At the same time Odysseus woke on his own soil. He had been away so long that he did not know it. Athena had made the day foggy, so no one would know he had come, and so she might tell him everything before wife or friends recognized him — until he had taken revenge on the wicked suitors.
Everything looked strange — the paths, the harbors, the cliffs, the trees. He sprang up, groaned, struck his thighs, and said: “Ah — among what kind of people have I fallen? Are they savage and wild, or hospitable and kind to strangers? Where shall I put this treasure, and which way shall I go?”
“I wish I had stayed with the Phaeacians. As it is I cannot leave these goods here for fear somebody else should get hold of them. The Phaeacians promised clear-seen Ithaca, and that is not what they have done. May Zeus who watches over suppliants punish them.”
He counted his bronze and cauldrons, his gold and clothes — nothing missing — but he still grieved, wandering by the sounding sea. Then Athena came up disguised as a young shepherd of princely look, cloak folded double, sandals on her feet, a spear in her hand. Odysseus was glad and went straight toward her:
“Friend, you are the first person I have met in this country. I greet you and beg you to be well disposed. Protect these goods and me — I clasp your knees and pray as though you were a god. Tell me truly: what land is this? Who are its people? Am I on an island, or the seaboard of some continent?”
Athena answered: “Stranger, you must be simple, or come from far away, not to know this country. It is famous east and west. It is rugged and not good driving country, but no bad island for what there is of it — grain and wine, rain and dew, cattle and goats, timber, and watering places that never fail. The name of Ithaca has reached even as far as Troy.”
Odysseus was glad, but he did not speak the truth. Out of the wiliness of his heart he made up a lying story: “I heard of Ithaca in Crete beyond the seas, and now I have reached it with these treasures. I left as much more for my children, but I am on the run because I killed Orsilochus son of Idomeneus, the fastest runner in Crete — he wanted to rob me of spoil I won at Troy.
“I lay in wait by the roadside on a pitch-dark night and struck him with a bronze-headed spear. Then I went to a Phoenician ship and paid them well to set me down in Pylos or good Elis. But the wind drove them off course, and we were carried here by night. They landed me, set my goods beside me while I slept exhausted, and sailed for Sidonia, leaving me with a sore heart.”