The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel

by Nikos Kazantzakis

More seals converged with tears from the world’s distant ends

  —gods, countries, sweetest exiles, passions and ideas—

  till the vast sea resounded with their plaintive dirge.

  Then nine lean crows appeared and honed their dreadful claws:

  “Oho, my lads, we’ve hunted him nine times nine years, 1255

  and though we’ve grown old with white wings and bleary eyes,

  he still stands proudly on his feet and fights with fate.

  When his death rattle rose, we smelled his scent far off,

  and from a small and thin-boned island zoned with vines

  and olive trees, we left his mighty death-gorged oak, 1260

  and came here, brother birds, all nine, to lick him clean!

  Make way, O gulls, his body has been ours since birth!”

  Then the gray-templed ravens of his island cawed

  and huddled round the feet of the swift-dying man,

  but as the sea-wolf heard them in his thickening daze 1265

  he slowly raised his hand, and the corpse-eaters vanished.

  The sea again heaved with its dirge, the seals swam round

  once more with their thin hung mustaches, their maid’s breasts;

  his seven faithful souls appeared like mist on waves,

  rowing a small cloud slowly, with translucent oars, 1270

  and when they saw their captain clutching the cold ice,

  then seven hoarse cries shrilled from seven splintered throats:

  “Aye, Captain, your tramp vessel on its final trip

  takes the cool dew for tiller, the black clouds for sheets

  and spreads the flute’s sound for a sea on which to sail— 1275

  the time has come now, raise your throat and give the sign!”

  But their great captain’s loins like a tall castle crashed,

  he longed to raise his hand, to utter a loud cry

  and welcome his dear comrades, his old faithful crew,

  the seven dreadful and deep souls his body bore, 1280

  but sweet sleep poured like honey down his sunken brains

  and his mind’s final flame assembled, flickering, faint,

  on his long backbone’s topmost and despairing wick.

  Then the great maggot rose, that fat prophetic worm, 1284

  its rosy body clad in armor, opened its jaws wide, 1285

  took the first bite in secret, munched, then gave the sign.

  But the death-traveling boatman watched with open eyes

  as his deep entrails melted, his flesh swayed like mist,

  and water, earth, air, fire and mind all slowly snapped

  and severed till each took the great road back once more. 1290

  His cords and nooses broke till the whole world was freed,

  all pleasures soared and disappeared, pain found repose,

  and the cadaverous sun leaned down to drown in waves.

  Love only still twined tightly in his moldy heart

  and threw a quick look backward till its lashes brimmed: 1295

  the past still blossomed and bore fruit, no soul or flesh

  was lost in the earth’s maw, and stubborn memory, too,

  that tombstone slab, burst into bits and cast its dead.

  If only the small early moments of dawn, dear God,

  would rise and blow their breath on the mind’s windmills now! 1300

  Ah, clasp the body tight, O soul, until it rots!

  The mighty athlete clenched his teeth, dredged up his strength

  for fear that red-black bird, his soul, might flee her cage,

  needing her still a moment to utter his last cry.

  As a low lantern’s flame flicks in its final blaze 1305

  then leaps above its shriveled wick and mounts aloft,

  brimming with light, and soars toward Death with dazzling joy,

  so did his fierce soul leap before it vanished in air.

  The fire of memory blazed and flung long tongues of flame,

  and each flame formed a face, each took a voice and called 1310

  till all life gathered in his throat and staved off Death;

  then the hush roared, the soul leapt for a flash in light,

  bodiless, naked, weaponless, and dashed to clasp

  the dread souls it had loved when it once lived on earth:

  “O faithful and beloved, O dead and living comrades, come!” 1315

  XXIV

  A thousand welcomes to those giant breezy lords,

  the four great winds who storm the crossroads of the mind!

  The North Wind’s door burst open and like a starved town

  the master’s great brow fell, smashed down like a frontier;

  the North Wind’s door burst open and trees marched in rows, 5

  slim sharp-leaved date trees, honeyed and young apple trees;

  all fresh and cooling fruit set out, figs, grape and quince,

  all seeds and herbs of all kinds, a green monstrous tree, 8

  plunged down his ample brain, sweet savory left the fields,

  green mint the gardens, wild thyme flew the mountain slopes, 10

  all rushed to sweep into the lone man’s hollow skull.

  “Let’s plant our roots in his mind, lads, and we won’t die!”

  Back of his skull, the South Wind’s door burst open wide

  till beasts and birds swooped happily, for musk deer leapt,

  spread-eagles plunged down from the sky, ants swarmed from soil, 15

  green glowworms lit their bellies, he-goats steamed with lust,

  slim sacred snakes uncoiled and licked the sizzling air,

  all rushed in at the South Wind’s door to save their souls.

  Huge vans of reindeer, camels, elephants and bears

  swiftly set out and vanished in his head’s huge dome, 20

  and Pan, that goat-hooved forest demon, that earth-dragon,

  stood by the brain’s dark entrance and spurred on his flocks:

  “Make haste, my brother creatures; hurry, birds, worms, beasts,

  our best most precious grandson with his wide-spread wings,

  with his strong twisted horns, the holy brain, is dying! 25

  The savior has stretched his hand, he’s opened the underworld,

  the funeral’s started, our green brothers all have come,

  be quick on your feet, beasts, be quick on your wings, birds,

  let’s hail the savior of the world for the last time!”

  With her cool rosy fingers, daybreak gently woke 30

  the right-hand snow-white temple of the great god-slayer

  till the sun’s double doors burst with bird song and wings

  and all the invisible ghosts set out, all the mind’s hosts,

  all apparitions leapt like dew-washed does and deer,

  the spirits of green earth and sea and air dashed down 35

  with all their tiny silver bells, their golden veils,

  till the brain’s furrows laughed and shone like gleaming shores;

  then step by step upon the mounting air there swept

  all the imagination’s strutting rich-wrought birds,

  gods, thoughts, dreams, mists, and perched on the mind’s barren boughs. 40

  As the sun set upon the quivering crimson waters,

  its last beams opened the archer’s left-hand snow-white brow

  and brimmed its ancient hollows full of frothing blood.

  The door burst open, smothered deep in azure shades,

  and rows of pilgrims, leaning on their crooked staffs, 45

  swooped down into his brain, plunged in his memory’s wells,

  laughing and weeping, with strange cries, in sheepskins dressed,

  some wrapped in date leaves or in brilliant ostrich plumes,

  some nude as crystal water, men of every kind and breed.

  All four great castle doors burst open, and all guests, 50

  trees, phantoms, beasts and men, all
wearing festive robes,

  massed in the streets and courtyards of his spacious brain;

  but still the funeral had not started, light still stayed,

  the great soul-strife still held, and a fierce voice rang out:

  “Don’t seize my hair, O Death, I won’t give up my soul 55

  before my dear companions reach my ship of snow;

  the stitches of my skull have opened, the whole world

  is crammed inside, but I don’t see my long-loved crew.”

  Deep from his bowel’s darkest cave the answer came:

  “Archer, I hold your cobweb-wrapped and renowned crew 60

  on my hard granite knees and grind them fine in earth;

  don’t be so proud, you slayer, I’ve got you here alone!”

  But in the mind’s vast courts and memory’s grooves once more

  the seven-souled man’s death-destroying voice rang out:

  “All faithful forms I’ve loved, all hearts and all souls, come! 65

  Broad-buttocked Kentaur, come, pick up your bones and come!”

  Broad-buttocked Kentaur squirmed, his bones knit once again,

  his bellies bulged once more, his heart with murmurs stirred,

  his coarse hands sprouted hair, his thick beard sprang to life,

  he shook and kicked, then leapt up toward the upper world 70

  and poked out like a mud-soaked beetle who thrusts through

  a dung-pit where he’d long caroused, reeking with muck:

  “Ahoy, my friends, a strong wind blows, the brine descends,

  my nostrils now grow warm once more, my strong bones creak,

  I hear a voice high in that wretched upper world. 75

  Is it perhaps the cuckoo bird or are young men

  casting the discus on my tomb with shouts and laughter?

  I hear wide white sails flapping, I hear the sea’s roar;

  push on, let’s rise and leave, I hear our captain call!”

  Bowed down before the oak, the piper shook his nude 80

  and pointed pate like a scared rabbit, his tears flowed:

  “Where are you now, dear master, where are you roaming now?

  By what seas does your tall cap sail, by what strange men

  does your mind browse, that dread unsated elephant?

  I turn a backward look and gaze on my past years: 85

  alas, blue waves and islands, women and great towns,

  hungers that thrashed our guts and wild carousing times—

  all these I spurned and then betrayed, O wretched fool!

  Ah, if the wind-sails of our life unwound once more

  and the earth’s myth began once more to twist and turn, 90

  I’d never leave you, master, I’d stay to the dark end!”

  He sighed and turned his rabbit’s head to right and left;

  below, in sun and rain, the Negroes’ round huts gleamed,

  the sky’s rich rainbow-belt spread through the moistened fields

  and a young maid came slowly to the old oak tree 95

  and placed near the witch doctor’s knees a tub of milk:

  “Pity me, master, my son’s sick and the dogs bark,

  Death roams my neighborhood, and I’ve no other son.”

  But the sad piper’s thoughts had sailed on distant waves,

  and when the mother’s pleas cut through his dazzling trip, 100

  he frowned and with great wrath kicked at the proffered tub,

  spilled all the milk on earth and cast a grievous spell:

  “May you be cursed! The first-born son of earth and sea

  now dies at the world’s end! May the crows eat your son!”

  He spoke, and his flute-dreaming ears brimmed full of sound, 105

  long billows rose on earth, the stones burst into storm

  and his thin temples sprouted oars and roared with winds.

  At last when his sharp body’s prow set sail and foamed,

  a voice roared “Orpheus!” high, aloft, and the wretch crouched,

  but a huge dragon’s paw grabbed him by his bald pate 110

  as though an eagle clutched a hare in its sharp claws.

  Thus screeching, his whole body dangling, he was soon swept

  to a long promontory struck by sharp sea winds,

  and beat his pallid hands and roused his manly heart:

  “Once more my nostrils flare, once more they drip with brine, 115

  and my old throat once more perks up with fluting sounds.

  Dear God, how good to launch on journeys in old age;

  already I can smell the breath of our proud captain!”

  He shrieked, but his old cricket’s voice was suddenly cut

  when he saw triple buttocks and double shadows fall 120

  and heard a loved and long-lost voice boom like a cave:

  “By God, dear piper, you’ve crouched at the old oak’s root

  and I’ve scorched earth’s four corners, lad, to flush you out!”

  Broad-buttocks roared with laughter and his throat grew firm,

  his hands grew strong, he snatched his friend’s pale form and tossed 125

  and juggled with it on the distant foaming cape.

  But cross-eyes smelled the moldy loam, and his eyes brimmed.

  “Don’t weep, my whimpering friend, I don’t smell of the grave,

  though worms drip from my eyebrows still and from my hair;

  I rolled out on the new-washed soil from my great joy, 130

  for when I heard my master’s voice, my wits went wild!”

  The sighing piper blinked his quivering bleary eyes:

  “Dear friend, you’re eaten by damp earth, you smell of death,

  Your flesh hangs down in tatters from your greening sides

  and I see camomile and grass in your thick nostrils.” 135

  But glutton stopped the piper’s mouth with his huge hand:

  “Friend, why do you prattle so of death, why prate of tombs?

  Filthy old gold erodes and stinking silver melts,

  but the strong soul of a good man can never rot.

  Here, place your hand, my brother, deep in my left side.” 140

  The piper’s shriveled body shook as with pale hand

  he groped in rotted entrails of his friend, their deep blue wounds:

  “Here is no heart, dear brother! I grasp a lump of mud!”

  But glutton wiped his mouth and flung down two small worms:

  “Ah, don’t distort things, friend, don’t wail, I’m not yet dead! 145

  Come, raise your feeble arms and grasp me by my loins;

  for all we know, we’re both dead, or perhaps we dream

  we’re darting over lands and seas like swifting birds

  because we heard from far our dying master’s cry;

  friend, don’t get lost, don’t question, follow your dream only.” 150

  Death rattles shook poor Captain Sole, he swooned toward Death,

  and all the village gallants laughed, decked him to die,

  took down his armor slowly that it might not crumble,

  and an old woman pounded paints in pumpkin shells

  to color his pale lips, his shriveled hollow cheeks, 155

  and make his dreadful old wounds blossom like red roses.

  The female mourners crouched in rows on earth like crows,

  tore out their hair by handfuls, beat their sterile breasts,

  and wailed out all he’d seen and done, all his brave deeds,

  and how Death seized him now to drag him down to earth. 160

  As in his darkest depths he heard them, his brains roared,

  the frozen sweat dripped from his body drop by drop,

  but deep in memory he rejoiced—he’d done his duty,

  defended justice with his weapons as best he could,

  fed all the hungry poor and freed the wretched slaves. 165

  In truth, he’d left behind him many bitter cares,

 
but others would take down his still unrotted weapons,

  for he now placed his hopes on youth, his gallant heirs;

  great hopes still blossomed in his heart, and his brains swelled.

  Deep in his daze he felt them smear him with fat paints, 170

  and he recalled old spear-thrusts, coughed with proud conceit,

  and the youths’ laughter seemed to him like bitter wails:

  “Don’t weep, my lads! Come, dry your tears, the world’s not lost,

  another hero will come, perhaps one greater than I,

  and hell complete all that I’ve left undone on earth”. 175

  He spread his trembling hands to bless the callow youths

  but suddenly shook with speechless awe, sat up in bed,

  and his taut ear-chords broke, far billows smashed his brains,

  and his heart tossed like fishing boats, tugged at its ropes,

  as from far shores a voice cried out, “Captain Sole, help me!” 180

  Then Captain Sole jumped from his bed, strapped on his belt,

  forgot, from his great haste, to seize his rusted sword,

  dashed swiftly through the door and dashed into the street.

  Ah, how the earth had changed, how wings sprang from his feet,

  how like a spirit he leapt from form to form and fled! 185

  He heard the village laughter, and his heart rejoiced;

  like a frail cloud he swept through air and sat on streams,

  perched on the tops of trees, rushed on ecstatically,

  passed waters, woods and rocks, and drove on toward the south;

  then all at once he smelled the sea and his chest swelled— 190

  from deep within blue waves he heard a loved voice call

  and he dashed forward like a starving gull to reach the cry.

  But as he raised his empty and dream-woven wings

  he saw a tall foot-traveler running down the beach

  whose russet head was cloven with a deep sword-thrust. 195

  “Oho, that’s a great king with a sword-thrust for crown;

  he, too, is a great world-captain full of wounds and scars.

  Since he runs swiftly south on the same road as I,

  I’ll stop here to defend him now for pity’s sake.”

  Captain Sole stopped benignly by the seashore’s rim, 200

  grasped tightly his long empty sheath with his left hand

  and placed his right hand on his chest to show esteem.

  As surly Hardihood drew near with crunching steps,

  pebbles resounded down the beach, smoke dimmed his mane,

  and from his mind his seething thoughts swept up like flames: 205