The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  Odysseus laughed with scorn until his neck-veins swelled:

  “Blockheads, you see but river! It never swipes your brain 1315

  our soul’s the river, and that we mount but soul alone,

  nor will the great road vanish if I dismount today!”

  He spoke, but suddenly pitied his exhausted crew,

  and chewed his lower lip and frowned in consternation.

  Between his eyebrows the fine scales of his mind played: 1320

  “You know how much I love you, soul, but great flames eat me;

  I must endanger you once more, forgive me, soul,

  and yet, even though I wished to now, I can’t turn back.”

  The beast within him growled, and he turned to his old friends:

  “Farewell, my lads, I’ll leave you for a few short days. 1325

  I see no cure as yet, but I shall go off now

  till the soul slips from Death, as it is wont to do;

  if we must die, let the sword strike, not hunger’s fangs!

  Wait my return, dear friends, do what you can meanwhile,

  but if I don’t return, then strew your heads with ashes, 1330

  shadow your eyes with pitch-black paint, take up your drums

  and like the great Worm in the song, strike up your dirge:

  ‘You’ve matched all well on earth, wine, women, bread and song,

  but why, you Murderer, must you slay our children? Why?’

  For I was but a small child when I lived on earth, 1335

  and died with a nude infant’s knowledge of the world.”

  He spoke, and his harsh laughter shook the morning air,

  but when his heart yelped in him like a snapping dog,

  he held it tight with the mind’s leash and drew it back.

  In the dawn’s light, seeing his pallid comrades melt, 1340

  Odysseus bit his lips with grief, for even the soul

  must die for lack of bread as though it, too, were flesh.

  “I ache for wretched man until my heart goes mad.

  Sometimes he seems a god who grabs his clay and shapes

  fistfuls of the mind’s fancies, fistfuls of all desires; 1345

  he blows, clay turns to flesh and breath to soul, and then

  to lowest of all low beasts, until I choke and spurn him!

  Ah, had I steadfast feet, and friends with whom to fight,

  I’d change all the heart’s bitterness and the mind’s wormwood

  into a deathless water to drink and slake my thirst!” 1350

  He battled with his mind and felt his entrails battered,

  yet he allowed but joy and light to flood his face,

  then waved in sad farewell and vanished down the banks,

  but in his pointed cap, my friends, the winds of freedom blew.

  X

  Like a fat votive beast, a ram with gilded horns,

  the sun descended on the sands, a sturdy buck,

  till all the granite statues laughed, their lips turned rose,

  and their cupped fists were filled with golden spheres of light.

  The sands and the scorched earth cooled off till red-haired day 5

  picked up the swooning evening in his arms, and vanished.

  How good, dear God, to sit reposed in this blessed hour

  with faithful friends and chat awhile in a cool nook,

  your cellars filled, your servants hastening up and down,

  the scurrying ant-swarms at your door, while your slaves sing 10

  and weave a precious flaxen cloth to cool your body.

  Meanwhile you sit and talk of great responsibilities,

  of whence we come and where we go and what the world,

  word after word passed skillfully on a thin thread

  embellishing the azure air of night with pearls; 15

  to play with your old amber chaplet, worn with time,

  and say with each one of its forty heavy beads:

  “I’ve never stolen, I’ve not told lies, I’ve never killed,

  I’m good, one day I’ll stroll the Elysian fields with pride.”

  That day God’s dream-diviners and soothsayers talked, 20

  the exercisers harvested the world’s tall peaks,

  ate well until their bodies swelled, perfumed their hair,

  munched luscious fruits, sipped cool refreshing sherbets, walked

  and talked of gods and virtue and of burning stars

  in branching candlesticks that swayed through blazing air. 23

  Down in the courtyards, slaves prepared the sacred feast

  and dragged a fat young boar to slay as votive gift,

  brought there by an old groom that God might grant him sons.

  The butcher stuck the young boar cleanly through the throat

  till blood, like water from a watermill’s cascade, 30

  splattered the granite calves of the great dragon-god.

  They placed huge caldrons on the hearthstones, lit a fire,

  and cast the boar in boiling water to scald him quickly.

  Then a young slave jeered at the lack-brain votarist:

  “He’d have no need of God if only he’d eat his boar! 35

  Whang! After nine months’ time his wife would bear twin sons!”

  The butcher slyly laughed and threw his eyes toward heaven:

  “The guy’s got brains, my lad. He wants to be dead sure!

  When these fat chattering priests have eaten well, by God,

  if he should want ten sons, they’ll all slink out one night, 40

  filled with the boar-god’s strength, and make him rows of sons!”

  While the slaves gossiped thus, on the high terraces

  the freshly shaven, triple-chinned old high priest sat

  and boomed out thunderous praises to his bestial god.

  The night before, after he’d eaten and drunk well, 45

  his crocodile god with all its grace so moved his heart

  that he had snatched his waxen plaque, and all night long

  adorned his scaly master with a flattering hymn:

  “O Lord Manure, bottomless belly, all-swallowing sewer,

  you eat and drink to bursting, sprawl your limbs in slush, 50

  then slowly shut your eyes, groggy with rich repast.

  The whole world hangs between your teeth like rotted meat,

  and then your harbingers, the blowflies, come and lug

  the imagination’s dappled filth for appetizers!

  And you, a eunuch now without love’s joys or frenzies, 55

  nestle in muck with swollen belly, and softly fart

  until your greasy, godly stench oils all the air.

  You’re good, you love the world, you give us dregs and slops,

  small scraps of meat and drops of grease hang from your lips—

  permit me, God, to pick and poke at your rich teeth! 60

  Though you’re a mighty crocodile, I but a worm,

  I’m still flesh of your flesh, breath of your stinking breath.

  Ah, help your tiny worm to be like you one day!”

  The high priest dabbed the dripping sweat from his fat chins

  and threw dark glances at the sluggish holy men 65

  who on their swollen bellies crossed plump hands and sighed:

  “Your psalm is good, my brother, and your skill is great;

  when we have eaten the boar tonight, well praise him, too.”

  They stooped, half-shut their eyes, and watched the slaves below

  who had laid out the lustrous boar and plucked its hair 70

  until its white skin gleamed amid the gathering dusk.

  They ripped his entrails out, and to the milling boys

  threw the great scrotum, to be rolled in ashes first

  then filled with dry corn seed and made a noisy rattle.

  On the hot flaming hearth, to tease the appetite, 75

  they roasted the fat testes, penis, the throat’s apple,


  while high above them the priests licked their lips with greed.

  Then an obscene coarse priest with a hawk’s nose spoke first:

  “The boar’s delicious, brothers; our blessings should bear fruit;

  and may the stoutest here soon bring the bride God’s grace!” 80

  They were still laughing when a boy, a widow’s son,

  brought them the steaming tidbits in a warm clay pot

  then stood among them watching, pale with hunger pangs.

  The priests fell on the meat like vultures, gulped it down,

  and the frail lad stood trembling, sniffing the fragrant meat, 85

  until his empty entrails sagged and his heart fainted.

  Then all at once he fell down dead at the god’s feet.

  As the slaves scooped him up and brought him to his mother,

  the ancient high priest shook his solemn head with scorn:

  “A slave’s soul has no worth, my brothers; it lacks strength 90

  to tread on this great earth with gallantry and freedom.

  I pity the poor slaves, they’re nought but airy mist,

  a light breeze scatters them, a fragrance knocks them down;

  it’s only just they crawl on earth on hands and knees.

  Today I’ll write a hymn to God and pray for this great grace.” 95

  Thus the god-mockers roared with laughter, ate and drank,

  while in the widow’s hovel, savage wailing burst:

  “Murderer God, enthroned on high, come down and hear me!

  I look about me, Lord; where shall I place my child

  to watch him always and not forget you, murderous God! 100

  If in the ground, you’ll tell the earth to eat him whole,

  if in my heart, you’ll come and rot my breast and lungs,

  and if I fling him on your board, your slaves will run

  and cover him with laurel leaves to shield your eyes!

  I shall impale my son, you slayer, on a sharp spear 105

  so that my pain may march ahead, my strength behind!

  Smash in his head, my brothers! He is no true god!

  Our children die of hunger and our mothers weep;

  man’s heart needs you no longer, God, and spews you out!”

  The mother wailed, beat on her breasts, then leapt the sill 110

  and in the courtyards waved her son like a black banner.

  Injustice cawed, then beat its wings and flew away.

  Dear God, so many wretched poor, so many naked souls

  and crooked bodies, pallid lips, blood-splattered feet!

  The peasants seethed, and their breath steamed with hunger’s stench. 115

  Embalmers, carters, weavers, shriveled women marched

  till in the burial glen the dust rose to their knees,

  but as they turned into the dale, they stopped with fear:

  was it a war drum or their own hearts thumping now,

  or was it God who growled, a savage desert lion? 120

  And as they trembled and gazed about to hide or flee

  they saw a girl with streaming hair rush down the sands

  and beat on a heavy drum, holding her head erect.

  “It’s Rala, Rala!” they cried, and yelled with hands outstretched.

  A girl with flaming hair and a white kerchief beat 125

  the drum, and her bright eyes were filled with starving men,

  castles that tumbled, conflagrations, swords and steeds.

  She beat until her virgin breasts burned in the sands

  and all the burial glen roared like a hollow drum.

  Deep in the entrails of the living, forebears moved, 130

  nor was it dust that rose and choked the heaving throats,

  for necks gulped down the dead and teeth crunched them like grit;

  all ate deaths bitter pomegranate filled with ash;

  living and dead pressed close, and the wild ghost of Hunger,

  their leader, rushed with bristling hair and bloodshot eyes. 135

  “Now all together, the dead and living, let’s burn the world!”

  Thus Rala shrieked, then broke out in a whirling song.

  The poor took heart, snatched up the tune till the tombs roared:

  “Heigh-ho, full forty giants, forty brave young blades,

  forty gaunt vultures flew and skimmed the castle round. 140

  Heigh-ho, and Hunger met them at the king’s gold door;

  they gave her hearts to eat for tidbits, blood to drink,

  and Hunger, lads, revived, flung high her handkerchief,

  heigh-ho, flung high her jet-black kerchief dipped in blood!

  Hunger flung high her kerchief, and the castle tumbled! 145

  The sun rose and the earth shook; our forty-footed braves,

  heigh-ho, were forty workingmen and forty workingmaids!”

  The burrows of the dead resounded, the dead woke,

  thick spirits harrowed the hot sands, all crossed hands broke

  through stitches of the mummy-cloth till rotted ears 150

  perked up, grew strong, and heard the workers’ moaning cries;

  one dead slave pushed the other till all rose in rows.

  Could this be that dread summons which all await for eons

  profoundly in earth’s womb, could this be that dread trumpet

  that blares sweet resurrection on the flowering earth? 155

  Rala’s long hair caught fire on her sweating shoulders,

  she beat her drum and swiftly gathered quick and dead

  before the priests could close the gates and seize their weapons.

  All necks swelled suddenly then and choked the manly song,

  knees shook with fear, for high on sharp-toothed battlements 160

  the forty-footed gods stood in long rows on guard,

  and all held in their mighty hands long twisted cords

  to string the slaves from neck to neck like clustered grapes.

  Hearing the rising tumult, priests rushed from their food

  and struggled to discern, low in the darkling air, 165

  the scurrying shades that yelled and swarmed on the hot sands.

  They laughed to see the workers, slaves all skin and bone,

  and Rala leading them with drum and streaming hair.

  “Hunger has pinched them once again and driven them crazy!

  They starve and want to eat God’s grain, but it shall eat them! 170

  Though we know well that God detests all needy poor,

  yet I do pity them. Let’s throw them loaves of bread.”

  Thus spoke a plump-cheeked heartless priest, then seized huge stones

  and flung them with coarse jeers upon the starving crowd.

  The people roared and rushed in frenzy toward the gates, 175

  but when the high priest signaled, scalding-holes burst open

  and bubbling boiling water poured on the packed crowd.

  Their scorched and bony bodies simmered, their flesh steamed,

  and a pale woman’s glazed eyes spilled on the wet ground.

  A flame-eyed maiden slid among the embellished columns, 180

  reached boldly to the secret side door of the shrine,

  drew back the heavy bolts, sprang in the street and shrieked:

  “Rala, dear sister, the door’s open! Follow me, comrades!”

  Then Rala dashed, mustered the frightened workers, beat

  her drum with frenzy till all breached the secret gate. 185

  The temple flashed as hawk-gods spread their golden wings

  above their doors and gazed on the ragged crowd with rage.

  But Rala cried out fiercely to whip the workers’ wrath:

  “On with your torches! Their time’s up, it’s our turn now!

  Brothers, strike out for freedom hard! It’s now or never!” 190

  Some rushed pellmell into the courtyard’s brimming vaults.

  “Murderers!” yelled the mother, raisi
ng her dead son high,

  but then a crimson arrow pierced her sallow throat,

  her hoarse cry choked and drowned amid her gurgling blood,

  and with her child clutched to her breast, she reeled and fell. 195

  Then as the workers billowed round the ponderous columns,

  the temple gate swung slowly open and there loomed high

  a monstrous crocodile with snapping crimson jaws,

  and thunderous earthquakes rumbled in earth’s dark foundations.

  But Rala seized a torch and rushed to fire the shrine, 200

  for crouched behind God’s mask she saw man’s treacherous face;

  all the guards rushed to capture her alive, pressed close,

  tore off her pure-white headband, wrenched her flowing hair,

  forced back her hands and bound them with their belts—but then

  Odysseus loomed up suddenly, snorting, in the central courtyard! 205

  Following the uproar and stampede on burning sands,

  the archer passed the burial glen, reached the god’s shrine,

  and in the torchglare saw young Rala fight with odds

  as the fearstricken workers panicked in dismay.

  A harsh voice rose within him as his new god groaned, 210

  but the sly man scorned to reply, and bit his lips,

  then once more heard the cry deep in his heart: “Odysseus!”

  He gripped the columns tight and his mind lashed with rage:

  “It’s not right, fool! If I should die, you’ll perish too!”

  But still the cry rose in his stifling throat: Odysseus!” 215

  Then the enflamed man-killer swore, leapt from the columns,

  clenched his firm teeth with rage, unsheathed his hungry sword,

  and roared out with his stubborn and blood-bitten lips:

  “Is this what you want, fool? Don’t say I shrank from fear!”

  He whipped his body on and with two long leaps reached 220

  God’s panting guards who struggled to bind Rala fast.

  They heard a beast’s loud bellowing, and the courtyard quaked,

  limbs flashed amid the flickering torchglare, sharp knives gleamed,

  and when pale Rala raised her black fawn-stricken eyes

  she saw the image of her god amid the glowing tumult: 225

  a man of strong limbs holding high an iron sword.

  He clenched his lips, then raised his pitiless arm with rage,

  hacked through the tangled mob and raised it high once more

  as it dripped thick warm blood upon the ringing tiles.

  Men’s bodies in the seething struggle hissed like snakes 230