Abruptly,
I sat up, trying to check my gloomy thoughts—trying, to tell the truth, to shake off my sudden, senseless
shame.
Idas saw me. As darkness thickened he’d watched,
invisible,
except for his eyes. He laughed his nasty, madhouse
laugh
and yelled at me, too loud, like a deaf man. ‘Jason,’ he
bawled,
‘tell us your morbid thoughts, O Lord of the Argonauts!’ His eyes were wild. ‘Is it panic I spy on the face of the
warlike
Jason son of Aison? Fear of the dark, maybe? Lo, we’ve chosen you keeper of us all, and there you sit, quiet as a stone! Be brave, good man! We’ll all protect
you,
now that we’ve solemnly chosen you—after deepest
thought,
you understand, and the most profound reflection!’
He laughed.
“By my keen spear, the spear that carries me farther in
war
than Zeus himself, I swear that no disaster shall trouble a hair of Jason’s beard, so long as Idas is with him. That’s the kind of ally you’ve got in me, old friend!’ I couldn’t tell if the lunatic meant to mock me or meant to defend me against some imagined foe. I doubt if he
knew
himself. I did know this: with a word, a single wild assertion, he’d made the night go stony dark as if he’d closed a door on the gods, and in that selfsame
gesture
closed out his friends—perhaps closed out the very
earth
at his feet. He lifted a full beaker with both dark hands and guzzled the sweet unwatered wine till his lips and
beard
were drenched with it. The men all cried out in anger
at his words,
and Idmon said—it was no mere guess, he spoke as
a seer—
Tour words are deadly!—and it’s you, black Idas, who’ll
die of them!
Crazy as you are, you’ve scoffed at almighty Zeus
himself!
Laugh all you will, the time will come—and soon,
man, soon—
when you’ll roll your eyes like a sheep in flight from a
wolf, and no one,
nothing at your back but Zeus!’
“More loudly than before, mad Idas
laughed. “Woe be unto Idas! For he hath drunk of the
blood
of bulls. He will surely die! He’ll crawl on his belly,
eat dust,
and children will kick him in the head! —Come now, my brave little seer! Employ your second sight and tell me: How do you mean to escape from poor mad Idas once he’s proved your prophecies lie? I’ve
heard
you prophesied once you’d love some lady of Thrace till
your dying
day. Where’s she gone now? Snuck off to the woods,
Idmon?
Wringing her fingers and moaning and plucking the
wild flowers,
timid as a rabbit, hiding from the eyes of men like
one of
the god’s pale shuddering nuns? I have it on authority that Zeus is a man-eating spider.’ He spoke in fury,
with the hope
of raising Idmon against him and cutting him down.
I leaped
to my feet—and so did the others—yelling, Herakles
in rage,
my cousin Akastos shocked and grieved. Mad Idas’ mind was gone from behind his eyes leaving nothing but
smoke, dull fire,
the look in the eyes of a snake before it strikes.
“Then something
happened. We hardly knew, at first, what it was we
heard,
but the night grew strangely peaceful, as if some
goddess had touched
the sea, the fire, the trees, with an infinitely gentle hand and soothed them, made them sweet. Orpheus stroked
his harp,
singing as if to himself, ears cocked to the sea and stars, half smiling, like a man in a dream. Then Idas was
calm, and recovered,
and the evil spirit left him.
“He sang of the age when the earth
and sky were knit together in a single mold, and how
they were
sundered, ripped from each other by terrible strife, how
mountains
rose from the ground like teeth. And then, in terror
at what
they’d done, and what might follow, they paused and
trembled. Then stars
appeared, sent out by the gods to move as sentinels, and streams appeared on the mountainsides, and
murmuring nymphs
to whisper and lull the earth back into its sleep. He told how, out of the sea, the old four-legged creatures came, a sacrifice gift from the deeps to the growling shore,
and birds
were formed of the earth as a peace-offering to the sky.
Then dragons,
cursed race still angry, challenged the gods. King Zeus was still a child at play in his Dictaian cave. They
roamed
the earth, terrifying lesser beasts, alarming even the gods, an army of serpents who threatened all who’d
warred
in the former age—the earth and sea and sky, the
roaming
mountains, stalkers in the night. But then the Cyclopes
borne
of earth, for love of Hera, earth’s majestic mother, fortified Zeus with the thunderbolt. Then Zeus ruled all, great god of peace. And all the earth and the arching
sky
shone calm and bright as a wedding dress. And the
wisdom of Zeus
was satisfied. The craftsman of the gods invented
flowers
and green fields, and the world became as one again.
“So Orpheus sang, but how he ended none of us could
say.
We slept. The sea lapped gently, near our feet. And thus the first night passed, quiet as the legend he sang to us.
“When radiant dawn with her bright eyes gazed at the
towering crags
of Pelion, and the headlands washed by wind-driven seas stood sharp and clear, Tiphys aroused us, and quickly
we shook off
sleep and gulped our breakfast down and ran to the
waiting
ship. The Argo growled at us, from her magic beams, impatient to sail. We leaped aboard and followed in file to our rowing benches. Then, all in order, our gear
beside us,
we hauled the hawsers in and poured libations out to the sea. Then Herakles settled amidships, cramped
for space,
huge Ankaios beside him. The ship’s keel, underfoot, sank low in the water, accepting their weight. I gave
the signal.
My eyes welled up with tears I scarcely understood
myself,
snatching a last quick look at home, and then our oars, spoonshaped, pointed like spearheads—Argus’ sly
design—
dug in, in time with Orpheus’ lyre like dancers’ feet. The smooth, bright blades were swallowed by the waves,
and on either side,
the dark green saltwater broke into foam, seething in
anger
at our powerful strokes. The ship lunged forward, riding
the roll
that came to us, swell on swell, out of landless distances. Our armor glittered in the sunshine bright as fire;
behind
our stern, our wake lay clear as a white stone path on
a field,
or clear except … I forget. Some curious after-image, memory or vision, obscurely ominous. … Never mind.
“All the high gods, it seemed to us, were looking down from heaven that day, observing the Argo, applauding
us on;
and from the mountain heights the nymphs of Pelion
admired our ship,
Athena’s work, and sighed at the beauty of the
Argonauts swinging
their oars. The centaur Kheiron came down from the
high ground—
he who had been, since my father’s death, my friend
and tutor.
Rushing to the sea, and wading out in the gray-green
surf,
he waved again and again with his two huge hands.
His wife
came down with Akhilles, Peleus’ son, on her arm and
held him
for his father to see. “Now there’s the man to row
for us!’
Telamon yelled, Peleus’ brother, and Peleus beamed.
“Till we left the harbor with its curving shores behind
us, the ship
was in Tiphys’ hands, swerving like a bird past sunken
rocks
as his polished steering-oar bid. When the harbor
receded, we stept
the tall oak mast in its box and fixed it with forestays,
taut
on either bow. We hauled the sail to the mast-head,
snapped
the knots, unfurled it. Shrill wind filled it out. We made the halyards fast on deck, each wrapped on its wooden
pin,
and thus we sailed at our ease past the long Tesaian
headland.
Orpheus sang. A song of highborn Artemis, saver of ships, guardian of the peaks that lined that sea. As
he sang,
fish of all shapes and kinds came over the water and
gambolled
in our wake like sheep going home to the shepherd’s
pipe. The wind
freshened as the day wore on, and carried the Argo,
swift
and yare as a wide-winged gull.
“The Pelasgian land
grew dim, faded out of view; then, gliding on, we passed the stern rock flanks of Pelion. Sepias disappeared, and sea-girt Skiathos hove in sight. Then, far away, we saw Peiresiai, and under the cloudless blue, the mainland coast of Magnesia, and Dolops’ tomb.
And then
the thick wind veered against us. We beached our ship
in the dark,
the sea running high, and there we stayed three days.
At the end
of the third, when the wind was right again, we hoisted
sail.
We ran past Meliboia, keeping its stormy rocks to leeward, and when dawn’s bright eyes shone, we saw
the slopes
of Homole slanting to the sea close by. We skirted
around it
and passed the mouth of the Amyros, and passed, soon
after,
the sacred ravines of Ossa and then Olympos. Then,
running
all night long before the wind, we made it to Pallene,
where
the hills rise up from Kanastra. On we sailed, through
the dawn,
and old Mount Athos rose before us, Athos in Thrace, whose peak soars up so high it throws its shadow over Lemnos, clear up to Myrine. We had a stiff breeze all that day and through the night; the Argo’s sail was
stretched.
But then with dawn’s first glance there came a calm.
It was
our backs that carried us in, heaving at the oars—
carried us,
grinning like innocent fools, to the first of our
troubles—Lemnos,
bleaker, more rugged than we thought, a place where
murdered men,
ghosts howling on the rocks …”
Abruptly, Jason paused,
the beautiful gray-eyed goddess whispering in his ear.
He frowned
and looked around him like a man Just startled out of
sleep. The sky
was gray, outside the windows of Kreon’s hall. The king sat leaning on his hands, eyes vague, as if still listening though Jason’s voice had stopped. At the tables, some
were asleep,
some leaned forward like children seated at an old
man’s knee,
half hearing his words, half dreaming. Pyripta glanced
at Jason
shyly, sleepy, but waiting in spite of her weariness. Then Jason laughed, a peal that startled us all. “Good
gods!
I’ve talked the night away! You’re mad to endure it!”
The old king
straightened. “No no! Keep going!” But then he blushed.
He knew
himself that his words were absurd, even when others,
at the tables,
echoed the request. At the king’s elbow, Ipnolebes spoke, beloved old slave in black, his beard snow-white.
He said:
“Good Kreon—if I might suggest it—it’s true that it’s
late, as Jason
says. But it seems to me that you might persuade our
friend
to sleep with us here—we have rooms enough, and
servants sufficient
to tend to the needs of one more man. And then, when
Jason—
and all of us—are refreshed, he could tell us more.”
The king
stood up, nodding his pleasure. “Excellent!” he said.
“Dear Jason,
I insist! Stay with us the night!” The hall assented,
clapping,
even fat Koprophoros, for politeness, though it spiked his spleen that Jason should steal the light
from him,
slyly rebuke him with an endless, cunning tale. (But do
not think from this
the Asian was easily overcome. His outrage was play, we’d all soon learn. He knew pretty well what his power
was,
and knew what the limit would be for Aison’s son.)
—Nor was he
alone in seeming distressed. Stern King Paidoboron, beard dyed blacker than a raven’s wings, scowled
angrily;
unjust, light-footed,
a thousand times. He’d slashed deep, by metaphors, casual asides too quick for a man to expose, so that Paidoboron’s message was poisoned, at least for now.
Nor would
his chance to reply come soon. Gray-eyed Athena’s words in Jason’s ear had shown him a stratagem for keeping
the floor,
and even now old Kreon was begging him to stay.
But Jason
raised his hand, refusing. He was needed at home, he
said;
and nothing Kreon could say would change his mind.
At last
he allowed this much: he’d return the following
afternoon
and tell the rest—since his noble friends insisted on it. And so it was agreed. Then hurriedly Jason left his
chair
and went to the door, only pausing, on his way, for a
dozen greetings
to friends not seen in years.
By chance—so it seemed to me,
but nothing in all this dream was chance—the slave
who brought
his cloak was the Northerner, Amekhenos. He draped
the cloak
on Jason’s powerful shoulders without a word, head
bowed,
and as Jason moved away, the young man said, “Good
night.”
Jason paused, frowned as if listening to the voice in
his mind,
then turned to glance at the slave. He studied the young
man’s features,
frowning still, his fist just touching his chin: pale hair, a Kumry mouth that could laugh in an instant, perhaps
in an instant more, forget;
shoulder
s of a prince, and the round, red face of a Kelt, and the dangerous, quiet eyes… But the
memory
nagging his mind—so it seemed to me—refused to
come,
and the slave, his eyes level with Jason’s, as though he
were
no slave, but a fellow king, would give no help. At last Jason dismissed it, and left. But in front of his house
(it was morning,
birdsongs filling the brightening sky), he paused and
frowned
again, studying the cobblestones under his feet, and
again
the memory, connection, resemblance, whatever it was,
would not
come clear.
The dark house rising above the vine-hung, crumbling outer walls, the huge old trees, seemed still asleep, hushed in the yellowing light as an ancient sepulchre. The feeble lamp still burned at the door. The old male
slave,
a Negro stooped and gentle, with steadily averted eyes, lifted the hooks at the door to let him in, and took his scarlet cloak. Jason walked on to the central room which opened onto the garden. His gaze hit the fleece
at once—
or he heard it, felt it with the back of his neck before
he saw it—
and it seemed to me that the words of the seer had
returned to him
like a shock: You may see more than you wish of that
golden fleece.
He crossed to it quickly and kneeled to touch it, then
drew back his hand,
snatched it away like a man burned. And then, more
gently,
thinking something I couldn’t guess, he touched it again. Did the fleece have for him, I wondered, the meaning
it had for Medeia?—
love sign, proof that despite the shifting, deceiving mists of their lives together, he knew her worth—understood
her childlike
needs as well as he understood, I knew from his tale, his own? He raised it in his hands and went over to
stand with it
by the fireplace. There was no fire, but the wood was
piled
in its bin; the lamp stood waiting. With a jolt, I
understood.
He meant to destroy the thing, outflank his destiny. The same instant, I felt Medeia’s presence with us. She stood at the door, in white. In panic, I searched
her face
to see if she too understood. But I couldn’t tell. No sign. She watched him fold the cloth and lay it on the carved
bench.
They went up. I found myself shaking. Who remembers
the elegant speeches
he makes to his wife, the speeches she laughingly
mocks herself,
but clings to more than she thinks? If I were Jason and