The <I>Odyssey</I>
Page 42
A Wild Welcome
Dogs were always dozing close by, savage and beastlike,
four of them raised by the swineherd, a leader of good men.
He fitted sandals now to his feet with some cuttings
of lightly colored ox-hide. Three other swineherds
had gone off this way and that way, driving their clusters
of hogs, and a fourth he’d sent himself to the city,
driving a boar. The overbearing suitors had forced him:
they’d kill it there and fill their hearts with the pig-meat.
Suddenly now the dogs spotted Odysseus,
growled fiercely and charged him. Odysseus wisely
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sat and let the staff drop from his right hand.
There on his own land he’d have suffered outrageous
harm but the swineherd was fast in running behind them—
the ox-hide dropped from his hand as he rushed through the open
gate with a yell—and he scattered the dogs this way and that way
with volleys of stones. Shortly he said to his master,
“The dogs would surely and swiftly have torn you
apart, old man, your cries pouring shame on my own head.
Gods have given me plenty of sorrow already.
I’ve sat here often in pain, mourning a godlike
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master and raising fattened boars to be eaten
by strangers while my master is wandering hungry
maybe in a far-off land, a city of strange-sounding people—
if somehow the man’s alive and looks at the Sun’s light.
Warmer Welcome
“But follow me now, old man, let’s go to my lodging.
After your heart has filled with food and my good wine,
you’ll tell me your birthplace and all the trouble you’ve gone through.”
Speaking that way the godlike hog-tender led him
along to the house. He strewed thick brushwood to sit on
and spread out a goat-hide, a bulky and wild one,
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shaggy and broad—his own bed. Glad to be welcomed
so and promptly, Odysseus said to the swineherd:
“My host, I pray that Zeus and the rest of the deathless
Gods lavish whatever you want. You’ve welcomed me fully.”
The Long-Lost Master
Then, Eumaios the swineherd, you answered by saying,
♦ “My guest, even if men poorer than you came,
it’s wrong to mistreat them. Every stranger and beggar
comes from Zeus. Our gifts are small but they’re friendly
being our own. Slaves must follow that custom,
however they dread their lords powerfully ruling—
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our new lords. For Gods blocked his return home,
a man who’d care for me staunchly, give me belongings,
a house and land—yes and a wife who had often
been wooed by men! A good-hearted master lavishes all that
on hard workers. And Gods have cherished my own work:
see how it’s all flourished under my tending.
My lord would have helped me greatly if only he’d grown old
here at home. But he died. Let Helen’s family wholly
die for she loosened the knees of thousands of soldiers.
My master went there, honoring great Agamemnon
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battling Trojans at Ilion, known for its horses.”
Not the Best Ham Dinner
He stopped and took a belt to cinch up his tunic.
He walked to the pens and sties, full of their porkers,
chose a pair and took them both to the slaughter.
He seared them, sliced them and put each slice on its own spit.
Having roasted them all he set them there for Odysseus,
ham hot on the spits with a white sprinkle of barley.
Then he’d mixed the honey-sweet wine in an ivy
bowl and sat down facing his master and urged him,
“Eat now, stranger. It’s all meat from the younger
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pigs we slaves can hand you. The fat ones go to the suitors
who don’t think much of the angry Gods or of pity.
The Gods’ Vengeance
“But blessed Gods don’t like such reckless behavior.
They prize justice, the acts of those who are fair men.
Even a lawless enemy landing on foreign
soil after Zeus allows him some booty:
he loads a ship with plunder and sails home
but powerful dread falls on his heart of that vengeance.
“But these men know—they’ve heard the voice of some Power—
my master has died wretchedly. Now they will not court
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right and they won’t go home. They’d rather be careless,
haughtily wasting resources, sparing in no way.
Every day and evening—gifts from the great Zeus—
they kill not one or a pair of victims but far more.
They’re overbearing with wine, drinking and wasting.
A Onetime Vast Wealth
“My master’s wealth was boundless. None of our war-chiefs
owns as much, not on the shadowy mainland,
not on Ithaka. Twenty together could hardly
match his goods. I’ll tell you myself what their count is.
♦ He owns twelve herds of cattle and sheep on the mainland,
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twelve of swine and twelve wide-ranging goat herds,
tended by strangers there or watched by his own men.
Here on the island outskirts too, grazing and spread-out,
eleven herds of goats are watched by trustworthy goatherds.
But every day one goat is led from a herd to the suitors,
the fattest of all, the goat that looks like the best one.
I watch and guard the swine herd myself but I also
carefully choose and send the best to the suitors.”
Liars and Listeners
His lord, as he spoke, ate meat with relish. He drank wine
briskly and planned harm for the suitors in silence.
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After dinner, his heart full of the good fare,
he filled a cup with wine, the cup he had drunk from,
and offered the full cup to his host, who happily took it.
Odysseus asked him, the words with a feathery swiftness,
“Who was the man who bought you, my friend, with his own wealth,
the very rich and powerful master you spoke of?
You said he died to honor the great Agamemnon.
Tell me the name of such a man—I may know him.
Zeus and the other deathless Gods will know if I happened
to spot him. I could have news. I’ve wandered a long way.”
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The swineherd answered him promptly, a leader of good men:
“Old man, no one wandering by with news of my master
would make his well-loved son or wife a believer.
Because a wanderer always needs to be cared for
he often lies. The truth is not what he wants most.
So many wanderers came to Ithakan country
and went to my lady, telling her stories they made up.
Still she welcomes them all and asks about each thing,
sadly. Tears form at her eyelids and fall down—
a woman’s way when her husband dies in a far land.
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So a man like you might spryly work up a story
if someone gave you a tunic and cloak for your trouble.
Too Late for Another Tall Tale
“But dogs or fast-flying birds already have torn off
flesh from my master’s bones. The spirit has left him.
Or sharks devoured him at sea, the bones of my master
lie on a
beach, wrapped in a layer of thick sand.
He’s lost out there, all of his loved ones from now on
must mourn and I mourn most, for how will I ever
find another lord so mild wherever I travel?
Not if I sailed again to the house of my Father
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and Mother where I was born, the home I was raised in.
And yet I mourn them less—although I am eager
to go back home and see them again with my own eyes—
the longing that holds me here is for long-gone Odysseus.
Stranger, I’ve scrupled to name him, though he is far off,
because of his heart’s love. He cared for me deeply.
I call him a lordly friend, the man who is absent.”
Your Lord Must Come Home
Long-suffering, godlike Odysseus answered,
“My friend, you strongly deny it, saying your master
will never come home, your heart will always believe that.
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So I won’t say it myself, but rather I’ll swear it:
Odysseus must come home! And soon as he lands here,
soon as he walks in the palace, reward me for good news:
give me a tunic and cloak, some beautiful clothing.
Whatever my needs, till then I will take nothing.
I hate the man more than the gates of Aides
who yields to his own wants and makes up a story.
Zeus be my witness, first of the Gods, and your welcoming table—
and faultless Odysseus’s hearth, a place I will go to—
surely it all will end the way I will say it:
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♦ this very month Odysseus truly will come home,
after the moon has waned and another is waxing.
Returning home he’ll take revenge on whoever
mistreats his wife and well-known son in his own house.”
The Ambush
But then Eumaios the swineherd, you answered by saying,
“Old man, I won’t reward you myself for your good news.
Odysseus won’t come home. Just drink and relax here.
Let’s talk about other things. Don’t remind me,
putting the heart in my chest in anguish. It always
returns when someone names my wonderful master.
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We’ll let it lie, your oath. And yet may Odysseus
come back home! I want it myself, and Penelopeia,
old Laertes and godlike Telemakhos want that.
“I grieve so much for the child too of Odysseus,
Telemakhos, helped by the Gods to grow like a young oak.
I thought he’d stand among men no less than the father
he always loved, a marvel in build and in beauty.
But now some deathless God has damaged his good mind
or maybe a man did: he went for news of his father
in holy Pulos. But high-born suitors are waiting
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to snare him traveling home in order to wipe out
♦ godlike Arkeisios’s bloodline on Ithaka, making
them all nameless. We’ll let him be, whether he’s caught there
or makes an escape with the hand of Zeus overarching.
Troubled Spirits
“But now say a word, old man, for your own cares.
Tell me the truth of it all, help me to know well
the man you are. Where are your city and parents?
What sort of ship did you sail on? How did the crewmen
take you to Ithaka? Who did they claim to be sons of?
I hardly suppose you came to our island by walking.”
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An answer came from Odysseus, full of his own plans:
“Well I’ll speak about that, I’ll answer you truly.
Yet if we both had food and honey-sweet wine here
to eat and drink for a long time in your shelter,
dining in peace while others handle the farmwork,
my tale could easily run through the course of a whole year
and not be done with all that’s troubled my spirits,
all the tasks that Gods have willed me to take on.
A Warrior from Krete
♦ “The broad island of Krete, I claim, was my birthplace.
My Father was wealthy enough, with plenty of other
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boys in the great hall, born and raised by his own wife.
Yet the mother who gave me birth was a second
wife he’d bought. But the son of Hulakos, Kastor—
the man I claim to be born to—honored me much as the other
lawful sons. Esteemed as a God in Krete’s country
Kastor had goods, lands and sons who were highly
praised until the Powers of death took him to Aides’
house. The sons divided my Father’s belongings:
highly spirited men, casting their own lots,
they gave me very little, only a small house.
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“In time I married a woman whose people were quite rich.