Sing now, Muse, of the generous Phaecians, so nearly destroyed by the Earth-Shaker, Poseidon, sire of that seafaring people. No longer would those master mariners grant escort home in their fast flying ships - gifts of Poseidon himself - to the castaways the sea tossed on their island shores.
Once they carried the great Cretan Rhadamanthys to the edge of the world to visit the accursed Tityus, and returned safely home the same day. But from carrying Laertes' son, the famed Odysseus home to his native land of Ithaca, that unlucky crew of Phaecian sailors, 52 of the best in town, never returned - the immortal sea-god deemed it so.
Years ago, lionhearted Nausithous, the Phaecian's godlike king until fate forced him down to the house of Death, used to say that lord Poseidon was vexed because the Phaecians escorted all mankind and never came to grief. He said that one day, as a well-built ship of theirs sailed home from such a convoy, the god would crush it, yes, and pile a huge mountain round their port.
Now in the time of wise King Alcinous, son of Nausithous, deathless Poseidon looked down in fury as the swift Phaecian vessel surged toward Ithaca with Odysseus, man of twists and turns, who blinded the Cyclops Polyphemus, son of Poseidon and the nymph Thoosa, daughter of Phorcys, the old god of the deep.
In his vengeance, the god of the eathquake had driven the great Odysseus far off course from his native land to endure many pains and torments, but now Poseidon, the god whose breakers shake the land, shook in his anger as the Phaecians gently set the sleeping Odysseus down in Ithaca, and lavished him with boundless gifts.
Just as the Phaecian people leaned down from the city heights to watch the ship returning home, just as the fast cutter was sweeping into the welcoming port from the misty sea, mighty Poseidon with a single stroke of his massive hand struck her into a rock and down to the ocean floor, plunging 52 young sailors down to their deaths. As amazed and astonished as his people, good king Alcinous looked on in blind wonder, until memory of the dire prophecy of his father made years ago returned to him with a vengeance.
Hurry, sacrifice twelve bulls to Poseidon at once - the pick of the herds. Perhaps he'll pity us, pile no looming mountain ridge around our port.
The people, terrified, prepared the bulls at once. So all of Phaecia's island lords and captains, milling round the altar, lifted prayers to Poseidon, master of the sea, the voice of wise King Alcinous rising above the rest:
Father Poseidon, if our convoys of those you toss upon our shores have displeased you, we will never do so again, never as long as your great oceans stretch across this broad earth. We come to you with a sacrifice of our twelve finest bulls, splendid victims. Grant us only your pity, pile no huge mountain around our port.
So their prayers went up with loud groans and wails, but deathless Poseidon was deaf to their pleading. The god whose breakers shake the earth was already striding away, trident locked in his grip, searching out great boulders which would forever block the island from his sight when he gazed across the sea, his wine-dark domain.
(to be continued)