Odisej in Kiklop

Besedilo

Odisej in Kiklop

Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: “Lord Alcinous, most renowned of all your people, it is indeed a fine thing to listen to a singer such as this, whose voice is like a god’s.

For I say there is no greater delight than when joy fills a whole people, and guests sit in rows throughout the hall listening to a singer, with tables beside them laden with bread and meat, while the cupbearer draws wine from the mixing bowl, carries it round, and pours it into their cups. To my mind, this is the loveliest thing of all.

But your heart has moved you to ask about my grievous sorrows, so that I must weep and groan still more. What shall I tell you first, and what last? For the gods who dwell in heaven have given me many troubles.

First I shall tell you my name, so that you too may know it, and so that, if I escape this merciless day, I may be your guest-friend hereafter, though my home is far away. I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, known to all men for my many stratagems, and my fame reaches heaven.

I live in clear-seen Ithaca, where Mount Neriton rises conspicuous, its leaves trembling in the wind. Around it lie many islands, close to one another: Dulichium, Same, and wooded Zacynthus.

Ithaca itself lies low in the sea, farthest toward the darkness of the west, while the others lie apart toward the dawn and the sun. It is a rugged land, but a good nurse of young men; and for myself, I can see nothing sweeter than one’s own country.

Calypso, that lovely goddess, kept me there in her hollow caves, longing to have me for her husband. So too did crafty Circe of Aeaea detain me in her halls, longing to have me for her husband. But neither ever won the heart within my breast.

So nothing is sweeter than one’s homeland and one’s parents, even if a man lives in a rich house far away, in a foreign country, apart from his parents. But come, let me tell you of my sorrow-laden journey home, which Zeus laid upon me as I came from Troy.

From Ilium the wind carried me to the Cicones, at Ismarus. There I sacked the city and killed its men. We took their wives and much treasure from the city and divided them, so that no one should go deprived of an equal share.

Then I urged us to flee with all speed, but in their great folly the men would not listen. They drank wine in abundance and slaughtered many sheep beside the shore, along with shambling, crook-horned cattle. Meanwhile the Cicones who had escaped went and called to their neighbors, Cicones who lived inland, more numerous and better fighters, skilled in battling men from chariots and, when need arose, on foot.

They came at dawn, as many as the leaves and flowers of spring. Then an evil doom from Zeus stood beside us, ill-fated men, bringing us much suffering. They drew up their ranks and fought beside the swift ships, and we hurled bronze-tipped spears at one another.

As long as it was morning and the sacred day grew brighter, we stood our ground and held them off, though they outnumbered us. But when the sun turned toward the hour when oxen are unyoked, the Cicones overpowered the Achaeans and drove them back.

From each ship six of my well-greaved companions died; the rest of us escaped death and destruction. From there we sailed onward, grieving at heart, glad to have escaped death, yet mourning the dear companions we had lost.

But my curved ships did not sail farther until we had called three times upon each of our unhappy comrades who had died on the plain, cut down by the Cicones. Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer roused the North Wind against our ships in a tremendous tempest, and shrouded land and sea alike in clouds. Night swept down from heaven.

The ships were driven sideways, and the force of the wind tore their sails into shreds. Fearing destruction, we lowered them into the ships and rowed hard for the mainland.

There we lay for two nights and two days without a break, our hearts consumed by weariness and grief. But when lovely-haired Dawn brought the third day, we raised the masts, hauled up the white sails, and sat down, while the wind and the helmsmen guided the ships.

And I might now have reached my homeland unharmed, but as I rounded Malea, the waves, the current, and the North Wind drove me off course and swept me past Cythera. From there, for nine days, deadly winds carried me over the fish-filled sea; on the tenth we landed in the country of the Lotus-Eaters, who feed on a flowering food.

There we went ashore and drew water, and my companions quickly took their meal beside the swift ships. When we had eaten and drunk, I sent some men to find out what people lived there and ate the bread of the land. I chose two men and sent a herald with them as a third.

They went at once and mingled with the Lotus-Eaters. The Lotus-Eaters had no thought of killing our companions, but gave them lotus to taste. Whoever ate the honey-sweet fruit of the lotus no longer wished to bring back word or return, but wanted to stay there among the Lotus-Eaters, feeding on lotus and forgetting his homeward journey.

I brought them back to the ships by force, weeping, and dragged them beneath the benches of the hollow ships and bound them there. Then I ordered the rest of my loyal companions to hurry aboard the swift ships, lest any of them should eat the lotus and forget his homeward journey.

They quickly boarded and took their places at the oarlocks, and sitting in rows they struck the gray sea with their oars. From there we sailed onward, grieving at heart, and came to the land of the Cyclopes, an arrogant and lawless people. Trusting in the immortal gods, they neither plant with their hands nor plow; everything grows unsown and untilled—wheat and barley and vines that yield wine from abundant clusters, nourished by the rain of Zeus.

They have no assemblies for counsel, no established laws, but live on the peaks of lofty mountains in hollow caves. Each rules over his own children and wives, and they take no heed of one another.

A wooded island lies outside the harbor, neither close to the Cyclopes’ land nor far away. Countless wild goats breed there, for no human footsteps disturb them, nor do hunters come there, men who endure hardship in the woods as they range over mountain heights.

No flocks or plowed fields occupy it. Unsown and untilled for all time, it lies empty of men and feeds bleating goats. For the Cyclopes have no red-cheeked ships, nor shipwrights who could build them well-benched vessels to serve their needs, visiting the cities of men, as men so often cross the sea in ships to visit one another. Such craftsmen could also have made this island a flourishing settlement.

For it is by no means poor land, and would bear every crop in season. Beside the shores of the gray sea lie soft, well-watered meadows, where vines would never fail. There is level land for plowing, where men could always reap a deep harvest in season, so rich is the soil beneath.

There is also a harbor with safe anchorage, where no mooring rope is needed, no anchor need be cast or stern cables fastened. Men can beach their ships and wait until their hearts urge them to sail and the breezes blow.

At the head of the harbor a spring of bright water flows from beneath a cave, with poplars growing round it. There we sailed in, and some god guided us through the murky night, for nothing could be seen ahead. A deep mist lay about the ships, and no moon shone down from heaven, hidden as it was by clouds.

Not one of us saw the island with his own eyes, nor did we see the long waves rolling toward the shore until we beached our well-benched ships. Once they were beached, we lowered all the sails and stepped out upon the seashore. There we fell asleep and waited for divine Dawn.

When early-born, rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, we roamed about the island, marveling at it. And the nymphs, daughters of aegis-bearing Zeus, stirred up the mountain goats so that my companions might have a meal.

At once we took our curved bows and long-socketed hunting spears from the ships, divided into three companies, and began to shoot. The god soon gave us game to our hearts’ content. Twelve ships had followed me, and each received nine goats; for me alone they chose ten.

So all that day until the sun went down we sat feasting on abundant meat and sweet wine. For the red wine aboard our ships had not yet run out; some remained, since each of us had drawn off plenty in jars when we took the sacred city of the Cicones.

We looked across to the nearby land of the Cyclopes and saw their smoke, and heard their voices and the bleating of their sheep and goats. When the sun went down and darkness came, we lay down to sleep upon the seashore.

When early-born, rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, I called an assembly and spoke before them all: ‘The rest of you, my loyal companions, stay here for now. I shall go with my own ship and crew to find out what sort of men these are: whether they are violent, savage, and unjust, or welcoming to strangers, with hearts that fear the gods.’

With that I boarded my ship and told my companions to come aboard themselves and loosen the stern cables. They quickly boarded and took their places at the oarlocks, and sitting in rows they struck the gray sea with their oars.

When we reached that nearby coast, we saw a lofty cave at its edge, close to the sea and overhung with laurels. Many sheep and goats were penned there at night, and round it a high enclosure had been built of stones sunk deep in the earth, tall pines, and lofty-crowned oaks.

There a monstrous man lived, who tended his flocks alone, far from others. He did not mingle with them, but lived apart, knowing no law. He was a monstrous wonder to behold, not like a man who eats bread, but like a wooded peak of the high mountains, standing out alone from the rest.

Then I ordered the rest of my loyal companions to stay there beside the ship and guard it, while I chose twelve of the best and set out. I took a goatskin of dark, sweet wine, given me by Maron, son of Euanthes, priest of Apollo, who watched over Ismarus. We had spared him, his child, and his wife out of reverence, for he lived in the wooded grove of Phoebus Apollo. He gave me splendid gifts: seven talents of well-wrought gold, a mixing bowl of solid silver, and wine drawn into twelve jars, sweet and unmixed, a divine drink. None of the slaves or serving women in his house knew of it, only himself, his dear wife, and a single housekeeper.

Whenever they drank that honey-sweet red wine, he would fill one cup and pour it into twenty measures of water, and a wondrously sweet fragrance rose from the mixing bowl. Then it was hard indeed to leave it untasted.

I carried a great skin filled with this wine, and provisions too in a bag, for my bold heart at once suspected that we would encounter a man endowed with enormous strength, a savage who knew neither justice nor law.

We soon reached the cave but did not find him inside; he was grazing his fat flocks in the pastures. We went into the cave and gazed in wonder at everything. Racks were heavy with cheeses, and the pens were crowded with lambs and kids, each age kept separate: the firstborn apart, the younger ones apart, and the newborns apart again. All his vessels brimmed with whey, the pails and bowls he had made for milking.

At first my companions begged me to take some cheeses and go back, then quickly drive the kids and lambs out of their pens to the swift ship and sail away over the salt water. But I would not listen—though it would have been far better—for I wanted to see the man himself and learn whether he would give me gifts of hospitality.

Yet his appearance was to bring my companions no joy. We lit a fire and made an offering, then took some cheeses ourselves and ate. We sat inside waiting for him until he came back with his flocks. He carried a huge load of dry wood for his supper, and flung it down inside the cave with a crash. In terror we fled to the cave’s deepest recess.

He drove his fat flocks into the broad cave, all those he milked, but left the males outside, the rams and he-goats, beyond the spacious yard.

Then he lifted a huge, heavy stone and set it in the doorway. Not even twenty-two good four-wheeled wagons could have shifted it from the ground, so immense was the towering rock he placed across the entrance.

He sat down and milked the ewes and bleating goats, all in proper order, and put her young beneath each mother. At once he curdled half the white milk, gathered it up, and laid it in woven baskets; the other half he left standing in vessels, to take and drink with his supper.

When he had briskly finished all his tasks, he lit the fire and saw us, and asked: ‘Strangers, who are you? Where have you sailed from over the watery ways?

‘Are you on some business, or do you wander aimlessly over the sea like pirates, who roam about risking their lives and bringing harm to foreign peoples?’ So he spoke, and our hearts broke within us, terrified by his deep voice and monstrous size.

Yet even so I answered him: ‘We are Achaeans, driven astray from Troy by every kind of wind across the great gulf of the sea. We were making for home, but have come by another road, by other paths. Such, it seems, was the will of Zeus.

‘We are proud to be men of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, whose fame is now greatest beneath heaven, so mighty a city did he sack, so many people did he destroy. Now we have come as suppliants to your knees, hoping you will offer us hospitality or give us some other gift, as is the custom toward strangers.

‘Respect the gods, good sir, for we are your suppliants. Zeus avenges suppliants and strangers, Zeus the god of guests, who attends upon strangers worthy of respect.’ So I spoke, and at once he answered me with a pitiless heart: ‘You are a fool, stranger, or you have come from far away, to tell me to fear or heed the gods. We Cyclopes care nothing for aegis-bearing Zeus or the blessed gods, since we are far stronger. Nor would I spare you or your companions to avoid the anger of Zeus, unless my own heart bade me.

‘But tell me where you moored your well-built ship when you came. Is it somewhere far away, or close at hand? I should like to know.’ So he spoke to test me, but I knew too much to miss his meaning, and answered him with crafty words: ‘Poseidon the Earth-shaker shattered my ship, dashing it against the rocks at the edge of your country, where he drove it against a headland. The wind swept it in from the open sea. But I and these men escaped utter destruction.’

So I spoke, but in his pitiless heart he gave me no answer. He sprang up, reached for my companions, seized two at once, and dashed them against the ground like puppies. Their brains spilled out upon the floor and soaked the earth.

He cut them limb from limb and made his supper, eating like a mountain lion, leaving nothing—entrails, flesh, or marrow-filled bones. We raised our hands to Zeus and wept at the dreadful sight, while helplessness possessed our hearts.

When the Cyclops had filled his great belly with human flesh and washed it down with undiluted milk, he stretched out inside the cave among his flocks. In my bold heart I planned to draw near, pull my sharp sword from beside my thigh, and stab him in the breast where the midriff holds the liver, feeling for the place with my hand. But another thought held me back.

For we too would have perished there in utter destruction: we could never have pushed aside with our hands the heavy stone he had set against the lofty doorway. So we groaned and waited for divine Dawn.

When early-born, rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, he lit the fire and milked his fine flocks, all in proper order, and put her young beneath each mother. When he had briskly finished all his tasks, he seized two more of my companions and made his breakfast.

After eating, he drove his fat flocks out of the cave, easily removing the great doorstone, then set it back again as lightly as a man might put the lid on a quiver. With loud whistling the Cyclops turned his fat flocks toward the mountains, while I remained behind, brooding on mischief, hoping to take revenge if Athena would grant me glory.

This seemed to my heart the best plan. Beside a pen lay the Cyclops’ great club, an olive trunk still green, which he had cut to carry once it dried. As we looked at it, we thought it as large as the mast of a black twenty-oared ship, a broad merchant vessel that crosses the great gulf of the sea. Such was its length and thickness to our eyes.

I went up to it, cut off a length of about a fathom, and gave it to my companions, telling them to smooth it down. They made it even, and I stood beside them and sharpened its end, then took it and hardened it in the blazing fire.

I hid it carefully beneath the dung that lay in great heaps throughout the cave, and ordered the others to cast lots to see who would dare help me lift the stake and twist it in his eye when sweet sleep came upon him.

The lot fell upon the very men I would have wished to choose, four of them, and I made the fifth. At evening he returned, driving his fine-fleeced flocks.

At once he drove all his fat flocks into the broad cave, leaving none outside in the spacious yard, either from some suspicion or because a god had prompted him. Then he lifted the great doorstone and put it in place, sat down, and milked the ewes and bleating goats, all in proper order, putting her young beneath each mother.

When he had briskly finished all his tasks, he seized two more of my companions and made his supper. Then I went up to the Cyclops and spoke, holding an ivywood cup of dark wine in my hands: ‘Here, Cyclops, drink some wine now that you have eaten human flesh, so that you may know what a drink our ship held. I brought it as an offering to you, hoping you might pity me and send me home. But your rage has passed all bounds.

‘Cruel creature, how could any other man among the many people of the world ever come to you again, after such lawless deeds?’ So I spoke, and he took the cup and drained it. He delighted greatly in the sweet drink and asked me for another: ‘Be generous and give me more, and tell me your name at once, so that I may give you a guest-gift that will please you. For the grain-giving earth yields wine from abundant clusters for the Cyclopes too, and the rain of Zeus nourishes it. But this is a stream of ambrosia and nectar.’

So he spoke, and again I gave him the gleaming wine. Three times I brought it, and three times he drained it in his folly. When the wine had stolen about the Cyclops’ wits, I spoke to him with soothing words: ‘Cyclops, you ask my famous name, and I will tell you. But give me the guest-gift you promised.

‘My name is Nobody. Nobody is what my mother and father call me, and all my companions too.’ So I spoke, and at once he answered me with a pitiless heart: ‘Nobody I shall eat last, after his companions; the others first. That shall be your guest-gift.’

With that he leaned back and fell upon his back, then lay with his thick neck bent sideways, and all-conquering sleep took hold of him. Wine and morsels of human flesh gushed from his throat as he belched in his drunken stupor.

Then I thrust the stake beneath the deep ashes to heat it, and encouraged all my companions, so that none might shrink back in fear. When the olive stake, green though it was, was about to catch fire and glowed fiercely, I brought it from the flames. My companions stood around me, and a divine power breathed great courage into us.

They took the olive stake, sharp at the tip, and drove it into his eye, while I threw my weight upon it from above and twisted it, as a man bores a ship’s timber with a drill, while others below pull a strap back and forth, grasping it at either end, and the drill spins steadily.

So we gripped the fire-sharpened stake and twisted it in his eye, and the blood flowed round the burning wood. The heat from the blazing eyeball scorched his eyelids and brows all round, and the roots of his eye crackled in the fire.

As when a smith plunges a great axe or adze into cold water, and it hisses loudly as he tempers it—for this gives iron its strength—so his eye hissed round the olive stake.

He gave a great, hideous howl, and the rock rang round him. We drew back in terror, while he pulled the stake from his eye, drenched in blood. In his frenzy he flung it away, then shouted loudly to the Cyclopes who lived around him in caves along the windy heights.

Hearing his cries, they came from every direction, and standing round the cave they asked what troubled him: ‘Polyphemus, what pain has made you cry out so loudly through the immortal night and keep us from our sleep?

‘Is some mortal driving off your flocks against your will? Is someone killing you by trickery or force?’ And mighty Polyphemus answered them from the cave: ‘My friends, Nobody is killing me by trickery, not by force.’

Then they answered him with winged words: ‘If nobody is attacking you and you are alone, there is no escaping a sickness sent by mighty Zeus. Pray to your father, Lord Poseidon.’

So they spoke and went away, and my heart laughed within me at how my name and flawless cunning had deceived them. The Cyclops, groaning and writhing in pain, felt about with his hands, removed the stone from the doorway, and sat in the entrance with his arms outstretched, hoping to catch anyone who tried to go out among the sheep. So foolish did he think me.

But I was considering how best to act, whether I could find some escape from death for my companions and myself. I wove every kind of trick and scheme, as a man will when his life is at stake, for great danger stood close beside us.

This seemed to my heart the best plan. There were well-fed, thick-fleeced rams, handsome and large, with wool dark as violets. Silently I bound them together in threes with the twisted willow withes on which that monstrous, lawless Cyclops slept. The middle ram carried a man, while the other two walked on either side, shielding my companions.

Three sheep carried each man. As for me, there was one ram far finer than all the flock. I caught hold of his back, curled beneath his shaggy belly, and lay there, clinging steadfastly with my hands twisted in his wondrous fleece, my heart enduring.

So we groaned and waited for divine Dawn. When early-born, rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, the male sheep rushed out to pasture, while the unmilked females bleated round the pens, their udders swollen. Their master, tormented by cruel pains, felt the backs of all the sheep as they stood before him. The fool did not see that men were bound beneath the breasts of the woolly sheep.

Last of the flock the ram made his way outside, weighed down by his fleece and by me with my busy thoughts. Mighty Polyphemus felt him and said: ‘Dear ram, why are you the last of the flock to hurry through the cave? You never used to lag behind the sheep. No, you were always first by far to stride out and graze on the tender flowers of the grass, first to reach the flowing streams, and first to long for home at evening. Yet now you are the very last. Surely you are grieving for your master’s eye, which an evil man blinded with his wretched companions, after overcoming my wits with wine—Nobody, who, I tell you, has not yet escaped destruction.

‘If only you could share my thoughts and find a voice to tell me where he hides from my fury! Then his brains would be dashed here and there throughout the cave as I beat him against the ground, and my heart would find relief from the misery that worthless Nobody has brought upon me.’

With that he sent the ram away from him and out of doors. When we were a little way from the cave and yard, I freed myself first from beneath the ram, then released my companions. Quickly we gathered the long-legged sheep, rich with fat, and drove them on until we reached the ship. Our dear companions welcomed us who had escaped death, but mourned the others with cries and tears.

But I would not let them weep. I raised my brows to each in warning and ordered them to load the many fine-fleeced sheep aboard at once and sail away over the salt water. They quickly boarded and took their places at the oarlocks, and sitting in rows they struck the gray sea with their oars.

When we were as far away as a man’s shout carries, I called to the Cyclops in mockery: ‘Cyclops, it was no coward’s companions you were destined to eat by brute force in your hollow cave.

‘Your evil deeds were bound to overtake you, cruel creature, since you did not shrink from eating guests in your own house. So Zeus and the other gods have punished you.’ So I spoke, and his heart grew still more furious. He tore off the summit of a great mountain and hurled it. It fell just beyond our dark-prowed ship, narrowly missing the tip of the steering oar. The sea surged beneath the falling rock, and the backwash, a great flood from the open water, carried the ship toward the mainland and drove it close to shore.

I seized a long pole in my hands and pushed us off, and, nodding my head, urged my companions to bend to their oars so that we might escape destruction. They threw themselves forward and rowed.

But when we had made twice that distance across the sea, I again called out to the Cyclops, though my companions tried from every side to restrain me with pleading words: ‘Reckless man, why do you want to provoke that savage?

‘Just now he hurled a missile into the sea and drove the ship back to land, and we thought we would die there. If he hears anyone speaking or calling out, he will crush our heads and the ship’s timbers with a jagged rock. He can throw that far!’

So they spoke, but they could not persuade my proud heart. I called back to him in anger: ‘Cyclops, if any mortal man asks you about the shameful blinding of your eye, tell him that Odysseus, sacker of cities, blinded you, the son of Laertes, whose home is in Ithaca.’

So I spoke, and with a groan he answered me: ‘Ah, now the prophecies spoken long ago have overtaken me! There was a seer here, a noble, mighty man, Telemus son of Eurymus, who excelled in prophecy and grew old foretelling the future among the Cyclopes. He told me all this would one day come to pass, that at the hands of Odysseus I would lose my sight.

‘But I always expected some great and handsome man to come here, endowed with enormous strength. Instead, a little, worthless weakling has blinded me, after overcoming me with wine.

‘But come here, Odysseus, so that I may give you gifts of hospitality and urge the renowned Earth-shaker to grant you safe passage. For I am his son, and he declares himself my father.

“He himself, if he chooses, will heal me, and no one else, neither among the blessed gods nor among mortal men.” So he spoke, and I answered him: “If only I could strip you of life and breath and send you down to the house of Hades, as surely as not even the Earth-shaker will heal your eye!”

So I spoke, and he prayed to lord Poseidon, stretching out his hands toward the starry sky: “Hear me, Poseidon, dark-haired lord who holds the earth! If I am truly your son, and you claim to be my father, grant that Odysseus, sacker of cities, son of Laertes, whose home is in Ithaca, may never reach his native land.

“But if it is his fate to see his loved ones again and return to his well-built house and his native land, let him come late and in misery, having lost all his companions, aboard another man’s ship, and let him find trouble in his home.”

So he prayed, and the dark-haired god heard him. Then once more he lifted a rock, far larger than before, whirled it round, and hurled it with all his boundless strength. It fell just behind our dark-prowed ship, narrowly missing the tip of the steering oar.

The sea surged beneath the falling rock, and the wave carried our ship onward and drove her toward land. When we reached the island where the other well-benched ships lay gathered, and our companions sat grieving around them, still watching for our return, we beached our ship on the sand and stepped out onto the seashore.

We took the Cyclops’ sheep out of the hollow ship and divided them, so that no one should go without his fair share. When the sheep were shared out, my well-greaved companions gave me the ram as a special prize. There on the shore I sacrificed him to Zeus of the dark clouds, son of Cronus, who rules over all, and burned the thighbones. But he paid no heed to my offerings; instead, he pondered how all my well-benched ships and my faithful companions might perish.

Then all day long, until the sun went down, we sat feasting on meat in abundance and sweet wine. When the sun had set and darkness came on, we lay down to sleep beside the breaking sea.

When early-born, rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, I roused my companions and ordered them to board the ships and loose the stern cables. They quickly went aboard and took their places at the oarlocks, and sitting in their rows, they struck the gray sea with their oars.

From there we sailed onward, grieving at heart, glad to have escaped death, yet mourning the dear companions we had lost.