Jason and Medeia (13 page)

when he'd just arrived from Arcadia. It was the famous

time

when he carried on his back—alive and thrashing—

the monstrous boar

that fed in the thickets of Lampeia. As soon as Herakles

heard it,

he threw down the boar, tied up its feet, and left it

squealing—

loud as a hurricane—blocking the gates of the great

market

at Mykenai. His squire, Hylas, that beautiful boy whom Herakles loved like a son—or like a god—came

with him,

serving as keeper of the bow. He was like a breeze,

like rain.

You see them sometimes, boys like Hylas, and you

pause, as if

snatched out of Time, stunned for an instant. It's as

if you've come

suddenly, turning a familiar corner, to a world more

calm,

more innocent than ours, and there at the door of it, a deity, childlike, all-forgiving; you find yourself thrilled to what's best in yourself, a spring not yet

corrupt,

and as religion wells in your chest—a strange humility—something else sweeps in, a curious sorrow, deep, mysterious despair. Such gentleness, such trust, such beauty of eyes and limbs … It was as if I knew

even then,

the instant I saw him, that something terrible awaited

him,

patient as a wolf, and knew that after the beautiful boy was gone, strange things would happen to us—

smoke-black darkness,

murderous winds, waves that ground at our ship like

monstrous

teeth … Impossible to say what I mean. He was like

a sign

of the best possible in nature, and his very goodness

made him …

“But enough. Let me think who else there was.

“There was Idmon the seer.

Of all the heroes of Argos, Idmon was the last to come. Like Mopsos, he knew by his own birdlore that for him

the trip

meant death; yet the poor devil came, for his reputation's

sake.

A coward's coward, I used to call him. He was terrified at the very idea that he ever might fly in terror.

“From Sparta

Aitolian Leda sent us the mighty Polydeukes, king of all boxers, and Kastor, master of the racing

horse.

She'd borne them as twins in Tyndareos' palace, and

loved them so well

she swallowed her fear like bitter wine and allowed

them to go

as they wished. No wonder Zeus had loved her, a girl

like that,

and planted in Leda's womb the most beautiful woman

on earth!

“From Arene the sons of Aphareos came, Lynkeus

and Idas.

They were both brave men and as powerful as bulls—

yet I hesitated

before I'd take them on board. Idas was crazy. He talked pure gibberish at times, and foamed at the mouth.

When sane,

he was quarrelsome, insolent, a chip on his shoulder

as big as a tree.

But Lynkeus wouldn't have joined without him; and

Lynkeus had

the finest eyesight in the world. As easily as you and I see distant eagles, Lynkeus could see things

underground.

Yet Idas' vision was keener still, I learned in the end. His beads were of human bone, and his cheek bore

lion scars,

and scorning, shaming, mocking was all he loved; yet

he was not

mad, exactly. Like leopards they watched the world,

those brothers,

though Idas fooled you. The man had the eyes of a

sleeping dragon.

“From Arcadia, Kepheus and Amphidamas came, two

sons of Aleos,

and their older brother Lykourgos sent us his

twelve-foot boy

Ankaios. He had to stay home, himself, to care for

his aging

father—a testy, sly old devil, as we saw for ourselves. The old man didn't approve of allowing a boy so young to sail with us, whatever his size, and when argument

failed

to sway Ankaios' father, old Aleos chewed his gums and schemed. Ankaios arrived at the ship in a bearskin,

waving

a two-edged axe in his right hand. His grandfather'd

hidden

his equipment in a corner of the bam, still hoping to

the very last

he'd keep his baby home.

“Augeias also came,

whose father was the sun; and Asterios and Amphion, from Pelles' city on the cliffs. And Euphemos followed

them,

the fastest runner in the world—the boy Europa,

daughter

of Tityos, bore to Poseidon. He was a man who could run on the rolling waters of the sea so fast his invisible feet weren't wet by it. —But Zetes and Kalais were faster

in the sky,

the two sons of the North Wind, whom Oreithyia bore to Boreas in the wintry borderland of Thrace. He'd

brought her

from Attica. She was whirling in the dance on the banks

of the Ilissos

when he snatched her from earth and carried her away

to Sarpedon's Rock,

near the flowing waters of Erginos, where he wrapped

her up

in a dark cloud and raped her. It was an astounding

thing

to watch those sons of hers soar up into the sky,

the sea-blue

eagles' road! The wings on each side of their ankles

whirred

and spangles of gold burst through like sparks from

the dusky feathers,

and they shot away. Their black locks whipped on their

shoulders and backs,

but their faces were steady as arrowheads in flight.

“The last

we took with us was Argus, gentle old craftsman, sly as Daidalos—but older, richer in ancient lore— a man who remembered secrets most of the gods

had long

forgotten. He was no fighter. In time of war he'd sit bent over, with his lips drawn tight, his blue eyes

violent,

alarmed, as though he'd pierced the forms of the ships

we'd burned,

the white bodies of the dead—had pierced the shapes

of our destruction,

and saw, beyond them, nothing. And yet he forgave

our work,

when breezes had cleaned the air of the stink and smoke,

and we'd laid

the dead away. Old Argus didn't much care for us, destroyers of filigreed halls and high-prowed ships,

wasters

of goldsmiths' work, despoilers of cities, the works of

mind.

There were times when that gentle scorn of his—a

sneer, almost—

inclined us to smash his head for him. But we couldn't,

of course.

We needed him—needed his art, if not that calcifying smile. And Argus came, whatever his distaste, to guard his masterpiece—to guard, perhaps, whatever work he could. And because he was curious. Not death itself would have given the old man pause if he thought he

could learn from it.

For all his nobility of mind he was a man consumed by need to know, need to reduce the universe to facts.

“Such was my crew, or anyway the best of it;

all men of genius, sons of the immortal gods.

“The
Argo

was ready, equipped with all that goes into a well-found

ship

when pressing business carries people to sea. We made our way to the shore where the ship lay grumbling,

muttering to herself

to be gone. A crowd of excited townsfolk gathered

around us,

tall men, some of them, some of them fine to see; but set by the best of them all, the Argo's crew stood out

like stars

in a dark, beclouded sky. If we weren't a match for

Aietes,

Keeper of the Fleece, then nobody was. As the people

watched us

hurrying along in our armor, one of them said—a

wail—

“Zeus! Pelias has lost his mind! Who'd dare to drive such men as these from Akhaia? If Aietes dares to

refuse

the golden fleece when they ask for it, they can send

up his palace

in flames the same day they land. —But the ship must

get there first.

I've heard men say there are dangers beyond what a

god would face.'

The women stood weeping, their hands stretched up

in prayer to the gods

for our safe return. There was one, an old servant that

I knew. Her eyes

bored into me, and she wailed of my mother with

a harsh voice

and a maniac look, pretending she didn't know me.

I stood

like a child before her, shaken, rooted to the spot.

“ ‘Ye gods,'

she moaned, ‘poor Alkimede! Thank God
I've
got no son! Better for her if she'd long since gone to her lonely

grave,

wrapped head to foot in her winding-sheet, still ignorant of this madman's expedition! ? that Phrixos had sunk in the dark waves where Helle died, and the

monstrous golden

ram still clamped in his legs! ? why was Jason—

heartless,

arrogant fool—not born to her dead, to spare her this? She weeps her eyes out, cries and cries in such

black despair

that her sobs come welling too fast for Alkimede to

sound them. He might

have buried his mother with his own hands—that

much at least

he might have stayed to do for her, having sea-dogged

half

his life, far out of her sight, carousing with strangers,

fighting

all men's wars but his father's, and his poor old

mother worried

sick! She stood as high in her time as any woman in Akhaia. But now she's left like a servant in an

empty house,

widowed, pining in misery after her only son who cares no more for his mother than he would for

a dying dog,

care for nothing and nobody, only for Jason, apple of her eye—and apple of his own! Dear gods, I wish

you could see

how slyly that boy consoles her—and believes every

word of it

himself, as if Jason could do no wrong! “Dear mother,”

says he,

all piety, “do not be grieved that I leave you alone. We're all alone, we mortals, whether we're near to

each other

or far apart. Locked inside ourselves, foolishly, blindly struggling to do what's right.” He moons out the

window, sad

as a priest, and she's impressed by it. —Oh my but

that boy

can be pretty, when he likes! He kisses her hand and

tells her, “Do not

be afraid, Mother. I'm doing what the gods demand.

The omens

show it. We used to be rich, Mother. Now that

we're poor,

we ought to have learned that nothing counts but the

gods' friendship.

Let me serve them; then when you die, you'll die in

peace,

whether I'm near or not. You've told me yourself,

Mother,

that all there is in the world, at last, is the war or peace of dying men and the old undying gods. The omens favor the trip. I must go.” And he kisses her cheeks.

Ah, Jason!

Cunning burled so deep he can't see it himself! Omens! Did he ask his friends the augurers what omens they see for his mother? Or Pelias? Or the city? Would that the

birdsongs sang

his death!'

And then she was gone; her black shawl

vanished in the crowd.

My throat was dry with shame. I was numb. I stood

too stunned

to think. If I could have summoned speech that instant,

I might

have called it off on the spot, to hell with the

consequences.

But then, from nowhere, a man appeared at my side,

a man—

or god, who knows?—hooded till only his beard

peeked out.

I thought by the mad-dog hunch of his shoulders, the

growl in his throat,

it was crazy Idas, Lynkeus' brother. He touched my arm. ‘She never liked you, did she, man.' The words

confused me.

I remembered the old woman's slapping me once, and

calling out sharply,

another time—I was only a child, and I wasn't to

blame for

whatever it was she charged me with. My mind grew

clouded.

“I moved in a kind of daze toward the boat, the streets of the city behind me, and I racked my brains over

whether or not

the woman was right. When I came down to the

beach, my friends

were waiting, waving. They raised a shout so loud

the gulls

flew higher in sudden alarm. The crew was grinning,

their armor

blazing like the sun at noon. They pointed, and I looked

behind me,

and lo and behold, Akastos himself was running toward

me,

Pelias' son! He'd slipped away from the house while

the king

was sleeping, bound to go out with us, whether

the old man liked

or not. I seized my cousin in my arms and laughed,

and we ran

to the ship. And so I forgot what the old crone said,

or forgot

till later, miles from shore.

“The wind was right, the ship

and the Argonauts both eager to go, and the sooner

the better.

I stood on a barrel and waved my arms for attention.

I shouted,

and the Argonauts grew quiet. Three last details,' I said. The sea-wind whipped my words away. I shouted louder. The first is this. We're all partners in the voyage to

Kolchis,

the land where Aietes guards the golden fleece, and

we're partners

bringing it home—we hope. So it's up to you to choose the best man here as our leader. And let me warn you,

choose

with care, as if our lives depended on it. ' When I had spoken, they turned like one man toward Herakles, where he sat in the center of the crowd, and with one

voice they called out,