He took the bronze-shod lance from the man’s hand
and laid it down full-length on deck; then swung
his own weight after it aboard the cutter,
taking position aft, making a place
for Theoklýmenos near him. The stern lines
were slacked off, and Telémakhos commanded:
“Rig the mast; make sail!” Nimbly they ran
to push the fir pole high and step it firm
amidships in the box, make fast the forestays,
and hoist aloft the white sail on its halyards.
A following wind came down from grey-eyed Athena,
blowing brisk through heaven, and so steady
the cutter lapped up miles of salt blue sea,
passing Krounoi abeam and Khalkis estuary
at sundown when the sea ways all grew dark.
Then, by Athena’s wind borne on, the ship
rounded Pheai by night and coasted Elis,
the green domain of the Epeioi; thence
he put her head north toward the running pack
of islets, wondering if by sailing wide
he sheered off Death, or would be caught.
That night
Odysseus and the swineherd supped again
with herdsmen in their mountain hut. At ease
when appetite and thirst were turned away,
Odysseus, while he talked, observed the swineherd
to see if he were hospitable still—
if yet again the man would make him stay
under his roof, or send him off to town.
“Listen,” he said, “Eumaios; listen, lads.
At daybreak I must go and try my luck
around the port. I burden you too long.
Direct me, put me on the road with someone.
Nothing else for it but to play the beggar
in populous parts. I’ll get a cup or loaf,
maybe from some householder. If I go
as far as the great hall of King Odysseus
I might tell Queen Penélopê my news.
Or I can drift inside among the suitors
to see what alms they give, rich as they are.
If they have whims, I’m deft in ways of service—
that I can say, and you may know for sure.
By grace of Hermês the Wayfinder, patron
of mortal tasks, the god who honors toil,
no man can do a chore better than I can.
Set me to build a fire, or chop wood,
cook or carve, mix wine and serve—or anything
inferior men attend to for the gentry.”
Now you were furious at this, Eumaios,
and answered—O my swineherd!—
“Friend, friend,
how could this fantasy take hold of you?
You dally with your life, and nothing less,
if you feel drawn to mingle in that company—
reckless, violent, and famous for it
out to the rim of heaven. Slaves
they have, but not like you. No—theirs are boys
in fresh cloaks and tunics with pomade
ever on their sleek heads, and pretty faces.
These are their minions, while their tables gleam
and groan under big roasts, with loaves and wine.
Stay with us here. No one is burdened by you,
neither myself nor any of my hands.
Wait here until Odysseus’ son returns.
You shall have clothing from him, cloak and tunic,
and passage where your heart desires to go.”
The noble and enduring man replied:
“May you be dear to Zeus for this, Eumaios,
even as you are to me. Respite from pain
you give me—and from homelessness. In life
there’s nothing worse than knocking about the world,
no bitterness we vagabonds are spared
when the curst belly rages! Well, you master it
and me, making me wait for the king’s son.
But now, come, tell me:
what of Odysseus’ mother, and his father
whom he took leave of on the sill of age?
Are they under the sun’s rays, living still,
or gone down long ago to lodge with Death?”
To this the rugged herdsman answered:
“Aye,
that I can tell you; it is briefly told.
Laërtês lives, but daily in his hall
prays for the end of life and soul’s delivery,
heartbroken as he is for a son long gone
and for his lady. Sorrow, when she died,
aged and enfeebled him like a green tree stricken;
but pining for her son, her brilliant son,
wore out her life.
Would god no death so sad
might come to benefactors dear as she!
I loved always to ask and hear about her
while she lived, although she lived in sorrow.
For she had brought me up with her own daughter,
Princess Ktimene, her youngest child.
We were alike in age and nursed as equals
nearly, till in the flower of our years
they gave her, married her, to a Samian prince,
taking his many gifts. For my own portion
her mother gave new clothing, cloak and sandals,
and sent me to the woodland. Well she loved me.
Ah, how I miss that family! It is true
the blissful gods prosper my work; I have
meat and drink to spare for those I prize;
but so removed I am, I have no speech
with my sweet mistress, now that evil days
and overbearing men darken her house.
Tenants all hanker for good talk and gossip
around their lady, and a snack in hall,
a cup or two before they take the road
to their home acres, each one bearing home
some gift to cheer his heart.”
The great tactician answered:
“You were still a child, I see,
when exiled somehow from your parents’ land.
Tell me, had it been sacked in war, the city
of spacious ways in which they made their home,
your father and your gentle mother? Or
were you kidnapped alone, brought here by sea
huddled with sheep in some foul pirate squadron,
to this landowner’s hall? He paid your ransom?”
The master of the woodland answered:
“Friend,
now that you show an interest in that matter,
attend me quietly, be at your ease,
and drink your wine. These autumn nights are long,
ample for story-telling and for sleep.
You need not go to bed before the hour;
sleeping from dusk to dawn’s a dull affair.
Let any other here who wishes, though,
retire to rest. At daybreak let him breakfast
and take the king’s own swine into the wilderness.
Here’s a tight roof; we’ll drink on, you and I,
and ease our hearts of hardships we remember,
sharing old times. In later days a man
can find a charm in old adversity,
exile and pain. As to your question, now:
A certain island, Syriê by name—
you may have heard the name—lies off Ortygia
due west, and holds the sunsets of the year.
Not very populous, but good for grazing
sheep and kine; rich too in wine and grain.
No dearth is ever known there, no disease
wars on the folk, of ills that plague mankind;
but when the townsmen reach old age, Apollo
with his longbow of silver comes, and Artemis,
showering arrows of mild death.
Two towns
divide t
he farmlands of that whole domain,
and both were ruled by Ktêsios, my father,
Orménos’ heir, and a great godlike man.
Now one day some of those renowned seafaring
men, sea-dogs, Phoinikians, came ashore
with bags of gauds for trading. Father had
in our household a woman of Phoinikia,
a handsome one, and highly skilled. Well, she
gave in to the seductions of those rovers.
One of them found her washing near the mooring
and lay with her, making such love to her
as women in their frailty are confused by,
even the best of them.
In due course, then,
he asked her who she was and where she hailed from:
and nodding toward my father’s roof, she said:
‘I am of Sidon town, smithy of bronze
for all the East. Arubas Pasha’s daughter.
Taphian pirates caught me in a byway
and sold me into slavery overseas
in this man’s home. He could afford my ransom.’
The sailor who had lain with her replied:
‘Why not ship out with us on the run homeward,
and see your father’s high-roofed hall again,
your father and your mother? Still in Sidon
and still rich, they are said to be.’
She answered:
‘It could be done, that, if you sailors take
oath I’ll be given passage home unharmed.’
Well, soon she had them swearing it all pat
as she desired, repeating every syllable,
whereupon she warned them:
‘Not a word
about our meeting here! Never call out to me
when any of you see me in the lane
or at the well. Some visitor might bear
tales to the old man. If he guessed the truth,
I’d be chained up, your lives would be in peril.
No: keep it secret. Hurry with your peddling,
and when your hold is filled with livestock, send
a message to me at the manor hall.
Gold I’ll bring, whatever comes to hand,
and something else, too, as my passage fee—
the master’s child, my charge: a boy so high,
bright for his age; he runs with me on errands.
I’d take him with me happily; his price
would be I know not what in sale abroad.’
Her bargain made, she went back to the manor.
But they were on the island all that year,
getting by trade a cargo of our cattle;
until, the ship at length being laden full,
ready for sea, they sent a messenger
to the Phoinikians woman. Shrewd he was,
this fellow who came round my father’s hall,
showing a golden chain all strung with amber,
a necklace. Maids in waiting and my mother
passed it from hand to hand, admiring it,
engaging they would buy it. But that dodger,
as soon as he had caught the woman’s eye
and nodded, slipped away to join the ship.
She took my hand and led me through the court
into the portico. There by luck she found
winecups and tables still in place—for Father’s
attendant counselors had dined just now
before they went to the assembly. Quickly
she hid three goblets in her bellying dress
to carry with her while I tagged along
in my bewilderment. The sun went down
and all the lanes grew dark as we descended,
skirting the harbor in our haste to where
those traders of Phoinikia held their ship.
All went aboard at once and put to sea,
taking the two of us. A favoring wind
blew from the power of heaven. We sailed on
six nights and days without event. Then Zeus
the son of Kronos added one more noon—and sudden
arrows from Artemis pierced the woman’s heart.
Stone-dead she dropped
into the sloshing bilge the way a tern
plummets; and the sailors heaved her over
as tender pickings for the seals and fish.
Now I was left in dread, alone, while wind
and current bore them on to Ithaka.
Laërtês purchased me. That was the way
I first laid eyes upon this land.”
Odysseus, the kingly man, replied:
“You rouse my pity,
telling what you endured when you were young.
But surely Zeus put good alongside ill:
torn from your own far home, you had the luck
to come into a kind man’s service, generous
with food and drink. And a good life you lead,
unlike my own, all spent in barren roaming
from one country to the next, till now.”
So the two men talked on, into the night,
leaving few hours for sleep before the Dawn
stepped up to her bright chair.
The ship now drifting
under the island lee, Telémakhos’
companions took in sail and mast, unshipped
the oars and rowed ashore. They moored her stern
by the stout hawser lines, tossed out the bow stones,
and waded in beyond the wash of ripples
to mix their wine and cook their morning meal.
When they had turned back hunger and thirst, Telémakhos
arose to give the order of the day.
“Pull for the town,” he said, “and berth our ship,
while I go inland across country. Later,
this evening, after looking at my farms,
I’ll join you in the city. When day comes
I hope to celebrate our crossing, feasting
everyone on good red meat and wine.”
His noble passenger, Theoklýmenos,
now asked:
“What as to me, my dear young fellow,
where shall I go? Will I find lodging here
with some one of the lords of stony Ithaka?
Or go straight to your mother’s hall and yours?”
Telémakhos turned round to him and said:
“I should myself invite you to our hall
if things were otherwise; there’d be no lack
of entertainment for you. As it stands,
no place could be more wretched for a guest
while I’m away. Mother will never see you;
she almost never shows herself at home
to the suitors there, but stays in her high chamber
weaving upon her loom. No, let me name
another man for you to go to visit:
Eurymakhos, the honored son of Pólybos.
In Ithaka they are dazzled by him now—
the strongest of their princes, bent on making
mother and all Odysseus’ wealth his own.
Zeus on Olympos only knows
if some dark hour for them will intervene.”
The words were barely spoken, when a hawk,
Apollo’s courier, flew up on the right,
clutching a dove and plucking her—so feathers
floated down to the ground between Telémakhos
and the moored cutter. Theoklýmenos
called him apart and gripped his hand, whispering:
“A god spoke in this bird-sign on the right.
I knew it when I saw the hawk fly over us.
There is no kinglier house than yours, Telémakhos,
here in the realm of Ithaka. Your family
will be in power forever.”
The young prince,
clear in spirit, answered:
“Be it so,
friend, as you say. And may you know as well
the f
riendship of my house, and many gifts
from me, so everyone may call you fortunate.”
He called a trusted crewman named Peiraios,
and said to him:
“Peiraios, son of Klýtios,
can I rely on you again as ever, most
of all the friends who sailed with me to Pylos?
Take this man home with you, take care of him,
treat him with honor, till I come.”
To this
Peiraios the good spearman answered:
“Aye,
stay in the wild country while you will,
I shall be looking after him, Telémakhos,
He will not lack good lodging.”
Down to the ship
he turned, and boarded her, and called the others
to cast off the stern lines and come aboard.
So men climbed in to sit beside the rowlocks.
Telémakhos now tied his sandals on
and lifted his tough spear from the ship’s deck;
hawsers were taken in, and they shoved off
to reach the town by way of the open sea
as he commanded them—royal Odysseus’
own dear son, Telémakhos,
On foot
and swiftly he went up toward the stockade
where swine were penned in hundreds, and at night
the guardian of the swine, the forester,
slept under arms on duty for his masters.
BOOK XVI
FATHER AND SON
But there were two men in the mountain hut—
Odysseus and the swineherd. At first light
The Odyssey: The Fitzgerald Translation Page 27