The Adventures of Ulysses (4 page)

“But one thing I seek, generous Aeolus,” said Ulysses, “your help. I need your help in getting home. For it has been a long, weary time since we saw our homes and our families. Our hearts thirst for the sight of Ithaca.”

“No one can help you better than I,” said Aeolus. “You sail on ships, and I am Keeper of the Winds. Come with me.”

He led Ulysses out into the night. A hot orange moon rode low in the sky, and they could see without torches. Aeolus led him to the mountain, carrying his sword in one hand and a great leather bag in the other. He stabbed the side of the mountain. There was a rushing, sobbing sound; he clapped his leather bag over the hole, and Ulysses, amazed, saw the great bag flutter and fill. Aeolus held its neck closed, strode to the east face of the mountain, and stabbed again. As the east wind rushed out, he caught it in his sack. Then he stomped to the south slope and stabbed again, and caught the south wind in the sack. Now, very carefully, he wound a silver wire about the neck of the sack. It was full now, swollen, tugging at his arm like a huge leather balloon, trying to fly away.

He said, “In this bag are the north wind, the south wind, and the east wind. You must keep them prisoner. But if you wish to change course—if a pirate should chase you, say, or a sea monster, or if an adventure beckons, then you open the bag very carefully—you and you alone, Captain—and whistle up the wind you wish, let just a breath of it out, close the bag quickly again, and tie it tight. For winds grow swiftly—that is their secret—and so they must be carefully guarded.”

“I shall not change course,” said Ulysses. “No matter what enemy threatens or what adventure beckons, I sail straight for Ithaca. I shall not open your bag of winds.”

“Good,” said Aeolus. Then bind it to your mast, and guard it yourself, sword in hand; let none of your men approach, lest they open it unwittingly. In the meantime, I will send the gentle west wind to follow your ship and fill your sails and take you home.”

“Thank you, great Aeolus, thank you, kindly keeper of the winds. I know now that the gods have answered my prayers, and I shall be able to cease this weary, heartbreaking drifting over the face of the sea, having my men killed and eaten, my ships destroyed, and my hopes shattered. I will never cease thanking you, Aeolus, till the day I die.”

“May that sad occasion be far off,” said Aeolus politely. “Now, sir, much as I like your company, you had better gather your men and be off. I shall be uneasy now until my winds return to me and I can shut them in the mountain again.”

Ulysses returned to the castle and called together his men. Gladly they trooped down to the ships and went aboard. Ulysses bound the great leather sack to the mast and warned his crew that no man must touch it on pain of death. Then he himself stood with naked sword under the mast, guarding the sack. “Up anchor!” he cried. The west wind rolled off the mountain and filled their sails. The black ships slipped out of the harbor. Away from the island they sailed, away from the mountain and the castle toward the wall of bronze. When they reached the wall, the great gate swung open and they sailed westward over water oily with moonlight. Westward they sailed for nine days and nine nights. In perfect weather they skimmed along, the west wind hovering behind them, keeping their sails full, pushing them steadily home.

And for nine nights and nine days, Ulysses did not sleep; he did not close his eyes or sheath his sword. He kept his station under the mast—food and drink were brought to him there—and never for an instant stopped guarding the sack.

Then, finally, on the morning of the ninth day, he heard the lookout cry, “Land Ho!” and strained his eyes to see. What he saw made his heart swell. Tears coursed down his face, but they were tears of joy. For he saw the dear familiar hills of home. He saw the brown fields of Ithaca, the twisted olive trees, and, as he watched, he saw them even more clearly, saw the white marble columns of his own castle on the cliff. And his men, watching, saw the smoke rising from their own chimneys.

When Ulysses saw the white columns of his palace, he knew that unless the west wind failed, they would be home in an hour, but the friendly wind blew steadily as ever. Ulysses heaved a great sigh. The terrible tension that had kept him awake for nine days and nights eased its grip. He raised his arms and yawned. Then he leaned against the mast and closed his eyes, just for a minute.

Two of the men, standing in the bow, saw him slump at the foot of the mast, fast asleep. Their eyes traveled up the mast to the great leather bag, plump as a balloon, straining against its bonds as the impatient winds wrestled inside. Then Poseidon, swimming invisibly alongside, clinked his golden armlets. The men heard the clinking and thought it came from the bag.

One man said to the other: “Do you hear that? Those are coins, heavy golden coins, clinking against each other. There must be a fortune in that sack.”

The other man said, “Yes, a fortune that should belong to all of us by rights. We shared the danger and should share the loot.”

“It is true,” said the first, “that he has always been generous. He shared the spoils of Troy.”

“Yes, but that was then. Why does he not divide this great sack of treasure? Aeolus gave it to him, and we know how rich he is. Aeolus gave it to him as a guest gift, and he should share it with us.”

“He never will. Whatever is in that bag, he does not mean for us to see it. Did you not observe how he has been guarding it all these nights and all these days, standing there always, eating and drinking where he stands, never sheathing his sword?”

“It is in his sheath now,” said the second sailor. “And his eyes are closed. Look—he sleeps like a babe. I doubt that anything would wake him.”

“What are you doing? What are you going to do with that knife? Are you out of your mind?”

“Yes—out of my mind with curiosity, out of my mind with gold fever, if you must know. Ulysses lies asleep. His sword sleeps in its sheath. And I mean to see what is in that bag.”

“Wait, I’ll help you. But you must give me half.”

“Come then.…”

Swiftly and silently the two barefooted sailors padded to the mast, slashed the rope that bound the bag to the spar, and bore it away.

“Hurry—open it!”

“I can’t. This wire’s twisted in a strange knot. Perhaps a magic knot. It won’t come out.”

“Then we’ll do it this way!” cried the sailor with the knife, and struck at the leather bag, slashing it open. He was immediately lifted off his feet and blown like a leaf off the deck and into the sea as the winds rushed howling out of the bag and began to chase each other around the ship. The winds screamed and jeered and laughed, growing, leaping, reveling in their freedom, roaring and squabbling, screeching around and around the ship. They fell on their gentle brother, the west wind, and cuffed him mercilessly until he fled; then they chased each other around the ship again, spinning it like a cork in a whirlpool.

Then, as they heard the far, summoning whistle of the keeper of the winds—far, far to the west on the Aeolian Island—they snarled with rage and roared boisterously homeward, snatching the ships along with them, ripping their sails to shreds, snapping their masts like twigs, and hurling the splintered hulls westward over the boiling sea.

Ulysses awoke from his sleep to find the blue sky black with clouds and his home island dropping far astern, out of sight. He saw his crew flung about the deck like dolls, and the tattered sails and the broken spars, and he did not know whether he was awake or asleep—whether this was some nightmare of loss, or whether he was awake now and had slept before, dreaming a fair dream of home. Whichever it was, he began to understand that he was being made the plaything of great powers.

With the unleashed winds screaming behind him at gale force, the trip back to where they had started took them only two days. And once again the black ships were hurled onto the island of the winds. Ulysses left his crew on the beach and went to the castle. He found Aeolus in his throne room and stood before him, bruised, bloody, clothes torn, eyes like ashes.

“What happened?” cried Aeolus. “Why have you come back?”

I was betrayed,” said Ulysses. “Betrayed by sleep—the most cruel sleep of my life—and then by a wicked, foolish, greedy crew who released the winds from the sack and let us be snatched back from happiness even as we saw the smoke rising from our own chimneys.”

“I warned you,” said Aeolus. “I warned you not to let anyone touch that bag.”

“And you were right, a thousand times right!” cried Ulysses. “Be generous once again. You can heal my woes, you alone. Renew your gift. Lend me the west wind to bear me home again, and I swear to you that this time I shall do everything you bid.”

“I can’t help you,” said Aeolus. “No one can help he whom the gods detest. And they detest you, man—they hate you. What you call bad luck is their hatred, turning gifts into punishment, fair hopes into nightmares. And bad luck is very catching. So please go. Get on your ship and sail away from this island and never return.”

“Farewell,” said Ulysses, and he strode away.

He gathered his weary men and made them board the ships again. The winds were pent in their mountain. The sea was sluggish. A heavy calm lay over the harbor. They had to row on their broken stumps of oars, crawling like beetles over the gray water. They rowed away from the island, through the bronze gate, and out upon the sullen sea.

And Ulysses, heartbroken, almost dead of grief, tried to hide his feelings from the men; he stood on deck, barking orders, making them mend sail, patch hull, rig new spars, and keep rowing. He took the helm himself and swung the tiller, pointing the bow westward toward home, which, once again, lay at the other end of the sea.

U
LYSSES WISHED TO PUT
as much open water as possible between him and the Islands of the Winds, but after six days he realized he would have to put into harbor. His ships were in very poor trim. Their hulls were gashed and splintered, the sails tattered, and the men themselves cut and bruised and half dead with fatigue. It was a terrible punishment his fleet had taken from the brawling winds.

As dusk was thickening they made a landfall. The sight of the island pleased Ulysses; it seemed perfect for his purpose. It had a natural basin of tideless water cupped by a smoothly curved outcropping of rock. And as they sailed through the narrow throat of rock into the harbor they saw a marvelous sight. The purple sky deepened to inky blue, to black, then swiftly paled. Orange bars of fire stood in the sky, then a great flooding of golden light, which purpled again and went dark. Ulysses searched the sky; he had never seen anything like this before. For night followed day upon this island like a hound hunting a deer. The sun chased the moon across the bowl of the sky, and the beach darkened and went light again, moved from bright day to blackest night in the time that it takes to eat a meal.

“This is a wonder,” said Ulysses to himself. “And truly, all my life I have sought wonders. But just now I would wish for a more ordinary course of events. All strangeness holds danger now, and we have had our bellyful of adventure for the time. What I pray for now is a space of days without surprise or wild encounter—to have a fair wind and a calm sea and a swift voyage home. Alas, I fear it is not yet to be. I fear this Island of the Racing Sun. And yet I must land here and mend my ships and rest my crew.”

The Greek warriors beached their ships and dragged them onto the shore. But according to his prudent custom, Ulysses beached only two ships, keeping one moored in the harbor in the event of attack. Ulysses spoke his orders; the men broke into groups and began to work. Some built fires and began to cook food, others mended sail, some caulked hulls, and sentries kept watch.

“Climb that tail tree there,” Ulysses said to one of his men. “Climb to the top and look about, then come down and tell me what you see.”

It’s too dark to see,” said the sailor.

“You forget where we are,” said Ulysses. “Here night chases day, and day pursues night. There will be light enough by the time you reach the top.”

The man went off to climb the tree. Ulysses stalked about inspecting the work being done on the ships. The sky paled; dawn bloomed. But the sailor had not returned.

“Odd,” said Ulysses. “He must be asleep up there.” And he dispatched another sailor to climb the tree to see what happened to the first one.

The shadows were lengthening. The sky shed its gold; shadows yawned and swallowed the light It was night, and the second sailor had not returned. Ulysses frowned and sent a third man to climb the tree. Then he kept guard there on the beach, in the firelight, eyes narrowed, beard bristling, like a great cat waiting.

The sun minted itself again in the sky; morning flashed. The third sailor had not returned. Ulysses decided to climb the tree himself. It was a good half-mile from where he stood, a huge solitary tree stretching up, up. When he reached it he saw that its bark was wrinkled in a most curious way; it fell in soft brown folds unlike any bark he had ever seen. And when he grasped the tree to climb it, the bark felt like a heavy cloth beneath his hands. But it made climbing easy. Up and up he went; up, up in the thickening darkness, climbing with the ease of a man of the Middle Sea who had begun to climb masts as soon as he could walk.

He climbed and climbed, rested, and climbed again. Suddenly he heard a mumbling, chuckling sound as if some beast were crouching in the branches above. He stopped climbing and peered upward. He could see no branches. Reaching up he felt a hairy foliage grazing his fingers. He clung there to the branch, right where he was, not moving, until the blackness thinned, and he began to see.

He had been climbing through darkness; now he saw against the paler sky toward what he had been climbing. The hairy foliage was a beard. A huge bushy beard, hanging some forty feet above the ground. Above that beard was a grinning of enormous teeth; above the teeth the muddy gleam of eyes as large as portholes. Ulysses’ head swam with fear. Fear pried at his legs and arms, and he had to clutch the trunk with all his strength to keep from falling. But it was no trunk. He had been climbing no tree. It was a giant’s leg he had been climbing, and the clothlike bark was cloth indeed, the stuff of its garment. And he realized then that the three sailors he had sent aloft had climbed to a mumbling death.