THE ODYSSEY — AI Adaptation
Book 13: The Sleeping Sailor Comes Home

When Odysseus finished his story, the whole hall sat silent, held still by the spell of it, lost in the shadows of the great room. Then Alcinous spoke.

"Odysseus, now that you've come to my house with its bronze floor and high roof, I don't think you'll be blown off course again. You'll get home, no matter how much you've suffered. And to the rest of you, all of you who drink my best dark wine here night after night and listen to the bard, here is what I ask. Our guest already has clothes packed away in a polished chest, and worked gold, and all the other gifts the Phaeacian nobles brought him. Now let each of us give him a great tripod and a cauldron besides. We'll be paid back later by a tax on the people. It's hard for one man to give so freely with nothing in return."

They all liked the idea, and went home to sleep, each to his own house.

  

When rosy-fingered Dawn arrived, they hurried down to the ship with the gleaming bronze. Alcinous himself went aboard and stowed the gifts carefully beneath the rowing benches, where they wouldn't get in the men's way when they bent hard to the oars. Then everyone returned to the palace for a feast, and Alcinous sacrificed a bull to Zeus, son of Cronus, lord of the dark clouds, who rules over all. They burned the thigh-pieces and ate a splendid meal, enjoying it, while the bard Demodocus, beloved by the people, sang for them.

But Odysseus kept turning his head toward the blazing sun, willing it to go down. He was desperate to leave. He was like a plowman who has driven his oxen across a field all day, dragging the heavy plow. How gladly he sees the sunlight sink so he can go home to his supper, his knees aching with every step. That was how gladly Odysseus saw the sun go down.

At once he spoke to the Phaeacians who love their oars, looking most of all at Alcinous.

"King Alcinous, finest of all your people, pour out your offering and send me safely on my way, and may you all be happy. Everything my heart longed for is done: my passage home and these good gifts. May the gods of heaven make them bring me luck. May I come home to find my wife unharmed, and my friends safe and well. And may all of you who stay behind bring joy to your wives and children. May the gods grant you every kind of good fortune, and may no trouble ever fall on your land."

They all approved, and called for the stranger to be sent home, since he had spoken well. Then Alcinous turned to his herald.

"Pontonous, mix the wine in the bowl and serve it to everyone in the hall, so we can pray to Father Zeus and send our guest home to his own country."

Pontonous mixed the sweet wine and carried it around to each man in turn. From their seats they poured offerings to the blessed gods who hold the wide heaven. Then Odysseus rose and placed the two-handled cup in Arete's hands.

"Goodbye, my queen, and may all be well with you, until old age and death come, as they come to everyone. I am going now. Be happy here in your house, with your children, your people, and King Alcinous."

With that he stepped through the doorway. Alcinous sent a herald to guide him to the swift ship and the shore. Arete sent slave women along too: one carrying a clean cloak and tunic, one to bring the strong chest, and a third with bread and red wine. When they reached the ship and the sea, the crew took everything and stowed it aboard, all the food and drink. They spread a rug and a linen sheet for Odysseus on the deck at the stern, so he could sleep without waking. He climbed in and lay down without a word. The men took their places at the oars and untied the rope from the mooring stone.

The moment they leaned back and struck the water with their blades, sweet sleep fell on Odysseus's eyes — deep, unbroken, almost like death. The ship surged forward like a team of four stallions on the plain, all leaping ahead together under the whip's crack, plunging on, devouring the road. So her stern rose high while behind her the dark waves of the roaring sea boiled up. She ran steady and sure. Not even a hawk, the swiftest bird in the sky, could have kept up with her. Fast she ran, cutting through the waves, carrying a man whose mind was as keen as a god's, a man who had suffered so much, fighting through wars and crossing cruel seas, and who now slept still and quiet, forgetting all of it.

When the brightest star came up, the one that comes to announce the light of early Dawn, the ship was already close to the island.

  

There is a harbor in Ithaca that belongs to Phorcys, the old man of the sea. Two jutting headlands of rock guard it, sheltering it from the great waves that bad winds drive against it from outside. Inside, well-built ships can ride without a mooring once they've reached the anchorage. At the head of the harbor grows an olive tree with long leaves, and near it a lovely, shadowy cave, sacred to the nymphs called Naiads. Inside are stone mixing bowls and jars where bees store their honey. There are tall stone looms where the nymphs weave robes the color of the sea (a wonder to look at), and there is water that always flows. The cave has two entrances: one facing the North Wind, where men may go down, and one facing the South, which belongs to the gods. No man comes in that way; it is the road of the immortals.

The Phaeacians knew the place and rowed straight in. The ship ran half her own length onto the shore, driven that hard by the men's arms. They stepped out onto the land and lifted Odysseus from the ship just as he was (still on his rug and bright linen sheet), and laid him down on the sand, deep in sleep. Then they carried out the treasure the Phaeacians had given him for his journey home, thanks to great-hearted Athena. They piled it all by the root of the olive tree, off the road, in case some passing traveler came and stole it before Odysseus woke. Then they turned and rowed home.

But the Earth-Shaker had not forgotten the threats he'd made against Odysseus. He went to ask Zeus what he meant to do.

"Father Zeus, no god will ever respect me again, when mortals show me no honor: the Phaeacians, who come from my own blood! I said Odysseus would suffer hard before he got home. I never tried to stop him completely, since you'd already nodded and promised it. But now they've carried him asleep across the sea in a fast ship and set him down in Ithaca, and given him more treasure than he'd ever have brought back from Troy if he'd come home unharmed with his fair share of the loot."

Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered him. "What are you saying, mighty Earth-Shaker? The gods don't disrespect you. It would be a terrible thing to throw scorn on the oldest and best of us. But if some man, trusting in his own strength, fails to honor you — the power to punish him is always yours. Do whatever you like, whatever pleases your heart."

"I'd do it at once, lord of the dark clouds, exactly as you say," Poseidon answered. "But I always hold back from your anger and try to avoid it. Now, though, I want to smash that beautiful Phaeacian ship as it comes back from its voyage, out on the misty sea, so they'll stop ferrying men home for good. And I want to throw a great mountain over their city."

"My friend," said Zeus the cloud-gatherer, "here's what I think is best. When all the people are watching from the city as the ship comes driving in, turn her to stone close to the shore, still shaped like a ship, so everyone stares in wonder. Then throw the great mountain over their city."

When Poseidon heard this, he went to Scheria, where the Phaeacians live, and waited. The ship came on, racing in fast. The Earth-Shaker drew near, struck her with the flat of his hand, turned her to stone, and rooted her to the seabed below. Then he was gone.

The Phaeacians, men famous for their long oars and their ships, called out to each other in amazement. One would look at the man beside him and say, "Who chained our fast ship in the sea just as she was driving home? A moment ago we could see the whole of her!"

That was how they talked, not understanding what had happened. Then Alcinous spoke.

"This is it — the old prophecy of my father coming true at last. He used to say Poseidon would be angry with us because we give safe passage to everyone. He said the god would one day wreck a beautiful Phaeacian ship coming home from a voyage, and throw a great mountain over our city. That's what the old man said, and now it's all happening. So listen, and let's all do as I say. Stop ferrying travelers home, whenever one of them comes to our city. And let's sacrifice twelve choice bulls to Poseidon, in the hope that he'll have mercy and not throw that huge mountain over us."

They were afraid, and got the bulls ready. So the leaders and rulers of the Phaeacians prayed to lord Poseidon, standing around his altar.

  

Odysseus woke in his own homeland — and did not know it. He had been gone so long. And Athena, daughter of Zeus, had poured a mist around him so no one would recognize him, and so she could tell him everything herself. His wife, his people, his friends — none of them must know him until the suitors had paid in full for all their crimes. So everything looked strange to him: the winding paths, the welcoming harbors, the sheer cliffs, the trees in full leaf.

He sprang up and stared at his own country, and groaned, and slapped both thighs with the flats of his hands, and cried out in grief.

"What am I doing here? Whose land have I come to now? Are they cruel and wild and lawless, or kind to strangers, with the fear of the gods in their hearts? Where do I take all this treasure? And where do I wander myself? I should have stayed there with the Phaeacians! Or I could have gone to some other powerful king who would have welcomed me and sent me home. Now I don't know where to put this treasure, and I can't leave it here; someone else will take it. The Phaeacian leaders weren't honest with me after all, or fair. They promised to bring me to sunny Ithaca, and they haven't done it. May Zeus, who watches over those who beg for help and punishes anyone who does wrong, pay them back. But first let me count my goods and make sure the crew didn't sail off with some of them."

He counted the splendid tripods and cauldrons, the gold and the fine woven cloth. Nothing was missing. But still he cried for his homeland, dragging himself along the shore of the roaring sea, sick with longing.

Then Athena came near, in the shape of a young man, a shepherd, soft-skinned and delicate, like a king's son. She had a fine cloak folded double over her shoulders, sandals on her shining feet, and a spear in her hand. Odysseus was glad to see her and went straight toward her.

"Friend, you're the first person I've met in this place. Hello, and please don't meet me with anything cruel in your heart. Save these things of mine, and save me too. I'm praying to you as if you were a god, and I clasp your knees. Tell me the truth, so I understand. What land is this? What people? Who lives here? Is it some sunny island, or a coast of the rich mainland sloping down to the sea?"

The bright-eyed goddess answered, "You must be a fool, stranger, or you've come from very far away, if you have to ask about this country. It's not so unknown as all that. Plenty of people know it, both those who live toward the dawn and the sun, and those who live behind, toward the misty dark. It's rugged, no place for driving horses, but it isn't poor, even if it isn't wide. It grows endless grain, and wine too. There's always rain and good dew. It's fine grazing for goats and cattle. There's every kind of timber, and watering places that never run dry. So you see, stranger, the name of Ithaca has even reached Troy, which they say is a long way from this Greek land."

Long-suffering Odysseus was glad. He rejoiced in his own native land, now that Athena, daughter of Zeus, had named it. But he did not speak the truth. He held it back, working his cunning mind as always.

"I heard of Ithaca," he said, "far across the sea, when I was in wide Crete. Now I've come here myself, with this treasure. I left just as much behind for my children. I'm a fugitive, because I killed the son of Idomeneus — Orsilochus, fast on his feet, who could outrun any man in all of Crete. He wanted to rob me of all the spoils I'd carried off from Troy, the spoils I suffered so much for, fighting through wars and crossing cruel seas. He said it was because I hadn't served his father loyally at Troy, but led my own men instead. So I lay in wait by the road with one companion, and as he came in from the fields I struck him down with my bronze spear. The night was pitch dark; no one saw us, and no one knew I'd taken his life. After I'd killed him I went down to a ship and begged some Phoenician sailors, and gave them a good share of my plunder. I asked them to set me ashore at Pylos, or in noble Elis where the Epeans rule. But the force of the wind drove them off course, much as they tried, and they didn't mean to cheat me. We were blown here in the night. We rowed hard into the harbor, and though we were all hungry, no one thought about food. We just stepped off the ship and lay down where we were. Sleep came over me, exhausted as I was. The sailors took my goods from the ship and set them on the sand beside me. Then they boarded again and sailed off to Sidon, and I was left here, sick at heart."

The bright-eyed goddess smiled, and stroked him with her hand. Now she took the form of a tall, beautiful woman, skilled in fine work, and her words came winged.

"He'd have to be a sharp one — a real trickster, to slip past you in any kind of cunning, even a god. You stubborn, scheming man, never tired of your tricks, even here, in your own land, you won't stop the lies and the thieving tales you've loved since you were a child. Enough of this. We both know how to play the game. You're the best of all mortals at planning and speaking, and I'm famous among all the gods for my wits and my schemes. And yet you didn't recognize me, Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus, who always stands beside you in your troubles and guards you, who made all the Phaeacians love you. Now I've come again, to weave a plan with you and hide the treasure the proud Phaeacians gave you for your journey home; I put that idea in their hearts. And I'll tell you all the trouble you're fated to face in your own well-built house. You must bear it, because you have no choice. Tell no one (no man, no woman) that you've come back from your wanderings. Suffer it all in silence, and take whatever rough handling comes your way."

Crafty Odysseus answered her. "It's hard for a man to know you when he meets you, goddess, however clever he is: you take so many shapes. But this much I know for certain: you were kind to me long ago, while we sons of the Greeks were fighting at Troy. But after we sacked Priam's steep city and boarded our ships, and a god scattered the Greeks — from then on I never saw you again. I never noticed you coming aboard my ship to keep some pain away from me. No, I wandered with my heart torn to pieces, until the gods set me free from misery, and that was in the rich land of the Phaeacians, where you gave me courage with your words and led me into the city yourself. Now, by your father, I beg you — I don't believe I've really come to sunny Ithaca. I think I'm in some other country, and you're saying all this to mock me, to trick my mind. Tell me the truth — have I really come home?"

The bright-eyed goddess answered him. "Always that same mind of yours, working away in your chest. That's why I can't abandon you in your troubles — because you're so sensible, so quick, so steady. Any other man, coming home from such long wandering, would have rushed straight to his house to see his wife and children. But you don't even want to ask about them or hear any news until you've tested your wife with your own eyes, your wife, who sits in your halls just as before, crying out her wretched nights and days. As for me, I never doubted you'd come home, though I knew you'd lose all your men. But I didn't want to fight my uncle Poseidon, who set a grudge against you in his heart, furious because you blinded his dear son. Look — I'll show you the land of Ithaca, so you'll believe. This is the harbor of Phorcys, the old man of the sea. Here at the head of the harbor is the olive tree with the long leaves, and near it the lovely, shadowy cave, sacred to the nymphs called Naiads, the same vaulted cave where you used to make rich offerings to the nymphs. And there is Mount Neriton, dressed in forest."

As she spoke, the goddess scattered the mist, and the land came clear. Then long-suffering Odysseus rejoiced, glad in his homeland, and kissed the life-giving earth. At once he lifted his hands and prayed to the nymphs.

"Naiad nymphs, daughters of Zeus, I never thought I'd see you again. Now I greet you with all my heart. And I'll bring you gifts as I used to, if the daughter of Zeus, giver of spoils, will be kind and let me live, and let my dear son grow to be a man."

"Have courage," said the goddess. "Don't let any of that worry you. First, let's put your treasure deep inside the wondrous cave, where it will stay safe, and then we'll plan how to make everything turn out for the best."

She went down into the shadowy cave, searching out its hiding places, while Odysseus carried everything closer: the gold, the unbreakable bronze, the well-made clothes the Phaeacians had given him. He stowed it all carefully, and Pallas Athena set a stone across the entrance.

  

Then the two of them sat down at the root of the sacred olive tree and began to plan the death of the arrogant suitors. Athena spoke first.

"Son of Laertes, born of Zeus, Odysseus of many schemes, think how you'll lay hands on these shameless suitors. For three years now they've been lording it in your house, courting your noble wife and offering her bride-gifts. And she — always grieving for your return in her heart, gives every one of them hope and sends each man messages and promises, while her mind is set on something else entirely."

Odysseus answered, "So I'd have died the same wretched death as Agamemnon, son of Atreus, in my own house, if you hadn't told me all this, goddess. Now weave me a plan to pay them back. Stand beside me, and put fierce courage into me, the way you did when we tore down Troy's bright crown of walls. If you'd stand by me with that same fire, bright-eyed one, I'd fight three hundred men — with you beside me, mighty goddess, if you'd help me with all your heart."

"I'll be with you, never fear," said the bright-eyed goddess. "I won't lose sight of you once we begin this work. And I think more than one of these suitors who are eating up your wealth will spatter the wide floor with his blood and brains. But first I'll make you unknown to every living person. I'll shrivel the fine skin on your supple limbs, strip the fair hair from your head, and wrap you in rags that anyone would hate to see on a man. I'll dim those eyes of yours that were once so handsome, so you'll look wretched to all the suitors, and to your wife, and to the son you left in your halls. First, go to the swineherd, the man who keeps your pigs. He's loyal to you, and he loves your son and wise Penelope. You'll find him sitting among his pigs. They feed by the Raven's Rock, near the spring Arethusa, eating the acorns they love and drinking the dark water that makes their flesh fat. Stay there with him and ask him everything, while I go to Sparta, land of beautiful women, to call your son Telemachus home. He went to Lacedaemon, to the wide dancing-places, to Menelaus, looking for news of you, to find out if you were still alive."

Odysseus answered, "Why didn't you tell him, when you knew it all? So that he too could wander and suffer over the barren sea, while others eat up his living?"

"Don't worry too much about him," said the bright-eyed goddess. "I sent him myself, so he'd win a good name for making the journey. He's in no trouble. He's sitting comfortably in the house of the son of Atreus, with plenty of everything around him. It's true the young men are waiting in ambush with a black ship, wanting to kill him before he reaches home. But I don't think that will happen — the earth will hold one of those suitors first, those men eating up your wealth."

With that, Athena touched him with her wand. She shriveled the fine skin on his supple limbs and stripped the fair hair from his head. She wrapped the skin of an old man around his whole body, dimmed his once-handsome eyes, and dressed him in an ugly ragged cloak and tunic, torn and filthy, stained with grimy smoke. Over it she threw the big hide of a fast deer, worn bare, and gave him a staff and a wretched bag full of holes, with a twisted cord for a strap.

Their planning done, they parted. And the goddess went off to bright Lacedaemon, to bring back the son of Odysseus.