The goddess pulled her head momentarily from the Herdsman’s chest, and nodded at each of them through her tears.
“Can I ask what grieves you, my lady?” Machaon asked awkwardly, as she returned her wet face to his shoulder.
“Odysseus, Odysseus the son of Laertes grieves me,” she wept.
“Has he hurt you?” demanded Cadmus angrily.
“No,” she replied. “I weep because I cannot hurt him.”
“I am not sure we understand you, my Lady,” said Lycon.
Calypso wiped her eyes. “Many days ago,” she said, “a man washed up on my shores clinging to wreckage. He was weak and exhausted. I helped him, and cared for him, because it is the way of my people to aid travellers. It is our law. I gave him comfort and clothes, and I allowed him to share my bed ... and now he won’t go.”
Large tears spilled once more from her eyes, but finally she let go of Machaon.
“Can’t you just ask him to leave?” Hero inquired tentatively. The goddess started to cry again.
“He came as a supplicant; he claimed a supplicant’s rights, and so I cannot show him anything but hospitality, unless I wish to bring the wrath of the King of Gods upon my people. Odysseus has fallen in love with me and now he does not choose to go ... and I do not wish to offend him ... I took him to my bed on a whim — but he is old and his best years were long ago.”
Cadmus sobered a smile quickly as Hero glowered at him.
Calypso looked at them all suddenly. “Are you from Ithaca? Are you his countrymen? Can you not entice him to continue his journey home?
Machaon smiled. “No, we are not from Ithaca,” he said. “But perhaps we can help you to encourage him to go.”
“How?” asked Calypso. “I cannot turn him out myself without offending Zeus.”
The Herdsman’s eyes glinted. “Tell Odysseus that the gods have decided it is time he went home. Tell him that it is his failure to claim his own deed that has kept him from his kingdom.” Machaon saw the horror on Hero’s face, and spoke quickly lest she stop him. “Tell him that by speaking the truth, when next he is asked of his exploits, he will release himself from the ire of the gods and return to Ithaca with the glory and gold that is his due. Tell him he must return to Troy to claim his place as its nimble-witted destroyer or else history will forget him. He will go of his own accord.”
They waited for Calypso’s response. She was quiet as she contemplated Machaon’s words. “And what should I tell the King, when he asks how I know will of the gods?” she asked.
“My Lady, you are a goddess ... ,” Machaon began.
“Tell him Hermes told you,” said Cadmus, grinning at his elder brother.
Calypso regarded them all carefully. Her eyes shone with hope. “I know I should ask your interest in Odysseus ... but I don’t care ... I just want him to go.” She sighed. “Never has there been a more tedious lodger.”
She smiled at the sons of Agelaus, a smile that transformed her from comely to beautiful. “You are welcome of course to enjoy the pleasures of my house. I can offer you the delights of my table, and a bed that you will never want to leave.”
“My Lady,” said Machaon with a wary glance at his brothers. “You are already too troubled with guests who do not wish to leave, but we thank you for your invitation.”
She gazed at them with an intensity that was reminiscent of Circe. “Pity,” she said with clear regret and then she ran towards her magnificent home with all the carefree vigour of a child.
“What is it with goddesses?” muttered Lycon.
“They are a bit free with their favours,” Machaon agreed.
They stood for a while, waiting, for they could see that Hero was about to launch into a tirade. They knew the signs. Presently she was speechless with rage. That would change.
“Are you crazy?” she demanded of Machaon. “How could you purport to speak for the gods? They will not like this ... Have you not already seen what their displeasure will bring?”
“The gods may not have said it exactly,” replied Machaon with a smile, “but they have implied it ... why else would he be alive?”
“Because they want to punish Odysseus by keeping him from getting home! They want him to suffer!”
“It’s hardly a punishment if he doesn’t want to go home,” said Cadmus in Machaon’s defence. “It sounds like Calypso’s the only one suffering.”
Hero glared at them. “Tonight we will all sacrifice, and pray,” she said ominously, “And perhaps the gods, in their mercy, will refrain from killing us!”
“Zeus’ daughter, grey-eyed Athena chose now to intervene. She becalmed all the other winds but that from the North, which she emboldened and used to subdue the waves in Odysseus’ path so that he might be rescued from awaiting death into the arms of the sea-faring Phaeacians.”
The Odyssey Book V
BOOK XXIII
HERO WAS DETERMINED TO atone for the sacrilege of her brothers. The sons of Agelaus dutifully built her pyres and ensured the flames did not get out of control. At first she insisted they join her in prayer, but so awkward and clumsy were their attempts that she relented for fear that they would further offend the gods. Instead, they drew water and restocked the hold of their good ship whilst their sister appeased the Pantheon.
From their hidden cove, they ventured out often to speak and eat with the people of Calypso’s island, and to watch as a ship was built for Odysseus. The Ithacan King would come down from the palace on occasion to oversee the progress. Calypso came often, to urge her boat builders to hurry.
Twenty tall trees were felled, and their branches lopped so that they could be trimmed and trued to line. The planks were drilled and cut and fixed across each other by means of dowels through the interlocking joints. The ribs were fitted and finished with gunwales down the sides. A tall mast, a white sail and a steering oar were also manufactured to aid Odysseus on his journey. When the ship was complete, Calypso had it filled with every conceivable need and comfort.
“She’s really keen for him to go,” remarked Cadmus with amusement.
When the day came that the new ship of Odysseus was rolled on logs to the water, Calypso called a warm wind from the south, to help him on his way. The Herdsmen watched from the midst of the gathered crowd as the King of Ithaca comforted the goddess. Odysseus did not notice them in his determination to console Calypso for the loss of himself.
“My divine Lady,” said he, “please do not resent my leaving you so heartbroken, and yearning for my company. I know my wise Penelope cannot compare with you to look at. She was passably pretty when I saw her last, but you have the everlasting, radiant beauty of the gods.” Odysseus patted Calypso’s hand regretfully, before he went on. “Penelope is after all mortal, and her looks must have faded further still ... but I long for my homeland where my loyal subjects worship me in my own right.”
“Who’s Penelope?” Lycon murmured.
“I think she must be his wife,” said Cadmus.
“Charming,” muttered Machaon.
Calypso’s mouth twitched a little as she returned Odysseus’ solemn gaze. “Who am I to deny Hermes, the giant slayer, when he asks that I let you go?” she said, her eyes flickering almost imperceptibly to Machaon. “Remember my advice, King of Ithaca, reveal all you know of Troy and its fall and claim your place in the songs of bards.”
The Phaeacian ship did not sail until after Odysseus had disappeared over the horizon. The Herdsmen embarked, under the cover of that distance, knowing that their extraordinary craft would follow with ease.
They farewelled Calypso who had come to their fire often, while Odysseus’ ship was being built, to complain about her unwelcome guest. Indeed, Hero was relieved when they finally left the goddess’ friendly island, for she feared Calypso was becoming too fond of her brothers. The sons of Agelaus had laughed at their sister’s warnings, but goddesses were not to be denied. As it was, Calypso allowed them to go with no more permanent a demand than a lingering embrac
e, which it seemed the Herdsmen were more than happy to grant.
Calypso also provided them with the same helpful breeze to blow them north in pursuit of the Ithacan King, and on this gracious draft they sailed for several days. Hero alternated between joy and terror. Odysseus was pointing his ship back towards Troy, and of this her soul was glad, but he did so because her brothers had used the authority of the gods to trick him. The Pantheon was not to be used in such a way. Surely the wrath of the gods would descend upon them.
Machaon tried to reassure her. “The gods do not notice us Hero — we are just Herdsmen. It is for kings and princes that they reserve their wrath.”
“In any case,” added Cadmus, “all we did was help a goddess rid herself of a guest who had outstayed his welcome. The gods will understand.”
“I have never heard it said that the Pantheon is understanding,” Hero replied coldly. “The best we can hope for is mercy.”
Lycon sighed. “Yours is such a cheerful faith, Hero.”
For most of their journey, however, there was nothing but clear blue skies and fresh winds. On the eighteenth day, the weather changed. The clouds marshalled quickly and densely until darkness fell upon the sea, and the stormy blasts of every wind seemed to assail them all at once. The sons of Agelaus bundled their light-boned sister into the ship’s cabin and lowered the mast to the deck. The waves rose like pounding fists and pummeled the valiant craft, which bobbed to the surface no matter the wall of water.
Cadmus grabbed Lycon’s arm to prevent him being washed overboard and the Herdsmen rode out the storm, clinging to the bucking ship.
When the gentle hand of Eos finally broke again through the heavy clouds, they beheld the shadowy mountains and jutting rock of a land that lay like a shield on the misty sea.
They stood upon the deck, taking in the welcome earth. The broken fragments of Odysseus’ ship floated on the foaming waves. There was no sign of the King of Ithaca.
“I wonder where we are?” murmured Cadmus.
“Well it’s not Troy,” replied Lycon.
Hero reached out and wrapped her arms around the living prow, which seemed to tremble with excitement. She placed her cheek against its sleek arch. “Look how she tosses and shivers. Can you not feel her joy? She knows where we are and she is glad of it, though she brought us here only because Odysseus came this way.”
The sons of Agelaus looked at her blankly. Hero, it seemed, had formed a very close bond with their vessel.
“This is the land of the Phaeacians,” she said shaking her head at the obtuseness of her brothers.
Machaon studied her. “It could be, I guess,” he said sceptically.
“One way to find out,” said Cadmus. He stood at the foredeck and put his strong hand on the prow. “Good ship, old friend,” he said softly, “Take us to Scherie, land of the Phaeacians.”
The extraordinary craft surged towards the shore like a child running to the arms of its mother.
And so they made land. They pulled the boat up onto the rocky coast, which seemed uninhabited.
“I wonder what happened to Odysseus?” mused Lycon.
“Do you think he drowned in the storm?” asked Cadmus, scowling.
Machaon shook his head. “This is Circe’s prophecy,” he said. “We would not get what we needed from Odysseus, until the ship saw home. She was talking about the vessel’s home not ours, or Odysseus’.”
“How does that tell us Odysseus is alive?” challenged Cadmus darkly. “We wouldn’t exactly grieve his passing — maybe what we really want from the King of Ithaca is seats at his funeral.”
Machaon smiled. “No attempt to kill him has succeeded thus far. I’m beginning to fear the man’s immortal.”
“So this is where we will get the truth from him?” said Lycon.
“Maybe,” said Machaon. “At least Circe thought so ... we’ll have to try.”
“But first we’ll have to find him,” replied Cadmus, as he distributed weapons to his brothers.
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Lycon replied. “Odysseus is a king. He will go to the palace and claim the rights of a supplicant. We’ve just got to find our way to the city of the Phaeacians.”
And so they set out in search of civilisation. The treacherous strip of coast on which they had found landing was inhospitable. No ports or villages had been built on this part of the island, and it seemed deserted.
They walked along the jagged landscape enjoying the feeling of unmoving earth beneath their feet for the first time in a long while. The sky glistened large above them, rinsed by the violent storm that had heralded their arrival.
At first they mistook the sound for the cry of a seabird, and then, as they stepped closer to the breaking waves, they realised the scream was that of a man.
“Help! Help me!”
There, clinging to the cliffs in the surging sea, was a man struggling to hold on whilst the water tried equally hard to pull him down. The Herdsmen did not hesitate. Cadmus plunged into the sea and swam out to reach the drowning man. Machaon and Lycon climbed down from the rocks above.
Cadmus reached him first. The man was not a great deal older than they, but he was exhausted and seemed unable to swim. Cadmus placed his arm around the Phaeacian’s chest and kept his head above the salt sea, until Machaon and Lycon were close enough to hoist him from the waves. They pulled him up to higher ground and sat him shivering on even land. Hero took off her own cloak and wrapped it around him.
He regarded them gratefully with pale blue eyes. “Thank you, gentle people,” he said. “I thought I had seen my last sunrise.”
Cadmus now climbed, sodden and dripping, over the ledge, and Lycon gave him back the cloak he had discarded before diving into the ocean. Machaon quietly placed his own cape about Hero for the wind was sharp and bitter.
“What were you doing down there?” asked Cadmus as he dragged his hands through his dripping hair.
The Phaeacian’s voice was resonant and theatrical. “I was watching as Eos painted the clouds in rose and crimson with her golden brush, when I was overcome by a fatal sleep. In my oblivion, I did not notice the rise of the sea, and so I was woken to the peril of the waves.”
“Oh — and you were alone?”
“Indeed, for it would be disastrous for me to be observed observing,” the man replied sagely.
“And why is that?” asked Machaon.
“I am Demodocus, the blind bard, favourite of the people and of the court of King Alcinous. The muse who gave me my voice took my eyes as payment for her gift.”
“Oh great,” muttered Cadmus. “We’ve rescued a madman.”
“You are not blind, Sir,” said Hero.
Demodocus smiled. “No, I’m not blind,” he agreed. “But everyone knows the best bards are blind, and so blind I must be — when the world is watching.”
“You pretend to be blind?” accused Hero, appalled.
“Yes,” he said with no remorse whatsoever. “It’s really an occupational necessity.”
“And nobody suspects your deception?”
“Not really,” replied Demodocus. “I have a few trusted friends who know that I see as well as any man, but generally people like to believe that it is the muse who crafts the vividness and colour of the pictures I draw with my words. Who am I to spoil it for them?”
Hero was unsure, but the sons of Agelaus warmed to the intriguing bard of the Phaeacians.
“Our ship is secured not far from here,” said Machaon as he noticed the man’s blue lips and shivering frame. “We can offer you dry clothes and whatever remains of our food supplies.”
Demodocus jumped to his feet. “Well, let’s go then,” he said enthusiastically.
They returned to the Phaeacian ship and found dry tunics for Demodocus and Cadmus, as well as one of Lanaeda’s woollen capes for the bard. They built a fire in the shadow of the ship, where they were sheltered from the wind, and fetched the remains of their provisions from the hold.
Demodo
cus, for his part, was appreciative and charming.
“So you are men of taste and discernment,” he declared as he recognised their ship as Phaeacian. “My esteem only grows!”
He told them a little of his country and his countrymen, of the King Alcinous and his queen, Arete. He described his people’s love of the sea and the magnificent living ships they crafted. He told them of the capital of the Phaeacians, surrounded by battlements and divided by a canal, upon which the curved ships could be sailed directly from the sea to Poseidon’s temple at the city’s heart.
Hero listened enraptured, for whether or not he was blessed by the muse, Demodocus was gifted. To frail-eyed Hero, who often viewed the world through the words of others, the bard gave her a breathtaking and poetic vision.
“Dem! Dem — where in Hades are you?”
The voice was carried to them on the wind long before its owner came into view. Her hair was the colour of sunset and it streamed out behind her in the seaside gusts. Her clothes were fine and richly adorned but she treated them carelessly, allowing the fall of her tunic to drag in the dirt. She was certainly beautiful, but more than that, her face was lively and her eyes sparkled with wit. She clambered across the rock calling the name of Demodocus.
“Who is that?” asked Machaon in a tone that was almost awed.
“Nausicaa, over here!” shouted Demodocus.
The girl heard him, and made her way over as the bard waved madly.
“Demodocus, what are you doing over here?” she demanded as she arrived.
“I fell asleep and nearly drowned ... don’t say I told you so ... ” he replied taking her hand. “These are my rescuers.” He turned to the Herdsmen and Hero. “My friends, may I introduce my childhood companion: the beauteous, the exalted, but sometimes quite difficult, Princess Nausicaa, only daughter of King Alcinous of the Phaeacians.”
The princess smiled shyly at the sons of Agelaus, who gazed at her with open admiration, but it was Hero to whom she spoke.
“Dem is stupid, but he is dear to me,” she said. “What do I call those who saved him?”
Hero felt suddenly awkward and plain in the presence of Nausicaa. “I am Hero,” she said tentatively. “These are my brothers, Machaon, Cadmus, and Lycon.”
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