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 well-known haven, sheltered from wind by two
headlands of sheer cliff. There she sailed straight in, till the leaves
of the broad olive tree at the head of the inlet were tangled in her
cordage. Then the Wanderer, without once looking back, or saying one
word of farewell to his crew, caught a bough of the olive tree with his
hand, and swung himself ashore.
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