Erebos

Odysseus visits the Land of the Dead.

He and his men have steered the ship, only holding the wind of the fresh blowing North, and through tossing waves in the wine-dark sea. The course towards Death is straight and true.

Through mist and cloud, they reach a strip of land, a hidden sandbar where the sand is black like charcoal. Leading northwards, is a grove of dusky poplars and weeping willows. When the chill wind blows, the leaves whisper. Sometimes Odysseus thinks that he hears his name. There is no cry of the bird here, the only sounds are the crashing surf, the hiss of leaves, the bleats of fear from the black ewe and lamb they have brought with them, and the heavy breathing of his men. The land is desolate and still.

The ship is run aground after a brief struggle with the turbulent riptide. He selects a few men, and together, they walk towards the grove, moving upstream. When they enter the grove, they are greeted by thunderous falls of water in front of a cave. Stray droplets from the spray land on them, and immediately their skins begin to burn, and tears start to their eyes. The water in the several streams that run from the waterfall, are however, clear through. His men mutter uneasily, but Odysseus grits his teeth and with his knife, digs a square shaft in the mud, an arm deep.

Silently, his men pass him the offerings for the dead. First, sweet milk and honey, then sweet wine, clear water and then a scattering of barley grain. All these he pours around the shaft. He talks to the blurred and breathless dead, those he cannot see, but feels hovering around him, and vows and swears a sacrifice of blood. So then he takes the ewe and the lamb. The lamb goes first, nudging its trusting nose into the palm of Odysseus's hand, looking up at him. A flash of silver, and blood spills from its neck into the shaft. The ewe bleats anxiously, but his men hold it down, and Odysseus spills its throat. Black blood runs down his hands into the shaft. He turns to face the ocean, his back to the dark gloom of the cave.

Then a rush of air, the trees rustle restlessly, chill breezes blow on their necks. The souls gather, stirring out of Erebos. There are wails, high-pitched and keening. They come from tender brides, young men, old men, all heartsick with grief and stricken by the waters of sorrow that flow from the rock. The dead gather, and among them, Odysseus sees battle-slain, still wearing their gear, and arrows protruding from their torn chests. He is terrified. His hand has been the cause of more than one of their deaths.

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The camera remains trained on them. One of his men laugh nervously. "I say Sir, these can't be real? Can they?" In reply, a young girl with flowing black hair, glittering and beautiful, trails her skirts across the man's legs and wraps her arms around him. He winks at her and starts to speak, but she passes through him. The man's face turns blue and he falls to the ground shivering.