The Eye of the Cyclops

Crafty Odysseus gave his answer.

“King Alcinous¹, finest of all your people. It’s a fine thing to listen to a singer like this one, with a voice that could belong to a god. I think there’s nothing better in the world than when joy fills a whole kingdom, when guests sit in long rows through the hall and listen to a singer, and the tables stand heavy with bread and meat, and the cup-bearer dips wine from the bowl and carries it round and fills every cup. To my mind, that’s the most beautiful thing there is.

“But your heart turns instead to my troubles, and you want to hear them, and that will only make me cry and grieve more. Where do I begin? Where do I end? The gods of heaven have piled so many sorrows on me.

“First I’ll tell you my name, so you know it too, and so that — if I outrun this day of doom — I can be your friend even though my home is far away. I am Odysseus, son of Laertes. Men everywhere know me for my cunning, and my fame reaches the sky. I live on Ithaca, where you can see the land from far off. There’s a mountain on it, Neriton, its leaves shaking in the wind, easy to spot. Around it cluster other islands close together: Dulichium, Same, and wooded Zacynthus². Ithaca itself lies low and farthest out in the sea, toward the dark west; the others lie apart, toward the dawn and the sun. It’s a rough island, but it raises good men. And I tell you, I can think of nothing sweeter to look at than a man’s own land.

“The goddess Calypso³ kept me with her in her hollow caves, wanting me for her husband. So too the cunning Circe of Aeaea kept me in her halls, wanting me for her husband. But neither of them could win my heart. Nothing is sweeter than your own country and your own parents — not even a rich house in a foreign land, far from the ones who raised you.

“But you want to hear about my journey home from Troy, the journey full of pain that Zeus laid on me. So listen.

“The wind carried me from Troy to the land of the Cicones⁴, to Ismarus. I sacked the city and killed the men. We took their wives and a great heap of treasure, and shared it out fairly, so no man would leave cheated of his portion.

“Then I told my men we should run for it, fast — but the fools wouldn’t listen. They stayed on the beach, drinking too much wine, slaughtering sheep and shambling cattle by the dozen. Meanwhile the Cicones who had run off were calling to their neighbors inland, men more numerous and stronger than the ones we’d beaten, men who knew how to fight from chariots and on foot when they had to. In the morning they came thick as leaves and flowers in spring. The doom of Zeus settled on us then, on doomed men, to make us suffer.

“They drew up beside our fast ships and we fought, hurling bronze-tipped spears at each other. As long as it was morning and the sacred day was growing, we held them off, though they outnumbered us. But when the sun dropped toward the hour men unharness their oxen, the Cicones broke us and drove us back. Six men from each ship died. The rest of us got away.

“We sailed on, sick at heart — glad to be alive, grieving for the friends we’d lost. And I would not let the ships leave until we had called out three times, each man’s name, for those of our comrades who lay dead in the field, cut down by the Cicones.

“Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer sent the North Wind against us, a monstrous storm. He hid the land and the sea in cloud, and night came rushing down out of the sky. The ships drove sideways before it, and the wind tore our sails into shreds. We hauled them down, scared for our lives, and rowed hard for the shore. There we lay two days and two nights without moving, eating our hearts out with exhaustion and grief. On the third morning we raised the masts again, ran up the white sails, and sat back while wind and steersmen kept us straight.

“I would have reached home safe — but the swell and the current and the North Wind beat me back as I rounded Cape Malea⁵, and drove me off course past Cythera.

“For nine days deadly winds carried me over the fish-filled sea. On the tenth we landed in the country of the Lotus-Eaters⁶, who live on flowers. We went ashore and drew water, and the men ate beside the ships. When we’d had food and drink, I sent some men ahead to find out who lived there, two men, with a third along as herald. They went off and met the Lotus-Eaters, who meant them no harm. They simply gave them the lotus to taste. And any man who ate that honey-sweet fruit had no more wish to report back or return. They wanted to stay there with the Lotus-Eaters, chewing lotus, forgetting all about going home.

“I dragged them back to the ships, crying, by force. I shoved them under the benches and tied them down. Then I told the rest of my men, my loyal crew, to hurry aboard, fast, afraid that someone else might eat the lotus and forget the way home. They jumped in, took their places at the oars, and beat the gray sea white.

“We sailed on, sick at heart, and came to the land of the Cyclopes⁷: a violent, lawless people. They don’t plant anything or plow. They trust the gods, and everything grows for them without sowing or tilling: wheat, barley, and vines that bear great clusters of grapes, swelled by the rain of Zeus. They hold no meetings, make no laws. They live on the peaks of high mountains in hollow caves, and each one lays down the law to his own wife and children and pays no attention to the others.

“Now there’s a wooded island stretched out across from their harbor, not close to the Cyclopes’ land, not far. Wild goats overrun it in countless numbers, because no human feet ever go there. No hunters trek through that forest, climbing the ridges. No flocks graze it, no plows turn it. Year after year it lies empty of men, unsown and unplowed, feeding nothing but bleating goats. The Cyclopes have no red-painted ships, and no shipwrights to build them, no way to sail off to other men’s cities the way people cross the sea to visit one another. With ships they could have settled that island, for it’s a good one and would bear everything in season. Along the shores of the gray sea there are soft, well-watered meadows; vines would never die there. There’s level ground for plowing; they’d reap deep harvests every year, the soil is so rich. And there’s a safe harbor where you need no anchor stone and no ropes: just run your ship aground and wait until the men want to leave and the wind comes up. At the head of the harbor a spring of clear water runs out from under a cave, with poplars growing all around it.

“That’s where we sailed in. Some god guided us through the black night, for there was nothing to see. A thick mist hung around the ships, and no moon shone; the clouds covered it. None of us saw the island with our eyes, and we never saw the long waves rolling toward the shore until our ships ran aground. When they had, we took down all the sails, stepped out onto the beach, and slept there, waiting for dawn.

“When rosy-fingered Dawn came up, we wandered the island, marveling at it. The nymphs, daughters of Zeus, stirred up the mountain goats for our dinner. We grabbed our curved bows and long spears from the ships, split into three groups, and started shooting. The god gave us a good hunt. I had twelve ships, and each got nine goats, and they set aside ten for me alone. So all that day until sunset we sat feasting on the endless meat and the sweet wine. The red wine in the ships hadn’t run out yet; there was plenty, for we’d each drawn off jars of it when we took the sacred city of the Cicones.

“We looked across at the land of the Cyclopes, close by, and saw their smoke and heard their voices and the bleating of their sheep and goats. When the sun went down and darkness came, we slept on the beach. And when rosy-fingered Dawn came again, I called my men together.

“‘The rest of you stay here, my loyal friends. I’ll take my own ship and crew and go find out what kind of men these are, whether they’re wild and savage and unjust, or whether they welcome strangers and fear the gods.’

“I climbed aboard and told my men to follow and cast off the ropes. They boarded, took their places, and beat the gray sea with their oars. When we reached the place — it wasn’t far — we saw a cave at the edge, near the sea, high up, roofed over with laurels. A great flock of sheep and goats sheltered there at night. Around it ran a high yard wall built of stones sunk in the ground, and tall pines and oaks. A giant of a man lived there, who herded his flocks alone, far off, keeping away from everyone else, knowing nothing of right or law. He was a monstrous thing, not like a man who eats bread, but like a wooded peak that stands out alone, high above the others.

“I told the rest of my crew to stay there and guard the ship. I picked out the twelve best men and went. I took along a goatskin of dark, sweet wine that Maron had given me — Maron, son of Euanthes, priest of Apollo, who watched over Ismarus. We had spared him and his wife and child out of respect, because he lived in the wooded grove of Apollo. He gave me splendid gifts: seven talents of well-worked gold, a mixing-bowl of solid silver, and then twelve jars of wine he drew off for me, sweet and unmixed, a drink fit for the gods. Not one of his slaves or attendants knew about it, only he and his wife and a single housekeeper. When they drank it, he poured one cup of that red wine into twenty cups of water, and a sweet, marvelous smell rose from the bowl. Once you smelled it, there was no holding back. I filled a big skin with it, and packed food in a bag too, for something in me, deep down, told me I’d meet a man clothed in great strength, a savage who knew neither right nor law.

“We came quickly to the cave, but he wasn’t inside; he was off in the pasture, grazing his fat flocks. We went in and looked over everything. The racks were heavy with cheeses, and the pens were crammed with lambs and kids, sorted by age: the older ones apart, the middle ones apart, the newborns apart. The buckets and bowls he milked into were swimming with milk.

“My men begged me to grab some cheeses and run, then drive the lambs and kids down to the ship and sail off across the salt water. It would have been far better if I’d listened. But I wouldn’t — I wanted to see the man himself, and see whether he’d give me a guest-gift⁸. As it turned out, his coming would bring my men no joy at all.

“We lit a fire, made an offering, took some cheese and ate, and sat waiting inside until he came back with his flock. He came carrying a huge load of dry wood for his supper fire, and threw it down inside the cave with a crash that sent us scrambling in fear to the back. He drove all the milking animals into the wide cave, the ewes and she-goats, but left the rams and the he-goats outside in the deep yard. Then he lifted a great stone, a monstrous one, and set it in the doorway. Twenty-two strong four-wheeled wagons couldn’t have shifted it off the ground — that’s how huge the rock was that he set against the door.

“He sat and milked the ewes and the bleating goats, all in order, and put a young one under each to suckle. Half the white milk he curdled and gathered into woven baskets; half he stood in bowls to drink with his supper. When he’d finished all his work, he kindled the fire — and then he saw us, and asked:

“‘Strangers, who are you? Where do you sail from over the watery roads? Are you traders, or are you wandering pirates, the kind who risk their lives and bring ruin to other men?’

“Our hearts cracked inside us, terrified by his deep voice and his monstrous size. But even so, I answered him:

“‘We are Achaeans, blown off course on our way home from Troy by every kind of wind across the great gulf of the sea. We’re heading home, but we came another way, by other roads; that must have been how Zeus willed it. We’re proud to say we’re men of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, whose fame is now the greatest under heaven, so great a city he destroyed, so many people he killed. And now we come to your knees, hoping you’ll give us a guest-gift, or some other gift of welcome, as is right for strangers. Respect the gods, great one — we throw ourselves on your mercy. Zeus protects strangers and all who beg for mercy; he is the god of guests, and he walks beside travelers who deserve respect.’

“He answered me with a pitiless heart: ‘You’re a fool, stranger, or you’ve come from far away, telling me to fear the gods or watch out for them. The Cyclopes don’t care about Zeus who holds the storm-cloud, or any of the blessed gods; we’re far stronger than they are. I wouldn’t spare you or your men to dodge the anger of Zeus, not unless I felt like it. Now tell me — where did you leave your good ship when you came ashore? Far off, or close by? I’d like to know.’

“He was testing me. But he didn’t fool a man who knows so much. I answered him with cunning words: ‘Poseidon, the earth-shaker, smashed my ship, drove it onto the rocks at the edge of your land, against a rocky point. The wind blew it in from the sea. But I and these men here escaped a steep death.’

“He gave no answer, his heart pitiless. He just lunged, threw out his hands, grabbed two of my men at once, and smashed them on the ground like puppies. Their brains spilled out and soaked the earth. He tore them limb from limb and made his supper of them, eating like a mountain lion, leaving nothing, guts and flesh and the marrow-filled bones. We cried and lifted our hands to Zeus, watching this horror, helpless.

“When the Cyclops had filled his huge belly, eating human flesh and washing it down with raw milk, he stretched out among his sheep inside the cave and slept. I thought about creeping up, drawing the sharp sword from my thigh, feeling for the spot where the midriff holds the liver, and driving it in. But another thought held me back. We’d have died there too, every one of us; there was no way our hands could shift that enormous stone he’d set in the high doorway. So we stayed, groaning, and waited for Dawn.

“When rosy-fingered Dawn came, he lit the fire and milked his fine flocks, all in order, and put a young one under each. When he’d finished his work, he grabbed two more of my men and made his breakfast of them. Then he easily rolled the great stone away, drove out his fat flock, and set it back in place, as easily as you’d put the lid on a quiver. Whistling loudly, the Cyclops drove his flock toward the mountain. And I was left behind, plotting evil, hoping for revenge, praying Athena would grant me the glory.

“Here is the plan that seemed best to me. Lying by the pen was the Cyclops’ great club — green olive wood, which he had cut to carry once it dried out. Looking at it, we judged it as big as the mast of a black cargo ship with twenty oars, the broad kind that crosses the great deep, that long, that thick. I cut off a piece of it, about six feet, and handed it to my men, telling them to shave it smooth. They made it even, and I sharpened the tip myself, then took it and hardened it in the blazing fire. Then I hid it carefully under the dung, which lay in great heaps all over the cave. Then I told the others to draw lots: which of them would dare to lift the stake with me and grind it into his eye when sweet sleep took him. The lot fell on the four I’d have chosen anyway, and I made the fifth.

“In the evening he came back, herding his fine-fleeced flock. This time he drove all of them into the wide cave, left none outside in the deep yard, whether out of some suspicion, or because a god told him to. He set the great stone back in the doorway, sat and milked the ewes and bleating goats, all in order, and put a young one under each. When he’d finished his work, he grabbed two more of my men and made his supper.

“Then I came up close to the Cyclops, holding a bowl of dark wine in my hands, and said: ‘Cyclops, here — drink this wine, now that you’ve eaten human meat. See what kind of drink our ship was carrying. I brought it as an offering for you, hoping you’d pity me and send me home. But your madness is past all bearing. You brute — how will any of all the men in the world come to you again, when you act with no decency at all?’

“He took it and drank it down. He loved it terribly, the sweet drink, and asked for a second cup: ‘Be kind and give me more, and tell me your name, right now, so I can give you a guest-gift to make you glad. Our rich earth bears wine for the Cyclopes too, in great clusters, swelled by the rain of Zeus. But this — this is a drop of pure nectar and ambrosia.’

“So I poured him the gleaming wine again. Three times I brought it, and three times he drank, the fool. And when the wine had got into his head, I spoke to him in soft, coaxing words: ‘Cyclops, you ask my famous name. I’ll tell you, and you give me the guest-gift you promised. Nobody is my name⁹. My mother and father call me Nobody, and so do all my friends.’

“And he answered me with a pitiless heart: ‘Nobody I’ll eat last, after all his friends, the others first. That’s your guest-gift.’

“With that he toppled over backward and lay sprawled, his thick neck bent to one side, and sleep that conquers all took hold of him. Out of his throat poured wine and chunks of human flesh; he belched it up, drunk and heavy.

“Then I drove the stake deep into the embers to heat it, and spoke to my men, steadying them, so none would lose his nerve and shrink back. When the olive stake, green as it was, was about to catch fire and glowed terribly hot, I carried it close out of the flames, and my men stood around me, and some god breathed great courage into us. They took the olive stake, sharp at the tip, and drove it into his eye. And I leaned my weight on it from above and spun it — the way a man bores a ship’s timber with a drill, while the others below keep it spinning with a strap, holding both ends, and it turns and turns without stopping. So we took the fire-pointed stake and spun it in his eye, and the blood boiled up around it, hot. The blast of the burning eyeball singed all his eyelid and brow, and the roots of the eye crackled in the fire. As when a blacksmith plunges a great axe or hatchet into cold water, and it screams aloud — for that is what gives iron its strength — so his eye hissed around the olive stake. He gave a hideous, ringing scream, and the rock walls echoed, and we shrank back in terror.

“He yanked the stake out of his eye, all fouled with blood, and flung it from him with his hands, wild with pain. Then he bellowed to the other Cyclopes who lived around him in caves among the windy heights. They heard his shout and came from every side, and stood around the cave asking what was wrong:

“‘Why have you screamed so, Polyphemus¹⁰, ruining our sleep through the holy night? Is some man driving off your flocks against your will? Is some man killing you by trickery or force?’

“And mighty Polyphemus called back from inside the cave: ‘Friends, Nobody is killing me by trickery, not by force!’

“They called back: ‘Well, if nobody is hurting you and you’re all alone, there’s no escaping sickness sent by great Zeus. Pray to your father, the lord Poseidon.’

“And off they went. My heart laughed inside me: how my false name and flawless trick had fooled them.

“The Cyclops, groaning and writhing in pain, felt around with his hands and took the stone away from the doorway. Then he sat in the entrance with both arms spread wide, hoping to catch any of us trying to slip out among the sheep. That’s how big a fool he thought I was.

“But I was working out the best plan I could, to find some escape from death for my men and for myself. I wove every kind of trick and scheme, for our lives were at stake, and a great horror was close. This was the plan that seemed best. There were rams, well-fed, thick-fleeced, big and fine, with wool dark as violets. I bound them silently together in threes, with the twisted willow branches that the lawless monster slept on. The middle ram of each three would carry a man; the two on either side walked alongside, shielding him. So three sheep carried each man. As for me — there was a ram far finer than all the rest. I grabbed his back, curled myself under his shaggy belly, and lay there, gripping his wonderful thick fleece with my hands, twisted face-up, holding on with a stubborn heart. So, groaning, we waited for the holy Dawn.

“When rosy-fingered Dawn came, the rams rushed out to pasture, while the ewes bleated unmilked around the pens, their udders bursting. Their master, racked with terrible pain, felt the backs of all the rams as they stood up to pass; the fool, he never noticed the men bound under their woolly chests. Last of all my ram went toward the door, weighed down by his fleece and by me with my crowding thoughts. Mighty Polyphemus felt his back and said:

“‘Dear ram, why are you the last of the flock out of the cave today? You never lagged behind before; you were always first to graze the tender flowers, striding ahead, first to reach the rivers, first to want to come home at evening. Now you’re last. Are you grieving for your master’s eye, that an evil man put out — him and his miserable crew — after wearing me down with wine? Nobody, who I swear has not yet escaped his death. If only you could think like me and find a voice to tell me where he’s hiding from my rage, then I’d smash his brains all over the cave floor, and my heart would have some rest from the pain that no-good Nobody gave me.’

“With that he sent the ram out the door. When we’d gone a little way from the cave and the yard, I let go of the ram first, then untied my men. Quickly we drove the long-legged, fat sheep, circling back to keep them moving, until we reached the ship. The men we’d left were glad to see us, those of us who’d escaped death, but they cried for the others. I wouldn’t let them; I frowned and signaled with my eyebrows to each of them. I told them to throw the fleecy sheep aboard, fast, and put out to sea. They jumped in, took their seats, and beat the gray water with their oars.

“When we were as far out as a man’s shout will carry, I called back to the Cyclops, mocking him: ‘Cyclops — so they weren’t the men of some weakling whose friends you ate in your hollow cave by brute force. Your evil deeds were bound to catch up with you, you brute, who didn’t shrink from eating your guests in your own house. So Zeus and the other gods have paid you back.’

“That made his rage burn hotter. He tore the peak off a great mountain and hurled it. It came down just in front of the dark ship, barely missed the tip of the rudder. The sea heaved where the rock went under, and the backwash, a wave surging in from the open water, drove us toward the land and nearly grounded us. But I grabbed a long pole in my hands and shoved us off, and signaled my men with my head to bend to the oars and save us from disaster. They threw themselves forward and rowed.

“When we’d put twice as much sea behind us, I called to the Cyclops again. My men crowded around me, trying to stop me, this one and that, with gentle words: ‘You reckless fool — why provoke the wild man more? He just threw a rock into the sea that drove our ship back to land; we thought we were dead. If he hears one of us call out or even speak, he’ll crush our heads and the ship’s timbers with another jagged boulder. He can throw that far.’

“But they couldn’t move my proud heart. I shouted back at him, my temper up: ‘Cyclops — if any man ever asks how your eye was so shamefully put out, tell him it was Odysseus, destroyer of cities, who blinded you — the son of Laertes, who lives in Ithaca!’

“He let out a groan and answered: ‘No — the old prophecies have come for me at last. There was a prophet here once, a fine, tall man — Telemus, son of Eurymus, the best of seers, who grew old prophesying among the Cyclopes. He told me all this would happen one day, that I’d lose my sight at the hands of Odysseus. But I always expected some big, handsome man to come, clothed in great strength. And now a little, worthless weakling has blinded my eye — after beating me down with wine! Come back, Odysseus, so I can give you guest-gifts and ask the great earth-shaker to send you home. I am his son, and he claims to be my father. He himself will heal me, if he wishes; no one else can, no blessed god and no mortal man.’

“And I answered him: ‘I wish I could be as sure of robbing you of your life and breath and sending you down to the house of Hades, as I’m sure that not even the earth-shaker will ever heal that eye.’

“At that he lifted his hands to the starry sky and prayed to the lord Poseidon: ‘Hear me, Poseidon, you who hold the earth, dark-haired god. If I am truly yours, and you are truly my father — grant that Odysseus, destroyer of cities, never reaches home, the son of Laertes who lives in Ithaca. But if it’s his fate to see his own people again and reach his well-built house and his native land, let him come late and broken, having lost all his men, in a stranger’s ship, and let him find trouble in his house.’

“That was his prayer, and the dark-haired god heard him. Then he heaved up a far bigger rock, swung it, and threw with enormous force. It came down just behind the dark ship, barely missed the tip of the rudder. The sea heaved where it went under, but this time the wave carried us forward, driving us toward the island.

“We came back to the island where the rest of our ships lay together, and our men sat around them grieving, always watching for us. We ran the ship up on the sand and stepped out onto the beach. We took the Cyclops’ sheep from the hollow ship and shared them out, so no man would leave cheated of his portion. As for the ram, my men gave it to me alone as a special prize when we divided the flock. On the shore I sacrificed it to Zeus, son of Cronos, lord of the dark clouds, who rules over all, and burned the thigh-pieces. But he took no notice of my offering. He was already planning how all my ships and my loyal men would be destroyed.

“So all that day until sunset we sat feasting on the endless meat and the sweet wine. When the sun went down and darkness came, we slept on the beach. And when rosy-fingered Dawn came, I roused my men and told them to climb aboard and cast off the ropes. They boarded, took their places, and beat the gray sea with their oars. We sailed on, sick at heart, glad to be alive, grieving for the friends we’d lost.”