And as this thought came to the men, Circe passed among them, touching each one on the shoulder with a wand, saying,
Glut and swink,
Eat and drink,
Gobble food and guzzle wine.
Too rude I think for human folk,
Quite right, I think,
For swine!
As she said this spell in her lovely laughing voice, the men began to change. Their noses grew wide and long; their hair hardened into bristles; their hands and feet became hooves and they ran about on all fours, sobbing and snuffling, searching the floor for bones and crumbs.
But all the time they were crying real tears from their little red eyes, for they were pigs only in form. Their minds were still the minds of men, and they knew what had happened to them.
Circe kicked them away from the table. “Out! Out!” she cried, striking them with her wand and herding them out of the castle into a large sty. And there she flung them acorns and chestnuts and red berries, and watched them grubbing in the mud for the food she threw. She laughed a wild hard bright laugh and went back into the castle.
While all this was happening, Tyro was waiting at the gate. When the men did not return, he crept up to a bow-slit in the castle wall and looked in. It was dark now, and he saw the glimmer of torchlight and the dim shape of a woman at a loom, weaving. But he saw nothing of his men. And he could not hear their voices. A great fear seized him and he raced off as fast as he could, hoping that the beasts would not howl. The wolves and lions stood like statues or walked like shadows. Their eyes glittered in the cold moonlight, but none of them uttered a sound.
Tyro ran until the breath strangled in his throat. He thought his heart would crack out of his ribs, but he did not stop. He kept running, stumbling over roots, slipping on stones. He ran and ran until he reached the beach and fell into Ulysses’ arms. He gasped out the story — told Ulysses of the lions and wolves, of the woman singing in the castle, and how the men had gone in and not come out.
Ulysses said to his men, “I must go to the castle to see what has happened, but there is no need for you to risk your lives. Stay here. If I do not return by sunset tomorrow, then you must board the ship and sail away, for you will know that I am dead.”
The men pleaded with him not to go. But he said, “I have sworn an oath that I will never leave a man behind. If there is any way I can prevent this, I must. Farewell, dear friends.”
It was dawn by the time Ulysses found himself among the oak trees near the castle and heard the first faint howling of the animals. As he walked through the rose and gray light, a figure started up before him. It was a slender youth in golden breastplate, golden hat, and golden sandals with golden wings on them. And he held a golden staff. Ulysses fell to his knees.
“Why do you kneel, sir?” said the youth. “You are older than I am, and a mighty warrior. You should not kneel.”
“Ah,” cried Ulysses. “Behind your youth I see time itself stretching to the beginning of things. I know you. You are Mercury, the swift one, the god of voyagers, the messenger god. I pray you have come with good tidings for me.”
“I have come to warn you,” said Mercury. “In that castle sits one who awaits you. Her name is Circe and she is a very dangerous person. A sorceress. A sea witch. A doer of magical mischief. And she is waiting for you, Ulysses. She sits at her loom, waiting. She has already bewitched your shipmates. She fed them, watched them make pigs of themselves, and finally helped them on their way. In short, they are now in a pig sty being fattened.”
“I’m used to danger,” said Ulysses. “I have faced giants and ogres but what can I do against magic?”
“I have come to help you,” said Mercury. “Neptune’s anger against you does not please all of us, you know. We gods have our moods but we must keep things in balance. Now listen closely… you must do exactly as I say…”
Mercury snapped his fingers and a flower appeared. It was white and very sweet-smelling, with a black and yellow root. He gave it to Ulysses.
“This flower is magical,” said Mercury. “So long as you carry it, Circe’s drugs will not work on you. Now go to the castle. She will greet you and feed you. You will eat the food, but it will not harm you. Then you must threaten to kill her. She will plead with you, and then try to enchant you with her voice, her face, her manner. You will not be able to resist them. No man can — nor any god either. And there is no counterspell that will work against her beauty.”
“What chance do I have then?” said Ulysses.
“The chance you give yourself. If you want to see your home again, and rescue your men from the sty, you must resist her long enough to make her swear the great oath of the immortals. She must swear that she will not do you any harm as long as you are her guest. That is all I can do. The rest is up to you. Farewell.”
The golden youth disappeared like a ray of sunlight. Ulysses shook his head, wondering whether he had really seen the god, or only imagined him. When he saw that he was still holding the curious flower, he knew that Mercury had indeed been there. So he marched on toward the castle, through the pack of lions and wolves, who leaped about him. They looked at him with their great intelligent eyes, trying to warn him in their snarling growling way. He stroked their heads as he passed among them, and went on into the castle.
And here he found Circe sitting at her loom, weaving and singing. She wore a white tunic and a flame-colored scarf, and was as beautiful as the dawn. She stood up and greeted him.
“Welcome, stranger.”
“Thank you, beautiful lady.”
“No. Thank you. I live here alone and seldom see anyone. I almost never have guests. So you are most welcome, great warrior. I know that you have seen battle and adventure, and have tales to tell.”
Circe’s servants drew Ulysses a warm, perfumed bath and gave him clean garments to wear. When he came back, Circe gave him a red bowl full of the same food she had given his men. Its fragrance was intoxicating. Ulysses wanted to plunge his face into the bowl and grub up the food like a pig. But he held the flower tightly, and kept control of himself. He ate slowly, and did not quite finish the food.
“Delicious,” he said.
“Will you not finish?” she asked.
“I am not quite as hungry as I thought,” Ulysses replied.
Circe turned her back to him as she poured the wine, and he knew she was putting a powder in it. He smiled to himself, then drank of the wine, and said, “Delicious. Your own grapes?”
“You look weary, stranger,” she said. “Sit and talk with me.”
“Gladly,” said Ulysses. “We have much to talk about, you and I. I’m something of a farmer myself. I raise cattle on my own little island of Ithaca, where I’m king. Won’t you show me your livestock?”
“Livestock? I keep no cattle here.”
“Don’t you? I thought I heard pigs squealing out there. I must have been mistaken.”
“Yes,” said Circe. “Badly mistaken.”
“But you do have interesting animals. I was amazed by the wolves and lions outside your gates. They run in a pack like dogs — very friendly for such savage beasts.”
“I taught them to be friendly,” said Circe. “I’m friendly myself, and I like all the members of my household to share my good will.”
“They have remarkable eyes,” said Ulysses. “So big and sad and clever. You know, they looked to me like … human eyes.”
“Did they?” said Circe. “Well — the eyes go last.”
Then she came to him swiftly, raised her wand, and touched him on the shoulder, saying: “Change, change, change! Turn, turn, turn!”
Nothing happened. Her eyes widened when she saw him sitting there unchanged, sniffing at the flower he had taken from his tunic. He took the wand from her and snapped it in two. Then he drew his sword, seized her by her long golden hair, and forced her to her knees.
“You have not asked me my name,” he said. “It is Ulysses. I am an unlucky man, but not altogether helpl
ess. You have changed my men into pigs. Now I will change you into a corpse.”
Circe did not flinch before the sword. Her great blue eyes looked into his. “But I think living might be more interesting — now that I have met you,” she murmured.
Ulysses tried to turn his head, but he sank deeper into the blueness of her eyes.
“Yes, I am a sorceress,” she whispered. “A witch. But you are a sorcerer too, are you not? You have changed me more than I have changed your men. I changed only their bodies, you have changed my soul. It is no longer a wicked plotting soul, but soft and tender — full of love for you.”
“Listen to me, beautiful witch. Before there can be any love between us, I must ask you to swear the great oath that you will not harm me in any way as long as I am your guest. You must swear not to wound me or suck away my blood, as witches do, but treat me honestly. And that, first of all, you will restore my men to their own forms, and let me take them with me when I leave.”
“Don’t speak of leaving,” said Circe softly.
Circe swore the oath. She took Ulysses out to the sty, and as the pigs streamed past her, rushing to Ulysses, she touched each one on the shoulder with her wand, muttering:
Snuffle and groan,
Gasp and pant.
Muffle your moan,
I dis-enchant.
For your captain fine
I undo my deed,
And release you swine
As agreed.
As she spoke the spell, each pig stood up. His hind legs grew longer, his front hooves became hands. His eyes grew, his nose shrank, and his quills softened into hair. Each was himself once more, with his own form, his own face, but taller now and younger. The men crowded around Ulysses, shouting and laughing.
“Welcome, my friends,” he said. “You have gone a short but ugly voyage to the animal state. You have returned looking very well, but it is clear that we are in a place of strong magic and must conduct ourselves with care. Our enchanting hostess, Circe, has become so fond of our company that she insists we stay a while longer. But I don’t think we can accept the lady’s hospitality.”
Circe seized Ulysses by the arm, and drew him away from the others.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “I don’t want you as a guest. I want you to be my husband.”
“I am much obliged, dear lady. But I am already married.”
“Only to a mortal. That doesn’t count. I am a goddess — an immortal. We can have as many husbands as we like.”
“How many have you had?” cried Ulysses.
“Ah, don’t say it like that,” said Circe. “I have been a widow quite often, it is true. But please understand. I am immortal. I cannot die. I have lived since the beginning of things.”
“How many husbands have you buried, dear widow?”
“I do not let them die,” replied Circe. “I cannot bear dead things — especially if they are things I have loved. I turn them into animals, and they roam this beautiful island forever.”
“That explains the wolves and lions outside the walls then,” said Ulysses.
“Ah, they are only the best!” cried Circe. “The mightiest warriors of ages gone. I have had lesser husbands. They are now rabbits, squirrels, boars, cats, spiders, frogs — and snails. See that little monkey on the wall trying to pelt us with walnuts? He was very jealous, very bossy and jealous and still is. I pick their animal forms to match their dispositions, you see. Isn’t that thoughtful of me?”
“Tell me,” said Ulysses. “When you tire of me, will I be good enough to join the lions and wolves — or will I be something less? A toad, perhaps, or a snail?”
“A fox, of course,” said Circe. “With your red hair and your swiftness and your cunning ways — oh, yes, a fox. You are the only man who has ever withstood my spells, Ulysses. I beg you, stay with me.”
“I have told you I cannot.”
“I can teach you to wipe out of your mind all thoughts of home, all dreams of battle and voyage. And I will do for you what I have done for no other mortal. I will teach you to live forever. Yes, I can do that, Ulysses. We can live together always, and never grow old.”
“Can such a thing be?” whispered Ulysses whose one fear in the world was of growing too old for voyages and adventure. “Can you actually keep me from growing old?”
“I can,” said Circe. “If you want me to. The decision is yours. You can stay here with me, and make this island your home. Or you can resume your voyage and meet dangers more dreadful than any you have yet seen. You will encounter sea monsters and land monsters, giant cannibals and rocks that will try to crush your ship between them. Neptune’s anger will grow each day. If you leave this island, Ulysses, you will see your friends die before your eyes. Your own life will be imperiled a thousand times. You wilt be battered, bruised, torn, wave-tossed — all this if you leave me. It is for you to decide.”
Ulysses stood up and walked to the edge of the terrace. He could see the light dancing on the blue water. He could hear the wolves and lions beyond the wall. Near the empty sties, he saw his men, healthy and tanned. Some were wrestling, some were practicing with spears and bows. Circe had crossed to her loom and was weaving. He thought of his wife at home in Ithaca when she would sit and weave. Her hair was not the color of burning gold. It was black. And she was much smaller than Circe, and did not sing. Certainly she was no goddess. She was very human, and did not have the power to keep him young forever. He went to Circe.
“I have decided,” he said. “I must go.”
“Must you?”
“Yes.”
“I have read the future for you, Ulysses. You know what lies in store for you if you leave this place. When disaster strikes, remember that the choice was yours.”
“I am a voyager, Circe. And danger is my destiny. Toil. Battle. Uncertainty. That is my destiny, and the nature of voyages.”
“Go quickly, then! If you stay here any longer I shall break my oath. I shall keep you here by force and never let you go.”
Ulysses left the castle at once and called to his men. He led them back to the beach where they arrived just before sunset. They piled into the skiffs and pushed off for the anchored ship. They stepped the mast, rigged the sails, and scudded away. They caught a northwest wind. The sails filled, and the black ship ran out of the harbor. Ulysses’ face was wet with Circe’s tears, and his heart was heavy. But then the salt spray dashed into his face, and he laughed.
The lions and wolves had followed the men down to the beach, and stood breast-deep in the surf. They gazed after the white sail. Their lonesome howling was the last sound the men heard as the ship ran for the open sea.
Keeper of the Winds
For three sunny days the black ship sped southward from Circe’s island. Ulysses began to hope that Neptune’s anger had cooled enough to allow fair sailing the rest of the way home. He took the helm himself, and kept it night and day, although his sailors pleaded with him to take some rest. But he was wild with longing to get home to his wife and young son, and the dear land of Ithaca that he had not seen for many years.
At the end of the third night, just as the first light of day was staining the sky, Ulysses saw something very strange. At first he thought it was a trick of the light, and he rubbed his eyes and looked again. But there it was, a towering bright wall of beaten bronze floating on the sea and blocking their way.
“Well,” he thought to himself. “It cannot stretch across the sea. There must be a way around it.”
He began to sail along the wall, trying to find his way around it. Ulysses had no way of knowing this, but the vengeful sea god had guided his ship to the island fortress of Aeolus, keeper of the winds.
When the world was very new, the gods had become wary of the terrible strength of the winds, and had decided to tame them. Zeus and Neptune, working together, had floated an island out onto the sea, and then encircled it with a mighty bronze wall. Then they raised a mountain on the island, and hollowed it out until i
t became a huge stone dungeon. Into this hollow mountain they stuffed the struggling winds, and made Aeolus their jailer. Whenever the gods wanted to stir up a storm and needed a certain wind, they sent word to Aeolus. He would draw his sword and stab the side of the mountain, making a hole big enough for the wind to fly through. If the North Wind were wanted, he stabbed the north side of the mountain. For the East Wind he stabbed the east slope, and so on. When the storm was done, Aelous would whistle the wind home again. Then the huge brawling gale would crawl back whimpering to its hole.
Aeolus was an enormously fat little god with a long wind-tangled beard and a red wind-beaten face. He loved to eat and drink, play games, and hear stories. He had twelve children, six boys and six girls. He sent them out one by one to ride the back of the wind and manage the weather for each month.
It happened that just as Ulysses was sailing southward, Aeolus decided to punish his winds. On a night of mischief they had howled around his castle, shattering the great crystal windows, lifting the tiles from the roof, and uprooting a thousand-year-old oak that was his pride. “Break my windows, would you?” bellowed Aeolus. “Blow the cows into the next field and uproot my beautiful oak—very funny. Well, you’ll bake in your mountain until I cook the mischief out of you!” And with this he hurled the winds headlong into their prison cave.
Since the winds were walled up, a great calm fell upon the seas just as Ulysses was trying to find a way around the bronze wall. The water was oily and still. The ship’s sail drooped. They were becalmed. For a day and a night the ship bobbed on the water waiting for a breeze. Ulysses stared helplessly at the bronze wall towering before him. Food and water were running desperately low.
“All right, men!” Ulysses shouted. “Haul sail! Out oars! We must row for it!”
The men bent to the oars and the ship crawled around the bronze wall. Finally they came to a huge gate. As Ulysses gazed upon it in amazement, the gate swung open. The water ruffled darkly, and a gale struck. The shrouds snapped, the sails bulged, the mast groaned, and the ship was blown through the gate, which immediately shut behind them. Once within the wall, the wind fell off, and Ulysses found his ship drifting toward a beautiful hilly island. Suddenly there was another great howling of wind. The sun was blown out like a candle. Darkness fell. Ulysses felt the deck leap beneath him as the ship was lifted halfway out of the water and hurled through the blackness. He tried to shout, but the breath was torn from his mouth and he was thrown to the deck, unconscious.
The Dolphin Rider Page 6