And one ship sailed safely through, even the famous _Argo_ when she bore Jason and his crew on their voyage from the land of aeetes. All others when they essayed the task perished, and were brought to naught in a whirlwind of foam and fire.

"But if thou takest the other way thou wilt come to another strait, guarded day and night by two sleepless sentinels, Scylla and Charybdis. On one side thereof towers a lofty peak, shrouded, even in the noon of summer, in clouds and thick darkness. No mortal man could climb that steep and slippery rock, not though he had twenty hands and twenty feet; for the side is smooth as polished marble, and in the midst of the cliff is a shadowy cave overlooking the track by which thou must guide thy ship, Odysseus. Deep down it goes into the heart of the mountain, so that a man in his l.u.s.ty prime could not shoot an arrow from his ship to the bottom of that yawning pit In the cave dwells Scylla, and yelps without ceasing. Her voice is thin and shrill, like the cry of a hound newly littered, but she herself is a monster horrible to behold, so that neither man nor G.o.d could face her without affright. Twelve feet hath she, and six necks of prodigious length, and on each neck a fearful head, whose ravening jaws are armed with triple rows of teeth. As far as her waist she is hidden in the hollow cave, but she thrusts out her serpent necks from the abyss, and fishes in the waters for dolphins and sea-dogs and other creatures whose pasture is the sea. On every ship that pa.s.ses her den she levies a tribute of six of her crew.

"On the other side of the strait thou wilt see a second rock, lying flat and low, about a bowshot from the first. There stands a great fig-tree, thick with leaves, and under it sits Charybdis, sucking down the water, and belching it up again three times a day. Beware that thou approach not when she sucks down the water, for then none could save thee from destruction, no, not Poseidon himself. Rather steer thy galley past Scylla's cave, for it is better to lose six of thy men than to lose them all.

"Next thou shalt come to the island of Thrinacia, where graze the oxen of Helios and his goodly sheep--seven herds of oxen, and as many fair flocks of sheep, and fifty in each flock and herd. They are not born, neither do they die, and two G.o.ddesses have charge of them, fair-haired nymphs, the daughters of Helios. Take heed that thou harm not the sacred beasts, that it may be well with thee, and that thou and thy company may come safely home."

II

Once more they were afloat, and the brave little vessel bounded gaily over the waves, her canvas bellying in the wind. For some hours they sailed on thus, and Odysseus recited to his men all that he had heard from Circe. Then suddenly the wind dropped, and the sail hung idly to the mast. Having furled and stowed the sail, they took to their oars, while the sea went down, and at last sunk to a level calm. In the distance a low-lying coast appeared, which Odysseus knew to be the island of the Sirens, Forthwith he began to make his preparations to meet the danger which lay before them. Taking a ball of wax he cut it into small pieces, and having worked each piece in his hand until it was soft and plastic he carefully stopped the ears of all his men with the wax. Then two of the crew, to whom he had already given his orders, bound him hand and foot to the mast of the vessel. All being ready, they rowed forward until they came within full view of the island. And there, in a low-lying meadow hard by the sea, sat the Sirens; lovely they were of aspect, and gracious of mien; but all around them were piled the bones of men who had fallen victims to their wicked wit,[1] fleshless ribs, from which the skin still hung in yellow shreds, and grinning skulls, gazing with eyeless sockets at the sea.

[Footnote 1: Shakespeare, "Hamlet."]

As the ship drew near, the whole choir lifted up their voices and began to sing a sweet and piercing strain, which thrilled the very marrow of Odysseus as he listened. The winds hovered near on flagging wing, the sea lay locked in deep repose, and all nature paused with attentive ear, to catch the SONG OF THE SIRENS.

"Mighty warrior, sage renowned, Turn, O turn thy bark this way!

Rest upon this holy ground, Listen to the Sirens' lay.

Never yet was seaman found Pa.s.sing our enchanted bay, But he paused, and left our bound Filled with wisdom from his stay.

All we know, whatever befell On the tented fields of Troy, All the lore that Time can tell, All the mystic fount of joy."

It was a strain cunningly calculated to flatter a deep, subtle spirit like that of Odysseus. To know all! to read all secrets, and unravel the tangled skein of human destiny! What a bribe was this to this restless and eager mind! Then the voices of the witch-women were so liquid, and the music so lovely, that they took the very air with ravishment, and melted the hearer's soul within him. Odysseus struggled to break his bonds, and nodded to his men to come and loose him. But they, who had been warned of this very thing, rose up and bound him with fresh cords. Then they grasped their oars again, the water roared under their st.u.r.dy strokes, and soon they were out of hearing of that seductive melody.

They had not long lost sight of the Sirens' Rocks when they heard the booming of breakers, which warned them that the fearful strait between Scylla and Charybdis was close at hand. A strong current caught the galley and whirled her with appalling swiftness towards the point of danger. The water boiled and eddied around them, and the blinding spray was dashed into their faces. Then a sudden panic came upon the crew, so that they dropped their oars, and sat helpless and unnerved, expecting instant death. In this emergency, Odysseus summoned up all his courage, and strode up and down between the benches, exhorting, entreating, and calling each man by name. "Why sit ye thus," he cried, "huddled together like sheep? Row, men, row for your lives! And thou, helmsman, steer straight for the pa.s.sage, lest we fall into a direr strait, and be crushed between the Wandering Rocks. We have faced a worse peril than this, when we were penned together in the Cyclops'

cave; and we shall escape this time also, if only ye will keep a stout heart."

Circe had cautioned Odysseus on no account to attempt resistance when he approached the cave of Scylla; nevertheless, he put on his armour, and took his stand on the prow of the vessel, holding in each hand a lance.

So on they sped, steering close to the tall cliff under which Scylla lay hid, and gazing fearfully at the boiling whirlpool on the other side. Just as they pa.s.sed, a huge column of water shot into the air, belched up from the vast maw of Charybdis, and the galley was half swamped under a fountain of falling water. When that ended, a black yawning chasm appeared, the very throat, as it seemed, of Charybdis, into which the water rushed in a roaring torrent.

Odysseus was gazing intently at this wondrous sight when he heard a sharp cry, and, looking back he saw six of his men, the stoutest of the crew, dangling high in the air, firmly clutched in the six sharklike jaws of Scylla. There they hung for a moment, like fishes just caught by the angler's hook; the next instant they were dragged into the black mouth of the cavern, calling with their last breath on their leader's name. This was the most pitiful thing that Odysseus had ever beheld, in all his long years of travel on the sea.

III

The last trial was now at hand, and if they could stand this final test a happy home-coming was promised to them all. By next day's dawn they ran down to the fair isle of Helios, and as they drew near they heard the lowing of oxen and the bleating of sheep. Then Odysseus remembered the warnings of Circe and Teiresias, and sought to persuade his men to sail past the island and fly from the reach of temptation.

But they murmured against him, and Eurylochus, his lieutenant, gave voice to their feelings thus: "Thou man of iron, thou hast no pity on us, but thinkest that we are all as hardy and as strong as thou art.

Hungry and weary as we are, wouldst thou have us turn away from this fair isle, where we could prepare a comfortable meal, and take refreshing sleep? Shall we add the horrors of night to the horrors of the sea, and confront the demons of storm that haunt the caverns of darkness? Nay, suffer us to abide here to-night, and to-morrow we will hoist sail again."

Odysseus saw by the looks of his men that it would be useless to strain his authority, and so he gave way, though with sore reluctance, only exacting a solemn oath from the whole company that they would keep their hands off the cattle of Helios. When each in turn had taken the oath they landed on the sh.o.r.e of a sheltered bay, and encamped by a fair spring of fresh water.

During the night it began to blow hard, and early next morning, as the weather was still stormy and the wind contrary, they hauled up their galley and bestowed her in a roomy cave, beyond the reach of wind and water. Odysseus repeated his warnings, and the crew then dispersed, to while away the time until the weather should mend.

For a whole month they had nothing but contrary gales from the south and east, and long before that time had run out they had come to the end of their store of provisions. For some time they contrived to live on the fish which they caught by angling from the rocks, though this was but poor fare for the robust appet.i.tes of those heroic days.

All this time Odysseus kept a careful watch over the movements of his men, fearing that they might be driven by hunger to break the oath which they had taken. But one morning he wandered away to a distant part of the island, that he might spend an hour in solitary prayer and meditation. Having found a secluded spot, he washed his hands, and prayed earnestly to the G.o.ds for succour: and when he had prayed, heaven so ordered it that he fell into a deep sleep.

Then the demon of mischief entered into the heart of Eurylochus, a factious knave, who had more than once thwarted the counsels of Odysseus. "Comrades," he said, "let us make an end of this misery.

Death in any shape is loathly to us poor mortals, but death by hunger is the most hideous of all. Come, let us take the choicest of the herds of Helios, and feast upon them, after sacrifice to the G.o.ds.

When we return to Ithaca we will build a temple to Helios, and appease him with rich offerings. And even though he choose to wreck our ship and drown us all, I would rather swallow the brine, and so make an end, than waste away by inches on a desert island."

The famishing sailors lent a ready ear to his words, and having picked out the fattest of the oxen they slaughtered them and offered sacrifice, plucking the leaves of an oak as a subst.i.tute for the barley-meal for sprinkling between the horns of the victims, and pouring libations of water instead of wine. When the vain rite was finished, they spitted slices of the meat, and roasted them over the glowing embers.

Meanwhile Odysseus had awakened from his sleep, and made his way, not without forebodings of ill, back to the camp. As he approached, the steam of roasting meat was borne to his nostrils. "Woe is me!" he cried, "the deed is done! What a price must we now pay for one hour of sleep."

Vengeance, indeed, was already prepared. Helios received prompt news of the sacrilege from one of the nymphs who had charge of his flocks and herds, and hastened to Olympus to demand speedy punishment for the transgressors, vowing that if they escaped he would leave the earth in darkness and carry the lamp of day to the nether world. Zeus promised that the retribution should be swift and complete, and Helios thereupon returned immediately to his daily round, knowing full well that the father of G.o.ds would keep his word.

When Odysseus entered the camp he rebuked his men bitterly for their impiety. But no words, and no repentance, could now repair the mischief; the cattle were slain, and in that very hour dire portents occurred, to show them the enormity of their crime. A strange moaning sound, like the lowing of kine, came from the meat on the spits, and the hides of the slaughtered beasts crawled and writhed.

In spite of these dreadful omens they continued for six days to feast upon the herds of Helios. On the seventh day the wind blew fair, and they launched their vessel and continued their voyage. The last vestige of the island had hardly been lost to view when the sky became black with clouds, and a violent squall struck the ship, snapping her mast, which fell upon the helmsman, and dashed out his brains. A moment after, a deafening peal of thunder broke overhead, and the avenging bolt of Zeus fell upon the ship, scattering her timbers, and strewing the charred carca.s.ses of the crew upon the waves.

Odysseus alone escaped with his life from that tremendous stroke, and clinging to a spar floated all day, until he came in sight of the strait between Scylla and Charybdis. By the favour of heaven he was once more preserved from this great peril, and on the tenth day after the loss of his vessel he was thrown ash.o.r.e by the waves on the island of Calypso.

Odysseus lands in Ithaca

I

The last farewell has been spoken, the good ship is loosed from her moorings, and Alcinous is standing on the quay, surrounded by the n.o.bles of Phaeacia, to bid his ill.u.s.trious guest G.o.d-speed. The picked crew bend to their oars, and the galley leaps forward, like a mettled steed who knows his master's voice. The setting sun is just gilding the towers of the city as they cross the harbour bar. Swift as a falcon the magic vessel skims over the swelling waters, and the toil-worn hero lays him down to rest on a soft couch prepared for him in the stern. Then a deep and deathlike sleep falls upon him, and he lies breathing gently as an infant, while the soft southern breeze plays with his dark cl.u.s.tering hair.

There is a certain haven in the island of Ithaca, protected by two lofty headlands, leaving a narrow pa.s.sage between them. Within, the water is so still that ships lie there without moorings, safe and motionless. At the head of the haven is a long-leaved olive-tree, overshadowing a cool and pleasant cave, sacred to the "Nymphs called Naiads, of the running brooks."[1] Inside the cave are bowls and pitchers of stone, and great stone looms, at which the Naiads weave their fine fabrics of sea-purple dye. It is a favourite haunt of the honey-bee, whose murmurs mingled with the splashing of perennial springs make drowsy music in the place. There are two gates to the cavern, one towards the north, where mortal feet may pa.s.s, and the other on the south side, which none may enter save the G.o.ds alone.

[Footnote 1: Shakespeare, "Tempest."]

The day-star was gazing on that still, gla.s.sy mere as the Phaeacians steered between the sentinel cliffs and drove their galley ash.o.r.e in front of the cave. They lifted Odysseus, still sleeping, from the stern, and laid him down gently, couch and all, on the sand. Then they brought all the rich gifts, and set them down by the root of the olive-tree, out of the reach of any chance wayfarer; and having bestowed all safely they launched their ship, and started on their voyage home.

But they were destined to pay dear for their good service to the stranger. Poseidon marked their course with a jealous eye, and he went to his brother, Zeus, and thus preferred his complaint: "Behold now this man hath reached home in safety and honour, and brought the oath to naught which I sware against him, when I vowed that he should return to Ithaca in evil plight! Is my power to be defied, and my worship slighted, by these Phaeacians, who are of mine own race?"

"Thine honour is in thine own hands," answered Zeus. "a.s.sert thy power, lift up thy hand and strike, that all men may fear to infringe thy privilege as lord of the sea."

Having thus obtained his brother's consent, Poseidon went and took his stand by the harbour mouth at Phaeacia, and as soon as the vessel drew near he smote her with his hand, and turned her with all her crew into a rock, which remains there, rooted in the sea, unto this day.

II

Twilight had not yielded to day when Odysseus awoke from his trancelike sleep, and gazed in bewilderment around him. His senses had not yet fully come back to him, and after his twenty years' absence he knew not where he was. All seemed strange--the winding paths, the harbour, the cliffs, and the very trees. With a cry of dismay he sprang to his feet, and cried aloud: "Good lack, what land have I come to now, and who be they that dwell there? Are they savage and rude, or gentle and hospitable to strangers?" Then his eye fell on the gifts which had been brought with him from Phaeacia. What was he to do with all this wealth? "Now this is a sorry trick which the Phaeacians have played me," he muttered again, "to carry me to a strange land, when they had promised to convey me safe to Ithaca."

So unworthily did Odysseus deem of his benefactors that he fell to counting his goods, for fear lest they should have carried off a portion of the gifts while he slept. He found the tale complete, and when he had finished counting them he wandered disconsolate along the sand, mourning for the country which he thought still far away. As he went thus, with heavy steps and downcast eyes, a shadow fell across his path, and looking up he saw a fair youth, clad and armed like a young prince, who stood before him and smiled in his face with kindly eyes. Glad to meet anyone of so friendly an aspect, Odysseus greeted him, asked for his countenance and protection, and inquired the name of the country.

"Either thou art simple," answered the youth, "or thy home is far away, if thou knowest not this land. It is a place not unknown to fame, but named with honour wherever mortal speech is heard. Rugged indeed it is, and unfit for horses and for chariots, but rich in corn and wine, and blessed by the soft rain of heaven. On its green pastures roam countless flocks and herds, and streams pour their abundance from its forest-clad hills. Therefore the name of Ithaca is spoken far and wide, and hath reached even to the distant land of Troy."

The wanderer's heart burned within him when he heard his dear native island described with such loving praise. But dissembling his joy he set his nimble wits to work, and began to spin a fine fiction for the stranger's ear. "I have heard of Ithaca," he said, "as thou sayest, even in Troy, where I fought under Idomeneus, King of Crete. And now I am an exile, flying from the vengeance of Idomeneus, whose son, Orsilochus, I slew, because he sought to deprive me of my share in the Trojan spoil. For he bore a grudge against me, because I would not pay court to his father at Troy, but made a party of my own, and fought for my own hand. For him I laid an ambush, and slew him in a secret place, under cover of night. Then I fled down to the sea, and bribed the crew of a Phoenician ship to carry me and my goods to Pylos. But the storm wind drove them out of their course, and they put in here for shelter. Sore battered and weary we landed here, having hardly escaped with our lives; and while I slept they brought my goods ash.o.r.e, and sailed away for Sidon, leaving me alone with my sorrow."

Intent on his tale, Odysseus had not noticed the sudden change which had come over his hearer; for his eyes had been turned away, as he strove to spell out the features of the country, which still seemed unfamiliar. Now he looked round again, and instead of that dainty youth he saw a stately female form, tall and fair, in aspect like the mighty G.o.ddess Athene. And in truth it was the daughter of Zeus herself who answered him, smiling and touching him with a playful gesture. "Thou naughty rogue!" she said, "wilt thou never forget thy cunning shifts, wherein none can surpa.s.s thee, no, not the G.o.ds themselves? Yea, thou hast a knavish wit, and no man can equal thee in craft, as no G.o.d can rival me. Yet for all thy skill thou knewest me not for Pallas Athene, who is ever near thee in all thy trials, and made thee dear to all the Phaeacians. And now am I come to help thee hide thy goods, and weave a plot to ensnare the foes who beset thy house. Thou hast still much to endure, before thy final triumph, and thou must enter thy halls as a stranger, and suffer many things by the hands of violent men."

"It is hard, O G.o.ddess," answered Odysseus, "for a mortal man to know thee, keen though he be of wit; for thou appearest in a hundred shapes. Yet well I know that thou wast kind to me in days of old, when I fought with the Greeks at Troy. But since that time I have never seen thee, in all my wanderings and perils, save once in Phaeacia. Now tell me truly, I implore thee, what is this place where I am wandering? Thou saidst 'twas Ithaca, but in that I think thou speakest falsely, with intent to deceive me; or is this indeed my native land?"

"Ever the same Odysseus as of old," said Athene, smiling again, "cautious and wary, and hard to convince. Verily thou art a man after mine own heart, and therefore can I never leave thee or forsake thee in all thy cares. Any other man would have rushed to embrace his wife, after so many years of wandering; but thou must needs prove her and make trial of her constancy, before thou takest her to thy heart. And if thou wouldst know why I held aloof from thee so long, it was because of Poseidon, my father's brother, who ever pursued thee with his ire. Yet I knew that thou wouldst return at last, and have waited patiently for that hour, And now I will open thine eyes, that thou mayest know the land of thy birth."

As she spoke she touched his eyes, and a mist seemed to fall away from them, so that he recognised every feature of the place, the slopes of Neritus, waving with forest trees, the spreading olive-tree, the harbour, and the cavern where he had many a time sacrificed to the nymphs. Then Odysseus rejoiced in spirit, and kneeling down he kissed his native soil, and put up a prayer to the guardian deities of the place: "Greeting, lovely Naiads, maiden daughters of Zeus! Ne'er hoped I to see your faces again, Give ear unto my prayer, and if I live and prosper by the favour of Athene I will pay you rich offerings, as I was wont to do."