Jason and Medeia (29 page)

you, we're

not much. We've sent our thousands, you and I, to

the cave

to wait for us. It hardly matters how long they wring their shadowy hands and watch. Choose what you will.'

The Amazon

laughed. ‘Nothing of my virgin beauty? Nothing, O king, of my fierce pride, my loyalty? Nothing of how, in the

hall,

passing the golden bowl, my great robes trailing, I

might

adorn your royal magnificence?—Nothing of my breasts,

my thighs?'

Theseus sighed. ‘I'd serve you better than you think.

I have seen

dead women—shadowy thighs, sweet breasts—going out

and away

like a sea.'

“Then, more than by all his talk of Briareos

and the rest, the queen was moved. She said: ‘You do

not fear

I'll kill you, then, in your bed?' Old Theseus touched

her chin,

tipped up her face. ‘I fear that, yes.' And so he left her, and so the war was resolved; she became his queen.

The two

became one creature, a higher organism with meanings

of its own,

groping upward to a troubled kind of sanctity. (All that was later. We knew, at the time the old men told the

tale

of Herakles, nothing of Theseus' later gains.) I saw, whatever the others saw, one more clear proof of the

beauty

of cool, tyrannical indifference, and the comic stupidity of Herakles' simpering charity, girlish fright. The future lies, I thought, not with Herakles, howling in the night

for love

of a boy—much less with such boys themselves, sweet

scented, lost.

The future lies with the sons of the
Argo's
officers, rowing in furious haste past peace, past every peace, searching out war's shrill storm of conflicting wills.

“We struck

and plundered, then fled that Amazon land, moved on

to the shores

of the Khalybes, that dreary race that plants no corn, no fruit, never tames an ox. They dig in search of iron, darken the skies with soot. They see no sun or moon, and know no rest. From a mile offshore you can hear

their coughing,

dry as a valley of goats. We took on water and left in haste. We'd seen too much, of late, of death. Yet they were men like ourselves, we knew by the eyes in their

smudged faces,

blacker than Ethiopians'. Surely they had not meant to evolve into this! —But we had no heart to pity or ponder that. Ghost ships passed us. Vast, dark dreams, troubles in the smoky night. Sometimes the strangers

hailed us,

called out questions in a foreign tongue. We bent to

the oars,

pushed on. And so we eluded them.

“We passed the land

of the Tibareni, where men go to bed for their wives in

their time

of labor. He lies there groaning, with his quop of a head

wrapped up,

and his good wife lovingly feeds him, prepares a bath.

We passed

the land of the Mossynoeki, where the people make love in the streets, like swine in the trough; oh, they were a

pretty race,

as gentle as calves. When Orpheus sang to them of

shame, remorse,

of beasts and men, they smiled, blue-eyed, and

applauded his song.

We were baffled; finally amused. We kissed them,

women and men,

and left. Let the gods improve them. And so to the

island of Ares,

where the war god's birds attacked us. We soon

outwitted them.

   “That night old Argus sat on the ground, by the

firelight,

studying the wing of a bird, one of those we'd killed.

His eyes

were slits. ‘Still learning?' I said. The old man smiled

and nodded.

‘Secrets of Time and Space,' he said. The gods are

patient.'

I waited. He said no more. His delicate fingers spread the pinions, brighter than silver and gold in that

flickering light.

The bird's head flopped on its golden neck, beak open,

bright

eyes wide. They had seen the god himself. Now nothing.

I said:

‘It's old, this creature?' Argus nodded. ‘Old as the

world is.

Older than the whole long history of man from Jason

down

to the last pale creature crawling in poisonous slime

to his loveless

lair, the cave of his carnage.' I stared at him, alarmed.

‘Explain.'

Old Argus smiled, looked weary, and made a pass

with his hand.

‘There are no explanations, only structures,' he said. ‘A structured clutter of adventures, encounters with

monsters, kings …'

He gazed toward sea, toward darkness. The mind of

man—' he said,

then paused. The thought had escaped him. In the

lapping water, the
Argo

sighed. You
are caught in irrelevant forms.
So I'd heard,

in my dream.

Caught,
the black ship whispered. I would make the best

of it.

Tiphys was dead, our pilot, and Idmon, younger of the

seers.

We were left to the steering of a boy, the visions of a

half-cracked witch.

We were better off, could be. We knew where we stood.

“There came

a storm, sudden, from nowhere. We cowered in the

trees. Mad Idas

whispered, ‘Go to it! Show your violence, Zeus! We're

learning!

“Submit and obey,” says the wind, “for I am a wind

from Zeus,

Great Father who beats my head and batters my ass as I whip yours. Submit and obey! Look upward with

cringing devotion

to me just as I do to Zeus, for I am better. Do I not shake your beard? Crack treelimbs over your head?

Sing praise

of Boreas!” ' Idas' moustache foamed like the sea, and

his eyes

Jerked more wildly than the branches whipping in the

gale. His brother,

staring out into darkness, made no attempt to hush him. ‘We're learning, still learning,' mad Idas howled. He

got up on his knees,

and the gale shot wildly through his robes, sent him out

like a flag. ‘As you

whip us, great Boreas, we the lords of the
Argo
will whip Aietes' men—cornhole the king and his counsellors, fuck great ladies! So much for kindness, the hope of the cow!

So much

for equality, soft, nonsensical, sweetness of the

whimsical tit!

We're learning!' At a sudden gust, he fell headlong.

Lynkeus reached out

and touched him, without expression. The fierce wind

whistled in our ears.

Orpheus was silent, daunted. If Idas was wrong, it was

not for

Orpheus to say: he was an instrument, merely: a harp

to the fingers

of the gods. (And I was by no means sure he was

wrong.)

“Then came

dawn's eyes, and we looked out to sea and we saw, to the

east and west,

black wreckage. And we saw a beam in the harbor,

rising and falling,

and men. As they came toward land, we stripped and

went out to them

to help. We drew them to the sandy shore. Four men,

half drowned,

clinging to the splintered beam with fingers stiffened

into claws.

We laid them down by the fire and fed them. Soon as

they could speak,

we asked their race. The sons of Phrixos, they said.

(We were not

surprised. We'd heard from Phineus how we'd meet

with them,

and all their troubles before.) They came from Kolchis,

kingdom

of Aietes, where exiled Phrixos lived. You know the

story:

   “The king of the Orkhomenians had two wives. By the first, he had two sons, Phrixos and Helle. When

the first wife

died, and he married the second, that cruel and jealous

woman

twisted an old, murky oracle and suggested to the king that Phrixos be given in sacrifice for the pleasure of

Zeus.

The king agreed, but Phrixos escaped with his brother,

flying

on a monstrous ram of gold which the great god

Hermes sent.

Above the Hellespont, Helle fell off and was lost. The

huge ram

turned his head, encouraging Phrixos on, and so they came at last to Kolchis, and there, on the ram's

advice,

Phrixos gave up the ram in sacrifice to Zeus, and gave the fleece to Aietes, the king, in return for his eldest

daughter.

Now the four sons had abandoned Aietes' city to return to their father's homeland, city of the Orkhomenians, intending to claim their rights. But Zeus, to show his

power,

stirred Boreas up from his sleep and ordered pursuit of

them.

The North Wind had softly blown all day through the

topmost branches

of the mountain trees and scarcely disturbed a leaf; but

then

when nightfall came, he fell on the sea with tremendous

force

and raised up angry billows with his shrieking blasts. A

dark mist

blanketed the sky; no star pierced through. The sons of

Phrixos,

quaking and drenched, were hurled along at the mercy

of the waves,

spinning like a top at each sudden gust and flaw. The

dark wind

tore off the sailsheets, split the hull at the keel. They

caught hold

of a beam, the last of the firmly bolted timbers that

scattered

like birds alarmed in the night as the ship broke up.

Black wind

and waves were pushing them to shore when a sudden

rainstorm burst.

It lashed the sea, the island, and the mainland opposite. They gave up hope, passed out, still clinging to the

beam. So we

discovered them, close to the shore, some whimsical

gift or tease

from the gods.

“ ‘Whoever you are,' the sons of Phrixos said, ‘

we beg you by Zeus to provide us help in our need.

We are men

on a mission we cannot abandon, not even now,

stripped bare,

weakened, ridiculed by winds. We have sworn a solemn

vow

to our father, the hour of his death, that we will

redeem his throne

and wealth. No easy adventure, beaten as we are, pushed

past

despair. Yet the vow's been made, and we will fulfill it

if we can.'

“I glanced at my crew. It seemed they hardly

understood what wealth

the sea had sent. No need of a Tiphys or an Idmon now! We had, right here in our hands, men born and bred in

the east,

sailors who knew these streams as we knew the Pegasai, and they knew the kingdom of Aietes—no doubt had

friends among

that barbarous race. We could use these poor drowned

rats! I seized

the hands of the man who spoke for them, youngest of

the brothers, Melas.

‘Kinsman!' I said, and laughed. I turned to the others.

“You

who beg us for strangers' help are long lost kinsmen,

for I

am Jason, son of Aison, son of Dionysos, Lord of the Underworld. Your famous father and my own

father

were cousins, and I have sailed with these friends for

no other cause

than to seek you out and return you safe to your

homeland, with all

the chattel and goods you may rightfully claim as your

own. Of all that

more in a while. For now, let us dress you and arm you,

and offer

a sacrifice, as is right, to the god of this island.' The crew brought clothes, the finest we had, and heirloom swords,

and we built

an altar and made a great sacrifice of sheep. When that was done and we'd feasted our fill, I spoke to them

again, framed words

to suit their needs and mine, and to please the

Argonauts,

indeed, to please even Orpheus, if possible.

“ ‘Zeus is most truly the all-seeing god! Sooner or later

we god-fearing men that uphold the right must come to

his attention.

See how he rescued your father Phrixos from a heartless

woman,

his cruel step-mother, and made him a wealthy man

besides.

And see how he saved you yourselves, preserved you in

the deadly storm

and brought you directly to those who have come here

in search of you!

And finally this: see how he's armed you, not only with

swords

but with fighting companions, the mightiest fighters now

living—Akastos,

my cousin, and Phlias, my father's half-brother (don't

mind those staring

eyes: he has no mind; a dancer)—and Orpheus, king of all harpers, and Mopsos, king of all seers, and

Argus,

famous artificer—' Thus I named them all, and praised

them,

praising the god. They listened smiling, heads bowed.

I said:

The sacred vow you have sworn to your dying father

gives all

this crew, I think, new purpose. For it cannot be hidden,

I think,

loath though I am to speak of it—that we've suffered

great losses,

sorrows and pains that have checked us, nearly

overcome us. Your vow—'

I paused, as if undecided. ‘On board our ship you can

travel

eastward or westward, whichever you choose. Either to

the city

Aietes rules, or home to your dear Orkhomenos. You'll

need

no stronger craft, your own smashed to bits by the

angry sea,

never having come, if I remember, even to the Clashing

Rocks,

those doors no ship but the
Argo
has ever passed.' I