# Book 5: The Raft and the Wave

*Set free at last, Odysseus builds a raft, and the angry sea-god nearly drowns him.*

Dawn rose from her bed beside Tithonus to bring light to gods and to people, and the gods gathered for their council. Zeus, who thunders from on high and whose power is greatest of all, sat among them. Athena began to speak of all that Odysseus had suffered, for she could not stop thinking of him, trapped in the nymph's home.

"Father Zeus, and all you blessed gods who never die," she said, "let no king ever again be kind or gentle or fair. Let every one of them be cruel and do cruel things, since not one of the people Odysseus ruled remembers him now, and he ruled them gently, like a father. He lies on an island in terrible pain, in the house of the nymph Calypso, and she holds him there by force. He has no way to get home. He has no ships with oars, no crew to carry him across the broad back of the sea. And now they mean to murder his beloved son when he sails home. Telemachus has gone to sacred Pylos and to splendid Sparta, hunting for news of his father."

Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered her. "My child, what a thing to say. Didn't you plan all this yourself: that Odysseus would come home and make them pay? As for Telemachus, you can guide him safely. Use your skill. Bring him back to his own land unharmed, and let the suitors sail home with nothing."

Then he turned to his son Hermes. "Hermes, you are our messenger. Go to the nymph with the lovely braided hair and tell her what we have decided: that long-suffering Odysseus is to go home. No god will guide him, no human either. He'll make it on a raft of bound timbers, suffering as he goes, and on the twentieth day he'll reach Scheria, the rich land of the Phaeacians, who are almost as the gods themselves. They will honor him like a god and send him in a ship to his own country, loaded with bronze and gold and clothing, more than he ever would have carried back from Troy, even with his fair share of the loot. For it is fated that he see his friends again and reach his high-roofed house and his own land."

Hermes obeyed. He bound on his feet the beautiful sandals, golden and undying, that carry him over water and endless land as fast as the wind. He took the wand he uses to charm men's eyes shut or wake the sleeping, and holding it he flew down through the upper air to Pieria. Then he dropped to the sea and skimmed the waves like a gull that hunts fish through the rough hollows of the open water, soaking its wings in spray. So Hermes rode along the countless waves.

When he reached the far-off island, he stepped out of the violet sea onto the land and walked until he came to the great cave where the nymph lived. He found her at home. A big fire burned on the hearth, and the smell of split cedar and sandalwood spread far across the island as they burned. Inside, Calypso was singing in a lovely voice, moving back and forth at her loom, weaving with golden thread. Around the cave grew a thick wood — alder and poplar and sweet-smelling cypress — where long-winged birds roosted: owls and hawks and chattering sea-crows that do their work on the water. A grapevine in its prime spread across the mouth of the cave, heavy with clusters. Four springs ran clear water side by side, turned this way and that, and soft meadows of violet and wild celery grew all around. Even a god, coming there, would have stopped to stare and feel his heart lift.

Hermes stood and looked his fill. Then he went into the wide cave. Calypso knew him the moment she saw him face to face. Gods always know one another, even those who live far apart. But she did not find great-hearted Odysseus inside. He was sitting on the shore where he always sat, breaking his heart with tears and groaning and grief, staring out at the barren sea, crying.

Calypso gave Hermes a seat on a bright, shining chair and asked, "Hermes of the golden wand, why have you come? You're honored here and welcome, but you don't come often. Tell me what you're thinking. My heart says do it, if I can and if it can be done. But first come further in, and let me set food before you."

She drew up a table loaded with ambrosia and mixed red nectar for him, and Hermes ate and drank. When he had finished and felt steadier, he answered her.

"You ask a god why he's come, goddess. I'll tell you the truth, since you ask. Zeus ordered me here, against my will. Who would choose to cross all that endless salt water? There's no city of men along the way to offer the gods sacrifice and rich offerings. But no other god can get around the will of Zeus or set it aside. He says you keep here the unluckiest man of all who fought around Priam's city for nine years and sacked it in the tenth and sailed for home. On the way back they angered Athena, and she sent wind and high waves against them. All his good men were lost, and he alone was carried here by wind and wave. Zeus orders you to send him off at once. It is not his fate to die here, far from his own people. He is fated to see his friends again and reach his high-roofed house and his own land."

Calypso shuddered when she heard it, and her words came fast and bitter. "You gods are cruel, and jealous beyond all others. You can't stand it when a goddess sleeps openly with a man she's made her own. When rosy-fingered Dawn took Orion, you gods who live so easily begrudged her, until pure Artemis on her golden throne came to Ortygia and shot him dead with her gentle arrows. And when Demeter of the lovely braids gave in to her own heart and lay with Iasion in the thrice-plowed field, Zeus heard of it soon enough and struck the man down with a flash of lightning. And now you begrudge me, gods, that I keep a mortal man here.

"I saved him myself, when he came riding the keel of his ship, alone, after Zeus split his fast ship with a white lightning bolt out in the middle of the wine-dark sea. All his good men were lost there, and he alone was carried here by wind and wave. I loved him, I cared for him, I promised to make him deathless and ageless forever. But since no god can get around the will of Zeus or set it aside, let him go, if Zeus commands and orders it, off across the barren sea. I won't send him anywhere myself. I have no ships with oars, no crew to carry him over the broad back of the sea. But I'll gladly give him advice, and hide nothing, so he can reach his own land unharmed."

Hermes answered, "Send him off, then, and watch out for the anger of Zeus, or he may turn on you in fury later."

And with that the strong slayer of Argus was gone. The lovely nymph went to find great-hearted Odysseus, now that she had heard Zeus's message. She found him sitting on the shore. His eyes were never dry of tears; his sweet life was draining away as he mourned for home, because the nymph no longer pleased him. The nights he still slept in the hollow cave beside her — by necessity, an unwilling man beside a willing goddess. But the days he spent sitting on the rocks and the sand, breaking his heart with tears and groaning and grief, staring out at the barren sea, crying.

The goddess came close and spoke. "Poor man, don't grieve here any longer, don't let your life waste away. I'm sending you off now, of my own free will. Come — cut long beams with bronze and build yourself a wide raft. Fix a half-deck up high on it, so it can carry you over the misty sea. I'll put bread and water and red wine aboard, plenty to keep your hunger off, and clothes to wear, and I'll send a fair wind behind you, so you can reach your own land unharmed, if the gods who hold the wide heaven are willing, for they are stronger than I am at planning and at making things come true."

Long-suffering Odysseus shuddered at this, and his words came back winged with suspicion. "Goddess, you're planning something else here, not my safe trip home, telling me to cross the great gulf of the sea on a raft. The sea is fearful and hard. Even fast, balanced ships don't cross it easily, glad as they are for a wind from Zeus. I will not set foot on a raft against your will. Not unless you bring yourself to swear me a great oath that you're not plotting some new harm against me."

Calypso smiled, and stroked him with her hand, and said, "You really are a rascal — and no fool, to think of saying that. All right. Let earth be my witness, and the wide heaven above, and the down-flowing water of the Styx, which is the greatest and most terrible oath the blessed gods can swear: I am plotting no new harm against you. What I'm telling you is what I'd plan for myself if I were in such need. My mind is fair, and the heart in my chest is not made of iron. It pities you."

With that the lovely goddess led the way quickly, and the man followed in the god's footsteps. They came to the hollow cave, and Odysseus sat down in the chair Hermes had left. The nymph set out for him everything a mortal eats and drinks. She herself sat across from him, and her slave women set ambrosia and nectar beside her. They reached for the food laid ready before them. When they had their fill, Calypso spoke.

"Son of Laertes, born of Zeus, Odysseus of many schemes — so you really want to go home, right now, to your own land? Well, go, and good luck to you anyway. But if you only knew in your heart how much suffering you're fated to fill up before you reach home, you'd stay here with me and keep this house, and be deathless, even though you long to see your wife, the one you ache for every single day. And I'll say this: I'm not her lesser, not in body or in beauty. It isn't right for a mortal woman to compete with a goddess in shape or looks."

Crafty Odysseus answered, "Don't be angry with me, goddess. I know all this myself. Wise Penelope is nothing beside you to look at, neither in beauty nor in height. She's only a mortal, and you are deathless and unaging. Even so, I want it, I long for it every day: to go home, to see the day of my return. And if some god wrecks me on the wine-dark sea, I'll bear it. The heart in me has learned to suffer. I've already endured so much, struggled through so much, on the waves and in the war. Let this be one more thing."

The sun set, and darkness came on, and the two went deep into the hollow cave and lay together, taking joy in love, side by side.

* * *

When rosy-fingered Dawn came at last, Odysseus put on his shirt and cloak, and the nymph wrapped herself in a long silvery robe, fine and graceful, and cinched a beautiful golden belt at her waist and threw a veil over her head. Then she set about sending Odysseus on his way. She gave him a great bronze axe that fit his hands, sharpened on both edges, with a fine olive-wood handle fixed firmly to it. She gave him a smooth-polished chisel. Then she led him to the far end of the island where the tall trees grew — alder and poplar and pine that reached the sky, long dead and seasoned dry, so they would float light for him. When she had shown him where the tall trees grew, Calypso went back to her house, and Odysseus began cutting timber. The work went fast.

He felled twenty trees in all, trimmed them with the bronze, planed them skillfully, and straightened them to a line. Calypso brought drills, and he bored all the timbers and fit them to one another, hammering them tight with pegs and joints. As wide as a man who knows his trade lays out the curved hull of a broad cargo ship, that wide Odysseus made his raft. He set up the deck, fitting close-set uprights, and finished it off with long planks for the sides. He set up a mast in it and a crossbar to match, and shaped a steering oar to guide it. He fenced the whole thing with woven willow against the waves, and piled in plenty of brush for ballast. Calypso brought cloth for sails, and he made those skillfully too. He lashed in the ropes that work the sail, and then with levers he hauled the raft down into the shining sea.

It was the fourth day, and everything was done. On the fifth, Calypso sent him off the island, after she had bathed him and dressed him in sweet-scented clothes. She put aboard one skin of dark wine and a bigger one of water, and provisions in a leather sack, and plenty of good things to eat. And she sent a gentle, warm wind behind him.

Glad of the wind, Odysseus spread his sail. He sat and steered with skill at the oar, and sleep never fell on his eyes. He watched the Pleiades, and Boötes setting late, and the Bear — which men also call the Wain — that wheels in one place and watches Orion, the only star that never bathes in Ocean's stream. Calypso had told him to keep it on his left hand as he crossed the sea.

For seventeen days he sailed across the water, and on the eighteenth the shadowy mountains of the Phaeacians' land came into view, where it lay nearest to him, like a shield laid on the misty sea.

* * *

But the lord who shakes the earth, Poseidon, coming back from the Ethiopians, caught sight of him far off, from the mountains of the Solymi. He saw him sailing the sea, and his heart grew hotter with rage. He shook his head and spoke to his own spirit. "So — the gods have changed their plans about Odysseus while I was away among the Ethiopians. He's close to the Phaeacians' land now, where he's fated to escape the great net of misery closing on him. But I think I can still drive him through plenty more trouble first."

He gathered the clouds and stirred up the sea, his trident in his hands. He roused storms of every wind and shrouded land and water alike in cloud. Night sprang from the sky. East Wind and South Wind crashed together with the howling West and the North that's born in clear weather, rolling a huge wave ahead of it. Then Odysseus's knees went loose, and his heart, and in his misery he spoke to his own spirit.

"What now — wretch that I am? I'm afraid the goddess told the whole truth, that I'd fill my cup of suffering on the sea before I reached home. Now it's all coming true. Look how Zeus crowns the wide sky with clouds, how he stirs the sea, how the storms of every wind rush down. Now my death is certain. Three times, four times lucky were those men who died back at wide Troy doing a favor for the sons of Atreus. I wish I'd died that day the Trojans threw their bronze-tipped spears at me thick around the dead body of Achilles. Then I'd have had a proper burial, and the Achaeans would have carried my name. Instead I'm caught in a miserable death."

As he spoke, a great wave crashed down on him from above, terrible, rushing in, and spun the raft around. He was flung far from it. The steering oar tore from his hands, the mast snapped in the middle under the fearful blast of the clashing winds, and the sail and crossbar fell far off into the sea. The wave held him under a long time. He could not surface quickly under the rush of that great wave, because the clothes Calypso had given him dragged him down. At last he came up and spat the bitter saltwater from his mouth. It streamed down off his head in rivers. Even broken as he was, he did not forget the raft. He fought through the waves to it, caught hold, and climbed into the middle of it, dodging the end that was death.

The wave carried the raft along the current, this way and that. As the North Wind in autumn drives clumps of thistles across a field, locked tight to one another, so the winds carried the raft over the open sea. Now the South Wind tossed it to the North to carry; now the East Wind gave it to the West to chase.

But the daughter of Cadmus saw him — Ino of the lovely ankles, called Leucothea, who once was a mortal woman with a human voice and now in the depths of the sea holds her share of honor among the gods. She pitied Odysseus, drifting and in pain. She rose from the water like a seabird and perched on the raft and spoke to him.

"Poor man, why does Poseidon hate you so wildly that he plants all these troubles in your path? Yet he won't destroy you, however much he wants to. Now do exactly this — you seem to me no fool. Strip off these clothes, let the raft go where the winds drive it, and swim with your arms for the land of the Phaeacians, where you're fated to escape. Here — stretch this veil across your chest. It's immortal. You need not fear suffering or death. And once you've got your hands on the land, untie it and throw it back into the wine-dark sea, far from the shore, and turn yourself away."

She gave him the veil, then dove back into the surging sea like a seabird, and the dark wave covered her.

Long-suffering Odysseus turned it over, troubled, and spoke to his own spirit. "I'm afraid this is some god weaving a new trap for me, telling me to leave my raft. I won't obey yet. The land where she said I'd escape looked far off to my eyes. Here's what I'll do, and I think it's best. As long as the timbers hold in their joints, I'll stay here and bear the suffering. But once the waves shake the raft to pieces, I'll swim. There's nothing better to plan."

While he was still turning this over, Poseidon, who shakes the earth, raised a great wave against him — fearful and hard and arched overhead — and brought it crashing down. As a strong wind scatters a heap of dry chaff and throws it every direction, so it scattered the long timbers of the raft. Odysseus straddled a single plank and rode it like a man riding a horse. He stripped off the clothes Calypso had given him, stretched Ino's veil across his chest, and threw himself face-down into the sea, arms spread, ready to swim. The lord who shakes the earth saw him and shook his head and spoke to his spirit. "Now go on — suffer all you like, drift across the sea, until you reach those people the gods have nourished. But even then I don't think you'll go on calling your suffering small." He whipped his horses with fine manes and went off to Aegae, where his famous halls stand.

But Athena, daughter of Zeus, had other plans. She tied down the paths of all the other winds and ordered them to stop and lie still, all but the swift North Wind, which she roused, breaking down the waves ahead of him, so Odysseus might come among the seafaring Phaeacians and escape death and the dark fates.

For two nights and two days he drifted on the heavy swell, and again and again his heart looked death in the face. But when the lovely-haired Dawn brought the third day, the wind died and a windless calm settled. Lifted high on a swell, he looked sharply ahead and saw land close by. As welcome as the breath of life is to children whose father has lain in sickness, suffering terrible pain, wasting long under some hateful spirit, and then the gods free him from his misery, that welcome was the sight of land and trees to Odysseus. He swam hard, straining to set foot on dry ground.

But when he was only as far off as a man's shout would carry, he heard the boom of the sea against the rocks. The great swell crashed against the dry land with a terrible roar, and everything was wrapped in spray. There were no harbors to hold a ship, no shelter, only jutting headlands and reefs and crags. Then Odysseus's knees went loose, and his heart, and in his misery he spoke to his own spirit.

"After Zeus has let me see the land I never hoped for, after I've cut my way across all this gulf, there's no way out of the gray sea. Sharp rocks stand offshore, and the waves roar around them, and the cliff runs up smooth and sheer, and the water's deep right up to it. There's no place to set both feet and climb clear of this misery. If I try to get out, a great wave may snatch me up and smash me against the jagged stone, and my struggle will have been for nothing. But if I swim on further, looking for sloping beaches and harbors of the sea, I'm afraid a storm may catch me again and carry me back out over the fish-filled sea, groaning aloud, or some god may send a great sea-monster up at me from the deep, the kind glorious Amphitrite breeds in plenty. I know how the famous earth-shaker hates me."

While he was turning this over, a great wave carried him toward the rocky shore. There the skin would have been torn from his body, his bones smashed together, but the bright-eyed goddess Athena put it into his mind. He lunged with both hands and caught the rock and clung to it, groaning, until the great wave passed. So he survived that one. But the backwash struck him as it rushed away and flung him far out to sea. As when an octopus is dragged out of its hole and the pebbles cling thick to its suckers, so the skin was stripped from his bold hands against the rocks, and the great wave covered him.

There the wretched man would have died before his time, but bright-eyed Athena gave him a clear head. He fought up out of the wave that was breaking toward the shore and swam along outside it, looking toward the land, hoping to find sloping beaches and harbors of the sea. And when, swimming, he came to the mouth of a fair-flowing river, the place looked best to him, clear of rocks, and sheltered from the wind. He felt the current running and prayed to it in his heart.

"Hear me, lord, whoever you are. I come to you, much-prayed-to, fleeing the sea and Poseidon's threats. Even the deathless gods respect a wandering man who comes to them, the way I come now to your stream and your knees, after so much suffering. Pity me, lord. I throw myself on your mercy."

He spoke, and the river checked his current at once, and held back the wave, and made calm water before him, and brought him safe to the river's mouth. There his knees buckled, and his strong hands gave out, for the sea had broken his spirit. His whole body was swollen, and seawater gushed up through his mouth and nose. He lay there breathless and speechless, with barely any strength, and a terrible weariness was on him.

But when he got his breath back and his spirit gathered in his chest again, he loosed the goddess's veil from himself and let it fall into the river that runs to the sea, and a great wave carried it back down the current, and Ino took it at once into her own hands. Then he crawled out of the river and lay down in the reeds and kissed the grain-giving earth. In his misery he spoke to his own spirit.

"What will become of me? What's the end of all this? If I keep watch by the river through the painful night, the bitter frost and the soft dew may finish off what's left of me. I'm so weak, and a cold breeze blows off the river before dawn. But if I climb the slope to the shadowy woods and lie down in the thick brush, and the cold and the weariness let me go, and sweet sleep comes over me, I'm afraid I'll become prey and a meal for wild animals."

As he thought it over, this seemed best. He went up into the woods and found a place near the water, in a clearing. He crawled under two bushes growing from one root, one a wild olive, one a cultivated olive. No force of the wet winds blew through them, no blazing sun struck them with its rays, no rain pierced through, so closely they grew, woven into each other. Odysseus crept under them and at once heaped up a wide bed with his own hands, for there was a great drift of fallen leaves, enough to shelter two or three men in the dead of winter, however bitter the weather. Long-suffering Odysseus saw it and was glad. He lay down in the middle and pulled the heap of leaves over himself. As a man on a lonely farm, far from any neighbors, hides a glowing brand under the dark ashes to save the seed of fire, so he wouldn't have to fetch flame from somewhere else, so Odysseus covered himself with leaves. And Athena poured sleep over his eyes, closing his lids, to free him quickly from his exhausting labor.