Valerio Manfredi - Odysseus - The Return

Is it possible for a man not to sleep? Even as an entire day elapses, or two, or three? One would say not, but if you keep your thoughts anchored to the tasks you attend to, every strain becomes bearable. You continue to tell your heart: do not sleep, heart of mine, hold out, you’re already within sight of your island, you can already smell the scent of myrtle on the breeze. Your ship has already been sighted from the high palace on the mountain. A procession is being prepared to come and meet you. Your standard has told them that the king is back. Your son is leading the procession, garbed in blinding bronze, and behind him is the queen his mother, your bride, even more beautiful than when you left her. .

Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake. I trusted no one, perhaps not even myself. I didn’t want any unexpected event to surprise me, didn’t want to let destiny or some god play a trick on me. The most dangerous was not Poseidon, even in his wrath. The worst was Hypnos, the sleep who is brother to death. He swirled around me, tried to seduce me with the never-changing sing-song pounding of waves against the prow. I envied my men as they stretched out on the rowing benches at night and, covered with their woollen cloaks, slept.

I wouldn’t have thought it possible that a man could go for two days without sleeping. And yet three, four went by. The wind was as monotonous as the waves, always the same, blowing and singing the same song with the same voice. I forced myself to keep thinking that with each passing hour I was that much closer to having my desires come true. That bitter nostalgia that Penelope had once sung about in Sparta was about to end. But even that gentle voice was turning into a tedious, formless refrain. Sleep, the twin of Thanatos, wanted me to surrender, wanted me to crawl under the benches in exhaustion, oblivious to my surroundings, so that he could freely command my destiny. ‘But I am Odysseus son of Laertes, king of Ithaca, destroyer of cities and I will not yield.’ Thus I sought to inspire strength and pride into my weary heart.

Every now and then, during the day, I would allow myself a moment of watchful rest, certain that I could never fall asleep under the blinding sun, with the screeching of the seagulls, given my obligation to lead the fleet. I’d learned to sleep while awake and to remain alert in my sleep, calling on my goddess, who I hadn’t heard from in such a very long time. The men couldn’t understand what I was up to. They thought that I had lost my faith in them or that folly was fogging my mind.

‘Why don’t you try to sleep for a short while. What is this delirium?’ asked Eurylochus. ‘You’ve always trusted me with the steering oar, and I’ve never given you anything to complain about.’ But any voice that spoke to me in that way was the voice of the god who wanted to put me to sleep and deprive me of my return, and I became even more strongly convinced that I could not surrender, could not allow anyone to touch the helm.

Four, five, six days passed. I was performing a miracle, something that no one before me had ever succeeded in doing. The longing for sleep turned into pain, becoming sharper and sharper. Pain that did not help me stay awake, but only hurt me; my heart, my eyes, my mind. At night I could hear the harpies cawing from the yard at the top of the sail. They were perched up there, rapacious, just waiting for me to fall asleep so they could tear me apart. How often I drew my sword! The boundaries between day and night, wakefulness and sleep, madness and reality, no longer existed, and this generated a weary anguish in me that weakened me without disabling me, annihilated me without killing me.

I spent the seventh and the eighth day in the same way. I ate often, but in small quantities so as not to burden my stomach nor weigh down my eyelids. I could not become accustomed to my condition. The brief snatches of rest seemed to help at first, but then seemed to make me even drowsier. The smell of land was wafting out to me or perhaps I was already asleep and dreaming. The last night was the longest and the most difficult. I felt tormented, and the men watched me with eyes full of dismay. They didn’t recognize me any more; I had become a stranger to them.

On the ninth day, just before dawn, I saw a dark mass on the horizon and the outline of a mountain that I could not have mistaken for any other on earth.

Ithaca.

My island, her fragrance, her colours, her surroundings were for me like the body of the bride I had so long desired. My eyes, red from such inconceivable strain, filled with tears and the salt burned them. I would soon touch the stones and sand, the rocks, the bushes. . I would see my son.

For a moment I thought it was a dream, as the dawn showed her rosy fingers behind the dark mass of the mountains. Then I plunged into total unawareness.

When I opened my eyes, a storm was raging.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing: my fleet, at such a short distance from the destination we had so long desired, was being pushed away by the violence of the wind and sea. I shouted to be heard over the din of the storm: ‘What happened? Where are we? Why didn’t you wake me?’

Only the howl of the wind answered me. The men were racing back and forth on the ship. Elpenor was clutching the handle of the steering oar at the stern but could barely hold it steady, so great was the force of the breaking waves. Massive amounts of water were pouring into the hull and the men at the oars were struggling to steady the ship, so she would not tip sideways into the waves. The sail had been partially, but not completely, taken in, a sign that the crew had been surprised by the storm. My eyes fixed upon the big sack, no longer stowed in the hold at the stern and secured with strong ropes, but flapping from one side of the boat to the other. The silver chain that closed its mouth was gone. Desperation seized me, but what was happening left me no time to speak with my men. I had to save the fleet and guide it back to calm waters; the rest I would take care of when the time came.

We sailed for many days and nights. I never moved my eyes from the long slanting line of fires that signalled the presence of the other ships. Then, just like the first time, the winds stopped blowing almost all at once, a thin mist hovered over the flat sea, and the air was filled with silence.

Little by little, above the mist, the peaks of an island appeared and then a plume of dark smoke rising towards the sky. Walls and houses of bronze were next, and then a palace encircled by bastions made of a greyer, more opaque metal. It advanced slowly towards us, cleaving the fog, and the waters opened into two waves tipped with white foam. The gods had helped me! The wind had carried me back to the floating island of Aeolus, tamer of storms. We had become friends: he would help me again.

As I made ready to go ashore, signalling to the rest of the fleet to remain at a distance, a voice thundered from above: ‘How is it you’re back, king of Ithaca? Hadn’t I closed up all the contrary winds in the skin and left Zephyr alone free?’

His voice had changed. The charming sovereign of the island, who had hosted me for a month of banqueting with his children, the sons and daughters who were married to one another, now spoke with an incredibly powerful and rather threatening tone. The air trembled, the sky rumbled.

I replied: ‘Noble lord, hear my words! I manned the steering oar for eight days and eight nights without ever closing an eye, for fear of being surprised by the unexpected. On the ninth day, when I was finally in sight of my island, I fell prey to sleep. When I awoke, the storm was raging against us and the winds brought me back here. The skin that you had given me was open. I beg of you, in the name of hospitality: help me once again, close up all the foul winds in the sack and allow Zephyr to carry me home again!’