The Bag of Winds and the Witch’s Pigs

We came to the island of Aeolus, son of Hippotas¹, a man the gods loved. The whole island floats on the sea, ringed by an unbroken wall of bronze, and the rock rises sheer all around it. Aeolus has twelve children in his halls, six daughters and six grown sons, and he married the daughters to the sons, so they all live together. Every day they feast beside their father and mother, with food heaped before them past counting, and the house breathes the smell of roasting meat all day long. At night each son sleeps beside his own wife under woven blankets, in beds with frames carved like lattice.

That was the place we reached, with its fine city and houses. For a whole month Aeolus treated me kindly and asked me everything: about Troy, the Greek ships, how the army sailed home. I told him all of it, the way it happened. Then, when I asked him to send me on my way, he didn’t refuse. He set about helping me.

He flayed the hide of a nine-year-old ox² and made it into a bag, and into that bag he stuffed the paths of all the howling winds. Zeus had made him keeper of the winds, with power to calm them or stir them as he pleased. He tied the bag shut in my ship with a bright silver cord so that not even the smallest puff could leak out. And he let only the West Wind blow gently, to carry the ships and us home.

But it wasn’t going to end that way. We were ruined by our own foolishness.

Nine days we sailed, night and day without stopping. On the tenth our homeland came into view. We were so close we could see people tending their fires. That was when sweet sleep came over me, worn out as I was, because I’d kept the steering oar in my own hands the whole time and let no one else take it, so we’d get home faster.

While I slept, the men started talking among themselves. They decided I was carrying home gold and silver — gifts from Aeolus. One would lean toward another and say: “Look at this. Everywhere he goes, every city, every land, people love him and honor him. He’s bringing back a fortune of treasure from Troy, while we who made the same journey come home with empty hands. And now Aeolus has loaded him with even more, out of friendship. Come on — let’s open it up and see how much gold and silver is in that bag.”

The bad idea won. They untied the bag, and every wind burst out at once. A storm seized us and dragged us back out to sea, away from home, all of us crying. I woke and turned it over in my heart: should I throw myself off the ship and drown, or grit my teeth and stay among the living? I stayed. I covered my face and lay still in the ship while the winds drove us back to the island of Aeolus, my men groaning.

We went ashore there and drew water, and the men ate beside the swift ships. After we’d had food and drink, I took a herald and one companion and went back to the house of Aeolus. We found him feasting with his wife and children. We came in and sat in the doorway by the doorposts, and they stared at us, amazed.

“Odysseus — how are you here?” they asked. “What cruel god went after you? We sent you off with such care, so you could reach your home, or wherever you wanted to go.”

I answered with a heavy heart: “My worthless crew destroyed me, them and a cruel sleep. But mend it for me, friends. You have the power.”

I spoke gently, trying to win them over. They went silent. Then their father answered: “Get off this island, now — you, the most wretched thing alive. I’m not allowed to help or send on a man the blessed gods hate. Get out. You come here hated by the gods.”

And he drove me from his house, groaning.

So we sailed on, sick at heart. The men’s spirits broke under the brutal rowing. There was no wind now to carry us, only our own folly. Six days we rowed, night and day. On the seventh we came to the steep stronghold of Lamus — Telepylus³, the city of the Laestrygonians. It’s a strange country: a herdsman driving his flock in at night calls out, and a herdsman driving his out at dawn answers him⁴. A man who could go without sleep could earn double wages there, herding cattle by day and white sheep by night: the paths of day and night run that close together.

We came into a fine harbor, walled on both sides by sheer cliffs, with two headlands jutting out at the mouth and only a narrow gap to enter. All the captains brought their curved ships inside and tied them up close together, for inside the water never swelled at all, neither big waves nor small, just a bright calm all around. But I held my own black ship outside, at the very edge, and tied the ropes to a rock. Then I climbed up to a rough lookout point. From there I saw no signs of farming, no oxen, no men, only smoke rising from the ground.

So I sent three men to find out who lived there and what they ate, two chosen, with a herald as the third.

They went up a smooth road that wagons used to bring firewood down from the hills to the town. Outside the town they met a girl drawing water — the strong daughter of Antiphates the Laestrygonian. She’d come down to the clear spring Artacia, where the people fetched their water. They came up to her and asked who ruled this land. She pointed straight to her father’s high-roofed house.

When they went inside, they found his wife, huge as a mountain peak, and they were horrified. She called her husband, the great Antiphates, in from the meeting place, and he plotted a grim death for them. He grabbed one of the men at once and made his dinner of him. The other two leaped up and ran for the ships.

Antiphates raised a shout through the town, and at the sound the strong Laestrygonians came swarming from every direction, thousands of them, not like men but like giants. They hurled rocks down from the cliffs, boulders a man could barely lift. A terrible noise rose from the ships — men dying, hulls splintering. The giants speared the men like fish and carried them off to their ugly feast.

While they were killing the men inside the deep harbor, I drew the sharp sword from my thigh and cut the cables of my dark ship. I shouted to my crew to throw their backs into the oars and get us out of there. They struck the water hard, terrified of dying. And my ship slipped out past the overhanging rocks to the open sea, but all the others, packed in together, were destroyed where they lay.

We sailed on, heartsick, glad to be alive, but grieving the friends we’d lost. We came to the island of Aeaea, where Circe lived⁵: a goddess with beautiful braided hair, a dread power with a human voice, sister to the deadly Aeetes. Both were children of the Sun, who lights the world for men, born to him by Perse, daughter of Ocean.

We brought our ship quietly to shore there, into a harbor where ships could lie safe; some god guided us in. We landed and lay there two days and two nights, eating our hearts out with weariness and pain.

When Dawn brought the third day, I took my spear and sharp sword and climbed quickly from the ship to a high lookout, hoping to see signs of people or hear their voices. Standing on that rough height, I saw smoke rising from the wide earth, from Circe’s halls, through the thick scrub and forest. I thought hard about whether to go and find out, having seen the smoke. In the end it seemed wiser to go back to the ship first, give the men food, and send some of them to scout.

But as I was nearly back to the ship, some god took pity on me, alone there, and sent a great stag with high antlers right across my path. He was coming down from his forest pasture to drink at the river, driven by the heat of the sun. As he came out I struck him on the spine, in the middle of the back, and the bronze spear drove clean through. He cried out and dropped in the dust, and the life flew from him.

I set my foot on him and pulled the spear from the wound, then laid it on the ground. I tore up brush and twigs and twisted a good rope, about six feet long, braided it tight, and tied the feet of the huge beast together. I slung him around my neck and walked back to the ship, leaning on my spear. There was no carrying him on one shoulder with one hand, he was that big. I threw him down in front of the ship and roused my men, going to each one with gentle words:

“Friends — we’re not going down to the house of Hades yet, grieving as we are, not before our day comes. So while there’s food and drink in the ship, let’s eat and not waste away with hunger.”

They listened. They uncovered their heads there on the shore of the barren sea and stared at the stag — he really was an enormous beast. When they’d feasted their eyes, they washed their hands and got a fine meal ready. All that day until sunset we sat there, feasting on the rich meat and sweet wine. When the sun went down and darkness came, we slept on the shore.

When rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, I called them together and said: “Listen to me, men, for all you’ve suffered. We don’t know east from west. We don’t know where the sun goes down under the earth or where it rises. So let’s think fast whether there’s any plan left. I don’t believe there is. I climbed to a high lookout and saw that this is an island, ringed by endless sea. It lies low, and in the middle of it, through thick brush and forest, I saw smoke with my own eyes.”

Their hearts broke at that, remembering what Antiphates the Laestrygonian had done, and the violence of the man-eating Cyclops. They cried and sobbed, but there was nothing to be gained by it.

So I split all my men into two companies and gave each one a leader. I led one; godlike Eurylochus led the other. We shook lots in a bronze helmet, and the lot of brave Eurylochus jumped out. He set off, and twenty-two men went with him, crying. They left us behind, grieving too.

Deep in the woods they found Circe’s house, built of polished stone in a clearing you could see from far off. All around it prowled mountain wolves and lions, creatures she had drugged and tamed with her evil potions. They didn’t attack the men. They rose up and wagged their long tails, fawning, the way dogs crowd around their master coming home from a feast, knowing he’ll bring them treats. So these wolves and lions with their great claws crowded fawning around my men. But the men were frightened, seeing such terrible beasts.

They stopped at the gates of the goddess with the lovely hair, and heard Circe inside, singing in a beautiful voice as she worked at her great loom, weaving an immortal cloth, fine and graceful and bright, the kind only goddesses make. Polites spoke first — a leader of men, the dearest and steadiest of my crew: “Friends, someone inside is working a great loom and singing beautifully, until the whole floor rings with it — a goddess or a woman. Let’s call out to her.”

They called, and she came at once, opened the shining doors, and invited them in. They followed, not knowing any better, all but Eurylochus, who hung back, suspecting a trap.

She led them in and sat them on chairs and benches, then stirred up a mixture for them: cheese, barley, and pale honey in Pramnian wine. But into the food she mixed cruel drugs, to make them forget their homeland completely. She gave it to them, and they drank. Then she struck them with her wand and herded them into the pigsties. They had the heads, the voice, the bristles, the bodies of pigs, but their minds stayed the same as before. So they were penned in, squealing, and Circe threw them acorns and beechnuts and cornel berries, the food pigs eat as they wallow in the dirt.

Eurylochus rushed back to the ship to tell us about his comrades and their bitter fate. He couldn’t get a single word out, though he wanted to. His heart was struck through with grief, his eyes brimming with tears, his whole spirit set on crying. When we crowded around him in alarm and pressed him, he finally told us how the others were lost:

“We went through the woods, just as you said, glorious Odysseus. Deep in a clearing we found a fine house of polished stone, in the open. Someone was inside working a great loom, singing clear and high, a goddess or a woman. The men called to her. She came out, opened the bright doors, and asked us in. They followed her, not knowing better. But I held back — I suspected a trap. They all vanished together, every one. Not one came out. I sat a long time watching, and saw nothing.”

I slung my great bronze sword studded with silver over my shoulders, took up my bow, and told him to lead me back the same way. But he grabbed me with both hands and clung to my knees, begging, the words pouring out: “Don’t take me back there against my will — leave me here. I know you’ll never come back yourself, and you’ll never bring a single man with you. Let’s run, with the ones who are left. We can still escape the day of doom.”

I answered him: “Eurylochus, then stay here, eating and drinking by the black ship. But I’m going. I have no choice.”

And I went up from the ship and the sea.

But as I was climbing through the sacred groves, about to reach the great house of Circe with all her drugs, Hermes met me — Hermes of the golden wand, coming toward the house, looking like a young man with the first soft beard on his lip, the loveliest time of youth. He took my hand and said: “Where now, you poor man, are you going alone over these hills, knowing nothing of this country? Your men are penned in Circe’s house like pigs, shut in close stalls. Have you come to set them free? I tell you, you won’t even get yourself back. You’ll stay there with the others. But listen — I’ll save you, I’ll get you clear of this. Take this good herb and carry it to Circe’s house, and it will keep the cruel day off your head.

“I’ll tell you all of Circe’s deadly tricks. She’ll make you a mixture and drop drugs into the food. But even so she won’t be able to enchant you. The good herb I’m giving you won’t let her. Here’s what to do. When Circe strikes you with her long wand, draw the sharp sword from your thigh and rush at her as if you mean to kill her. She’ll be terrified and beg you to come to her bed. Don’t refuse the goddess’s bed, that’s how she’ll free your men and care for you. But make her swear the great oath of the blessed gods⁶ that she’ll plot no more harm against you — or else, when she’s got you naked, she’ll make you weak and leave you a coward.”

With that, the slayer of Argus pulled the herb from the ground and showed me what it was. Its root was black, its flower like milk. The gods call it moly⁷. It’s hard for mortal men to dig, but the gods can do anything.

Hermes went back to high Olympus, across the wooded island, and I went on to Circe’s house, my heart pounding all the way. I stood at the gates of the goddess with the lovely hair and called out, and she heard me. She came at once, opened the bright doors, and asked me in. I followed, sick at heart.

She sat me on a fine carved chair studded with silver, with a footstool under my feet. She mixed me a drink in a golden cup, planning evil in her heart, and slipped the drug in. I drank — and it didn’t enchant me. Then she struck me with her wand and said: “Off to the sty now. Go lie down with the rest of your friends.”

I drew the sharp sword from my thigh and rushed at her as if to kill her. She gave a great cry, ducked under, grabbed my knees, and wailed: “Who are you? Where from? What city, what parents? It amazes me that you drank my drugs and weren’t enchanted. No other man has ever resisted them once they passed his lips. There’s a mind in you that no spell can touch. You must be Odysseus, the man of many turns — Hermes of the golden wand always told me you’d come, sailing home from Troy in your black ship. Put away your sword. Let’s go to bed, and join in love, and learn to trust each other.”

I answered her: “Circe — how can you ask me to be gentle with you, when you’ve turned my men into pigs in your halls, and now you hold me here and plot more tricks, telling me to come to your bedroom and your bed so you can make me weak and leave me a coward? I won’t go to your bed unless you’ll swear me a great oath, goddess, that you’ll plot no more harm against me.”

She swore it at once, just as I asked. And when she had sworn and finished the oath, I went up into Circe’s beautiful bed.

While we lay there, her four attendants were busy in the halls, the ones who keep her house, born of springs and groves and the holy rivers that flow down to the sea. One spread fine purple cloths over the chairs, with linen beneath. Another drew up silver tables before the chairs and set golden baskets on them. A third mixed sweet, honeyed wine in a silver bowl and set out golden cups. The fourth carried water and lit a great fire under a huge cauldron, and the water warmed. When it boiled in the bright bronze, she sat me in a tub and bathed me, mixing the water to just the right warmth, pouring it over my head and shoulders until the weariness that wears the spirit was washed from my limbs. When she had bathed me and rubbed me with oil, she dressed me in a fine cloak and tunic and led me to a carved chair studded with silver, with a footstool under my feet.

An attendant brought water in a beautiful golden jug and poured it over a silver basin so I could wash my hands, and drew a polished table beside me. The housekeeper brought bread and set out plenty of food, glad to give. She told me to eat. But it didn’t please my heart. I sat with my mind elsewhere, my spirit seeing only trouble.

When Circe saw me sitting without reaching for the food, weighed down with grief, she came close and said: “Why do you sit there, Odysseus, like a man struck dumb, gnawing your own heart, touching no food or drink? Do you suspect some new trap? You needn’t be afraid. I’ve already sworn you a binding oath.”

I answered: “Circe — what man with any decency could bring himself to eat and drink before he had freed his friends and seen them with his own eyes? If you truly want me to eat and drink, set them free. Let me see my faithful men.”

Circe went straight through the hall with her wand in her hand, opened the doors of the sty, and drove them out, looking like nine-year-old hogs. They stood facing her, and she went among them and rubbed each one with a new drug. The bristles that the first cruel drug had grown fell from their bodies, and they became men again, younger than before, taller, and far better to look at. They knew me, and each one took my hand. A sweet longing to cry came over all of them, and the house rang with it, until even the goddess pitied them.

She came close and said: “Son of Laertes, born of Zeus, Odysseus of many schemes, go now to your swift ship by the shore. First haul the ship up onto the land, and store your goods and gear in the caves. Then come back, and bring your faithful men.”

My proud heart agreed. I went down to the swift ship by the shore and found my men there, crying, pouring down tears. The way farmyard calves, when the cows come back to the yard full of grass, all skip together to meet them — no pen can hold them, they run lowing around their mothers, that’s how my men crowded around me when they saw me, sobbing. To them it felt as if they’d reached their homeland, the very city of rugged Ithaca where they were born and raised. They cried out: “We’re as glad you’re back, prince, as if we’d reached Ithaca itself. But tell us — how did the others die?”

I answered gently: “First let’s haul the ship up onto the land, and store our goods and gear in the caves. Then hurry, all of you, come with me, and you’ll see your comrades in Circe’s sacred house, eating and drinking; they have plenty.”

They were quick to agree. Only Eurylochus tried to hold them back. He said: “Fools — where are we going? Why do you long for this disaster, down to Circe’s hall, where she’ll turn us all into pigs or wolves or lions and make us guard her great house against our will? It’s just like the Cyclops, when our friends went into his pen, and reckless Odysseus went with them. It was his folly that killed them too.”

When I heard that, I thought about drawing the long sword from my thigh and knocking his head to the ground, close kin or not. But my men held me back, soothing me from every side: “Prince, let’s leave this man here, if you say so, to stay by the ship and guard it. Lead the rest of us to Circe’s sacred house.”

So they went up from the ship and the sea. And Eurylochus didn’t stay behind after all; he came too, afraid of my furious anger.

Meanwhile Circe had carefully bathed the other men in her halls, rubbed them with oil, and dressed them in thick cloaks and tunics. We found them all feasting comfortably in the hall. When the men saw each other face to face and knew one another, they cried and grieved aloud until the whole house rang.

Then the goddess came close and said: “Don’t keep up this crying now. I know everything — all you suffered on the fish-filled sea, all the harm violent men did you on land. But now eat your food and drink your wine, until you take heart again in your chests, the way you felt when you first left your homeland, rugged Ithaca. Right now you’re worn out and broken-spirited, always remembering your hard wandering. There’s no joy left in you, you’ve been through so much.”

She finished, and our proud hearts agreed. Day after day, for a full year, we sat there feasting on endless meat and sweet wine. But when the year was up, the seasons turning, the months waning, the long days come round again, my faithful men called me out and said: “It’s madness — remember your homeland now, if it’s fated for you to be saved and reach your high-roofed house and your own country.”

My proud heart agreed. So all that day until sunset we feasted on the rich meat and sweet wine. When the sun went down and darkness came, the men lay down to sleep in the shadowy hall.

But I climbed up to Circe’s beautiful bed and begged her by her knees, and the goddess heard me. I said: “Circe, keep the promise you made, to send me home. My heart is straining for it now, and so are my men’s. They wear me down with their grieving whenever you’re not near.”

The goddess answered at once: “Son of Laertes, born of Zeus, Odysseus of many schemes, don’t stay in my house any longer against your will. But first you must make another journey: down to the house of Hades and dread Persephone, to question the ghost of the blind prophet Teiresias of Thebes⁸, whose mind is still whole. Even in death Persephone gave him alone his wits — the rest are flitting shadows.”

That broke my heart. I sat on the bed and cried, and I had no will to live or to see the sunlight any longer. When I was worn out with crying and rolling on the bed, I asked her: “Circe — who will guide me on this journey? No one has ever reached Hades in a black ship.”

The goddess answered at once: “Son of Laertes, born of Zeus, Odysseus of many schemes, don’t worry about a guide for your ship. Set up your mast, spread the white sails, and sit still. The North Wind will carry you. When you’ve crossed the river Ocean⁹ in your ship, you’ll come to a low shore and the groves of Persephone, tall poplars and willows that drop their fruit too soon. Beach your ship there beside deep-swirling Ocean, and go on foot to the crumbling house of Hades.

“There the river Pyriphlegethon and the Cocytus, which is a branch of the water of the Styx¹⁰, flow into Acheron, and there’s a rock where the two roaring rivers meet. Get close to it, hero, as I tell you, and dig a pit about a forearm’s length each way. Around it pour an offering to all the dead: first honey mixed with milk, then sweet wine, then water, and sprinkle white barley over it all. Pray hard to the faint ghosts of the dead. Promise that when you reach Ithaca you’ll sacrifice a barren cow, your best, in your halls, and heap the fire with good things, and that for Teiresias alone you’ll offer a ram, all black, the finest in your flocks.

“When you’ve prayed to the great crowds of the dead, kill a ram and a black ewe, turning their heads toward Erebus, but turn yourself away, facing the river. Then many ghosts of the dead will come. Tell your men to skin and burn the sheep you’ve killed with the pitiless bronze, and pray to the gods, to mighty Hades and dread Persephone. Then draw the sharp sword from your thigh and sit there, and don’t let the faint ghosts come near the blood before you’ve questioned Teiresias. The prophet will come quickly, leader of men, and tell you your route, the distances, and how to get home across the fish-filled sea.”

She finished, and Dawn on her golden throne came. She dressed me in a cloak and tunic, and she herself put on a long shining robe, fine and graceful, with a beautiful golden belt at her waist and a veil over her head.

I went through the house rousing my men, going to each one with gentle words: “Don’t lie sleeping any longer in sweet rest. Let’s go — Circe has told me everything.”

Their proud hearts agreed. But even from here I didn’t take all my men away unharmed. There was a young man named Elpenor, not much of a fighter, not very wise. He’d gone off alone from the others in Circe’s sacred house, looking for somewhere cool, and lay down drunk. When he heard the noise and bustle of the men moving, he jumped up suddenly and forgot to go back down by the long ladder. He fell straight off the roof, his neck snapped at the spine, and his soul went down to Hades.

As the men set out, I told them: “You think you’re heading home now, to your own country. But Circe has marked another road for us, down to the house of Hades and dread Persephone, to question the ghost of the Theban prophet Teiresias.”

Their hearts broke at that. They sat down where they were and cried and tore their hair. But there was nothing to be gained by mourning.

As we went down to the swift ship by the shore, grieving and pouring down tears, Circe had gone ahead and tied a ram and a black ewe by the black ship, slipping past us easily. Who can see a god going to and fro with their own eyes, if the god doesn’t wish it?