The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel

by Nikos Kazantzakis

the young men crowed like cocks, girls chirped like newborn chicks,

  and mothers, like milk-fountains, fed their suckling babes.

  Songs of the cradle, of the grave, of the nuptial bed

  rose from the town in tangled skeins and choked the air,

  and the bellwether cocked his ear and heard the songs 310

  pour in his mind like festive, sad, immortal tunes.

  He turned to the rocks and sought a sheltered place to sleep,

  then saw amid the boulders a lean snakelike path,

  and in the twilight’s plucked and vaporous rose discerned

  tall trees that loomed to right and left, carved skillfully, 315

  for each tree on its trunk depicted a new face

  so that serene, sad, savage masks glowed in the dusk.

  Odysseus walked the lane and fondled tenderly

  the carved deserted gods, the passions of the soul:

  on one tree, bony Hunger cackled in dim light, 320

  and on another, blond-haired Thirst with sunken eyes;

  still further down, black Lechery grinned with myriad teeth

  and plaguy Sickness with a fat frog’s bloated cheeks;

  on an old plane tree Madness held her sides and laughed.

  Each tree embodied an old different human passion, 325

  and as the archer calmly passed and stroked each trunk

  he shuddered deeply as though plunged in man’s dark soul:

  “I’ve flushed a wild beast’s lane that leads to an ascetic;

  I know these passions well, my old acquaintances,

  for I’ve thus carved the trees of all my inner groves; 330

  now as I pass they also stroll with me like dreams.”

  But as he mused on these starved beasts that eat man’s mind,

  he dimly saw a tomb cut in a giant rock:

  “This must be the hard turtle shell of the wild hermit;

  I’d like to see what beast torments his riven heart, 335

  what god has smashed the hinges of his frenzied mind,”

  he mumbled mockingly and crossed the shaded sill.

  In the cave’s midst, within a hollowed tree, there glowed

  the coarse bones of a skeleton with gaping jaws;

  its foes’ teeth in a necklace hung about its throat, 340

  on one side greenly glowed a slim time-rusted sword.

  As the god-slayer fumbled in the dim-lit cave,

  he made out in one corner jars of cooling water,

  drills, chisels, augers, tools of every kind, bunched herbs,

  fresh fruits, and crumbs of dry black bread in a rough hearth, 345

  and small wood-carven gods strewn on the cave’s floor.

  The lone man kicked them with his feet, then laughed and mewed:

  “Oho, the old cat’s here, with droves of rat-faced gods!”

  As though in his own home, he ate some bread and fruit,

  poured water down his thirsty throat from a cool jug 350

  then wiped his beard and cast his eyes about the cave:

  “The dead man lives in this old tomb as though alive!

  Ah, if he’d only rise at night to welcome me,

  to light the fire and roast the underworld’s wild game,

  the fat shades of the partridge and the dead gazelle, 355

  and fill my airy beaker with a phantom wine,

  I’d even taste those shadowy feasts and welcome them!”

  He spoke, then stretched contented by the dead man’s bones

  and called upon his old slave Sleep to come in haste

  whether as downy wings or like a heavy quilt, 360

  whether with naked feet or with soft lulling bells;

  and Sleep spread like a honeycomb on his mid-brow

  and dripped its heavy honey in his brains the whole night through.

  At dawn Odysseus heard a whirring sound, and woke;

  the tomb still smothered dimly, a Cimmerian mouth, 365

  and a small honeybee buzzed round a curly flower,

  which had uncaring spread its beauty on the tomb’s dome,

  till all the grave buzzed like a honey-haunted hive.

  Light slowly drifted in until the tomb turned rose,

  the smooth walls woke, the paintings on the cave-rocks swayed 370

  and spoke of the three great concerns of earth’s first man:

  wild game, a woman’s fertile heavy hips and rump,

  a god who in a corner stood with ax in hand.

  “Good health and joy, ascetic, to your skillful hands;

  you’ve matched well man’s three monsters: hunger, love, and God, 375

  but you’ve forgotten my own face, the Unbidden Guest!”

  He leapt up lightly and stood straight by the cave’s mouth

  and watched the mountain tops turn rose, the snake-paths gleam,

  as down below in the dim village the doors gaped.

  Seven bright blackbirds perched in the old oak that loomed, 380

  a huge and many-branched grandsire, at the tomb’s mouth,

  where like goodhearted spirits the seven burst in song

  till the old oak grandfather swayed and joined the tune.

  The archer then recalled his own ancestral oak

  and how, long since, he’d danced amid his sacred tombs 385

  and given the shades to drink from a bronze jug of blood.

  The old Odysseus walked on a far riverbank,

  shade of a slaughtered monster, a thought formed of air,

  until his mind distilled and sweet serenity

  settled upon the mountain rims of his stone skull. 390

  His calm was not a soundless void or a deep hush

  but a harsh jangling caravan in his mind’s court;

  things past and things to come conjoined with each heartthrob,

  the moments clashed like shields, like castles tumbled down,

  or perched like blackbirds in his mind and burst in song. 395

  For a long time he roamed the cave or with calm hands

  fondled the tree-masks as he whistled through the grove,

  until he suddenly hungered and turned back once more

  to share his meal in peace with the tomb’s long-dead master.

  But when he came to the cave’s mouth, his heart fanned open; 400

  a hundred-year-old man crouched like a heap of bones,

  blind, with no hair or lashes, yet with scrawny hands

  carved swiftly out of olive wood an old man’s head.

  “Your health! Well met, old codger; master craftsman, hail!

  You grab dry logs of wood, blow with your ancient breath, 405

  and they melt down like wax, slaves to your every mood,

  leaping like demons, gods, or nude girls, as you wish.

  Thus did I once, too, hold the dry log of the world.”

  The startled codger raised his shaggy arms and cried:

  “Ah, ah, if you’re the great ascetic, fold your wings, 410

  for when the heralds cried your coming throughout the land

  I seized my hermit’s staff and beat about the woods

  for three whole nights, pursuing that false wagtail, Hope!”

  The lone man laughed as dappled light played on his face:

  “I am, and am not wings; I cast my shade and go; 415

  I am, and am not throats; I cast my song and go;

  the shades I see, turn meat; the shades I don’t see, fade;

  I’m the great savior of the world where no salvation lies.”

  The huge brow of the ancient hermit rose in shade

  until the dark sill flashed and the whole cave was lit: 420

  “I’ve chased that dreadful bird through woods my whole life long,

  I’ve never rejoiced in sleep or bread or woman’s body;

  alone, led on by smell, armed with my spirit only,

  I’ve hunted that dread bird, salvation, through dark woods;

  now that I hold
you I smell sulphur on your hair— 425

  such is the savior’s odor, all old legends say!

  Lower your head, my lord, that I may reach my hands

  to grope your features, touch your hair, that this poor hand

  of mine, a shriveled twig, may burst with fruit and flower.”

  The mighty athlete mutely crouched by the old man 430

  who reached a fumbling hand and slowly groped with fear

  to feel the lone man’s sunburnt face with its deep grooves,

  and his dry fingers clutched the rough contours as though

  they dug up thorny shrubs, as though they skirted cliffs;

  but when his palm had gorged itself, it gaped in sun 435

  and like a slim moon held the holy skull unseen.

  “I’ll find a well-veined precious oak with netted grains

  to carve in firmest wood this dread head I now hold,

  and when I’ve done, I’ll cross my hands upon my chest,

  for I’ll have touched my greatest hope, and need no more!” 440

  He spoke, then leapt into the cave and thrust his mouth

  within the dead man’s rotted skull and cried with joy:

  “Father, he’s come, the Savior’s come, arise, he’s come!”

  Three times he yelled into the skull, took three long breaths,

  and thus disburdened, turned to the light again, crouched low, 445

  and slowly tears began to fall in streams and poured

  from the night-smothered burning pits of his blind eyes

  and ran along his cheeks, his lips, dripped down his chin,

  until his ancient ivory features glowed with joy

  like gleaming rocks that laugh when struck by sun after a rain. 450

  For hours he spoke not, laughed in his god-carving mind,

  and his whole life became all tears and drowned his soul,

  and his whole heart spilled on the earth with gurgling sound.

  Hours passed, the two old archons of the wilds spoke not

  while all about them in the threatening woods life sank 455

  her hoary hands and sprawling feet in blood and mire.

  Even the beasts in sun took fright as though they’d seen

  a lion’s shadow, and ran, striking the earth with claws;

  a monstrous serpent through the water twined and curled,

  then coiled in silence threefold round a crocodile 460

  that idly basked within the river’s cooling stream.

  The thrashing waters foamed and churned with crunch of bones

  as the poor crocodile screeched loudly with sharp pain

  and flailed the waters with its tail, but the snake wound

  it tight in slimy joy as with a woman’s arms. 465

  The wretched beast strove to slip through the strong embrace,

  but the erotic limbs poured round it in new waves

  till in the white noon, in the tranquil sun-shot waters,

  a hopeless dry crack rang, as though a beam had broken.

  As the old hermit listened to the forest’s din, 470

  and rivers foamed and wild beasts roared within his heart,

  he felt he knew each outcry of their wounded lives.

  Then he reached out, groped slowly with his stiffened hand

  and firmly gripped the stone knees of the silent guide;

  “O dreadful bird whom all my life I’ve chased through woods, 475

  I’ve learned all there’s to know of crafts, my brains set out

  and soon traversed the mind’s lone lanes to their far ends,

  but all roads led to plunging cliffs, and I turned back.

  I know the tongues with which the birds and beasts converse,

  sometimes I chirp like crickets, at times I roar like lions; 480

  I sit on the olive boughs and sing to the fig trees,

  at night I turn to water and join its gurgling talk,

  and when elves dance at noon’s most sacred upright hour

  I place a lyre with bells on my old knees, and play,

  dear God, the cares and the cravings of dream-taken man. 485

  All ghosts and fates roost in my eyeballs’ sightless pits,

  I know the secrets of all herbs and how to heal

  those hopeless pilgrims who ascend to seek my grace;

  I call, and phantoms rush like greedy birds who’ve heard

  the birdman’s sly halloo, and flap their eager wings. 490

  I carve high heaps of gods to solace wretched men

  who dash and cling to my lush fantasy’s creations

  till all their pains take wing and fly away like birds.

  Only I writhe, forlorn, and shout in the wilderness.

  Why were we born? Toward what do men and beasts proceed? 495

  For years I’ve groaned in rain and the sun’s ruthless blaze

  until my eyes spilled coarsely on the ground in tears.

  All spirits have slaved for me, all men held me in fear,

  but still my empty hands stretched out and begged for alms

  till, as I sat by my cave’s entrance yesterday 500

  and wailed my tree so full of flowers yet not one fruit,

  a small bird whistled like a spirit unrestrained

  as it flew southward past my head, and cawed in glee:

  ‘Old grandfather, raise your head on high, the Savior has come!’

  I jumped up trembling then and cried to the small soul: 505

  ‘O bird, come down! Here is some grain! Say it again!’

  But the bird bore such flaming good news in its bill,

  it sped to scatter it with song throughout the world.

  I rushed into the forest then and listened: the ground swayed,

  animals poured like rivers, the insects massed in force, 510

  deep waters from their channels swerved and forked in sand,

  and a small sacred snake wound round my loins and hissed:

  ‘Push on, grandfather! It’s time we also flowed to sea,

  the fairy tale has turned to myth, the Savior has come!’ ”

  Then the old man fell silent, and his tears ran down 515

  a face that smiled like rich-wrought rainbows in the sun;

  he stretched his hands out taut like hungry tentacles:

  “O dreadful bird, with a spirit’s bloody breast and throat,

  now that I die unfruitful, you pity my poor life

  and fold your brilliant wings and cling to my dry tree; 520

  a thousand welcomes, fruit, although my branches break!”

  Then the freed athlete laughed and smiled on the old man:

  “Well met, untamed and heavy heart of the wild wastes!

  You arm and deck yourself with dappled darts, you stand

  here in the wild lands where I pass, you block my way 525

  and like a chattering beggar fling your questioning hand

  and ask with trembling gasps: ‘But why? And where? And whence?’

  You fetch the Savior a deep sack of searching tongues!”

  Then the starved athlete laughed and strode into the cave,

  cut bread, chose the best apple from a stone-slab shelf, 530

  drank cooling water to quench his thirst, then wiped his beard

  and once more sat serenely by the ascetic’s side;

  but the old man stretched empty palms with greed and cried:

  “If you’re the Savior, then reply, though you would not.”

  The man whose mind blew four ways liked this rude retort: 535

  “Grandsire, I like your words, they ring true in my ears,

  they tumble down and knock on my great heart, but still

  your mind rolls on the ground, stuffed with leaves, dirt, and hair;

  you’ll find my words as yet too hard to understand,

  if understood, much harder still to keep recalled, 540

  and if recalled, their weight will surely crush your mind.

  Now shut th
e palm of beggary and the mouth of pain

  and press your ears against the earth to hear, for thus

  I also wept and questioned till I pressed my ears to earth.”

  In a sun-stricken clearing, on a scanty tree, 545

  the few leaves slowly danced and bid the light farewell;

  two yellow flowers drooped and pined away for fear

  the sun would vanish soon and leave them unprotected;

  all other souls on earth like yellow flowers too

  turned toward the sun and trailed its light till sudden sorrow 550

  fell on them all like darkness as they shook and withered,

  remembering wretched death and the appalling dust,

  for with the sun, souls also bloom and shut like flowers.

  Shrill cries were heard in the deep woods where monkeys dashed

  from branch to branch and breached the garden plots, and then 555

  from a great distance rose the shrill hyena’s wail.

  The old man hung his heavy head, but his heart danced:

  “It’s true, no virtue can surpass what patience finds.

  My sword, I’ve honed you on the stone of patience long

  and hold the uncaught and lean-fleshed bird of victory now.” 560

  Although he bragged, the old man’s heart was heavy still:

  “Savior, stoop down, for my mind swells and brims with thought:

  there’s much we have to say, we two, and mouth to mouth.”

  The sun set thickly where the village’s round huts

  with open doors and windows gaped amid the fields 565

  in clouds of dust and looked like heaps of dead men’s skulls.

  A Negro boy came clambering up the stony path,

  approached, and placed with trembling at the hermit’s feet

  some bread, a ring of dried figs, and a jug of water,

  then sped back to his village without word or sound. 570

  The old man sighed in bitter and complaining whine:

  “Ah, could I only start my life’s road once again!”

  When the black boy reached home, he clasped his mother tight:

  “Mother, a fiery lion sits by our ancient’s cave!

  Mother, the old man crouches at its feet, and weeps!” 575

  The village doors resounded as the news stalked through

  each threshold like a lion, and prowled the dusk until

  it came and stood at night by a poor mason’s door.

  A few days since, the master had fallen from a tall scaffold

  and now lay dying in a dim hall, and called his son: 580

  “Come now, my only son, that in this last dark hour

  I may bequeath to you my trade’s few honest tools;