CHAPTER 3 THE SLAYING OF THE SIDONIANS
CHAPTER 6 THE STORY OF MERIAMUN
CHAPTER 8 THE KA, THE BAI, AND THE KHOU
CHAPTER 1 THE PROPHETS OF THE APURA
CHAPTER 6 THE WARDENS OF THE GATE
CHAPTER 7 THE SHADOW IN THE SUNLIGHT
CHAPTER 8 THE LOOSING OF THE SPIRIT OF REI
CHAPTER 9 THE WAKING OF THE SLEEPER
CHAPTER 10 THE OATH OF THE WANDERER
CHAPTER 11 THE WAKING OF THE WANDERER
CHAPTER 1 THE VENGEANCE OF KURRI
CHAPTER 2 THE COMING OF PHARAOH
CHAPTER 5 THE VOICE OF THE DEAD
CHAPTER 6 THE BURNING OF THE SHRINE
CHAPTER 7 THE LAST FLIGHT OF ODYSSEUS, LAERTES' SON
CHAPTER 8 "TILL ODYSSEUS COMES!"
BOOK I
CHAPTER 1
THE SILENT ISLE
Across the wide backs of the waves, beneath the mountains, and between the islands, a ship came stealing from the dark into the dusk, and from the dusk into the dawn. The ship had but one mast, one broad brown sail with a star embroidered on it in gold; her stem and stern were built high, and curved like a bird’s beak; her prow was painted scarlet, and she was driven by oars as well as by the western wind.
A man stood alone on the half-deck at the bows, a man who looked always forward, through the night, and the twilight, and the clear morning. He was of no great stature, but broad-breasted and very wide-shouldered, with many signs of strength. He had blue eyes, and dark curled locks falling beneath a red cap such as sailors wear, and over a purple cloak, fastened with a brooch of gold. There were threads of silver in his curls, and his beard was flecked with white. His whole heart was following his eyes, watching first for the blaze of the island beacons out of the darkness, and, later, for the smoke rising from the far-off hills. But he watched in vain; there was neither light nor smoke on the grey peak that lay clear against a field of yellow sky.
There was no smoke, no fire, no sound of voices, nor cry of birds. The isle was deadly still.
As they neared the coast, and neither heard nor saw a sign of life, the man’s face fell. The gladness went out of his eyes, his features grew older with anxiety and doubt, and with longing for tidings of his home.
No man ever loved his home more than he, for this was Odysseus, the son of Laertes—whom some call Ulysses—returned from his unsung second wandering. The whole world has heard the tale of his first voyage, how he was tossed for ten years on the sea after the taking of Troy, how he reached home at last, alone and disguised as a beggar; how he found violence in his house, how he slew his foes in his own hall, and won his wife again. But even in his own country he was not permitted to rest, for there was a curse upon him and a labour to be accomplished. He must wander again till he reached the land of men who had never tasted salt, nor ever heard of the salt sea. There he must sacrifice to the Sea-God, and then, at last, set his face homewards. Now he had endured that curse, he had fulfilled the prophecy, he had angered, by misadventure, the Goddess who was his friend, and after adventures that have never yet been told, he had arrived within a bowshot of Ithaca.
He came from strange countries, from the Gates of the Sun and from White Rock, from the Passing Place of Souls and the people of Dreams.
But he found his own isle more still and strange by far. The realm of Dreams was not so dumb, the Gates of the Sun were not so still, as the shores of the familiar island beneath the rising dawn.
This story, whereof the substance was set out long ago by Rei, the instructed Egyptian priest, tells what he found there, and the tale of the last adventures of Odysseus, Laertes’ son.
The ship ran on and won the
