# Book 8: The Stranger Who Cried at the Song

*A blind bard sings of Troy, and the unknown guest cannot hide his tears.*

When rosy-fingered Dawn came up, King Alcinous rose from his bed, and so did Odysseus, raider of cities. Alcinous led him down to the Phaeacian meeting place, which lay near the ships. They came and sat side by side on benches of polished stone.

Meanwhile Athena went through the town. She took the shape of one of King Alcinous's heralds, for she was busy planning Odysseus's way home. She stopped beside each man and said, "Come on, leaders and counselors of the Phaeacians! Come to the assembly and hear about the stranger who has just reached the king's house after wandering across the sea. He looks like one of the gods."

Her words stirred them. Quickly the meeting place filled with men taking their seats, and many of them stared in wonder at Laertes's son. Athena had poured a marvelous grace over his head and shoulders. She made him look taller and stronger, so the Phaeacians would think well of him, would find him impressive and respected, and so he might win through the many contests they were sure to set him.

When everyone had gathered, Alcinous stood and spoke.

"Listen, leaders and counselors. I'll say what my heart tells me. This stranger, whoever he is, has wandered to my house, from the lands of the east or the west, I can't say. He asks for passage home and begs us to promise it. So let us help him on his way, as we always have. No one who comes to my house sits grieving here for long, waiting to be sent home. Let's drag a black ship down to the bright sea, a ship that has never sailed before, and pick fifty-two of our best young men from the people. When you've all lashed your oars to the pins, come ashore and come to my house for a quick feast. I'll provide plenty for everyone. Those are my orders for the young men. The rest of you, kings who carry the scepter, come to my fine house, so we can entertain our guest in the hall. Let no one refuse. And send for the divine singer Demodocus, for the god gave him the gift of song above all others, to bring delight however his heart moves him to sing."

He led the way, and the scepter-bearing lords followed. A herald went to fetch the singer. The fifty-two chosen young men went down to the shore of the restless sea, as they had been told. They dragged the black ship into the deep water, set up the mast and the sails, fitted the oars into their leather loops, all in good order, and spread the white sails. They moored the ship out in the open water, then went to the great house of King Alcinous.

The porches and courtyards and rooms filled with men gathering, young and old, a great crowd. Alcinous killed twelve sheep for them, eight white-tusked pigs, and two oxen with shambling gait. They skinned them and prepared them and made a fine feast.

* * *

The herald came near, leading the singer everyone loved. The Muse had loved Demodocus too, and had given him both good and evil. She took away his eyes but gave him sweet song. Pontonous set a silver-studded chair for him in the middle of the guests, leaning it against a tall pillar. He hung the clear-toned lyre on a peg above the singer's head and showed him with his hands where to reach for it. Beside him he set a basket and a fine table and a cup of wine to drink whenever he wished.

They all reached out for the good food before them. When they'd had their fill of food and drink, the Muse stirred the singer to sing of the great deeds of men, a song whose fame reached the wide sky in those days: the quarrel between Odysseus and Achilles, son of Peleus, how once they fought with fierce words at a feast of the gods. Agamemnon, lord of men, was secretly glad to hear the best of the Achaeans fighting among themselves, for Apollo had foretold it to him at holy Pytho, when he stepped over the stone doorsill to ask the oracle. That was the beginning of the misery rolling down on Trojans and Greeks alike, by the will of mighty Zeus.

This was the singer's song. But Odysseus pulled his great purple cloak up over his head with his strong hands and hid his face. He was ashamed to let the Phaeacians see the tears slipping from under his brows. Whenever the singer paused, Odysseus wiped his eyes, pulled the cloak from his head, lifted his cup, and poured an offering to the gods. But when the singer began again, for the Phaeacian lords loved his words and urged him on, Odysseus covered his head once more and cried.

He hid his tears from everyone except Alcinous. The king sat next to him and noticed, and heard him groaning under his breath. So Alcinous spoke to the Phaeacians, the lovers of the oar.

"Listen, leaders and counselors. We've had our fill of the feast and the lyre that goes with it. Now let's go out and try our skill at the games, all of them, so when our guest gets home he can tell his friends how far we surpass everyone else at boxing, wrestling, jumping, and running."

He led the way, and they followed. A herald hung the clear lyre back on its peg, took Demodocus by the hand, and led him out, along the same road the rest of the Phaeacian nobles took to watch the contests.

* * *

They came to the meeting ground, and a huge crowd followed, thousands of them. Many fine young men stood up to compete: Acroneos, Ocyalus, Elatreus, Nauteus, Prymneus, Anchialus, Eretmeus, Ponteus, Proreus, Thoon, Anabesineus, and Amphialus, son of Polyneus, son of Tecton. Euryalus stood up too, the son of Naubolus, a man like Ares the killer of men, the best-looking and best-built of all the Phaeacians except for fine Laodamas. And three sons of Alcinous stood: Laodamas, Halios, and godlike Clytoneus.

First they tested themselves at running. They stretched out from the starting line and all flew forward together, raising dust across the plain. Clytoneus was far the best runner. He left the others as far behind as a team of mules can plow across a field, and reached the crowd while the rest still trailed.

Then they tried hard wrestling, and Euryalus beat all the best. Amphialus was the finest at jumping. Elatreus was far the best at the discus. And at boxing it was Laodamas, the good son of Alcinous.

When they'd all enjoyed the games, Laodamas spoke up. "Come, friends, let's ask the stranger if he knows any sport, if he's trained at one. His build is no weakling's. Look at his thighs and calves, his arms, his strong neck, his great strength. He's not past his prime, just broken by all his troubles. There's nothing worse than the sea for wearing a man down, no matter how strong he is."

"Well said, Laodamas," Euryalus answered. "Go up and challenge him yourself. Speak to him."

So the good son of Alcinous stepped into the middle and spoke to Odysseus. "Come on, sir, you try the games too, if you've learned any. You look like you know them. There's no greater glory for a man, while he lives, than what he can do with his hands and feet. Come, try, and shake the worry from your heart. Your journey home won't be long now. The ship is already in the water and the crew is ready."

Crafty Odysseus answered, "Laodamas, why do you taunt me like this? My heart is on my troubles, not on games. I've suffered much and toiled hard, and now I sit in your assembly longing only to go home, begging your king and all your people for it."

Then Euryalus cut at him openly. "No, stranger, I don't take you for a man who knows the games men love. You look more like the captain of some trading ship, a man who sails with a crew of merchants, keeping track of his cargo and watching his profits, greedy for gain. You're no athlete."

Odysseus glared at him from under his brows. "Stranger, that was an ugly thing to say. You sound like a fool. The gods don't give every gift to every man: not looks, not brains, not the gift of speech. One man is plain to look at, but the god crowns his words with beauty, and people gaze at him with delight. He speaks with a steady, gentle modesty and stands out in any crowd; when he walks through the town, people look at him like a god. Another man is as handsome as the immortals, but there's no grace wrapped around his words. That's you. Your looks are striking, even a god could make you no finer, but your mind is empty. You've stirred up the heart in my chest with your rude talk. I'm no stranger to games, whatever you say. I think I was among the best of them, while I could trust my youth and my hands. But now I'm worn down by hardship and grief. I've been through wars and the cruel waves. Still, even after all I've suffered, I'll try your games. Your words have bitten me to the bone. You've stung me into it."

He sprang up, cloak and all, and seized a discus, bigger and thicker and a good deal heavier than the ones the Phaeacians threw among themselves. He spun and let it fly from his strong hand. The stone hummed through the air, and the Phaeacians ducked low to the ground, those men famous for their long oars and their ships, as the stone whistled past. It flew clear beyond all the other marks. Athena, taking the shape of a man, set down the marker and called out: "Stranger, even a blind man could find your mark by feeling for it. It's not mixed in with the rest at all, it's far out in front. You can take heart at this contest. No Phaeacian will match this throw, let alone beat it."

That pleased Odysseus, glad to find one friend among the watchers. So he spoke more lightly now.

"Reach that, young men, if you can. Soon I'll throw another just as far, or farther. As for the rest of you, whoever has the heart for it, come and try me. You've made me far too angry. Boxing, wrestling, running, I don't care which. I'll take on any Phaeacian except Laodamas. He's my host. Who would fight the man who's befriended him? Only a fool, a worthless man, would challenge his host to a contest in a foreign land; he cuts the ground out from under himself. But I refuse none of the rest. I want to see them face to face and test them. I'm not bad at any sport men know. I know my way around a polished bow. I'd be the first to strike a man with my arrow, shooting into a crowd of enemies, even if a whole pack of my friends stood nearby shooting too. Only Philoctetes outshot me with the bow at Troy, when we Achaeans drew our bows. Of all the rest, of all the men alive now who eat bread on the earth, I say I'm far the best. I won't try to match the men of old: not Heracles, not Eurytus of Oechalia, who challenged even the gods with their bows. That's why great Eurytus died young, before old age reached him in his halls: Apollo grew angry and killed him, because he challenged him at archery. And I can throw a spear farther than any other man can shoot an arrow. It's only running where I'm afraid one of you Phaeacians might beat me. The sea wore me down badly. There was no steady care for me aboard ship for too long, and my legs have lost their strength."

He finished, and they all sat silent. Only Alcinous answered him.

"Stranger, there's nothing wrong with what you've said. You want to show the worth that goes with you, angry that this man stood up and insulted you in the contest. No one who knows how to speak sense would ever sneer at your worth. But now hear what I say, so you can tell some other hero, when you're feasting at home beside your wife and children, and remember our skill, what works Zeus has set on us, on and on, since our fathers' days. We're no flawless boxers or wrestlers, but we run swiftly and we're the best of sailors. We always love the feast, the lyre, the dance, fresh clothes, warm baths, and beds. Come now, let the best Phaeacian dancers perform, so our guest can tell his friends when he gets home how far we surpass everyone at sailing, at running, at dancing and song. Someone run and fetch Demodocus's clear-toned lyre, which is lying somewhere in my house."

Godlike Alcinous spoke, and the herald rose to fetch the hollow lyre from the king's house. Nine chosen umpires stood up, the men of the people who managed everything at the games. They smoothed the dancing floor and widened the fine ring. The herald came back with the clear lyre for Demodocus, who stepped into the middle. Around him stood young men in the first bloom of their strength, skilled dancers, and they struck the holy floor with their feet. Odysseus watched the flashing of their feet and marveled in his heart.

* * *

Then the singer struck the lyre and lifted his voice in a beautiful song, about the love of Ares and Aphrodite of the lovely crown, how they first lay together in secret in the house of Hephaestus. Ares gave her many gifts and shamed the bed and the marriage of Lord Hephaestus. But the Sun, who had seen them making love, came as a messenger and told him.

When Hephaestus heard the bitter news, he went straight to his forge, brooding trouble in his heart. He set his great anvil on its block and hammered out chains, unbreakable, impossible to loosen, so the two would stay fixed where they were. When he'd built his trap, raging at Ares, he went to the bedroom where his own bed stood. He poured the chains all around the bedposts, in a circle, everywhere, and many hung down from the roof beam above, fine as a spider's web, so fine that no one could see them, not even the blessed gods. The work was that cunning. When he had spread the whole snare over the bed, he made as if to leave for Lemnos, the well-built town he loved best of all the lands.

Ares of the golden reins kept no blind watch. As soon as he saw the famous craftsman go, he went to the house of Hephaestus, hungry for the love of Aphrodite of the lovely crown. She had just come back from her father, the mighty son of Cronos, and sat down. Ares came inside, took her hand, and spoke.

"Come, my love, let's go to bed and lie down together. Hephaestus isn't here anymore. He's gone off to Lemnos, to the Sintians and their harsh speech."

She was glad enough to lie down with him. So they went to the bed and lay down, and the cunning chains of clever Hephaestus closed over them, so they couldn't move a limb or lift themselves at all. Then they knew there was no escape.

And the famous lame god came near, turning back before he reached Lemnos, for the Sun had kept watch for him and told him everything. He went to his house with a heavy heart. He stopped in the doorway, and wild fury seized him. He gave a terrible shout, calling out to all the gods.

"Father Zeus, and all you other blessed gods who live forever, come here and see something to laugh at, something not to be borne! See how Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, always dishonors me because I'm lame, and loves wrecking Ares because he's handsome and quick on his feet, while I was born crippled. No one's to blame for that but my two parents, who should never have given me life. Come and look at the two of them, sleeping in my bed, lying in love. It tears my heart to see it. But I don't think they'll lie like that much longer, however much they love each other. Soon enough they won't want to sleep. My trap and my chains will hold them until her father gives me back every bride-gift I handed him for this shameless girl, beautiful, yes, but with no self-control."

So the gods gathered to his house with its bronze floor. Poseidon came, who holds the earth; Hermes the bringer of luck came; and Lord Apollo, who strikes from afar, came. But the goddesses stayed home, each in her own house, out of modesty. The gods, the givers of good things, stood in the doorway, and unquenchable laughter rose up among the blessed gods as they saw the cunning work of clever Hephaestus.

And one would say to his neighbor, "Bad deeds don't prosper. The slow catches the swift, just as now slow Hephaestus has caught Ares, the fastest of the gods on Olympus, by his craft, lame as he is. Now Ares owes the fine for adultery."

So they talked among themselves. Then Lord Apollo, son of Zeus, said to Hermes, "Hermes, son of Zeus, guide and giver of good things, would you be willing to sleep beside golden Aphrodite, even crushed in those strong chains?"

And the guide, the slayer of Argus, answered, "If only it could happen, Lord Apollo of the far-shooting arrows! Let three times as many chains hold me, and all you gods and goddesses look on, I'd still sleep beside golden Aphrodite."

He spoke, and laughter rose among the immortal gods. But Poseidon didn't laugh. He kept begging Hephaestus, the master craftsman, to set Ares free. He said to him: "Let him go. I promise you that he'll pay what's fair among the immortal gods, just as you ask."

The famous lame god answered him, "Poseidon, don't ask me that. Bad debts are bad to vouch for. How could I bind you in front of the gods, if Ares ran off and slipped free of both the debt and the chains?"

Poseidon, shaker of the earth, said, "Hephaestus, if Ares does run off and escape the debt, I'll pay you myself."

And the famous lame god answered, "I can't and shouldn't refuse you that." So mighty Hephaestus loosed the chains. The moment they were free of the bonds, strong as they were, the two sprang up. Ares went to Thrace, and laughter-loving Aphrodite went to Cyprus, to Paphos, where she has her sacred grove and an altar fragrant with offerings. There the Graces bathed her and rubbed her with the immortal oil that gleams on the gods who live forever, and dressed her in lovely clothes, a wonder to see.

This was the famous singer's song, and Odysseus delighted to hear it, and so did the Phaeacians, those men of the long oars famous for their ships.

* * *

Then Alcinous told Halios and Laodamas to dance alone, for no one could match them. They took a fine purple ball, which skilled Polybus had made for them. One leaned back and threw it up toward the shadowy clouds, and the other leaped high off the ground and caught it easily before his feet touched down again. After they'd tried throwing the ball straight up, they danced on the nourishing earth, passing it quickly back and forth, while the other young men stood around the ring and beat time, and a great clapping rose up.

Then Odysseus said to Alcinous, "Lord Alcinous, greatest of all your people, you boasted your dancers were the best, and here it is, proven. I'm filled with wonder watching them."

That warmed the king's heart, and he spoke at once to the Phaeacians. "Listen, leaders and counselors. This stranger seems to me a man of great good sense. Let's give him a guest-gift, as is only right. Twelve fine kings rule as leaders among the people, and I am the thirteenth. Each of you bring him a freshly washed cloak and a tunic and a bar of precious gold. Let's gather it all quickly, so the stranger can take it in his hands and go to supper with a glad heart. And Euryalus must make it right with words and a gift of his own, for what he said was out of line."

They all agreed and urged it on, and each sent a herald to bring his gifts. Then Euryalus answered, "Lord Alcinous, greatest of all your people, yes, I'll make peace with the stranger, as you say. I'll give him this sword of solid bronze, with a silver hilt and a sheath of fresh-cut ivory wrapped around it. It will be worth a great deal to him."

He put the silver-studded sword in Odysseus's hands and spoke. "Greetings, sir, my friend. If any harsh word was spoken, may the storm winds snatch it up and carry it off. May the gods grant you to see your wife and reach your homeland, since you've suffered so long away from those you love."

Crafty Odysseus answered, "And greetings to you, my friend. May the gods give you good fortune. And may you never miss this sword you've given me, after making peace with your words."

He slung the silver-studded sword over his shoulders. The sun was going down, and the splendid gifts arrived. Proud heralds carried them to the house of Alcinous, and the sons of the king received them and set the beautiful gifts beside their honored mother. Alcinous led the way, and they came and sat on the high chairs.

Then mighty Alcinous spoke to Arete. "Wife, bring out the finest chest we have, and put a clean cloak and a tunic in it yourself. Set a cauldron of bronze on the fire for him and heat water, so when he's bathed and seen all the gifts the Phaeacians have brought him laid out well, he can enjoy the feast and listen to the song. And I'll give him this beautiful golden cup of mine, so he remembers me all his days when he pours offerings in his hall to Zeus and the other gods."

Arete told her slave women to set a great tripod cauldron on the fire as fast as they could. They set the tripod for the bathwater over the blazing fire, poured in water, and lit wood beneath it. The flames licked around the cauldron's belly and the water grew hot.

Meanwhile Arete brought out the lovely chest for the stranger from her room and laid the fine gifts inside, the clothing and gold the Phaeacians had given, and added a cloak and a good tunic herself. She said to him. "Now see to the lid yourself, and quickly tie a knot around it, so no one robs you on the way when you fall into sweet sleep aboard the black ship."

When Odysseus heard this, he fitted the lid and quickly tied an intricate knot around it, one Lady Circe had once taught his mind. Then the housekeeper called him to go and bathe. He was glad to see the warm bath, for he'd had little care since he left the house of fair-haired Calypso, though there, all that time, he'd been tended like a god.

When the slave women had bathed him and rubbed him with oil and thrown a fine cloak and tunic about him, he stepped out of the bath and went toward the men drinking their wine. Nausicaa, with her god-given beauty, stood by the post that held up the strong roof. She gazed at Odysseus with wondering eyes and spoke to him.

"Goodbye, stranger. When you're back in your own land, remember me sometimes, for it's to me first that you owe your life."

Crafty Odysseus answered, "Nausicaa, daughter of brave Alcinous, may Zeus, the loud-thundering husband of Hera, grant that I reach my home and see the day of my return. Then I'll pray to you there like a goddess, all my days. For you saved my life, girl."

He went and sat on a chair beside King Alcinous. By now they were dividing the portions and mixing the wine. A herald came near leading the singer everyone honored, Demodocus, and set him in the middle of the guests, leaning him against a tall pillar.

Then crafty Odysseus called to the herald. He'd cut a portion off his back of pork. There was plenty left, and it was rich with fat. "Herald, take this meat to Demodocus, so he can eat it. I want to greet him kindly, troubled as I am. Singers are honored and respected by everyone on earth, for the Muse has taught them the paths of song and loves the whole tribe of singers."

So the herald carried it over and put it in the hands of the hero Demodocus, who took it and was glad in his heart. They reached out for the good food before them. When they'd had their fill of food and drink, crafty Odysseus spoke to Demodocus.

"Demodocus, I praise you above all mortals. Either the Muse, daughter of Zeus, taught you, or Apollo himself. You sing the fate of the Achaeans so truly, all they did and suffered, all they toiled through, as if you'd been there yourself, or heard it from someone who was. Now change your song. Sing of the wooden horse, the one Epeus built with Athena's help, the trick that Odysseus brought up into the citadel filled with men, the men who sacked Troy. If you tell that story rightly, I'll declare to all the world that a kindly god gave you the gift of inspired song."

The singer, moved by the god, took up the tale. He began where the Argives had set fire to their huts, boarded their well-built ships, and sailed away, while the rest, around glorious Odysseus, sat hidden in the horse in the Trojan assembly ground. For the Trojans themselves had dragged the horse up into their citadel. There it stood while they argued back and forth around it, in three minds: to split the hollow wood open with pitiless bronze, or drag it to the edge and hurl it down the rocks, or leave it standing as a great offering to please the gods. And that last was how it would end, for the city was doomed to be destroyed once it took in that great wooden horse, where all the best of the Argives sat, bringing death and doom to the Trojans.

He sang how the sons of the Achaeans poured out of the horse, leaving their hollow hiding place, and sacked the city. He sang how they ranged this way and that, ravaging the steep town, and how Odysseus went like Ares to the house of Deiphobus, together with godlike Menelaus. There, he sang, Odysseus dared the most terrible fighting of all and won, with the help of great-hearted Athena.

This was the famous singer's song. And Odysseus melted. Tears ran down and wet his cheeks under his eyes. He cried the way a woman cries, throwing herself over her husband's body, a husband who has fallen in front of his city and his people, fighting to keep the pitiless day from his town and his children. She sees him gasping and dying and wraps herself around him, wailing aloud. The enemy beat her back and shoulders with their spears and drag her off into slavery, to labor and misery, and her cheeks waste with the most pitiful grief. So pitifully did the tears fall from Odysseus's eyes.

Again he hid his tears from everyone except Alcinous. The king sat near him, noticed, and heard him groaning heavily. At once he spoke to the Phaeacians.

"Listen, leaders and counselors. Let Demodocus stop the clear-toned lyre now. He's not pleasing everyone with this song. Ever since we began the feast and the singer started, our guest hasn't stopped his bitter grieving. Some great sorrow has wrapped itself around his heart. Let the singer stop, so we can all enjoy ourselves together, hosts and guest alike. That's far better. All this is being done for our honored guest: the escort, the gifts we give him in friendship. A guest, and any man who begs for shelter, is like a brother to any man with even a little sense.

"So, friend, don't hide from me with sly thoughts whatever I ask you. It's better that you speak. Tell me your name, the one your mother and father called you at home, and everyone in your town and around it. No one is altogether without a name, neither low nor noble. Parents give a name to everyone once they're born. And tell me your land, your people, your city, so our ships can carry you there, fixing the course in their minds. For the Phaeacians have no pilots, and our ships have no steering-oars like other ships. They know on their own what men are thinking and wanting. They know all the cities and rich fields of every land, and they cross the gulf of the sea swiftly, wrapped in mist and cloud, with no fear of harm or wreck.

"Still, I heard this once from my father Nausithous, who used to say that Poseidon was angry with us, because we give safe passage to everyone. He said that one day the god would smash one of our fine ships as it came home from giving an escort, on the misty sea, and bury our city under a great mountain. So the old man said. The god may make it happen, or leave it undone, as he pleases.

"But now tell me this, and tell me true. Where have you wandered? What lands of men have you reached: the people and their well-built cities, the cruel and wild and lawless ones, and the kind ones who welcome strangers and fear the gods? And tell me why you cry and grieve in your heart when you hear of the fate of the Argives and of Troy. The gods made all that happen; they spun out destruction for men, so there'd be a song for people yet to come. Did some kinsman of yours die before Troy, a good man, a son-in-law, a father-in-law, the dearest people we have after our own blood and family? Or was it some companion, a good man, a man dear to your heart? A loyal friend is no less than a brother."