Aeolus, keeper of the winds, sits Odysseus down alone and gives him the bag without ceremony. Skin of a nine-year-old ox, silver cord at the mouth. Inside, every contrary wind that could push the fleet off course. The westerly is left free in the air, and the sail snaps full, and twelve ships sail out from the bronze walls. Nine days of clean sea. On the tenth morning Ithaca rises from the horizon. He can see the smoke of his own hearth. [SPOILER: He has not slept in ten days, holding the tiller, not trusting the wind. He sleeps. The men, who have watched him stow that bag and convinced themselves it holds gold he kept from them, untie the cord. The winds tear free. The sea churns white. Ithaca disappears. They are blown back to Aeolia and Aeolus will not see them. The gods have marked us, his attendants say. There is nothing for you here. The bag was a homecoming. Mistrust opened it. The bag is also the moment Odysseus realises trust is a finite thing and he has been spending it, unaware.]
The Bag of Winds
An ox-skin nine years old, bound with silver cord. Every wind that could blow them off course sealed inside. A homecoming wrapped in leather.