Hermes strapped the beautiful sandals onto his feet, Immortal, made of gold, which bore him across the wet seas And endless expanses of land as swift as the breath of the wind. He took along the wand with which he lulls to sleep the eyes Of any man he pleases—or awakens those who are sleeping. Holding it in his hands, mighty Argos-Slayer flew off.               Swooping down, he set foot on Pieria; then he plunged into the sea And skimmed along the breakers like nothing so much as a tern, Which drenches its thick plumage in the brine as it hunts for fish Down through the troughs of the breakers on the restless wastes of the sea. That is how Hermes looked as he darted through wave after wave. When he reached the island at last—it lies off at a great distance— He emerged from the violet-dark sea and then made his way onto Dry land, until he reached an enormous cave where the nymph Of the beautiful braids had her dwelling. There, inside, he found her. An enormous fire was burning upon the hearth. The aroma Of blazing splits of wood⁠—cedar, juniper— Drifted all over the isle while she lifted her lovely voice In song and wove back and forth at her loom with a golden shuttle. A luxuriant growth of trees spread out all around the cave, Alder and black poplar and sweet-smelling cypress as well, And the birds inside them were sleeping, their wings outstretched, Little horned owls and hawks, as well as cormorants, Their chattering tongues stretched out—birds who work the sea. Round about the mouth of the hollow cave, a vine Had been trained to climb; now it flourished, bursting with clusters of grapes. Four springs, all in a row, flowed with the clearest water, Their streams running side by side, then turning this way and that. All around were velvety meadows where violets and bay grass were growing Lushly. Even a god who chanced upon this scene Would marvel at the sight, pleasure filling his mind. The Guide, Slayer of Argos, stood marveling at the sight. But when he’d marveled at it all and gazed to his heart’s content Straightaway he entered the cave’s wide mouth. As he stood before her, Kalypso, that radiant goddess, did not fail to recognize him. For a god will never fail to recognize another Immortal—not even one who dwells far away from the others. Hermes did not find great-hearted Odysseus inside: No, he was sitting by the shore and lamenting, as so often before, Weeping and moaning and tearing his heart to shreds in despair. At the restless wastes of the sea he kept staring, the tears pouring down. Kalypso, that radiant goddess, now began to question Hermes After settling him in a chair that shone with a brilliant gleam.              “Why on earth have you come here, Hermes, you with your golden wand⁠⁠⁠—My dear respected friend? You’ve never been one to visit. Out with it—what are you here for? Your wish is my command— If it’s something I can do, and something that can be done. But first follow me inside, so I can give you a proper welcome.”              Her words. And then the goddess set a table there before him, Laden with ambrosia, and mixed him some ruddy nectar. And then the Guide, Slayer of Argos, drank and ate. But once he had finished his dinner and sated his heart with eating He responded to her at last, addressing her with these words:              “You ask me, god to god, why I’ve come? Now I will tell you, Laying the whole story out truthfully, since you have asked. It was Zeus who ordered me here—not that I wanted to come: For who would willingly cross such a briny expanse of sea, Vast as it is? There is not a city in sight where men Make sacrifice to the gods and offer choice hecatombs. But it’s utterly impossible for us other gods to thwart Or void the intention of Zeus, he who bears the aegis. He says that you’ve got a man here who deserves our pity more Than any of those who fought around the stronghold of Priam For nine full years—and then, in the tenth, sacked the city and went Home again. But as they returned they gave offense to Athena, Who whipped up an evil wind and tremendous waves against them. That is where the rest of his noble companions perished. But him the winds bore along, and the current brought him here. It is he whom Zeus now orders you to send on his way with all speed, For it is not his fate to perish here, far from his loved ones. No, he is still destined to see those dear to him, and to reach His house with its high-built roof and the land of his fathers once more.”               Those were his words. And Kalypso, that radiant goddess, shuddered; And then she addressed him with words that flew toward him like arrows. “What wretches you are, you gods, jealous beyond all others! You’re full of resentment at goddesses who sleep with mortal men Openly, if one of us wants to make him her wedded husband. So it was when Dawn, who streaks the sky with pink fingers, Chose Orion: you gods who live in ease grew resentful of her Until the holy lady Artemis, who sits on a golden throne, Aimed her gentle shafts at him in Ortygia, striking him dead. Demeter with her lovely braids once yielded her heart to Jason: When she mingled with him in love—their bed was but a fallow Field plowed three times over—it hardly went unnoticed By Zeus, who struck him dead with a flash of his thunderbolt. And so it is now. You resent it because I’m with a mortal man. But I was the one who saved him as he sat there astride a keel All alone, for Zeus had splintered his swift-running ship with a blow Of his flashing thunderbolt in the middle of the wine-faced sea. It was then that all the rest of his noble companions perished. But him the winds bore along, and the current brought him here. It was I who took him in and nursed him, for I was intent On making him immortal and ageless through all his days. But it’s utterly impossible for us other gods to thwart Or void the intention of Zeus, he who bears the aegis. Let him go then!—if Zeus insists and orders him to go Onto the restless wastes of the sea. I won’t send him off! For I have no rowing ships, nor are there any shipmates Who could help to bring him home across the sea’s broad back. But I’ll gladly offer him counsel, keeping nothing hidden, So he can return, unscathed, to the land of his fathers.”              The Guide, Slayer of Argos, addressed her in reply: “Now you must send him away—beware the wrath of Zeus Lest it harden into rancor and bring you lasting trouble.”              His words. Then the mighty Slayer of Argos took his leave. But she, that queenly nymph, went to seek out great-hearted Odysseus, Since she had clearly understood the message sent by Zeus. She found him by the shore, sitting there; nor did his tears Ever dry, since the sweetness of life was trickling away As he grieved for his homecoming. For the nymph had ceased to please him. Night after night he lay down in the hollow caves beside her, Compelled by the goddess to do so, he unwilling, she all too willing, While during the day he would sit on the rocks by the edge of the sea Weeping and moaning and tearing his heart to shreds in despair, The tears pouring down as he stared at the restless wastes of the sea. Drawing close to him now, the radiant goddess spoke:               “Poor unfortunate thing! Grieve no more here, nor let your life Shrivel away, for by now I’m quite content to send you off. But come now, cut some timber and use your blade to shape it Into a broad-beamed craft. Notch in the planks of the half-deck High up, so that it can carry you across the misty sea. And then I will bring aboard abundant stores of bread And water and ruddy wine to help you stave off hunger, And will give you clothes to wear and send a following wind So you can reach the land of your fathers all unscathed— If that indeed is the will of the gods who hold the wide heavens aloft And whose power to plan and accomplish is so much greater than mine.”              Her words. And glorious Odysseus, who’d endured so much, shuddered, And then he addressed her with words that flew toward her like arrows: “You’re certainly planning something, my goddess—but not a send-off, Not when you’d have me cross the sea’s great maw in a raft, An expanse both dreadful and harsh, which even the trimmest ships Do not cross, although they run swiftly, delighting in Zeus’s breezes. No, I’d never set out on a raft if you were somehow against it— Unless you can bring yourself, my goddess, to swear a great oath That you aren’t planning to do me any more grievous harm.”              His words. And then Kalypso, that radiant goddess, smiled; Stroking Odysseus’s hand, she turned to him and spoke: “Ah, what a devil you are!—and no fool, I must admit!— To have gotten it into your head to say such things to me! Now let earth and wide heaven above stand as my witnesses, As well as the weeping waters of Styx—for this is the greatest, The most awesome oath that exists among the blessed gods— That I have no plans to do you any more grievous harm. No, I shall think on this matter and devise a plan, as if I Were arranging all this for myself, touched by some urgent need. For I, too, have a sense of fairness, nor is the heart In this breast of mine made of iron. No, it is merciful.”              After making this speech to him, the radiant goddess strode Briskly ahead, and he followed behind in the goddess’s footsteps. They came to the hollow cave, a goddess and a man, And he sat himself down in the chair from which a god had just risen: Hermes. The nymph was busy putting out all kinds of food For him to eat and to drink, such things as mortal men eat. She herself sat down across from godlike Odysseus; For her, the servingwomen set out ambrosia and nectar. They stretched out their hands toward the food that was spread before them. Once they had finished enjoying their food and their drink, Kalypso, that radiant goddess, began to hold forth to him:              “Son of Laërtes, sprung from Zeus, ever-inventive Odysseus, So you want to return at once to the cherished land of your fathers, Homeward bound once more. Still, I wish you well. If your mind could only fathom how much anguish fate has stored up For you, which you must endure before you reach the land of your fathers, You would stay right here at my side watching over my house; And you’d be an immortal, too—however much you may yearn To lay eyes on that wife of yours, for whom you still pine every day. This much I will say: I doubt I am lesser than she, No, not when it comes to my figure, now in full bloom—it’s unthinkable For mortals to vie with immortals in either their build or their looks.”              Odysseus of the many ruses replied to her in turn: “Divine lady, do not be angry with me, for I myself know Very well how feeble Penelope, that clear-thinking woman, would seem If someone were to compare her beauty or stature with yours. She, after all, is a mortal, while you are immortal and ageless. But not a day goes by for me when I am not wishing and longing To be homeward bound and to see the day of my return. And if one of the gods should wreck me upon the wine-faced sea I shall nonetheless endure, since this heart can endure great woe: For I’ve already suffered so much and have borne so many struggles Upon the high seas and in war. Now let this one be added to those.”              His words. And then the sun sank down as darkness descended. And when the two of them had reached the inmost part of the cave They enjoyed the pleasures of love, and stayed by each other’s side.

Home page illustration by Na Kim.