Ulysses and the Sirens

*The company responsible for this original image no longer exists. I illustrate the following narrative with it while respectfully acknowledging that I did not create it myself, I am not using it for commercial gain and it is relatively low in resolution. I hope that these parameters adequately substantiate fair use. I am happy to pay a licence fee if approached.

~~~ Suggested listening: ‘Voices’ (Yoko Kanno) ~~~

Preface

I confess, I am something of a dreamer. I talk to ghosts out loud when nobody is watching, and continue to do so silently when somebody is. I follow the infinitely branching arterial structures of my possible futures from the crystalline germinations of hope; that is who I am, and I make no apology for it. So it follows that I have my own unique spin on this tale, something like a cover version, which I hope you will feel does justice to the original.

Perhaps I will not attain the lofty heights of Disturbed covering ‘The Sound of Silence’, but if all goes well, I will not make you cringe, intrepid reader.

And with that, the preface concludes, and the diegesis begins.

~~~

En route from legendary tribulation X to horrifying monsters Y, Ulysses and his courageous crew were plotting a course that would take them between islands believed to be inhabited by the mysterious Sirens. I had always thought of Ulysses as very much being influenced by a majority vote of his homes -- an “O Captain! My Captain!”-style captain -- but not dead.

Brazen motherfucker that he was, Ulysses had concocted a plan that would enable him to experience the otherworldly exquisitude of the Sirens’ singing and survive to tell the proverbial tale.

Soon enough, the gallant ship entered a comparatively narrow channel, and all tongue-in-cheek sarcastic bullshit fell away as the crew became the hardened, disciplined sailors they actually were. I conceptualise the Ulysses of this storyline as a determined, fascinated, intelligent man, bitter around the edges, but equally sensitive and moved by the highest art.

I can’t help but project a best-case scenario of myself onto this character. Let’s face it, when writing fiction, who doesn’t do such things? He, as I, thrived on pushing the envelope. Had Da Vinci’s gliders existed in his time, he would have surely tried pulling 10G while tied into one with leather straps. More than just an experienced tactician and formidable melee fighter, I visualise him as the type who craved intense experiences, and used the memories of these to develop ever-more-unpredictable strategies to conquer his enemies.

As their craft proceeded along the channel’s throat, the convenient plot point of an unseen current took hold of her, rendering the sailor’s seamanship negligible. Ulysses formally gave the order and his crew proceeded to get shitfaced drunk, in keeping with their agreed plan.

Alcohol, as is well known, significantly attenuates the perception of sound, but just to be on the safe side, the sailors plugged their ears with beeswax, too -- a method used with great efficacy by jetlagged travellers and shift workers alike to this day.

Before numbing out, the ship’s first officer used thick sisal rope to secure Ulysses to the mast. Not content with merely tying his wrists and ankles, the increasingly drunken bastard wrapped those coarse fibres about his captain until it was hard for him to breathe, enveloping him in a veritable cocoon of inescapability. Then the man promptly headed below, tottering somewhat in the narrow stairwell, to have a little rest.

~~~

What a sight his crew beheld once they awoke, each and all of them with terrible headaches and no Nurofen Plus to be found for another few thousand years or so.

Their vessel was adrift, aimless, moving somewhat stern-first, on the far side of that notorious stretch of water. Their captain was still in attendance, albeit unconscious, despite having been clang-bangingly sober beforehand.

His ill-feeling compatriots deduced that in his efforts to get free, yearning to drown himself as bidden by the preternatural song of those creatures, Ulysses had managed to break the mast of their ship. Had the heavy timber not fallen on him and concussed him, his legendary exploits might have ended abruptly, right then and there, as a result.

Ulysses’ hung-over crew freed him, gingerly, and together they repaired the mast as best they could in the calm waters beyond that auditory crucible. Eventually, their ‘migraines’ dissipated and they continued on to new adventures as described through epic poems written in Cyrillic.

However, Ulysses was never the same again, and walked the earth with a haunted look in the corner of his eye forevermore.