Jason and Medeia (24 page)

gray eyes flashing;

Hera leaned close to his right, her lithe form moving

a little,

weaving like a snake. The story was not what they'd

hoped for at all,

this version turbulent with unresolved doubts, key

changes not

familiar, chords that clashed, a version of well-known

tales

gone crooked, quisquous, trifling matters better off

forgotten

blown up out of proportion, and matters of the keenest

interest

dropped, passed over in silence as if from obsessive

concern

with moments that made no sense. That was no way

to win

a throne. Not even Paidoboron, indifferent to thrones, would wander off like that. Athena and Hera looked

flustered,

losing control. Sweet Aphrodite, fond, dim-witted, hovering over Pyripta, was close to tears—so filled with pity for the hero as he teased the story of his life

for meaning,

she dropped all thought of Medeia, for the moment, and

charged the heart

of the princess with tender affection, innocent

compassion for the man.

He said:

   “At dawn we stowed the ship with our booty, loosed the hawsers, hauled up sail, and pushed toward Phineus'

land,

riding the swirling Bosporos, driven by wind. The day was ordinary except for this: around mid-afternoon a wave came in out of nowhere, and even Tiphys,

who knew

the ways of seas and rivers like the back of his hand,

was amazed,

watching it come, a gray wall high as a mountain,

sweeping

clouds along. It hung, full of menace, directly above our sail, and we dived for hand-holds—all but Tiphys—

and waited

for the end, the shriek of the ship breaking up. We

felt—nothing!

no change, the great wave rolling on south, and behind

it the river

calm, as quiet as a pool. ‘What happened?' I yelled

at Tiphys.

Our hearts were pounding like sledges. He said he had

no idea.

‘Impossible!' I said. ‘You know the sea like your own

mind.

A prodigy like that, there must be some good reason

for it!'

But Tiphys could tell us nothing. ‘Perhaps some god,'

he said,

pushing his long yellow hair back. ‘Maybe some joke.'

He shrugged.

Mad Idas grinned, showed all his twisted teeth, and

farted.

“The next morning we put in across from Bithynia; anchored offshore from the mansion of Phineus the

seer. He had

the greatest prophetic gift of anyone living, a man who knew not merely by flickers, an insight here and

there,

but knew by steady intuition—or so men said—as much as Apollo knew, who knew all Zeus's mind. He won great wealth by it, but also unspeakable misery.

   “We'd heard, before we landed, nothing of that. We

went up,

eager to visit with the prophet whose reputation

stretched

farther than merchants travelled, to the ends of the

earth. The old man

felt our presence before we came. For days he'd felt us coming. He rose from his bed—none saw it but one

aged raven—

groped for his staff of olive wood, and, feeling his way by the sootblack wall, his old feet twisted and shrunken

beneath him,

he hunted his door. He trembled—age and weakness—

and his head

kept jerking, twisting to the side, then up, his horrible

blind eyes

searching. At the door he fell, siled over and tumbled,

banging

his bald, bruised head on the steps, and down he went

like a corpse

to the bottom, all without a whimper, because he'd

known he'd fall.

He lay awhile unconscious. He had no friend, no servant to care for him; not even a dog would live in the same

house with Phineus.

   “After a while the seer came to

and groped around in the dust for his staff, and at last

found it

and painfully climbed back up it and onto his feet,

trembling,

jerking his head, and then, moving slowly, inch by inch, labored toward his gate and the two stone steps that

opened

on the road. There too, as he'd known he would, he fell.

And there

we found him lying with his face in the dirt, his legs

twisted up

like a child's knot. There were trickles of thin, pink

blood in his beard

where he'd broken his teeth. My cousin Akastos rushed

up to him

and meant to lean over him, listen to his heart, but then

drew back

with a look of disgust. And now we too were near

enough to smell it:

vultures' vomit, the stink of death on a hot day, blunt as the kick of a mule. We stood well back from

him,

gagging, breathing through our mouths, just keeping our

dinners down.

And then—horrible!—the creature we'd taken to be

dead for days,

rotting on the road, moved his hand a little—a hand

as pale,

as darkly veined as the stomach of a butchered cow. It

was caked,

like all his revolting body, with dirt. Where the hand

went back

to the dark of his filthy robe, which had fallen over it, the wrist was like two gray sticks. Then Phineus

turned his head,

opened his milkwhite eyes as if to stare straight at us, and called out: ‘Argonauts, welcome! You've come to

my rescue at last!'

He moved his tongue around his mouth, then wiped his

hand, spitting dust

and blood. ‘From the Harpies, I mean,' he said. Then

widened his eyes

and let out a croak, like a man who's suddenly

remembered something,

a source of pain and rage. We stared in amazement.

The old man's

body shrank up, then jerked out stiff, shrank up,

jerked out,

and we thought he was dying again. But then he lay

limp, and tears

made streaks on his stubbled cheeks. ‘O murderous

gods,' he said,

and then for perhaps ten minutes Phineus sobbed and

sometimes

pounded the road with his fists. At the end of that

time he clutched

his belly, looked furious, and spoke. ‘I'd forgotten you

wouldn't know.

I'd forgotten I'd have to go through with you now the

whole insipid

tale. Even though it's a fact that you people will save

me, because

it's fated—like everything: endlessly, drearily, stupidly,

cruelly

fated—I'm forced to go through dull motions, politely

pleading,

cajoling, explaining, telling you my tedious history; and I'm forced to listen to your boring responses,

predictable even

to a man not gifted with second sight.' He pulled

himself together

and labored up onto his knees, groping with his staff,

stifling

the angry imprecations of his swollen heart. Then: ‘Believe me, I'd far rather die, and I would have died

long ago

if the will of mortals were a match for the will of the

gods. But alas!

they've got us all by the bellies. They throw a crumb,

a bone,

keep us alive, howling with hunger, and keep us too

weak

to raise our daggers to our wrists, crawl down to the

river … But enough.

Let's get on with it, play out our parts! If I may forestall your question, Jason, son of Aison—' I cleared my

throat.

He stretched out his hands to stop me. ‘Don't ask!' he

implored. ‘Don't drag

it on and on and on! The answer to your question is: I'm a victim of curses. Not only has a fury quenched

my sight—

an affliction bitter enough, God knows—and not only

am I

forced to drag through the years far past man's usual

span,

aging, withering, no end in sight—but worse than that, Harpies plague me—eaglelike creatures with human

heads.

When my neighbors, or strangers from across the sea,

come here to my house

to ask of the future, or of hidden things, and leave

me food

as payment, no sooner is the food set out on my plate

than down

from the clouds—dark, swifter than lightningbolts—

those Harpies swoop

snatching the food from my fingers and lips with their

chattering teeth.

At times they leave me nothing, at times a gobbet or two to keep me alive and screaming. They imbrue with their

sewage stench

all they touch. I would rather die than consume the stuff those Harpies leave—so I rant to myself. But my belly

roars,

tyrannical; I submit. Yet this one curse will pass, if my name is Phineus. The Harpies will soon be driven

away

by two of your number, the lightswift sons of the

Northern Wind.

It has taken place already in the mind of Zeus.'

“So he spoke.

We stared in pity and disgust. Then Zetes and Kalais,

sons

of the wind, went closer, gagging from the stench but

generous;

and the noble Zetes reached for the foul, filth-shrivelled

hand

and said, ‘Poor soul! There's surely no man on earth who

bears

more shame, more sorrow than you! Heaven knows,

we'll help if we can.

But first, tell us—' Before he could finish, the old man

cringed.

‘I know, I know! What's the cause? you'll ask. Have I

done some wrong?

Have I rashly offended some god by, for instance,

misusing my skill?

If you help me and foil the justice of some great god,

will he turn

on you? Say no more! I give you my vow, it's your

destiny.

No harm will come! I swear by Apollo, by my own

second sight,

by my cataracts, by the home of the dead—may the

powers of Hades

blast me to atoms if I die! No ultion will fall on you, no vengeful alastor seek you out by decree of the gods.'

   “ ‘Very well,' Zetes said. And now the brothers backed

off from Phineus,

ready to faint from his stink. At once, we prepared a

meal

for the poor old seer—the last the Harpies were to get.

And Zetes

and Kalais took up their watch, knees bent, a short way

off

from the prophet who squatted by the steps. Before he

could reach for a morsel,

down came the Harpies. They struck and were gone with

no more warning

than a lightning flash—the meal had vanished—and

we heard their raucous

chattering far out at sea. It seemed the whole world

had turned

to stench. But Zetes and Kalais too were gone, we saw— vanished like ghosts. They nearly caught them—

touched them, in fact.

But just as their fingers were closing on the creatures'

throats, the sky

went white, and a voice said: ‘Stop! The Harpies are

the hounds of Zeus!

Don't harm them! They'll trouble your friend no more,

swift sons of Boreas!'

And so the brothers turned back, and the curse was

ended.

   “We cleansed

the old man's house with sulphur fire, and washed him

in the creek,

then picked out the finest of the sheep we'd gotten from

Amykos

and made them a sacrifice to Zeus. We set out a banquet

in the hall

and sat with Phineus to eat. He ate like a man in a

dream,

astounded, baffled by the sweetness of life.

“When we'd eaten and drunk

our fill, the old man, sitting among us by the fireplace,

said:

‘Listen. I can tell you many things. Not all I know, but a good deal. I was a fool, once. I used to tell people the whole nature of the universe. Deeper and deeper I plunged into things long-hidden, until for some

strange reason

(which I understand) those Harpies came, called down

from the sky

(not “sent,” mind you:
called
—called down as surely

as if

I'd raised my hands and cried, “Harpies, snatch away

my food!”). Since then I've

learned my place, so to speak, or learned my weakness,

which is

the same: my strength. As the glutton eats till it kills

him, the visionary

sees. (My father, by the way, had a truly amazing eye for omens, though nothing like mine. But I'd rather not

speak of that.)'

He glanced past his shoulder, furtive, then smiled again

and gazed

at the flames with his chalk-white eyes. ‘I could tell you

many things,'

he said again, and smiled. His corrugate hands and

cheeks

glowed in the firelight, shining with joy of life like the

eyes

of a lover. We waited. He said, ‘I knew a man one time who suffered in a somewhat similar way. He murdered

his father

and married his mother, unwittingly. It was a classic

case.

I spoke to him many years afterward. I said, “Come,

come, Oidipus!

Surely you recognized the man you killed! Surely,

in the hindmost

corner of your mind you saw your image in his face

and remembered

his shadow between your mother's breast and you.”

The king

considered me—or considered my voice (he was

blind)—then answered,

“Doubtless, Phineus. Clearly I was fooled, one way or

another:

if not by reality, then clearly by something in myself.