Episode #1:  The Blinding of the Cyclops

I boarded ship and told the crew

to embark at once and cast off cables quickly.

They swung aboard, they sat to the oars in ranks

and in rhythm churned the water white with stroke on stroke.
But as soon as we reached the coast I mentioned—no long trip—
we spied a cavern just at the shore, gaping above the surf,
towering, overgrown with laurel. And here big flocks,
sheep and goats, were stalled to spend the nights,
and around its mouth a yard was walled up
with quarried boulders sunk deep in the earth
and enormous pines and oak-trees looming darkly . . .
Here was a giant's lair, in fact, who always pastured
his sheep flocks far afield and never mixed with others.
A grim loner, dead set in his own lawless ways.                                     
Here was a piece of work, by god, a monster
built like no mortal who ever supped on bread,
no, like a shaggy peak, I'd say—a man-mountain
rearing head and shoulders over the world.

 

Now then, I told most of my good trusty crew to wait,
to sit tight by the ship and guard her well
while I picked out my dozen finest fighters
and off I went. But I took a skin of wine along,
the ruddy, irresistible wine that Maron gave me once,
Euanthes' son, a priest of Apollo, lord of Ismarus,
because we'd rescued him, his wife and children,
reverent as we were;
he lived, you see, in Apollo's holy grove.
And so in return he gave me splendid gifts,
he handed me seven bars of well-wrought gold,
a mixing-bowl of solid silver, then this wine . . .
He drew it off in generous wine-jars, twelve in all,
all unmixed—and such a bouquet, a drink fit for the gods!

No maid or man of his household knew that secret store,

only himself, his loving wife and a single servant.

Whenever they'd drink the deep-red mellow vintage,

twenty cups of water he'd stir in one of wine

and what an aroma wafted from the bowl—

what magic, what a godsend—

no joy in holding back when that was poured!

Filling a great goatskin now, I took this wine,

provisions too in a leather sack. A sudden foreboding

told my fighting spirit I'd soon come up against

some giant clad in power like armor-plate—

a savage deaf to justice, blind to law.

             

Our party quickly made its way to his cave

but we failed to find our host himself inside;

he was off in his pasture, ranging his sleek flocks.

So we explored his den, gazing wide-eyed at it all,

the large flat racks loaded with drying cheeses,

the folds crowded with young lambs and kids,

split into three groups—here the spring-born,

here mid-yearlings, here the fresh sucklings

off to the side—each sort was penned apart.

And all his vessels, pails and hammered buckets

he used for milking, were brimming full with whey.

From the start my comrades pressed me, pleading hard,

'Let's make away with the cheeses, then come back—

hurry, drive the lambs and kids from the pens

to our swift ship, put out to sea at once!'

But I would not give way—

and how much better it would have been—

not till I saw him, saw what gifts he'd give.

But he proved no lovely sight to my companions.

 

There we built a fire, set our hands on the cheeses,

offered some to the gods and ate the bulk ourselves

and settled down inside, awaiting his return . . .

And back he came from pasture, late in the day,

herding his flocks home, and lugging a huge load

of good dry logs to fuel his fire at supper.

He flung them down in the cave—a jolting crash—

we scuttled in panic into the deepest dark recess.

And next he drove his sleek flocks into the open vault,

all he'd milk at least, but he left the males outside,

rams and billy goats out in the high-walled yard.

Then to close his door he hoisted overhead

a tremendous, massive slab—

no twenty-two wagons, rugged and four-wheeled,

could budge that boulder off the ground, I tell you,

such an immense stone the monster wedged to block his cave!

Then down he squatted to milk his sheep and bleating goats,

each in order, and put a suckling underneath each dam.

And half of the fresh white milk he curdled quickly,

set it aside in wicker racks to press for cheese,

the other half let stand in pails and buckets,

ready at hand to wash his supper down.

As soon as he'd briskly finished all his chores

he lit his fire and spied us in the blaze and

'Strangers!' he thundered out, 'now who are you?

Where did you sail from, over the running sea-lanes?

Out on a trading spree or roving the waves like pirates,

sea-wolves raiding at will, who risk their lives to plunder other men?'

 

The hearts inside us shook,

terrified by his rumbling voice and monstrous hulk.

Nevertheless I found the nerve to answer, firmly,

'Men of Achaea we are and bound now from Troy!

Driven far off course by the warring winds,

over the vast gulf of the sea—battling home

on a strange tack, a route that's off the map,

and so we've come to you . . .

so it must please King Zeus's plotting heart.

We're glad to say we're men of Atrides Agamemnon,

whose fame is the proudest thing on earth these days,

so great a city he sacked, such multitudes he killed!

But since we've chanced on you, we're at your knees

in hopes of a warm welcome, even a guest-gift,

the sort that hosts give strangers.

That's the custom. Respect the gods, my friend.

We're suppliants—at your mercy!

Zeus of the Strangers guards all guests and suppliants:

strangers are sacred—Zeus will avenge their rights!'

 

'Stranger,' he grumbled back from his brutal heart,

'you must be a fool, stranger, or come from nowhere,

telling me to fear the gods or avoid their wrath!

We Cyclops never blink at Zeus and Zeus's shield

of storm and thunder, or any other blessed god—

we've got more force by far.

I'd never spare you in fear of Zeus's hatred,

you or your comrades here, unless I had the urge.

But tell me, where did you moor your sturdy ship

when you arrived? Up the coast or close in? I'd just like to know.'

 

So he laid his trap, but he never caught me, no,

wise to the world I shot back in my crafty way,

'My ship? Poseidon god of the earthquake smashed my ship,

he drove it against the rocks at your island's far cape,

he dashed it against a cliff as the winds rode us in.

I and the men you see escaped a sudden death.'

Not a word in reply to that, the ruthless brute.

Lurching up, he lunged out with his hands toward my men

and snatching two at once, rapping them on the ground

he knocked them dead like pups—

their brains gushed out all over, soaked the floor—

and ripping them limb from limb to fix his meal

he bolted them down like a mountain-lion, left no scrap,

devoured entrails, flesh and bones, marrow and all!

We flung our arms to Zeus, we wept and cried aloud,

looking on at his grisly work—paralyzed, appalled.

But once the Cyclops had stuffed his enormous gut

with human flesh, washing it down with raw milk,

he slept in his cave, stretched out along his flocks.

And I with my fighting heart, I thought at first

to steal up to him, draw the sharp sword at my hip

and stab his chest where the midriff packs the liver—

I groped for the fatal spot but a fresh thought held me back.

There at a stroke we'd finish off ourselves as well—

how could we with our bare hands heave back

that slab he set to block his cavern's gaping maw?

So we lay there groaning, waiting Dawn's first light.

 

When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more

the monster relit his fire and milked his handsome ewes,

each in order, putting a suckling underneath each dam,

and as soon as he'd briskly finished all his chores

he snatched up two more men and fixed his meal.

Well-fed, he drove his fat sheep from the cave,

lightly lifting the huge boulder up and away,

then slipped it back in place

as a hunter flips the lid of his quiver shut.

Piercing whistles—turning his flocks to the hills

he left me there, the heart inside me brooding on revenge:

how could I pay him back? would Athena give me glory?

 

Here was the plan that struck my mind as best . . .

the Cyclops' great club: there it lay by the pens,

olivewood, full of sap. He'd lopped it off to brandish

once it dried. Looking it over, we judged it big enough

to be the mast of a pitch-black ship with her twenty oars,

a freighter broad in the beam that plows through miles of sea—

so long, so thick it bulked before our eyes. Well,

flanking it now, I chopped off a fathom's length,

rolled it to comrades, told them to plane it down,

and they made the club smooth as I bent and shaved

the tip to a stabbing point. I turned it over

the blazing fire to char it good and hard,

then hid it well, buried deep under the dung

that littered the cavern's floor in thick wet clumps.

And now I ordered my shipmates all to cast lots—

who'd brave it out with me

to hoist our stake and grind it into his eye

when sleep had overcome him? Luck of the draw:

I got the very ones I would have picked myself,

four good men, and I in the lead made five ...

 

Nightfall brought him back, herding his woolly sheep

and he quickly drove the sleek flock into the vaulted cavern,

rams and all—none left outside in the walled yard—

his own idea, perhaps, or a god led him on.

Then he hoisted the huge slab to block the door

and squatted to milk his sheep and bleating goats,

each in order, putting a suckling underneath each dam,

and as soon as he'd briskly finished all his chores

he snatched up two more men and fixed his meal.

 

But this time I lifted a carved wooden bowl,

brimful of my ruddy wine,

and went right up to the Cyclops, enticing,

'Here, Cyclops, try this wine—to top off

the banquet of human flesh you've bolted down!

Judge for yourself what stock our ship had stored.

I brought it here to make you a fine libation,

hoping you would pity me, Cyclops, send me home,

but your rages are insufferable. You barbarian—

how can any man on earth come visit you after this?

What you've done outrages all that's right!'

 

At that he seized the bowl and tossed it off

and the heady wine pleased him immensely—

'More'— he demanded a second bowl—'a hearty helping!

And tell me your name now, quickly,

so I can hand my guest a gift to warm his heart.

Our soil yields the Cyclops powerful, full-bodied wine

and the rains from Zeus build its strength. But this,

this is nectar, ambrosia—this flows from heaven!'

 

So he declared. I poured him another fiery bowl—

three bowls I brimmed and three he drank to the last drop,

the fool, and then, when the wine was swirling round his brain,

I approached my host with a cordial, winning word:

'So, you ask me the name I'm known by, Cyclops?

I will tell you. But you must give me a guest-gift

as you've promised. Nobody—that's my name. Nobody—

so my mother and father call me, all my friends.'

 

But he boomed back at me from his ruthless heart,

'Nobody? I'll eat Nobody last of all his friends—

I'll eat the others first! That's my gift to you!'

With that, he toppled over, sprawled full-length, flat on his back

and lay there, his massive neck slumping to one side,

and sleep that conquers all overwhelmed him now

as wine came spurting, flooding up from his gullet

with chunks of human flesh—he vomited, blind drunk.

Now, at last, I thrust our stake in a bed of embers

to get it red-hot and rallied all my comrades:

'Courage—no panic, no one hang back now!'

And green as it was, just as the olive stake

was about to catch fire—the glow terrific, yes—

I dragged it from the flames, my men clustering round

as some god breathed enormous courage through us all.

Hoisting high that olive stake with its stabbing point,

straight into the monster's eye they rammed it hard—

I drove my weight on it from above and bored it home

as a shipwright bores his beam with a shipwright's drill

that men below, whipping the strap back and forth,

whirl and the drill keeps twisting faster, never stopping—

So we seized our stake with its fiery tip

and bored it round and round in the giant's eye

till blood came boiling up around that smoking shaft

and the hot blast singed his brow and eyelids round the core

and the broiling eyeball burst—

its crackling roots blazed and hissed—

as a blacksmith plunges a glowing ax or adze

in an ice-cold bath and the metal screeches steam

and its temper hardens—that's the iron's strength—

so the eye of the Cyclops sizzled round that stake!