The Adventures of Ulysses

by Bernard Evslin

  “It is called moly,” he said. “It is magical. So long as you carry it, Circe’s drugs will not work. You will go to the castle. She will greet you and feed you. You will eat the food which, to her amazement, will leave you unharmed. Then you will draw your sword and advance upon her as though you meant to kill her. Then she will see that you have certain powers and will begin to plead with you. She will unveil enchantments more powerful than any she has yet used. Resist them you cannot, nor can any man, nor any god. Nor is there any counterspell that will work against such beauty. But if you wish to see your home again, if you wish to rescue your shipmates from the sty, you must resist her long enough to make her swear the great oath of the immortals—that she will not do you any harm as long as you are her guest. That is all I can do for you. From now on, it is up to you. We shall be watching you with interest. Farewell.” The golden youth disappeared just as a ray of sunlight does when a cloud crosses the face of the sun. Ulysses shook his head, wondering whether he had really seen the god or imagined him, but then he saw that he was still holding the curious flower, and he knew that Hermes had indeed been there. So he marched on toward the castle, through the pack of lions and wolves, who leaped about him, fawning, looking at him with their great intelligent eyes and trying to warn him in their snarling, growling voices. He stroked their heads, passed among them, and went into the castle.

  And here, he found Circe, sitting at her loom, weaving and singing. She wore a white tunic now and a flame-colored scarf and was as beautiful as the dawn. She stood up and greeted him, saying:

  “Welcome, stranger. I live here alone and seldom see anyone and almost never have guests. So you are triply welcome, great sea-stained warrior, for I know that you have seen battle and adventure and have tales to tell.”

  She drew him a warm, perfumed bath, and her servants bathed and anointed him and gave him clean garments to wear. When he came to her, she gave him a red bowl full of yellow food and said, “Eat.” The food smelled delicious; its fragrance was intoxicating. Ulysses felt that he wanted to plunge his face into it and grub it up like a pig, but he held the flower tightly, kept control of himself, and ate slowly. He did not quite finish the food. “Delicious,” he said. “Your own recipe?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Will you not finish?”

  “I am not quite so hungry as I thought”

  “Then drink. Here’s wine.” She turned her back to him as she poured the wine, and he knew that she was casting a powder in it. He smiled to himself and drank off the wine, then said: “Delicious. Your own grapes?”

  “You look weary, stranger,” she said. “Sit and talk with me.”

  “Gladly,” said Ulysses. “We have much to speak of, you and I. I’m something of a farmer myself. I breed cattle on my own little island of Ithaca, where I’m king—when I’m home. Won’t you show me your livestock?”

  “Livestock? I keep no cattle here.”

  “Oh, do you not? I fancied I heard pigs squealing out there. Must have been mistaken.”

  “Yes,” said Circe. “Badly mistaken.”

  “But you do have interesting animals. I was much struck by the wolves and lions who course in a pack like dogs—very friendly for such savage beasts.”

  “I have taught them to be friendly,” said Circe. “I am friendly myself, you see, and I like all the members of my household to share my goodwill.”

  “Their eyes,” said Ulysses. “I was struck by their eyes—so big and sad and clever. You know, as I think of it, they looked like … human eyes.”

  “Did they?” said Circe. “Well—the eyes go last.”

  She came to him swiftly, raised her wand, touched him on the shoulder, and said: “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 gently and snapped it in two. Then drawing his sword, he seized her by her long golden hair and forced her to her knees, pulling her head until her white throat was offered the blade of the sword. Then he said: “You have not asked me my name. It is Ulysses. I am an unlucky man but not altogether helpless. You have changed my men into pigs. Now I will change you into a corpse.”

  She did not flinch before the blade. Her great blue eyes looked into his. She took the sharp blade in her hand, stroked it gentry, and said:

  “It is almost worth dying to be overcome by so mighty a warrior. But I think living might be interesting, too, now that I have met you.”

  He felt her fingers burning the cold metal of the sword as if the blade had become part of his body. He tried to turn his head but sank deeper into the blueness of her eyes.

  “Yes, I am a sorceress,” she murmured, “a wicked woman. But you are a sorcerer, too, are you not? Changing me more than I have changed your men, for I changed only their bodies and you have changed my soul. It is no longer a wicked plotting soul but soft and tender and womanly, full of love for you.”

  Her voice throbbed. She stroked the sword blade. He raised her to her feet and said:

  “You are beautiful enough to turn any man into an animal. I will love you. But even before I am a man, I am a leader. My men are my responsibility. Before we can love each other I must ask you to swear the great oath that you will not harm me when I am defenseless, that you will not wound me and suck away my blood as witches do, but will 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 am ready to leave.”

  “I will try to see that you are never ready,” said Circe softly.

  Circe kept her promise. The next morning she took Ulysses out to the sty and called the pigs. They came trotting up, snuffing and grunting. As they streamed past her, rushing to Ulysses, she touched each one on the shoulder with her wand. As she did so, each pig stood up, his hind legs grew longer, his front hooves became hands, his eyes grew, his nose shrank, his quills softened into hair, and he was his human self once more, only grown taller and younger.

  The men crowded around Ulysses, shouting and laughing. He said to them: “Welcome, my friends. You have gone a short but ugly voyage to the animal state. And while you have returned—looking very well—it is clear that we are in a place of sorceries and must conduct ourselves with great care. Our enchanting hostess, Circe, has become so fond of our company that she insists we stay awhile. This, indeed, is the price of your release from hogdom. So you will now go down to your shipmates on the beach and tell them what has happened. Ask them to secure the ship and then return here with you to the castle. It is another delay in our journey, but it is far better than what might have been. Go, then.”

  The men trooped happily down to the harbor and told the others what had happened. At first, Eurylochus protested. “How do I know,” he said, “That you are not still under enchantment? How do I know that this is not some new trick of the sorceress to get us all into her power, turn us all to pigs, and keep us in the sty forever?”

  But the other men paid no heed to his warning. They were eager to see the castle and the beautiful witch, to taste the delicious food, and enjoy all the luxuries their friends had described. So they obeyed Ulysses’ commands. They dragged the ship up on the beach, beyond reach of the tide, unstepped its mast, then marched off laughing and singing toward the castle, carrying mast and oars and folded sail. Eurylochus followed, but he was afraid.

  For some time, things went well. Ulysses and Circe lived as husband and wife. The men were treated as welcome guests. They feasted for hours each night in the great dining hall. And as they ate, they were entertained by minstrels singing, by acrobats, dancing bears, and dancing girls. During the day they swam in the ocean, hunted wild boar, threw the discus, had archery and spear-throwing contests, raced, jumped, and wrestled. Then as dusk drew in they returned to the castle for their warm, perfumed baths and bowls of hot wine before the feasting began again.

  As for Ulysses, he found himself falling deeper under C
irce’s spell every day. Thoughts of home were dim now. He barely remembered his wife’s face. Sometimes he would think of days gone by and wonder when he could shake off this enchantment and resume his voyage. Then she would look at him. And her eyes, like blue flame, burned these pictures out of his head. Then he could not rest until he was within the scent of her hair, the touch of her hand. And he would whimper impatiently like a dog dreaming, shake his head, and go to her.

  “It is most curious,” she said. “But I love you more than all my other husbands.”

  “In the name of heaven, how many have you had?” he cried.

  “Ah, don’t say it like that. Not so many, when you consider. I have been a frequent widow, it is true. But, please understand, I am god-descended on both sides. I am immortal and cannot die. I have lived since the beginning of things.”

  “Yes. How many husbands have you had?”

  “Please, my dear, be fair. Gods have loved me, and satyrs and fauns and centaurs, and other creatures who do not die. But I, I have always had a taste for humankind. My favorite husbands have been men, human men. They, you see, grow old so quickly, and I am alone again. And time grows heavy and breeds mischief.”

  “How many husbands have you buried, dear widow?”

  “Buried? Why, none.”

  “I see. You cremate them.”

  “I do not let them die. I cannot bear dead things. Especially if they are things I have loved. Of all nature’s transformations, death seems to me the most stupid. No, I do not let them die. I change them into animals, and they roam this beautiful island forevermore. And I see them every day and feed them with my own hand.”

  “That explains those wolves and lions in the courtyard, I suppose.”

  “Ah, they are only the best, the cream, the mightiest warriors of ages gone. But I have had lesser husbands. They are now rabbits, squirrels, boars, cats, spiders, frogs, and monkeys. That little fellow there”—she pointed to a silvery little ape who was prancing and gibbering on top of the bedpost—“he who pelts you with walnut shells every night. He was very jealous, very busy and jealous, and still is. I picked their forms, you see, to match their dispositions. Is it not thoughtful of me?”

  “Tell me,” said Ulysses, “when I am used up, will I be good enough to join your select band of wolves and lions, or will I be something less? A toad, perhaps, or a snail?”

  “A fox, undoubtedly,” she said. “With your swiftness and your cunning ways—oh, yes, a fox. A king of foxes.” She stroked his beard. “But you are the only man who ever withstood my spells,” she said. “You are my conqueror, a unique hero. It is not your fate to stay with me. It is not my happy fate to arrange your last hours.”

  “Is it not?” said Ulysses.

  “No,” she said. “Unless you can wipe out of your mind all thoughts of home. Unless you can erase all dreams of battle and voyage, unless you can forget your men and release me from my oath and let them become animals, contented animals, then and then only, can you remain with me as husband forever. And I will give you of my immortality. Yes, that can be arranged. I know how. You will share my immortality and live days of sport and idleness and nights of love. And we will live together always, knowing no other, and we will never grow old.”

  “Can such a thing be?”

  “Yes. But the decision is yours. I have sworn an oath and cannot keep you against your will. If you choose, you can remain here with me and make this island a paradise of pleasure. If not, you must resume your voyage and encounter dangers more dreadful than any you have seen yet. You will watch friends dying before your eyes, have your own life imperiled a hundred times, be battered, bruised, torn, wave-tossed, all this, if you leave me. But it is for you to decide.”

  Ulysses stood up and strode to the edge of the terrace. From where he stood he could see the light dancing in a million hot little needles on the blue water. In the courtyard he saw the wolves and the lions. Beyond the courtyard, at the edge of the wood, he saw his men, happy-looking, healthy, tanned; some were wrestling, some flinging spears, others drawing the bow. Circe had crossed to her loom and was weaving, weaving and singing. He remembered his wife. She also, at home in Ithaca, would sit and weave. But how different she looked. Her hair was no fleece of burning gold, but black. She was much smaller than Circe, and she did not sing. “I have decided,” he said. “I must go.”

  “Must you?”

  “Yes.”

  “First let me tell you what the gods have decreed. If you sail away from this island, you cannot head for home. First you must go to the Land of the Dead.”

  “The Land of the Dead?” cried Ulysses. “No! No! It cannot be!”

  “To the Land of the Dead. To Tartarus. This is the decree. You must go there with all your men. And there you must consult certain ghosts, of whom you will be told, and they will prophesy for you and plan your homeward journey. And theirs is the route you must follow if you wish to see Ithaca again.”

  “The Land of the Dead, dark Tartarus, the realm of torment from which no mortal returns. Must I go there?”

  “Unless you stay with me here, in peace, in luxury, in every pleasure but that of adventure.”

  “It cannot be,” said Ulysses. “As you, beautiful sorceress, choose a form for your lovers that matches their natures and which they must wear when they are no longer men, so the Fates, with their shears, have cut out my destiny. It is danger, toil, battle, uncertainty. And, though I stop and refresh myself now and again, still must I resume my voyage, for that is my nature. And to fit my nature has fate cut the pattern of my days.”

  “Go quickly,” said Circe. “Call your men and depart. For if you stay here any longer, I shall forget all duty. I shall break my oath and keep you here by force and never let you go. Quickly then, brave one, quickly!”

  Ulysses summoned his men and led them down to the beach. They stepped the mast, rigged the sails, and sailed away. They caught a northwest puff. The sails filled and the black ship ran out of the harbor. Ulysses’ face was wet with Circe’s last tears and his heart was very heavy. But then spray dashed into his face with the old remembered bright shock, and he laughed.

  The last sound the men heard as the ship threaded through the mouth of the harbor and ran for the open sea was the howling of the lions and wolves who had followed them down to the beach. They stood now breast-deep in the surf, gazing after the white sail, crying their loneliness.

  The Land of the Dead

  IN THOSE DAYS MEN knew that the Ocean Stream was a huge river girdling the earth. Hades’ kingdom, dark Tartarus, was presumed to be on the farther shore, over the edge of the visible world. But no one could be certain, for those who went there did not return.

  Now it had been foretold by Circe that Ulysses would have to visit the Land of the Dead and be advised by wise ghosts before be could resume his journey and find his way back to Ithaca. So he turned his bow westward; and a strong east wind caught his white sails and sent the ship skimming toward waters no ship had sailed before.

  Night tumbled from the sky and set its blackness on the sea and would not lift. The ship sailed blindly. The men were clamped in a nameless grief. They could hardly bear the sound of their own voices but spoke to each other in whispers. The night wore on and did not give way to dawn. There were no stars, no moon. They sailed westward and waited for dawn, but no crack of light appeared in the sky. The darkness would not lift.

  Once again Ulysses lashed himself to the tiller and stuck splinters of wood in his eye sockets to prop the weary lids. And, finally, after a week of night, a feeble light did curdle the sky—not a regular dawn, no joyous burst of sun, but a grudging milky grayness that floated down and thickened into fog. Still Ulysses did not dare to sleep, for day was no better than night; no man could see in the dense woolly folds of fog.

  Still the east wind blew, pushing them westward through the curdling mist, and still Ulysses did not dare give over the helm. For he had heard that the westward rim of the world was always fog-gir
t, and was studded by murderously rocky islets, where dwelt the Cimmerians, who waited quietly in the fog for ships to crack upon their shores and deliver to them their natural food, shipwrecked sailors. Finally, Ulysses knew he could not keep awake any longer; yet he knew too that to give over the helm to anyone else meant almost certain death for them all. So he sent a sailor named Elpenor to climb the mast and try to see some distance ahead. No sooner had Elpenor reached the top of the mast than the ship yawed sharply. Ulysses lost his footing and stumbled against the mast.

  No one saw Elpenor fall. The fog was too thick. But they heard his terrible scream turned into a choking gurgle. And they knew that he had been shaken from the mast and had fallen into the sea and been drowned. No sooner had his voice gone still than the fog thinned. They could see from one end of the ship to the other—the wet sails, the shining spar, each other’s wasted faces. A white gull rose screaming and flew ahead of them.

  “Follow that gull,” said Ulysses. “He will lead us where we must go.”

  Then he stretched himself on the deck and went to sleep. Whereupon the crew began to whisper among themselves that the gull was the spirit of their shipmate, Elpenor, and that Ulysses had shaken him from the mast purposely, as one shakes fruit from a tree, so that he might fall in the water and be drowned, giving them the white flight of his spirit to follow to Tartarus.

  “He has murdered our shipmate,” they whispered to each other, “as he will murder us all to gain his ends.”

  But they did not dare say it loud enough to awaken Ulysses.

  All day they sailed, following the white flash of the gull, and when night came there were no stars and no moon, nothing but choking blackness. Ulysses took the helm again. But now the bow tipped forward and the stern arose, and the ship slipped through the water with a rushing, rustling speed as if it were sailing downhill. The men clung to the shrouds and wept, groaned, and pleaded with Ulysses to change course. But he answered them not at all. He planted his feet and gripped the tiller with all his strength, as the deck tilted and the ship slipped down, down.…