The Land of the Dead

We came down to the ship and the sea. First we dragged the black ship into the bright water, set up the mast and the sails, and led the sheep aboard. Then we climbed in ourselves, crying, the tears running down our faces. Behind us Circe, the goddess with the lovely braided hair, who can speak like a human being and is terrible in her power, sent a fair wind that filled the sails, a good companion to drive us on. So once we had set everything in order, we sat still and let the wind and the steersman hold our course.

All day the sails were stretched tight as the ship cut through the sea. The sun went down and every road grew dark, and we reached the deep-flowing river that rings the world. There live the Cimmerians¹, in their land and city, wrapped always in mist and cloud. The blazing sun never looks down on them with its rays, not when it climbs the starry sky, not when it turns back toward earth. Endless deadly night stretches over those wretched people.

We ran the ship aground there and took out the sheep. Then we walked along the river until we came to the place Circe had told us about.

Perimedes and Eurylochus held the animals. I drew the sharp sword from my thigh and dug a pit, about a forearm’s length each way. Around it I poured an offering to all the dead²: first honey mixed with milk, then sweet wine, then water, and over it all I scattered white barley. I prayed long and hard to the powerless dead, promising that when I got home to Ithaca I would kill my best young cow that had never calved, and pile the burning altar high with good things, and that for Teiresias³ alone I would sacrifice a sheep apart, all black, the finest in my flock.

When I had finished praying to the crowds of the dead, I took the sheep and cut their throats over the pit, and the dark blood ran down. Then up out of the underworld they swarmed, the souls of the dead. Brides and unmarried young men, old men worn out by hard lives, tender girls with fresh grief still on their hearts, and many men cut down by bronze spears, soldiers killed in battle with their armor still caked in blood. They crowded around the pit from every side with an eerie, terrible crying. Pale fear took hold of me.

I called to my men and told them to skin and burn the sheep that lay there with their throats cut, and to pray to the gods, to mighty Hades and dread Persephone. But I myself drew my sharp sword and sat, and I would not let the powerless dead come near the blood until I had questioned Teiresias.

The first to come was the soul of my comrade Elpenor⁴. He had not yet been buried under the wide earth, we had left his body back in Circe’s hall, unwept, unburied, because other work pressed us hard. I cried when I saw him, and my heart ached. “Elpenor,” I said, “how did you come down into this gloom and darkness? You came faster on foot than I did in my black ship.”

He groaned and answered, “Son of Laertes, born of Zeus, Odysseus of many schemes, the cruel will of some god ruined me, and too much wine. I lay down to sleep on Circe’s roof, and when I got up I forgot to go back down the long ladder. I fell straight off the roof. My neck snapped at the spine, and my soul went down to Hades. Now I beg you, by everyone you left behind, who are not here: by your wife, by your father who raised you when you were small, by Telemachus, your only son, the one you left alone in your halls. I know that when you leave this place you’ll steer your ship back to Circe’s island. When you get there, my king, remember me. Don’t go off and leave me unwept and unburied behind you, or I may bring the gods’ anger down on you. Burn my body with whatever armor I have, and build me a mound on the gray shore of the sea, so people in years to come will know about a man who had bad luck. Do this for me, and plant the oar on my grave, the one I rowed with when I was alive, among my friends.”

“My poor friend,” I said, “I’ll do all of it. I won’t fail you.”

So the two of us sat there and traded these grim words, I on one side holding my sword over the blood, the ghost of my comrade speaking from the other.

Then came the soul of my dead mother, Anticleia, daughter of brave Autolycus. She had been alive when I left for Troy. I cried when I saw her, and my heart broke, but even so, in all my grief, I would not let her come near the blood before I had questioned Teiresias.

Then came the soul of Teiresias of Thebes, holding a golden staff. He knew me, and spoke. “Son of Laertes, born of Zeus, Odysseus of many schemes, why have you come, you unlucky man, leaving the sunlight to see the dead and this joyless place? Stand back from the pit and lower your sword, so I can drink the blood and tell you the truth.”

I stepped back and slid my silver-studded sword into its sheath. When he had drunk the dark blood, the great prophet spoke.

“You want to know about your homecoming, glorious Odysseus, the sweet road home. A god will make it hard. I don’t think you’ll slip past the god who shakes the earth. Poseidon is furious with you, because you blinded the son he loves. Even so, you may still reach home, after great suffering, if you can hold yourself and your men in check when your ship first reaches the island of Thrinacia, after you escape the violet sea. There you’ll find the cattle and fat sheep of the Sun, who sees all things and hears all things. If you leave them alone and keep your mind on getting home, you may still reach Ithaca, badly battered. But if you hurt them, then I promise you ruin, for your ship and your men. And if you yourself escape, you’ll come home late and broken, having lost all your companions, on a stranger’s ship. And you’ll find trouble in your house: arrogant men eating up your wealth, courting your noble wife and offering her gifts.

“But you’ll pay them back for their violence when you come home. Once you’ve killed the suitors in your halls, by trickery or in open fight with sharp bronze, then take a well-made oar and travel on until you reach people who know nothing of the sea, who never eat food mixed with salt, who have never seen ships with painted red cheeks or the oars that are wings to a ship. I’ll give you a sure sign, one you can’t miss. When another traveler meets you and says you’re carrying a winnowing-fan⁵ on your fine shoulder, then plant your oar in the ground and make a fine sacrifice to lord Poseidon, a ram, a bull, and a boar that mounts the sows. Then go home and offer perfect sacrifices to all the immortal gods who hold the wide sky, each in turn. And death will come to you far from the sea, a gentle death that will take you down when you are worn out in a comfortable old age, with your people prosperous around you. This is the truth I tell you.”

“Teiresias,” I answered, “the gods themselves must have spun these things out. But tell me this, and tell me true. I see the soul of my dead mother over there. She sits beside the blood without a word, and won’t look her own son in the face or speak to me. Tell me, my lord, how can I make her know who I am?”

“That’s easy,” he said. “I’ll tell you, and you’ll remember. Any one of the dead you let come near the blood will speak the truth to you. The ones you keep back will go away again.”

So the soul of lord Teiresias went back into the house of Hades, his prophecy finished. But I stayed where I was, steady, until my mother came up and drank the dark blood. At once she knew me, and she cried out, the words coming through her tears.

“My child, how did you come down into this gloom and darkness while you’re still alive? It’s hard for the living to see these things. Great rivers lie between, and dreadful waters, Ocean first of all, which no one can cross on foot. You need a good ship. Have you only now come here, wandering all this time from Troy, with your ship and your men? Have you still not reached Ithaca? Have you not seen your wife in your own halls?”

“Mother,” I said, “I had to come down to Hades to ask the soul of Teiresias of Thebes. I have not come near the land of Greece, not set foot on my own country. I’ve been wandering in misery from the day I first went with great Agamemnon to Troy, the land of fine horses, to fight the Trojans. But tell me, and tell me true, how did death take you down? Was it a long illness? Or did Artemis, who showers her arrows, strike you with her gentle shafts? And tell me about my father, and the son I left behind. Is my power still in their hands, or does some other man hold it now, saying I’ll never come home? And tell me about my wife, my wedded wife. What does she mean to do? Does she stay with our son and keep everything safe, or has the best of the Greeks already married her?”

My honored mother answered, “She stays in your halls, with a patient, breaking heart. Her nights and days waste away in tears. No one holds your fine power yet. Telemachus farms your land in peace and eats at the feasts a man who settles disputes is expected to share, for everyone invites him. But your father stays out in the country and never comes down to the town. He has no proper bed, no blankets or bright coverings. In winter he sleeps where the slaves sleep in the house, in the ashes by the fire, with rough clothes on his body. When summer comes and the rich autumn, he makes a low bed anywhere in the slope of his vineyard, on fallen leaves. There he lies, grieving, the sorrow growing in his heart, longing for you to come home, and hard old age is coming on him. That’s how I died too, how my fate found me. It wasn’t the keen archer Artemis striking me in my halls with her gentle arrows. No illness came on me, the kind that wastes the body away and steals the spirit out of it. It was missing you, glorious Odysseus, your wisdom, your gentle heart, that took the sweetness of life from me.”

She finished, and I longed to hold her. Three times I sprang toward her⁶, my heart aching to take her in my arms. Three times she slipped through my hands like a shadow or a dream. The grief grew sharper in me, and I called to her: “Mother, why won’t you stay still and let me hold you? Even here in Hades, let us throw our arms around each other and have at least the cold comfort of crying together. Or is this just a phantom that proud Persephone has sent, to make me groan and grieve even more?”

My honored mother answered, “Oh, my child, most unlucky of all men. Persephone, the daughter of Zeus, isn’t tricking you. This is just how it is with mortals when they die. The sinews no longer hold the flesh and the bones together. The fierce blazing fire destroys all that, once the life leaves the white bones, and the soul flutters off like a dream and is gone. Hurry back to the light, then, but remember all of this, so you can tell it to your wife one day.”

While we spoke, the women came, proud Persephone sent them up, all the wives and daughters of great men. They crowded around the dark blood, and I wondered how to question each one. The best plan seemed to be this: I drew the long sword from my thigh and would not let them all drink at once. So they came up one by one, and each told me her family.

The first was Tyro, daughter of noble Salmoneus, who said she had been the wife of Cretheus, son of Aeolus. She had fallen in love with a river, the god Enipeus, loveliest of all the rivers that pour across the earth, and she used to walk by his beautiful waters. But Poseidon, who holds and shakes the earth, took the river’s shape and lay with her at the river’s mouth, where the waters swirl. A dark wave curved over them, high as a mountain, and hid the god and the mortal woman. He loosened her virgin belt and poured sleep over her. When the god had finished the work of love, he took her hand and spoke: “Be glad, woman, for this love. As the year comes round you will bear splendid children, the beds of the gods are never empty of fruit. Care for them and raise them. Now go home, and say nothing, tell no one. But know that I am Poseidon, who shakes the earth.” Then he sank beneath the surging sea. She conceived and bore Pelias and Neleus, who both grew strong and served great Zeus. Pelias lived in spacious Iolcus, rich in flocks; Neleus in sandy Pylos. The rest of her children were by Cretheus, Aeson, Pheres, and Amythaon, who loved to fight from a chariot.

After her I saw Antiope, daughter of Asopus, who boasted she had slept in the arms of Zeus himself. She bore two sons, Amphion and Zethus, who first built the seat of seven-gated Thebes and walled it, for strong as they were, they couldn’t live in that wide city without walls.

After her I saw Alcmene, wife of Amphitryon, who lay in the arms of great Zeus and bore Heracles, the bold lion-hearted man. And I saw Megara, daughter of proud Creon, whom that same tireless son of Amphitryon married.

I saw the mother of Oedipus, lovely Epicaste⁷, who did a terrible thing in her ignorance, she married her own son. He had killed his father and married her. Soon the gods made it all known to men. He went on ruling the Cadmeans in lovely Thebes, suffering, through the gods’ cruel will. But she went down to the house of Hades, the strong jailer, she tied a high noose to the roof beam and hanged herself in her grief, and left him pains beyond counting, all that a mother’s avenging Furies can bring.

And I saw beautiful Chloris, whom Neleus married for her looks, paying countless gifts, the youngest daughter of Amphion son of Iasus, who once ruled with power in Minyan Orchomenus. She was queen in Pylos and bore him fine children: Nestor, Chromius, and proud Periclymenus. And she bore strong Pero too, a wonder to look at, courted by every neighbor. But Neleus would give her only to the man who could drive the cattle of Iphicles, broad-faced, curved-horned, and hard to take, out of Phylace. One brave prophet promised to drive them off, but a god’s cruel fate held him fast: harsh chains and the herdsmen of the fields. Only when the months and days had run their course, the year coming round again and the seasons returning, did mighty Iphicles set him free, after he had told all the oracles. And the will of Zeus was done.

And I saw Leda, the wife of Tyndareus, who bore him two strong-hearted sons: Castor, tamer of horses, and Polydeux, good with his fists. The living earth holds them both, and even under the ground Zeus has given them honor: they live and die on alternate days, sharing it back and forth, and have a god’s standing.

After her I saw Iphimedeia, wife of Aloeus, who said she had lain with Poseidon. She bore two sons, but they were short-lived: godlike Otus and famous Ephialtes. The grain-giving earth raised them taller than any men, and far the handsomest after great Orion. At nine years old they were thirteen feet across the chest and fifty-four feet tall. They threatened the immortal gods on Olympus, raging to bring on the storm of war. They meant to pile Mount Ossa on Olympus, and leafy Pelion on Ossa, to climb up into the sky. And they would have done it, if they’d reached their full growth, but the son of Zeus, whom lovely-haired Leto bore, killed them both before the first down had bloomed on their cheeks or covered their chins.

I saw Phaedra and Procris, and lovely Ariadne, daughter of cruel-minded Minos. Theseus once tried to carry her off from Crete to the hill of sacred Athens, but he got no joy of her, Artemis killed her first on the island of Dia, ringed by the sea, on the word of Dionysus.

I saw Maera and Clymene, and hateful Eriphyle, who took gold to betray her own husband. I couldn’t name them all, all the wives and daughters of heroes I saw, the immortal night would run out first. And now it’s time to sleep, either down at the ship with my crew or here. My passage home is the gods’ concern, and yours.

He finished, and they all sat silent, spellbound, in the shadowy hall. Then white-armed Arete spoke first. “Phaeacians, what do you think of this man, his looks, his size, the steady mind inside him? He’s my guest, but the honor of him is shared by all of you. Don’t hurry to send him off, and don’t be stingy with gifts to a man so much in need. The gods have given you plenty in your halls.”

Then the old hero Echeneus spoke up, the oldest of all the Phaeacians. “Friends, the queen’s words are not off the mark, not far from what we all think. Do as she says. But the word and the deed both rest with Alcinous.”

Alcinous answered, “It will be just as she says, as surely as I live and rule the Phaeacians, who love their oars. Our guest must be patient, much as he longs for home, and wait until tomorrow, until I’ve gathered the whole gift. His passage home is the concern of all the men, and mine above all, for the power here is mine.”

Crafty Odysseus answered him. “King Alcinous, finest of all your people, if you asked me to stay here even a whole year, and then sent me off with splendid gifts, I’d be glad of it. It would be much better to come home with fuller hands. I’d be more honored, more loved, by everyone who saw me come back to Ithaca.”

Alcinous answered, “Odysseus, looking at you, we don’t take you for a liar or a cheat, the kind the dark earth breeds in numbers everywhere, men who string together lies out of nothing you could check. There’s a grace in your words, and a good mind behind them. You’ve told your story like a singer who knows his craft, the bitter griefs of all the Argives, and your own. But tell me this, and tell me true: did you see any of your godlike companions there, the ones who went with you to Troy and met their deaths? The night is long, beyond measure, and it’s not yet time to sleep in the hall. Tell me these wonders. I could hold out until bright dawn, if you would stay and tell me your sorrows.”

Crafty Odysseus answered, “King Alcinous, finest of your people, there’s a time for many words and a time for sleep. But if you still want to hear, I won’t grudge you these things, or sadder ones, the griefs of my companions, who died afterward. They escaped the groaning war-cry of the Trojans, only to die on the way home, through the will of an evil woman.

“When holy Persephone had scattered the women’s souls this way and that, the soul of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, came up grieving. Around him gathered all the others who had died with him in the house of Aegisthus. He knew me at once when he had drunk the dark blood. He cried sharply, the tears pouring down, and stretched his arms toward me, longing to hold me, but the strength was gone from him, the firmness that had once been in his supple limbs. I cried when I saw him, and my heart ached.

“‘Glorious Agamemnon, lord of men,’ I said, ‘what doom of bitter death took you down? Did Poseidon sink you at sea, rousing a cruel blast of savage winds? Or did enemies cut you down on dry land while you were raiding their cattle and fine flocks, or fighting for a city and its women?’

“‘Son of Laertes, born of Zeus, Odysseus of many schemes,’ he answered, ‘Poseidon didn’t sink me at sea with any cruel blast of winds, nor did enemies cut me down on land. Aegisthus did it, he and my cursed wife. He asked me to his house and feasted me, then butchered me like an ox at its stall. So I died the most pitiful death, and around me my companions were killed without mercy, like white-tusked pigs slaughtered for some rich and powerful man’s wedding or feast or banquet. You’ve seen many men killed, in single combat and in the press of battle, but your heart would have ached most to see this: how we lay among the mixing-bowl and the loaded tables in the hall, and the whole floor steamed with blood. The most pitiful cry I heard came from Cassandra, daughter of Priam, whom the schemer Clytemnestra killed right over me. As I lay dying I raised my hands and beat the ground, the sword in me, and the bitch turned away. She would not even close my eyes with her hands or shut my mouth as I went down to Hades. There is nothing more terrible, more shameless, than a woman who sets her heart on a thing like that, murdering her own wedded husband. I thought I’d come home welcomed by my children and my slaves. But she, with her mind full of horrors, has heaped shame on herself and on all women to come, even the good ones.’

“‘It’s true,’ I said, ‘that Zeus has hated the line of Atreus from the start, through the schemes of women. For Helen, many of us died, and for you Clytemnestra wove a trap while you were far away.’

“‘So then,’ he answered, ‘don’t you be too gentle, even with your own wife. Don’t tell her everything you know. Tell her some of it, and keep some hidden. But you, Odysseus, you won’t be murdered by your wife. The daughter of Icarius, wise Penelope, is too sensible and good-hearted for that. We left her a young bride when we went to war, with a baby boy at her breast, a boy who now, I suppose, sits among grown men. Lucky child. His father will see him when he comes home, and the boy will throw his arms around his father, as is right. My wife wouldn’t even let me fill my eyes with the sight of my son. She killed me first. One more thing, take it to heart. Bring your ship in to your own land in secret, not openly. There’s no trusting women anymore. But tell me, and tell me true, have you heard anything of my son, still alive? In Orchomenus, maybe, or sandy Pylos, or with Menelaus in wide Sparta? Surely noble Orestes isn’t dead on the earth.’

“‘Son of Atreus,’ I said, ‘why ask me this? I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. It’s no good to speak empty words.’

“As we two stood there trading these grim words, grieving, the tears pouring down, up came the soul of Achilles, son of Peleus, with Patroclus and noble Antilochus and Ajax, who was the finest in looks and build of all the Greeks after the matchless son of Peleus. The soul of the swift-footed grandson of Aeacus knew me, and spoke through his grief: ‘Son of Laertes, born of Zeus, Odysseus of many schemes, reckless man, what greater thing will you dare next? How did you have the nerve to come down to Hades, where the senseless dead live, the phantoms of worn-out men?’

“‘Achilles, son of Peleus,’ I said, ‘far the greatest of the Greeks, I came for Teiresias, to see if he could tell me how to reach rocky Ithaca. I still haven’t come near Greece or set foot on my own land. I’ve had nothing but trouble. But you, Achilles, no man was ever more blessed than you, and none ever will be. When you were alive we Argives honored you like a god, and now you rule among the dead, here where you are. So don’t grieve at being dead, Achilles.’

“‘Don’t try to comfort me about death, glorious Odysseus,’ he answered. ‘I’d rather be a hired hand working the fields for another man, a man with no land of his own, barely enough to live on, than be king over all the dead and gone. But tell me about my noble son. Did he go to war, to be a leader in the front ranks, or not? And tell me about my father Peleus, if you’ve heard anything, does he still hold his honor among the Myrmidons, or do they slight him through Hellas and Phthia now that old age has crippled his hands and feet? I’m no longer there to help him under the sun’s light, the man I was on the wide plain of Troy, when I killed their best and shielded the Argives. If I could come back to my father’s house, even for a moment, just as I was, I’d make my fury and my unstoppable hands hateful to anyone who keeps him from his honor.’

“‘I’ve heard nothing of noble Peleus,’ I said, ‘but I’ll tell you the whole truth about your son Neoptolemus, as you ask. I myself brought him from Scyros in my own ship to join the Greeks. Whenever we held council before Troy, he was always first to speak, and never missed the mark, only Nestor and I could beat him. And when we fought on the Trojan plain, he never hung back in the crowd of men. He’d race far out in front, yielding to no one, and killed many in that terrible fighting. I couldn’t name all the men he cut down defending the Argives, but think how he killed Eurypylus, son of Telephus, with the bronze, and many of his Ceteian companions died around him, all because of a woman’s bribes. He was the handsomest man I saw, after noble Memnon. And when we climbed into the horse that Epeus built, the best of the Argives, and the whole thing was left to me, to open the trapdoor and close it, the other leaders and chiefs of the Greeks were wiping away tears, every man’s legs shaking under him. But I never once saw him go pale in his fine face or wipe a tear from his cheek. He kept begging me to let him out of the horse, gripping his sword-hilt and his heavy bronze spear, hungry to do the Trojans harm. And when we had sacked Priam’s steep city, he went aboard his ship with his fair share of the plunder and a good prize, not wounded by any sharp bronze, not cut in close fighting, the kind of thing that happens so often in war, where the god of battle rages without picking sides.’

“When I had told him this, the soul of swift-footed Achilles strode off across the meadow of asphodel, glad that I had said his son was a great man.

“The other souls of the dead stood grieving, and each asked me about what troubled them. Only the soul of Ajax, son of Telamon, held back, still angry over the victory I’d won against him at the ships, the contest over the armor of Achilles. His goddess mother had set it as the prize. The sons of the Trojans and Pallas Athena judged it. I wish I had never won such a contest, for it put a man like that under the earth, Ajax, the greatest of the Greeks in looks and deeds after the matchless son of Peleus. I spoke to him gently. ‘Ajax, son of noble Telamon, won’t you forget your anger at me, even in death, over that cursed armor? The gods made it a ruin for the Argives. We lost such a tower of strength in you. We Greeks grieved over your death as we grieved for Achilles himself. No one is to blame but Zeus, who hated the army of Greek spearmen and brought your doom on you. Come here, my lord, hear my words, listen to me. Master your fury and your proud heart.’

“He said nothing. He turned and went off after the other souls of the dead, into the dark. Angry as he was, he might still have spoken to me, or I to him, but my heart wanted to see the other dead.

“There I saw Minos, the shining son of Zeus, holding a golden staff, giving judgment to the dead from his seat, while they asked him to settle their cases, sitting or standing around him through the wide-gated house of Hades.

“After him I saw huge Orion driving the ghosts of the wild beasts together across the meadow of asphodel, beasts he had killed himself on the lonely hills, with the all-bronze club in his hands, never broken.

“And I saw Tityus, son of Earth, lying on the ground. He stretched across nine acres, and two vultures sat one on each side, tearing at his liver, plunging their beaks into the flesh, and he couldn’t beat them off with his hands. He had laid hands on Leto, the glorious wife of Zeus, as she went toward Pytho through Panopeus with its lovely dancing-grounds.

“And I saw Tantalus⁸, in his terrible pain, standing in a pool that lapped at his chin. He was parched with thirst, but he could never get a drink. Every time the old man bent down, dying to drink, the water drained away and was swallowed up, and the black earth showed at his feet, a god dried it up. Tall trees leaned over him heavy with fruit, pears and pomegranates, apples gleaming, sweet figs and ripe olives. But every time the old man reached up to grab some, the wind flung the branches up to the dark clouds.

“And I saw Sisyphus⁹ in his agony, heaving a giant stone with both hands. He braced with his hands and feet and shoved it up toward the top of a hill, but every time he was about to push it over the crest, the weight twisted it back, and the shameless stone went rolling down to the plain again. And he’d strain and shove it up once more, the sweat running off his limbs, the dust rising from his head.

“And I saw mighty Heracles, his phantom, that is. He himself feasts with the immortal gods and has Hebe with her lovely ankles, daughter of great Zeus and Hera in her golden sandals. Around his phantom the dead screamed like terrified birds, scattering every way. He looked like dark night, his bow bare in his hand, an arrow on the string, glaring fiercely, always like a man about to shoot. A terrible belt was strapped across his chest, a golden strap, and wondrous things were worked on it: bears, wild boars, lions with glaring eyes, battles and fights and killings and slaughters of men. Whoever made that belt with his craft, may he never make another like it. Heracles knew me at once when he saw me, and spoke through his grief: ‘Son of Laertes, born of Zeus, Odysseus of many schemes, poor man, are you too dragging out some miserable fate, the kind I carried under the light of the sun? I was the son of Zeus, son of Cronus, and yet I had endless suffering. I was bound in service to a man far worse than I was, and he set me terrible labors. Once he sent me here to fetch the dog of Hades, he could think of no harder task for me than that. But I carried him up out of Hades, and Hermes and bright-eyed Athena guided me.’

“With that he went back into the house of Hades. But I stayed where I was, in case any of the other heroes of the old days should come. And I would have seen still more of those I longed to see, Theseus and Pirithous, glorious children of the gods, but before that, the countless tribes of the dead came swarming with an eerie cry, and pale fear took hold of me, that proud Persephone might send up from Hades the Gorgon’s head, the head of that dreadful monster.

“So I hurried back to the ship and ordered my men to climb aboard and loose the cables. They got in quickly and took their places at the oars. The current of the river Ocean carried us along, first with the rowing, and then with a fair wind.