The Adventures of Ulysses (10 page)

A voice answered, “You have not died. You are not in the Elysian Fields. You have come home.”

He opened his eyes again. A woman was bending over him. She was so tall that he knew she was no mortal woman but nymph or naiad or demigoddess. She was clad in a short tunic of yellow and purple. Her hair was yellow and long and thick.

“You are here with me,” she said. “You have come home.”

“Home? Is this Ithaca? Are you Penelope?”

“This is Ogygia, and I am Calypso.”

He tried to sit up. He was too weak. “But Ithaca is my home,” he said. “And Penelope is my wife.”

“Home is where you dwell. And wives, I am told, often change. Especially for sailors. Especially for you. And now you belong to me, because this island and everything on it is mine.”

Ulysses went back to sleep. For he believed he was dreaming and did not wish to wake up again and find himself on the raft. But when he awoke, he was still in his dream. He was strong enough now to sit up and look around. He was in a great grove hemmed by trees—alder and poplar and cypress. Across this meadow four streams ran, crossing each other, making a sound like soft laughter. The meadow was a carpet of wild flowers, violets, parsley, bluebells, daffodils, and cat-faced pansies. His bed had been made in front of a grotto, he saw. Over it a wild grapevine had been trained to fall like a curtain.

The vine curtain was pushed aside, and Calypso came out.

“You are awake,” she cried, “and just in time for your wedding feast. The stag is roasted. The wine has been poured. No, don’t move. You’re still too weak. Let me help you, little husband.”

She stooped and lifted him in her great white arms and carried him as easily as though he were a child in the grotto and set him before the hearth. A whole stag was spitted over the flame. The cave was carpeted with the skins of leopard and wolf and bear.

“Lovely and gracious goddess,” said Ulysses, “tell me, please, how I came here. The last I remember I was on my raft, and then a blackness fell.”

“I was watching for you,” said Calypso. “I knew you would come, and I was waiting. Then your raft floated into sight. I saw you slump over and roll off the raft. And I changed you into a fish, for sharks live in this water and they are always hungry. As soon as I turned you into a fish, a gull stooped—and he would have had you—but I shot him with my arrow. Then I took my net and fished you out, restored you to your proper shape, fed you a broth of herbs, and let you sleep. That was your arrival, O man I have drawn from the sea. As for your departure, that will never be. Now eat your meat and drink your wine, for I like my husbands well fed.”

Ulysses ate and drank and felt his strength return.

“After all,” he thought, “things could be worse. In fact they have been much worse. This may turn out to be quite a pleasant interlude. She is certainly beautiful, this Calypso. Rather large for my taste and inclined to be bossy, I’m afraid. But who’s perfect?”

He turned to her, smiling, and said, “You say you were waiting for me, watching for my raft. How did you know I would be coming?”

“I am one of the Titan brood,” said Calypso. “Daughter of mighty Atlas, who stands upon the westward rim of the world bearing the sky upon his shoulders. We are the elder branch of the gods, we Titans. For us there is no before or after, only now, wherein all things are and always were and always will be. Time, you see, is a little arrangement man has made for himself to try to measure the immeasurable mystery of life. It does not really exist. So when we want to know anything that has happened in what you call ‘before,’ or what win happen in what you call ‘after,’ we simply shuffle the pictures and look at them.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“I have watched your whole voyage, Ulysses. All I have to do is poke the log in a certain way, and pictures form in the heart of the fire and burn there until I poke the log again. What would you like to see?”

“My wife, Penelope.”

Calypso reached her long arm and poked the log. And in the heart of the flame Ulysses saw a woman, weaving.

“She looks older,” he said.

“You have been away a long time. Only the immortals do not age. I was 2,300 years old yesterday. Look at me. Do you see any wrinkles?”

“Poor Penelope,” said Ulysses.

“Don’t pity her too much. She has plenty of company. She is presumed to be a widow, you know.”

“Has she married again?”

“I weary of this picture. Would you like to see another?”

“My son, Telemachus.”

She poked the fire again, and Ulysses saw the flickering image of a tall young man with red-gold hair. He held a spear in his hand and looked angry.

“How he has grown,” murmured Ulysses. “He was a baby when I left. He is a young man now, and a fine one, is he not?”

“Looks like his father,” said Calypso.

“He seems to be defying some enemy,” said Ulysses. “What is happening?”

“He is trying to drive away his mother’s suitors, who live in your castle now. She is quite popular—for an older woman. But then, of course, she has land and goods. A rich widow. You left her will provided, O sailor. She has many suitors and cannot decide among them. Or perhaps she enjoys their courtship too much to decide. But your son is very proud of his father, whom he does not remember, and seeks to drive the suitors from your castle.”

“ I had better go home and help him,” said Ulysses.

“Put that out of your mind. It simply will not happen. Forget Ithaca, Ulysses. You are a hero, a mighty hero, and heroes have many homes, and the last is always the best. Look at this. See some of your exploits. Like many warriors, you were too busy fighting to know what really happened.”

She poked the log again and again, and a stream of pictures flowed through the fire. Ulysses saw himself standing on a rock in the Cyclops’ cave, holding the white-hot sword above the great sleeping eye, preparing to stab it in. He saw himself wrestling with the leather bag of winds that Aeolus had given him; saw himself running with the wolves and lions who had been Circe’s lovers in the dark courtyard of her castle. Then, sword in hand, he saw himself hacking at Scylla’s tentacles as she reached across the tilting deck for his men. Going back he saw himself before his homeward voyage crouched in the black belly of the wooden horse he had made. Next, climbing out of that horse after it had been dragged into the city and racing with lifted sword to slaughter the sleeping Trojan warriors. And, as he watched and saw the old battles refought, the men who had been his friends, and the monstrous enemies he had overcome, his heart sang with pride, and a drunken warmth stronger than the fumes of wine rose to his head, drowning out all the pictures of home.

He stood up and said, “Thank you for showing me myself, Calypso. I do seem to be a hero, don’t I? And worthy to love a daughter of the Titans.”

“Yes,” said Calypso.

Now, Calypso had amused herself with shipwrecked sailors before. But she was hard to please, and none of them had lasted very long. When she was tired of someone she would throw him back into the sea. If she were feeling good-natured she would change him to gull or fish first. Indeed, the trees of the grove were filled with nesting sea birds—gull and heron and osprey and sand owls—who called to her at night, reproaching her.

“What is that clamor of birds?” said Ulysses.

“Just birds.”

“Why do they shriek so?”

“They are angry at me for loving you. They were men once, like yourself.”

“How did they get to be birds?”

“Oh, well, it’s no very difficult transformation, when you know how. I thought they would be happier so.”

“They don’t sound very happy.”

“They have jealous natures.”

“You are not unlike Circe in some ways,” said Ulysses. “You island goddesses are apt to be abrupt with your former friends. I’ve noticed this.”

“It’s a depressing topic, dear. Let’s talk about me. Do you find me beautiful today?”

“More beautiful than yesterday, if that is possible. And no doubt will find you even lovelier tomorrow, since you have shown me the penalty of any inattention.”

“Do not fear,” said Calypso. “You are not like the others. You are bolder and have more imagination. You are a hero.”

“Perhaps you could persuade your feathered friends to nest elsewhere? They make me nervous.”

“Nothing easier. I shall simply tell them to depart. If they do not, I shall change them all to grasshoppers, all save one, who will eat the rest and then die of overeating.”

“Truly, you are wise and powerful, and fair beyond all women, mortal or immortal.”

She smiled. “You have such an apt way of putting things,” she said.

So Ulysses made himself at home on the island and passed the time hunting game, fishing the sea, and reveling with the beautiful Calypso. He was happy. Thoughts of home grew dim. The nymph taught him how to poke the magic log upon her hearth so that it would cast up fire pictures. And he sat by the hour on the great hearth, reading the flickering tapestry of days gone by and days to come. But she had instructed the log never to show him scenes of Ithaca, for she wished him not to be reminded of his home in any way, lest he be tempted to depart. But Ulysses was as crafty as she was, and after he had poked the log many times, asking it to show him what was happening on his island, and the log had cast up pictures of other times, other places, he realized that Calypso had laid a magic veto upon scenes of home. And this, instead of making him forget, made him more eager than ever to know what was happening to Telemachus and Penelope.

One day he went into the wood, snared a sea crow, and asked, “Can you speak?”

“Yes,” said the crow.

“Were you once a man?”

“Once … once … at the time of your grandfather, Sisyphus. I was a clever man, a spy. That’s why Calypso changed me into a crow when she grew weary of me, for of all creatures we are the best for spying and prying and tattling.”

“Then you’re the bird for me,” cried Ulysses. “Listen, I wish you to fly to Ithaca. Go to my castle and see what is happening. Then come back and tell me.”

“Why should I? What will you give me?”

“Your life.”

“My life? I already have that”

“But not for long. Because if you refuse to do as I ask, I shall wring your neck.”

“Hmmm,” said the crow. There is merit in your argument. Very well. I shall be your spy. Only don’t let Calypso know. Shell catch me and feed me to the cat before I can report to you. I have a notion she’d like you to forget Ithaca.”

“Fly away, little bird,” said Ulysses, “and do what you have to do. I’ll take care of things here.”

The next day, at dusk, as he was returning from the hunt; he heard the crow calling from the depth of an oak tree.

“Greetings,” said Ulysses. “Have you done what I asked?”

“I have flown to Ithaca,” said the crow. “A rough journey by sea, but not really so far as the crow flies. I flew to your castle and perched in an embrasure and watched and watched. Briefly, your son is grieving, your wife is weaving, and your guests are
not
leaving.”

“What does my wife weave?”

“Your shroud.”

“Has she decided so soon that I am dead? I have been gone scarcely twenty years.”

“She is faithful. But the suitors, who are brawling, ill-mannered young men, are pressing her to choose one of them for a husband. However, she refuses to choose until she finishes the shroud. And it has been three years a-weaving, for each night she rips up the work she has done by day, so the shroud is never finished. But the suitors grow impatient. They are demanding that she finish her weaving and choose a groom. Your son opposes them. And they threaten to kill him unless he steps aside.”

“Thank you, crow,” said Ulysses.

“What will you do now—try to escape?”

“Escape? I do not consider myself a captive, good bird. I shall simply inform Calypso that I intend to leave and ask her to furnish transportation.”

“You make it sound easy,” said the crow. “Good luck.”

And he flew away.

Ulysses went to Calypso in her grotto, fell on his knees before her, and said, “Fair and gracious friend, you have made me happier than any man has a right to be, especially an unlucky one. But now I must ask you one last great favor.” Calypso frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that,” she said. “What do you mean ‘last’? Why should I not go on doing you favors?”

“I must go home.”

“This is your home.”

“No. My home is Ithaca. Penelope is my wife. Telemachus is my son. I have enemies. They live in my castle and steal my goods. They wish to kill my son and take my wife. I am a king. I cannot tolerate insults. I must go home.”

“Suppose you do go home, what then?”

“I will contend with my enemies. I will kill them or they will kill me.”

“You kill them, say—then what?”

“Then I live, I rule. I don’t know. I cannot read the future.”

“I can. Look.”

She poked the magic log. Fire pictures flared. Ulysses saw himself sitting on his throne. He was an old man. Penelope was there. She was an old woman.

“You will grow old … old …” Calypso’s voice murmured in his ear, unraveling in its rough purring way like raw silk. “Old … old … You will live on memories. You will eat your heart out recalling old glories, old battles, old loves. Look … look into the fire.”

“Is that me?”

“That’s you, humping along in your old age among your hills, grown dry and cruel.”

“What is that on my shoulder?”

“An oar.”

“Why do I carry an oar where there is no sea?”

“If you go back to Ithaca, you will meet great trouble. You will be driven from your throne and be forced to carry an oar on your shoulder until you come to a place where no man salts his meat, and where they think the oar is a winnowing-fan. Then, if you abase yourself to Poseidon, he may forget his hatred for a while and grant you a few more years.”

“Is that me standing at the shore?”

“That is you.”

“Who is that young man?”

“Your son.”

“Not Telemachus?”

“Another son. A fiercer one.”

“Why does his spear look so strange?”