The Adventures of Ulysses (5 page)

Ulysses thanked the gods then that he had begun his climb in darkness, for he understood that the giant slept standing, like a horse, and that his eyes were not yet adjusted to the new light. That is why the huge slab of hand he saw swinging there now had not trapped him like a fly. He loosened his grasp and slid down so swiftly that he tore the skin off his hands. But he was mindless of pain. He hit the ground and raised a great shout. “To the ships!” he cried. “To the ships!”

But it was too late. The sun was burning in the sky and there was too much light. A brutal bellowing yell shattered the air, and the men, paralyzed with fear, whimpering like puppies, saw a mob of giants, tall as trees, trooping toward them over the hills. And before Ulysses could rally his terrified men, the giants were upon them, trampling the ships like twigs, scooping the men up and popping them into their mouths like children eating berries.

Ulysses did not lose his wits. Fear turned to anger in him, and anger became an icy flame that quickened him. His sword was scything the air; he hacked away at the giant hands that came at him like a flock of huge meaty gulls. He whipped his blade at their fingers, hacking them off at the knuckle joints. His sword smoked with blood.

Inspired by the sight of him fencing with the giant fingers, a small group of his men gathered around and made a hedge of steel. They hacked their way through the great grasping hands to the edge of the sea, then followed Ulysses into the water and swam to the single ship that they had left moored in the harbor. Luckily the swift night was falling again, and they were shielded by darkness. They heard the huge snuffling noise of the giants feasting upon their shipmates, but there was nothing they could do except try to save themselves. The night had brought an offshore wind. Swiftly they raised sail and darted through the throat of rock out into the open sea.

Of the three ships that had gone in, only one sailed away. Of the three crews but one was left. The others had gone down the gullets of the giants who lived on that strange island where night hounds the golden stag of the day across the indifferent sky.

N
OW, AFTER BATTLING THE
giant cannibals on the Island of the Racing Sun, Ulysses found himself with only forty-five men left from his crew of one hundred. He was determined to bring these men home safely or die himself.

They were sailing northward again, and on the third day came in sight of land, low-lying, heavily wooded, with a good sheltering harbor. Although they had met terrible treatment everywhere they had landed since leaving Troy, they were out of food, water was running low, and once again they would have to risk the perils of the land.

Ulysses was very cautious. He moored the ship offshore and said to the crew:

“I shall go ashore myself—alone—to see what there is to see and make sure there are no terrible hosts, giants, man-eating ogres, or secret sorceries. If I am not back by nightfall, Eurylochus will act as captain. Then he will decide whether to seek food and water here or sail onward. Farewell.”

He lowered a small boat and rowed toward the island, all alone. He beached his skiff and struck inland. The first thing he wanted to do was find out whether he was on an island, or the spur of a mainland. He climbed a low hill, then climbed to the top of a tree that grew on the hill. He was high enough now for a clear view, and he turned slowly, marking the flash of the sea on all sides. He knew that once again they had landed on an island and that the ship was their only means of escape if danger should strike.

Something caught his eye. He squinted thoughtfully at what looked like a feather of smoke rising from a grove of trees. The trees were too thick for him to see through. He climbed down and picked his way carefully toward the smoke, trying to make as little noise as possible. He came to a stand of mighty trees—oak trees, thick and tall with glossy leaves. Glimmering through the trees he saw what looked like a small castle made of polished gray stone. He did not dare go near, for he heard strange howling sounds, a pack of dogs, perhaps, but different from any dogs he had ever heard. So he left the grove and made his way back toward the beach, thinking hard, trying to decide whether to sail away immediately or take a chance on the inhabitants being friendly. He did not like the sound of that howling. There was something in it that froze his marrow. He decided that he would not risk his men on the island but that he would return to the ship, raise anchor, and sail away to seek food elsewhere.

Just then a tall white deer with mighty antlers stepped across his path. The great stag had a bearing proud as a king and did not deign to run but walked on haughtily as if he knew no one would dare to attack him. Unfortunately for the stag, however, Ulysses was too hungry to be impressed by any animal’s own opinion of himself. The warrior raised his bronze spear and flung it with all the power of his knotted arm. It sang through the air, pierced the stag’s body, and nailed him to a tree. The stag died standing up, still in his pride. He was a huge animal, so large that Ulysses feared he could not carry him back to the ship unaided. But then he remembered how hungry his men were, and he decided to try. He picked weeds and wove a rope, which he twisted and twisted again until it was as strong as a ship’s line. Then he bound the stag’s legs together, swung the great carcass up onto his back, and staggered off using his spear as a cane.

He was at the end of his strength when he reached the beach and let the deer slip to the sand. He signaled to his men, who left the ship moored and came ashore on five small boats. They raised a mighty shout of joy when they saw the dead stag. All hands fell to. In a twinkling the deer was skinned and cut up. Fires were lighted, and the delicious smell of roasting meat drew the gulls to the beach, screaming and dipping, begging for scraps.

The men gorged themselves, then lay on the sand to sleep. Ulysses, himself, kept guard. All that night he stood watch, leaning on his spear, looking at the moon, which hung in the sky like an orange and paled as it climbed. As he watched, he turned things over in his mind, trying to decide what to do. While he was still bothered by the eerie howling of the mysterious animals at the castle, still, with his belly full, he felt less gloomy. The more he thought about it the wiser it seemed to explore the island thoroughly and try to determine whether it was a friendly place or not. For never before had he seen a deer so large. If there was one, there must be more; and with game like that the ship could be provisioned in a few days. Also the island was full of streams from which they could fill their dry casks with pure water.

“Yes,” he said to himself, “perhaps our luck has changed. Perhaps the god that was playing with us so spitefully has found other amusements. Yes, we will explore this island and see what there is to see.”

Next morning he awakened his men and divided them into two groups, one led by himself, the other by Eurylochus. He said to Eurylochus: “There is a castle on this island. We must find out who lives there. If he be friendly, or not too strong a foe, we will stay here and hunt and lay in water until the hold be full; then we will depart. Now choose, Eurylochus. Would you rather stay here with your men and guard the ship while I visit the castle—or would you rather I keep the beach? Choose.”

“O Ulysses,” Eurylochus said. “I am sick of the sight of the sea. Even as my belly hungers for food, so do my eyes hunger for leaves and trees which might recall our dear Ithaca. And my foot longs to tread something more solid than a deck—a floor that does not pitch and toss and roll. Pray, gentle Ulysses, let me and my men try the castle.”

“Go,” said Ulysses, “May the gods go with you.”

So Eurylochus and twenty-two men set out, while Ulysses guarded the ship. As the band of warriors approached the castle, they too heard a strange howling. Some of them drew their swords. Others notched arrows to their bowstrings. They pressed on, preparing to fight. They passed through the grove of oak trees and came to where the trees thinned. Here the howling grew louder and wilder. Then, as they passed the last screen of trees and came to the courtyard of the shining gray castle, they saw an extraordinary sight—a pack of wolves and lions running together like dogs—racing about the courtyard, howling.

When they caught sight of the men, the animals turned and flung themselves upon the strangers, so swiftly that no man had time to use his weapon. The great beasts stood on their hind legs and put their forepaws on the men’s shoulders, and fawned on them and licked their faces. They voiced low, muttering, growling whines. Eurylochus, who stood half-embracing a huge tawny lion, said, “Men, it is most strange. For these fearsome beasts greet us as though we were lost friends. They seem to be trying to speak to us. And look—look—at their eyes! How intelligently they gleam, how sadly they gaze. Not like beasts’ eyes at all.”

“It is true,” said one of the men. “But perhaps there is nothing to fear. Perhaps there is reason to take heart. For if wild beasts are so tame and friendly, then perhaps the master of the castle, whoever he is or whatever he is, will be friendly too, and welcome us, and give us good cheer.”

“Come,” said Eurylochus. When they reached the castle gate, they stopped and listened. For they heard a woman singing in a lovely, deep, full-throated voice, so that without seeing the woman they knew she was beautiful. Eurylochus said, “Men, you go into the castle and see what is to be seen. I will stay here and make sure you are not surprised.”

“What do you mean? You come with us. Listen to that. There can be no danger where there is such song.”

“Yes, everything seems peaceful,” said Eurylochus. “The wild animals are friendly. Instead of the clank of weapons, we hear a woman singing. And it may be peaceful. But something says to me, be careful, take heed. Go you, then. I stay on guard. If I am attacked, and you are unharmed, come to my aid. If anything happens to you, then I shall take word back to Ulysses.”

So Eurylochus stood watch at the castle gate—sword in one hand, dagger in the other, bow slung across his back—and the rest of the men entered the castle. They followed the sound of singing through the rooms and out onto a sunny terrace. There sat a woman weaving. She sat at a huge loom, larger than they had ever seen, and wove a gorgeous tapestry. As she wove, she sang. The bright flax leaped through her fingers as if it were dancing to the music in her voice. The men stood and stared. The sun seemed to be trapped in her hair, so bright it was; she wore it long, falling to her waist. Her dress was as blue as the summer sky, matching her eyes. Her long white arms were bare to the shoulders. She stood up and greeted them. She was very tall. And the men, looking at her and listening to her speak, began to believe that they were in the presence of a goddess.

She seemed to read thoughts, too, for she said, “No, I am not a goddess. But I am descended from the Immortals. I am Circe, granddaughter of Helios, a sun-god, who married Perse, daughter of Oceanus. So what am I—wood nymph, sea nymph, something of both? Or something more? I can do simple magic and prophesy, weave certain homely enchantments, and read dreams. But let us not speak of me, but of you, strangers. You are adventurers, I see, men of the sword, men of the black-prowed ships, the hawks of the sea. And you have come through sore, sad times and seek a haven here on this western isle. So be it I welcome you. For the sweetest spell Circe weaves is one called hospitality. I will have baths drawn for you, clean garments laid out. And when you are refreshed, you shall come and dine. For I love brave men and the tales they tell.”

When the men had bathed and changed, Circe gave them each a red bowl. And into each bowl she put yellow food—a kind of porridge made of cheese, barley, honey, and wine plus a few secret things known only to herself. The odor that rose from the red bowls was more delicious than anything they had ever smelled before. And as each man ate, he felt himself sinking into his hunger,
becoming
his hunger—lapping, panting, grunting, snuffling. Circe passed among them, smiling, filling the bowls again and again. And the men, waiting for their bowls to be filled, looking about, seeing each other’s faces smeared with food, thought, “How strange. We’re eating like pigs.”

Even as the thought came, it became more true. For as Circe passed among them now she touched each one on the shoulder with a wand, saying: “Glut and swink, eat and drink, gobble food and guzzle wine. Too rude, I think, for humankind, quite right, I think, for
swine!”

As she said these words in her lovely, laughing voice, the men dwindled. Their noses grew wide and long, became snouts. Their hair hardened into bristles; their hands and feet became hooves, and they ran about on all fours, sobbing and snuffling, searching the floor for bones and crumbs. But all the time they cried real tears from their little red eyes, for they were pigs only in form; their minds remained unchanged, and they knew what was happening to them.

Circe kicked them away from the table. “To the sties!” she cried. She struck them with her wand, herding them out of the castle into a large sty. And there she flung them acorns and chestnuts and red berries and watched them grubbing in the mud for the food she threw. She laughed a wild, bright laugh and went back into the castle.

While all this was happening, Eurylochus was waiting at the gate. When the men did not return he crept up to a bow slit in the castle wall and looked in. It was dark now. He saw the glimmer of torchlight and the dim shape of a woman at a loom, weaving. He heard a voice singing, the same enchanting voice he had heard before. But of his men he saw nothing. Nor did he hear their voices. A great fear seized him. He raced off as fast as he could, hoping against hope that the beasts would not howl. The wolves and lions stood like statues, walked like shadows. Their eyes glittered with cold moonlight, but none of them uttered a sound.

He ran until the breath strangled in his throat, until his heart tried to crack out of his ribs, but he kept running, stumbling over roots, slipping on stones. He ran and ran until he reached the beach and fell swooning in Ulysses’ arms. Then with his last breath he gasped out the story, told Ulysses of the lions and the wolves, of the woman singing in the castle, and how the men had gone in and not come out. And then he slipped into blackness.