The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel

by Nikos Kazantzakis

Aye, hunter, do not waste your time on scraggly birds

  but keep your spirit unspent for great Necessity!”

  He spoke, and when he set his heavy lyre down,

  a bellowing rose as though a bull had crashed on tiles.

  The pale king leant against the door jamb, lest he fall, 1370

  and felt ashamed before the bard, for the world swelled,

  and in the dark his wild brows creaked and grew immense.

  The son discerned his father’s dizziness, leapt up

  and slid along the porch to buckle on his sword;

  the armless man rose, too, and in the flame-lit courts 1375

  began to rouse up secretly the drunken workmen.

  But the man-slayer guessed the plot, shook off his swoon

  and dashed to the men’s quarter where his son was arming,

  then doubled up his fists, held back his wrath, nor seized

  the columns there to shake the palace to its roots. 1380

  “Son of Penelope!” he cried, but his voice choked.

  His son stood still at once, and his chin shook with fear.

  “Lay down your futile arms, turn back and take your bride,

  it’s time you climbed the nuptial couch and slept embraced;

  I should not like to stain your marriage wreaths with blood.” 1385

  His son frowned wrathfully, then tensed his knees and yelled:

  “I won’t live in your shade—do you hear?-—to rot and wither!”

  The startled father seized his angry son with joy:

  “My son, flare up again that I may see you well!:

  In our black parting now, this is my greatest joy: 1390

  your eyebrows flame with rage, your flesh is still my flesh!”

  The son then looked unfearing in his father’s eyes:

  how they flashed fire and laughter! deep in their irises

  he saw a rearing lion that licked its whelp with love.

  His mind’s foundations shook; for the first time his heart 1395

  leapt up before this man to acknowledge him as father,

  but he restrained his joy nor reached a hand to touch him.

  Odysseus placed both hands on his son’s shoulder blades:

  “Forward, my son; this is a good time for us to part.

  At daybreak I’ll set sail and leave my native land; 1400

  take all my island with its flocks of sheep and men,

  it’s yours, and wear it in your hair, a crown of stone.

  I’d like to leave you now a final testament,

  but, by my soul, I can’t find what fine words to say!

  What should I wish you? That you stifle here on stone 1405

  and gaze with longing on far waves while your heart burns,

  or that you plant roots here thrice-deep and never move?

  What shame to give you blessing now or sound advice!

  Let your soul fly with freedom, and let come what may!”

  He spoke no more, and in his fists, as in farewell, 1410

  clasped tight his deeply moved son firmly by the arm.

  But all at once the archer’s mocking laughter broke:

  “It seems I’ll never look on your face again, my son;

  now see if you can’t spread your hands to blot me out,

  an ancient debt all sons discharge to ease their hearts.” 1415

  He spoke, then from the wall took down his heavy bow

  for he already had set sail on his new voyage.

  His son returned to the courts and said good night with grace

  to gentry and lowborn to end the wedding feast,

  and then approached and touched his wife’s sun-lily hand 1420

  and helped her tenderly to mount the holy stairs.

  But when they reached their bridal-decked and fertile bed

  they found three wreaths that glowed in the lamp’s light: the first

  was woven of thorns, the second of myrtles, the third of roses,

  and then the groom put out the lamp, to spare his bride. 1425

  While the wide courtyards emptied and the torches smoked

  in their bronze heavy holders, and over the silent palace

  the heavens streamed with stars and filled with sudden sparks,

  the five rogues prowled about the palace to find out

  what halls led to the armory or to deep wine cellars. 1430

  Odysseus took them to his castle’s secret rooms:

  “Fill your sacks full with flour and wine, plunder my weapons,

  grab what we need, better or worse, for a long voyage,”

  He spoke, and cast his eyes round his own house to rob it

  When at long last the plundering ceased, he gave commands: 1435

  “Before day breaks, let’s place our ship on rollers, lads,

  uproot our country from our hearts, and say farewell;

  let those who can, throw her behind them like a stone,

  let those who can’t, hang her about them like a charm;

  at dawn we sail for the last voyage of no return.” 1440

  He spoke, then all, weighed down with skins of flour and wine,

  with rich wares from the cellars and bronze-plated arms,

  slunk stealthily out in silence past the palace gates

  and in dark midnight took the steep descent to their new ship.

  Unmoved, Odysseus mounted to his lofty bed 1445

  and for the last time lay beside his luckless wife.

  A sweet and satisfying sleep relaxed his brain,

  but just before cock crow his crimson rooster leapt 1448

  and shrilled in the large courtyard by the well’s dark rim.

  The archer heard in sleep his glad three-crested cock, 1450

  dashed to his feet and buckled on his iron sword,

  then hung his twisted hornbow down his sunburnt back

  and drew the door bolt softly, not to wake his wife.

  But she had lain all night unsleeping, with closed eyes,

  her mute, incurably pale lips drawn tight with pain, 1455

  and when the bronze bolt creaked, she slightly raised her lids

  and saw in dawn’s dim light her husband stealing off.

  She did not move nor fall on his stern knees to weep,

  for the grieved woman knew the time for hope had passed,

  yet when she heard the creaking stairs, she rose and rushed 1460

  in time to see her husband in the azure moon

  treading on tiptoe through the court, and like a thief

  grasp and slide back with stealth the outer gate’s bronze bolt,

  and, without looking back, stride swiftly past the sill;

  then the poor woman tore her hair and shrieked with grief. 1465

  But the lone wanderer of rough roads opened his arms,

  drank deep to his parched entrails the cool morning breeze

  then lunged down the path swiftly to the shadowy shore.

  His dragon crew were hard at work, pushing with pride

  their new ship slowly down the heating logs with care 1470

  while the scared piper drenched them to prohibit fire.

  Just as they braced their shoulders for the final heave,

  their captain rushed in time to join them, spread his hands,

  shoved hard, pushed off the virgin keel into the waves

  and from his isle’s beloved body thus cut the navel cord. 1475

  In the dull, somber, morning air, as the earth steamed,

  Granite appeared on the steep sheepfold’s winding path,

  dragging a huge white ram behind him that the crew

  might eat, drink, and take heart in their departure’s hour.

  The archer laughed and grinned from ear to earthen rose, 1480

  rolled up his sleeves and lit a fire, then slew the ram

  and hung the hairy head with its curved, twisted horns

  high on the topmost mast to serve for luck and lookout

  At
last when the meat reddened on the spit and gleamed,

  they washed their hands in the salt sea, stretched on the sand, 1485

  and glutton spoke as the fat grease dripped down his neck:

  “Brothers, I’m seized with heartfelt pity, so hear me out:

  whatever man won’t eat—dung, bone, meat-smoke, and hair—

  let’s throw to the great gods for alms, who faint with hunger!”

  The dragons laughed till their necks swelled, then called the gods 1490

  to stand about their feast like dogs and lick the bones;

  then their dark master rose, his fists weighed down and sagging

  with the great ram’s soft brains and fertile testicles;

  with throbbing heart he plunged his gaze deep in the earth

  then cried out till his dread grandfather stirred in his guts: 1495

  “Potent forefather, come alive once more, rise up and eat!”

  III

  God sent a gentle shower on earth to cool with balm

  the hairy fists that pulled at oars in the open sea,

  All kept their silent faces turned toward their loved island;

  fragrance of wild thyme drifted down the mountain slopes,

  odor of vines and ripening grain, and smothered their minds; 5

  the mountain partridges came down to drink, and all

  the glimmering valley glades soon rang with their harsh cackling.

  Amid the hazy light of dawn, its feet wrapped up in mist,

  their sacred island softly smiled, a babe awakening.

  Perched on the mountain slopes, the hamlets gleamed with light, 10

  bells softly sang like birds or cool cascading waters,

  and suddenly unrestrained, with patient threnody,

  as though the whole earth sighed, a cow’s deep lowing rang,

  A smooth’ land breeze blew softly, and the mainsail flapped

  until the pointed ship leapt like a huge dolphin 15

  with two enormous eyes that stared from the wet prow,

  and the azure-painted tail rose proudly over the billows.

  But when the cape was finally rounded, the sweet sounds

  of women singing rang like bells from rose-lit caves;

  they sang, and all the seashore wailed like widowed maids 20

  swept up by saddening memories as they watched the waves.

  Then Captain Clam shaded his eyes with his rough hands

  and gazed with dancing heart far out upon the crags.

  Once in his youth at sea he’d heard a tune like this

  when he was bringing home his bride for the first time. 25

  God laughed then over the waves, and all the pebbles laughed,

  the sails swelled like the groom’s own heart, and the new bride

  beside the festooned prow sang gentle lullabies

  to greet her husband’s native land that loomed so strangely.

  Then Captain Clam, the new-wed groom, twirled his mustache; 30

  “Ahoy, blow wind, churn up the sea, and make for port! . . .

  Ah, to come home again, dear God, and bolt the door!”

  But when he heard the same sweet tune, his wits spun round.

  And when a shepherdess hailed Kentaur from her sheepfold,

  his ever-willing phallus woke, and he, perplexed, 35

  wished both to make for land and yet play deaf and dumb

  for sweeter, younger cowgirls found on foreign shores.

  But Hardihood saw flames, and Granite, unicorns,

  and the dream-taken piper heard his native land

  that whimpered like a woman on the sands abandoned, 40

  stoning the veering waves with bitter lamentation.

  Drawing his pipe, he played a sprightly dancing tune,

  blew hard and puffed away his sun-drenched native land

  as though it were a tallow-faced and cobwebbed ghost.

  Steering his rudder far from land, without a word, 45

  Odysseus wound his island slowly about his brain,

  uprooting houses, mountains, sheepfolds, harbors, trees,

  till all rolled tumbling down the funnel of his mind

  as memory tore them up and swallowed his whole island.

  But when his shore and native land fled from his eyes, 50

  his heart contracted and a bitter sorrow crushed him:

  “Comrades, our eyes shall never look on her again!

  She was a small, small bird that passed, a toy that broke,

  a sprig of curly basil fallen from over our ears.”

  Hardihood scowled with wrath—he’d have no truck with such 55

  unmanly caresses in the hour of separation,

  but he recalled wide rivers with their shoals of fish,

  the hamlets hushed on slopes with snow as huge as rocks,

  the strapping lads that steamed like stallions in hoarfrost,

  the blond and manly women with their sturdy hips, 60

  and that mist-laden morning when he’d chosen to leave.

  He’d wrapped his calves in sheepskins tightly, strapped his feet

  with roughhewn snowshoes like round leathern pans,

  slung his sack down his back, his hatchet in his belt,

  and on!—without one glance at children, dog, or country; 65

  if his heart then was heavy, other cares had crushed it.

  The comrades rowed in silence till the sun awoke,

  shone on their backs and thighs, dripped down their glistening beards,

  until the voice of the deep-sighted man rang out:

  “Hey there, you piebald ship’s bird, clutch the heaving prow, 70

  scatter the heavy fog that threatens to drown our ship,

  swell up your supple throat with song and wring your brains,

  sing lively and transform our pain to nightingales!”

  The siren-taken songster crouched near the prow in sweat,

  wrung his unripe resounding brain with labor-pains 75

  and struggled till his neck veins burst, like a thawed snake

  that writhes amid dry thorns to shed its withered skin.

  Then Kentaur laughed until the whole ship shook, and yelled:

  “Hold tight, you pregnant bitch, give us no stillborn freak!”

  The piper sighed, then wedged his flute between his lips, 80

  trilled twice or thrice in air, summoned his wandering mind

  till his small cross-eyes were with distant rapture glazed.

  His hollow chest flapped like a vessel’s windless sails,

  then he leapt up, his brains puffed, his chest heaved and swelled,

  and God! his thin voice broke out suddenly in a roaring gale! 85

  “Go to it, piper, snatch your tune, kick it about,”

  he sang, “strike sparks on the hard ground till rocks fling fire,

  shut your poor squint-eyes tight and sing all that you see!

  Empty are land and sea and crystal clear the air

  that neither smoke of chimney dulls nor man’s breath sways; 90

  nor has the mind appeared as yet to send it tempest-tossed.

  Like two twin, groping moles, my eyes dug deep in earth

  and to their sockets in the dead of night returned:

  Master, the world is waste, not a soul or worm’s abroad.’

  But from my heart I heard a murmuring in the grass 95

  and two small palpitating hearts dared answer me,

  ah, two green worms poked through the crust of the upper world!

  My heart cried out and fluttered, then sank low to earth

  and joined the crawling friends that we might trudge together.

  In waste, in desolate waste, even a worm’s shade is good. 100

  I walked the river bank in stealth, crept in the weeds,

  my eyes and ears perked up with awe, my nostrils flared:

  these were not worms, dear friends! I knelt and bowed down low,

  much-suffering Lord and Mother,
forebears of all mankind!

  When day appeared, the worms stood in the sun for warmth, 105

  but God discerned them from on high and his eyes flashed:

  ‘I see two worms! Who cast them in my fruitful vineyards?

  Rise out of snow, O frigid Frost, and freeze them solid!’

  Then Frost fell silently on earth in soft snowfalls,

  unwound a thick white shroud and pallid dead man’s sheet, 110

  then grasped and smothered the high peaks and swept the fields.

  The poor worms shook with fear and crawled in a deep cave,

  and when he saw his small wife weep, the male worm said:

  ‘I will not let the snow take you from me, beloved.

  Lean on me, dear, and press your body to my warm chest; 115

  a murderer rules the sky, jealous of Mother Earth,

  and from his white lips drip nine kinds of deadly poison;

  but I shall rear my head against him, Lady, for love of you.’

  The words hung on his lips still when the twisted brain

  of God Almighty flung in the cave his lightning-flash; 120

  but the worm rushed to the holy fire and lit his torch,

  piled heap on heap of dry leaves till the bonfire rose

  to highest heaven and singed the grisly beard of God.

  Then the child-eating Father stormed and yelled for the hag

  with hanging dugs and face of plague to come before him: 125

  ‘O Hunger, thin lean daughter with your slender scythe,

  fall on the earth and thresh it well, fall in their guts,

  tear up each overweening root, body and all!

  Not one soul on this earth shall rear its head against me!’

  Then bony Hunger crawled to earth, mowed down the grass, 130

  mowed down the pregnant bowels, and like a lean hyena

  licked with her scabrous tongue both bones and meager meat.

  The two souls were drained hollow, their eyes dulled and glazed,

  and the male worm crawled slowly to his fainting mate:

  ‘Dear wife, don’t let the fire go out, crawl near the hearth, 135

  blow with your breath upon it, feed and tend it Swell,

  for I have carved myself a bow to hunt the stag’.

  The livelong day and night the female fed the fire

  and in her husband kept her faith and mocked at God:

  ‘Keep thundering on, you slayer, and do whatever you dare! 140

  My husband’s a stout hunter and he’ll fetch me game!’

  Her lips were twitching still when she heard manly strides

  and saw the male worm gladly burdened with wild game;

  the fire blazed till the whole cavern leapt and laughed;