Jason and Medeia (23 page)

There's something you should know. We have customs

here, in the farming country of the Bebrykes.

No foreigner daring to touch these shores

moves on, continuing his journey, until he's first put up his fists to mine. I'm the greatest bully in the world,

you'll say—

not without justification. I'm known, throughout these

parts,

as Amykos, murderer of men. I've killed some ten of

my neighbors,

and here I am, remorseless, waiting to kill, today, one of you. It's a matter of custom, you see.' He

shrugged as if

to say he too disliked it; and then, cocking his head, wrinkling his wide, low brow, he said: The world's

insane.

It used to fill me with anguish when I was a boy. I'd

stare,

amazed, sick at heart, at the old, obscene stupidity— the terrible objectness of things: sunrise, sunset; high-tide, low-tide; summer, winter; generation,

decay…

My youthful heart cried out for sense—some signpost,

general

purpose—but whatever direction I looked, the world was a bucket of worms: squirming,

directionless—it was nauseating!'

He breathed deeply, remembering well how it was.

He said:

‘I resolved to die. I stopped eating. For a number of

weeks

(I kept no count; why should I?) I spurned all food as

if it were

dirt. And then one day I noticed I was eating. It

seemed mere

accident: my mind had wandered, weakened by my fast, and
pow!
there I was, eating. Absurd! But after my first amazement, I saw the significance

of it.

The universe had within it at least one principle: survival! I leaped from my stool, half mad with joy,

ran howling

out to the light from my cave, leading all my followers.
I exist!”
I bellowed. “Us
too!”
they bellowed. We ate

like pigs.

But soon, alas, we were satiated. Though we rammed

our fingers

down in our throats and regurgitated, still, the feast was unappetizing. They looked up mournfully to me

for help.

For three long weeks, in acute despair, I brooded on it. And then, praise God!, it came to me. My own existence was my first and only principle. Any further step must be posited on that. I examined my history, searched voraciously night and day for signs, some hint of pattern. And then it came to me: I had killed four

men

with my fists. Each one was an accident, a trifling event lost, each time, in the buzzing, blooming confusion

of events

that obfuscate common life. But now I remembered!

I seized it!

Also, I seized up the follower dodling nearest to me— meaningless dog-eyed anthropoid, source of calefactions, frosts, random as time, poor worm-vague brute existent, “friend” in the only sense we knew: I'd learned his name by heart. By one magnificent act, I transmuted him. I defined him: changed him from nothing-everything he

was before

to purpose—inextricable end and means. I seized him,

raised

my fists, and knocked him dead; and this time I
meant

it. No casual

synastry. My disciples were astonished, of course. But

when

I explained to them, they fell, instantly, grovelling

at my feet,

calling me Master, Prince of the World, All-seeing Lord. On further thought, I came to an even higher

perception:

As the soul, rightly considered, consists of several parts, so does the state. It follows that what gives meaning

and purpose

to the soul may also give meaning and purpose to the

state. I needn't

describe the joy that filled my people on learning this

latest

discovery of (if one may so express oneself) their Philosopher King. To make a long story short,

we began

a tradition—a custom, so to speak. Namely, no foreigner

touching

these shores is allowed to leave without first putting up

his fists

to mine. Regrettably, of course, since you're so young.'

He shrugged.

‘Who's ready?—Or, to shift to the general: Who's

your sacrifice?'

He waited, beaming, pleased with himself—his

enormous fists

on his hips. None of us spoke. We simply stared,

dumbfounded,

the old man's crazy philosophy bouncing in our heads.

At last

Polydeukes stepped forward, known as the king of all

boxers.

It seems he'd taken Amykos' boasts as a personal affront.

   “ ‘Enough!” he said, eyes fierce. ‘No more of your

polysyllabic

shadowboxing. I am Polydeukes, known far and wide for my mighty fists. You've stated your rules—your

ridiculous law—

and I stand here ready, of my own free will, to meet

them.'

The king

frowned darkly, not out of fear of our brilliant

Polydeukes,

but annoyed, it seemed, by some trifling verbal

inaccuracy.

‘Free will,' he said, and laughed. ‘
I
made the ridiculous

rules,

not you. I have free will, not you. You bump against my laws like a boulder bumping against a wall.'

“ ‘Not so,'

Polydeukes said, voice calm. ‘I choose to meet you.

A man

may slide with the current of a mountain stream or

swim with it.

There's a difference.' Old Amykos stammered in rage.

In another minute

they'd have started in without gloves, unceremoniously, but I intervened with persuasive words. They cooled

their tempers,

and Amykos backed away, though even now he glared at Polydeukes, his old eyes rolling like the eyes of a lion who's hit by a spear when they hunt him in the

mountains and, caring nothing

for the crowd of huntsmen hemming him in, he picks

out the man

who wounded him and keeps his furious eyes on him

alone.

   “Polydeukes was wearing a light and closely woven cloak, the gift of his Lemnian wife. He laid it aside. The fierce old man threw down his dark double mantle

with its

snake-head clasps. They chose a place—a wide, flat field, and the rest of us then sat down, two separate groups.

“In looks,

no two could have been more opposite, the old man

hunchbacked,

bristled and warted like an ogre's child, the younger

straight

as a mast, bright down on his cheek. He seemed no more

than a boy,

but in strength and spirit he was hardening up like a

three-year-old bull.

He feinted a little, seeing if his arms were supple after

all that

rowing, the long hot span in the calm. He was satisfied, or if not, he kept it hidden. The old man watched him,

leering,

eager to smash in his chest, draw blood. Then Amykos'

steward,

a man by the name of Lykoreus, brought rawhide gloves, thoroughly dried and toughened, and placed them

between them, at their feet. “

   “ ‘We'll cast no lots,' old Amykos said. ‘I make you a

present

of whichever pair you like. Bind them on your hands,

and when

I've proved myself, tell all your friends—if you've still

got a jaw—

how clever I am at cutting hides and … staining them.' ” With a quiet smile and no answer, Polydeukes took

the pair

at his feet. His brother Kastor and his old friend Talaos

came

and bound the gauntlets on. The old man's friends

did the same.

   “What can I say? It was absurd. They raised their

heavy fists,

and the gibbous old man came leering, all confidence,

drooling in his beard,

his eyes as wild as a wolf's, and went up on his toes like

someone

felling an ox, and brought down his fist like a club.

Polydeukes

stepped to the right, effortlessly, and landed one

lightning

blow Just over the old king's ear, smashing the bones inside. The crazy old man looked startled. In a minute

he was dead,

twitching and jerking in the wheat stubble. We stared.

No match

at all! We hadn't even shouted yet—neither we nor they!

    ‘The Bebrykes gave a wail, an outraged howl at

something

wider than just Polydeukes. They snatched up their

spears,

their daggers and clubs, and rushed him as if to avenge

themselves

on the whole ridiculous universe. We leaped up, drawing our swords, running in to help. Kastor came down with

his sword

so hard that the head of the man he hit fell down on

the shoulders,

to the right and left. Polydeukes took a running jump at the huge man called Itymoneus, and kicked him in

the wind

and dropped him. The man died, jerking and trembling,

in the dirt.

Then another came at him. Polydeukes struck him with

his right,

above the left eyebrow, and tore the lid off, leaving the

eyeball

bare. A man struck Talaos in the side—a minor wound—

and Talaos turned on him,

sliced off his head like a blossom from a tender stem.

Ankaios,

using the bearskin to shield his left arm, swung left and

right

with his huge bronze axes, and the brothers Telamon

and Peleus,

Leodokos and I behind them, jabbed through backs and

bellies,

limbs and throats with our swords. They scattered like

a swarm of bees

when the keeper smokes them from the hive. The

remnants of the fight fled inward,

bleeding, spreading the news of their troubles. And

that same hour

they found they had new and even worse troubles. The

surrounding tribes,

as soon as they learned that the fierce old man was

dead, gathered up

and flooded in to attack them, no more afraid of them. They swarmed to the vineyards and villages like locusts,

dragged off

cattle and sheep; seized women and children, to make

them slaves;

then set fire to the barns. We stood and watched it all, almost forgetting to snatch a few sheep and cows

ourselves.

The ground was bloodslick, the sky full of smoke from

the burning villages.

We watched in shock. Who'd ever heard of such

maniacs?

We walked here and there among them, rolling them

over on their backs

to pick off buckles, swords with bejewelled hilts, new

arrows,

and, best, the beautifully figured bows that no one can

fashion

as the craftsmen among the Bebrykes could do, in their

day.

A splendid haul.

“But Polydeukes sat staring seaward—

black waves quiet as velvet, under a blood-red sky— brooding. He pounded his right fist into his flat left hand again and again. I touched his shoulder. ‘Stupid,'

he hissed,

never shifting his eyes from the sea. ‘God damned old

clown!'

‘Ah well,' I said. ‘And all that talk!' he said. ‘—Free will, survival! I ought to have taken his big black teeth

out one

by one! I ought—' ‘Ah well,' I said. His eyes were as

calm,

as ominous green as the sky those days when the air

went dead.

‘If Herakles were here,' he said, ‘you know what I'd do?' I shook my head. ‘I'd kill him,' he said. ‘Or try.' He

grinned,

but his eyes looked as crazy to me as the eyes of the

man he'd killed.

‘He wouldn't approve. You're supposed to be his friend,'

I said.

‘I'd smash in his brains for good. “Defend your head

or die!”

I'd tell him. And no mere joke. Because I
am
his friend.' I let it pass. Boxers are all insane, I thought.

Like everyone.

“Late that night, when the Argonauts

were all sitting in a crowd on the beach, gazing at the

fire,

Orpheus sang a song of the wonderful skill and power of Polydeukes' fists. He sang of the age-old hunger of

the heart

for some cause fit to die for, some war certainly just, some woman certainly virtuous. He sang the unearthly,

unthinkable joy

of Zeus in his battle with the dragons. Then sang of Hylas, gentler than morning, gazing at his father's

killer

with innocent love and awe. As he sang, the hero of his

song,

Polydeukes, rose, bright tears on his cheeks, and left

our ring

to walk alone in the woods, get back his calm, we

thought.

That was the last we saw of him.”

10

Then Jason told

of Phineus: spoke like a man in a dream. The sea-kings

listened,

leaning on their fists. Not a man in the hall even

coughed. They sat

so still you'd have thought some god had cast his spell

on them.

Old Kreon stared into his wine, blood-red in its jewelled

cup,

and even when Jason's tale scraped painful wounds—

the fall

of Thebes, the tragedy of Oidipus—the king showed

nothing.

His daughter Pyripta twisted the rings on her fingers

and sighed.

Surely the chief of the Argonauts must be aware, I

thought,

how queer the tale as he told it now must seem to them. The Asian, fat Koprophoros, smiled. He did not mask his pleasure at seeing the Argonaut show his quirky

side.

Athena leaned close to the left shoulder of Aison's son, warning him, struggling to guide him, her beautiful