brought on the third day, then stepping the masts and hoisting white sails high, we lounged at the oarlocks, letting wind and helmsmen keep us true on course...And now, at long last, I might have reached my native land unscathed, but just as I doubled Malea's cape, a tide-rip and the North Wind drove me way off course careering past Cythera. Nine whole days I was borne along by rough, deadly winds on the fish-infested sea. Then on the tenth our squadron reached the land of the Lotus-eaters, people who eat the lotus, mellow fruit and flower. We disembarked on the coast, drew water there and crewmen snatched a meal by the swift ships.
Once we'd had our fill of food and drink I sent a detail ahead, two picked men and a third, a runner, to scout out who might live there—men like us perhaps, who live on bread? So off they went and soon enough they mingled among the natives, Lotus-eaters, Lotus-eaters who had no notion of killing my companions, not at all, they simply gave them the lotus to taste instead...Any crewmen who ate the lotus, the honey-sweet fruit, lost all desire to send a message back, much less return, their only wish to linger there with the Lotus-eaters, grazing on lotus, all memory of the journey home dissolved forever. But I brought them back, back to the hollow ships, and streaming tears—I forced them, hauled them under the rowing benches, lashed them fast and shouted out commands to my other, steady comrades: 'Quick, no time to lose, embark in the racing ships!'—so none could eat the lotus, forget the voyage home. They swung aboard at once, they sat to the oars in ranks and in rhythm churned the water white with stroke on stroke. From there we sailed on, our spirits now at a low ebb, and reached the land of the high and mighty Cyclops, lawless brutes, who trust so to the everlasting gods they never plant with their own hands or plow the soil. Unsown, unplowed, the earth teems with all they need, wheat, barley and vines, swelled by the rains of Zeus to yield a big full-bodied wine from clustered grapes. They have no meeting place for council, no laws either, no, up on the mountain peaks they live in arching caverns—each a law to himself, ruling his wives and children, not a care in the world for any neighbor. Now, a level island stretches flat across the harbor, not close inshore to the Cyclops' coast, not too far out, thick with woods where the wild goats breed by hundreds. No trampling of men to start them from their lairs, no hunters roughing it out on the woody ridges, stalking quarry, ever raid their haven. No flocks browse, no plowlands roll with wheat; unplowed, unsown forever—empty of humankind—the island just feeds droves of bleating goats. For the Cyclops have no ships with crimson prows, no shipwrights there to build them good trim craft that could sail them out to foreign ports of call as most men risk the seas to trade with other men. Such artisans would have made this island too a decent place to live in...No mean spot, it could bear you any crop you like in season. The water-meadows along the low foaming shore run soft and moist, and your vines would never flag. The land's clear for plowing. Harvest on harvest, a man could reap a healthy stand of grain—the subsoil's dark and rich. There's a snug deep-water harbor there, what's more, no need for mooring-gear, no anchor-stones to heave, no cables to make fast. Just beach your keels, ride out the days till your shipmates' spirit stirs for open sea and a fair wind blows. And last, at the harbor's head there's a spring that rushes fresh from beneath a cave and black poplars flourish round its mouth. here we landed, and surely a god steered us in through the pitch-black night. Not that he ever showed himself, with thick fog swirling around the ships, the moon wrapped in clouds and not a glimmer stealing through that gloom. Not one of us glimpsed the island—scanning hard—or the long combers rolling us slowly toward the coast, not till our ships had run their keels ashore. Beaching our vessels smoothly, striking sail, the crews swung out on the low shelving sand and there we fell asleep, awaiting Dawn's first light. When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more we all turned out, intrigued to tour the island. The local nymphs, the daughters of Zeus himself, flushed mountain-goats so the crews could make their meal. Quickly we fetched our curved bows and hunting spears from the ships and, splitting up into three bands, we started shooting, and soon enough some god had sent us bags of game to warm our hearts. A dozen vessels sailed in my command and to each crew nine goats were shared out and mine alone took ten. Then all day long till the sun went down we sat and feasted well on sides of meat and rounds of heady wine. The good red stock in our vessels' holds had not run out, there was still plenty left; the men had carried off a generous store in jars when we stormed and sacked the Cicones' holy city. Now we stared across at the Cyclops' shore, so near we could even see their smoke, hear their voices, their bleating sheep and goats... And then when the sun had set and night came on we lay down and slept at the water's shelving edge. When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more I called a muster briskly, commanding all the hands, 'The rest of you stay here, my friends-in-arms. I'll go across with my own ship and crew and probe the natives living over there. What are they—violent, savage, lawless? or friendly to strangers, god-fearing men?' book 9 of the odyssey lines 1-196, translated by Robert Fagles and brought to you by Myzus Persicae
