Jason and the Argonauts (2 page)

“I desire you to make his acquaintance,” said Hades.

“I take it he is someone you dislike?”

“Someone I loathe. Very young, but growing into a first-class troublemaker.”

“How can a puny mortal trouble
you,
Lord of Darkness?”

“It has been foretold that he shall father a child who shall possess an uncanny talent for healing, thus depriving me of my rightful quota of corpses.”

“You can’t always believe these things. Prophets are gloomy by nature; maybe it won’t happen.”

“The warning cannot be doubted. It is written on the Scroll.”

What he meant was this: every so often, those twisted sisters called the Fates, whom even the gods fear, would dip their claws into starlight and scrawl their decrees upon a great scroll. Night blue was the Scroll; it hung from a place in the heavens beyond man’s sight and was written upon in letters of fire. Once every several years the gods were summoned to read the Scroll and to consider how to use their divine powers within these laws.

“On the Scroll were the dreadful words written,” said Hades. “I must neither doubt them nor ignore them. And, indeed, this accursed young prince has himself displayed dangerous healing power, only on animals so far, but the tendency is there. Just this year he was able to stop a cattle plague, which has made him beloved among the herdsmen of Cythera. So, my nephew, it falls upon us to overturn this prophecy.”

“How can you alter a decree of the Fates?” asked Ares. “As it is written, so must it be.”

“The way the sentence reads, I have room to maneuver,” said Hades. “It says, ‘If this youth becomes a man and fathers a child, that child shall be a great healer.’ It is my intention to cut his career short before he becomes a father.”

“Did he really cleanse cattle of the plague?” asked Ares, who owned vast herds.

“He did. And the people dubbed him ‘Jason’ which in their dialect means ‘healer.’ I’d like him killed. Will you do it?”

“Forgive me, good Uncle. But my game bag is overfull, and I hesitate to break the law.”

“You should know more about this young man. He is of the type of Adonis.”

“What do you mean?” whispered Ares.

“Slender, ivory-limbed, gray-eyed—the type that Aphrodite favors. In fact, knowing him in danger, she has set a Thessalian witch to hover over the island, keeping ceaseless vigil.”

At the very sound of the name Adonis, Ares had begun to swell with rage. His neck and face went dusky red, his teeth shone, his eyes bulged. He looked like a wild boar. And indeed it was in the shape of a wild boar that he had attacked young Adonis some years before and trampled him into bloody rags. Since that time, no one had dared approach Aphrodite.

“Favors him, does she?” he panted. “And does she visit the island?”

“Not yet,” said Hades. “I fancy she considers him too young. But she must have plans in that direction, or why would she employ a witch to watch over him?”

“Yes-ss, Aphrodite always has a reason for what she does, and it’s always the same. Too young, is he? Well, I’ll see that he doesn’t get any older.”

“Good … good.”

“How about that witch? She can’t stop me, but she can raise an alarm.”

“She won’t see you. She’ll be busy.” Hades then put his lips to Ares’ ear, and whispered.

Ares bellowed with laughter. “That should hold the old bag!”

“Good hunting.”

“I’ll bring you his head.”

A
COLD WIND BLEW OVER
the slopes of Olympus. Aphrodite walked out of the garden and into the orchard. The pomegranate trees were being stripped by the wind, and the fig trees and the wild olives. But standing green among the fruit trees were fir and spruce and pine. Snow began to sift. Olympus stands in northern Thessaly; it is capped by snow from autumn till spring. It was autumn now. She was barefoot, clad in a blue tunic. Her throat was bare, and her shoulders and her long white arms.

A bright yell split the air—Hermes’ herald call. He flashed like a blade, catching all the dull light. She watched as he fell toward her, his face drinking light.

He saw her among trees in the cold green dusk, growing taller and taller as he coasted down steeps of air into the clean smell of pine. He came to her. He saw snow melting about her feet and roses springing where she stood.

“You sent for me, O beautiful one?”

“I need your help.”

“Queen of the Night, whatever is in my power I shall perform.”

“I have chosen again among mortals.”

“Let me guess the rest. You want my assistance in defending him against the jealous gods.”

“He is startlingly like Adonis. Not surprising: he is also descended from Io.”

“Therefore, perhaps, one of my own descendants,” murmured Hermes.

“Quite possibly, dear friend. He is Jason, exiled prince of Iolcus, dwelling now upon the island of Cythera.”

“Does Ares know about him?”

“I don’t see how he could. I don’t visit the island. Not yet.”

“Well, if Ares doesn’t know …”

“In that brawling bully, jealousy becomes insight. He has an uncanny way of sniffing out my favorites. But I shall not permit Jason to meet the doom of Adonis.”

“And what do you expect me to do—go to battle with the god of war? Do you really think that I, the most fragile and least bellicose of the Olympians, can stop that murderous brute in the full spate of his wrath?”

“I’m not asking you to fight him. I need your wits, not your sword. As I say, I don’t know that he’s even aware of Jason’s existence, but I would like you to fly over the island. Just look things over, make sure my sentinel witch is being vigilant or see if I shall have to take stronger measures.”

“I don’t relish this chore, but I can refuse you nothing.”

“You’ll find me grateful.”

T
HE HAG HUNG IN
the air over Cythera, gathering her cloak about her until she looked like a huge black crow. She carted a leather sack in which she had sewn up a patch of fog. When she saw anyone approaching, she would swoop down to the treetops, ripping open her sack as she dived, and swiftly crisscross the island, laying a ground fog. And no one flying above could see through the rolling mist. When the danger had passed, the witch would roll up her fog and stuff it back in the bag. She was eager to serve Aphrodite, for she was a ravenously greedy old crone, and the goddess had promised an endless supply of her favorite food if she kept the boy safe.

It was roast piglet she craved. And when her tour of duty was done, Aphrodite had told her, she would be furnished with a sow out of the Olympic sty itself. These sows were magical, littering daily and supplying the delicate suckling pork that graced the gods’ own table.

Disguised as a gull, Hermes was flying over Cythera. He spotted a hunched black shape coasting along beneath him and slanted down.

Witches did not ride broomsticks then. They rode bats, rats—vultures sometimes, but these were unreliable, diving suddenly when they saw a corpse. In fact, an experienced witch could make any creature fly like a bird by rubbing it with a certain magic ointment. This witch rode a snake. It was a Libyan anaconda, twelve feet long, and as thick as the anchor cable for a Phoenician warship. It was as loyal as a dog, was tireless in flight, and ate goats.

Hermes watched the witch riding her snake. She was flying low, just skimming the treetops. Effortlessly, on gull wings, he coasted the bright slopes of air, keeping near the witch as she crisscrossed the island. She seemed to examine every bush, every tree, every shadow. Having assured himself of her industry and vigilance, Hermes angled off and flew his own course, searching for Jason—whom he had never seen.

Finally he saw a boy running along the strip of beach that divided sea from forest. The runner was naked except for a quiver of arrows. Hermes couldn’t see his face; all he saw were slender flashing legs and floating black hair. The boy moved like a blown leaf, plucking an arrow from his quiver as he ran, notching it, bending his bow, and launching the shaft—all in one swift, fluid motion, without ever breaking stride. His first arrow struck a cypress tree, the second arrow split the first one, and every arrow after that split the one that preceded it. Hermes, who had invented the bow and trained generations of demigod bowmen, had never seen archery to equal this.

It was low tide, and Hermes spotted dark shapes lurking in a tidal pool. The shapes broke water as the boy ran past, revealing themselves as two bronzed nereids with green hair. Shrieking with laughter, the lithe sea nymphs flung themselves upon the lad. The three figures tumbled upon the sand and crawled over one another like a litter of puppies. The nereids clutched at Jason, tickling him and competing to see who could kiss more of him. He tried to fend them off, but he was weak with laughter.

The witch dived, screaming. She swooped down upon the tangle, sliding toward the snake’s head and making it pivot in the air and crack its tail like a bullwhip. It flailed at the nereids, flogging them away from Jason, then following them. The witch rode astride, screaming, as the snake flew backward, lashing the nereids, who were weeping now as they fled toward the sea, their backs striping with great red weals under the live whip.

They dived into the waves. The witch rode back, cackling at Jason, who turned from her without speaking. Obviously he loathed his chaperone. The witch flew her snake along the sand, making sure the nereids would not reappear. She circled Jason a few times, who was now sitting moodily on the beach, drawing hideous witch faces on the sand with a stick. Then she flew off.

Hermes landed on the beach as gulls do and walked stiff-legged toward the boy. He stopped near and studied him. Jason lounged there, idly scratching a stick in the wet sand. One leg was curled, the other straight; his back was bent. And the angles and curves and straight planes of his body flowed into each other, harmonizing without artifice like a half-grown panther’s, like the visual equivalent of music. He raised his face and stared out to sea. His eyes were a color rarely seen, a pale pure gray, darkening now like pieces of sky as they grew stormy with thought.

“I have invented the bow, the fire stick, the pipes, and the lyre,” said Hermes to himself. “Also weights and measures, money, and astronomy. Of all my creations, though, I am proudest of this beautiful boy, my great-great-great-grandson through beloved Io. I understand Aphrodite’s madness and her fear. Such beauty is fatal to its possessor.”

Light splintered faintly in the far northern reaches of the sky. As Hermes watched, a ball of light grew there and rolled toward them, getting larger as it came. Hermes spread his gull wings and flew up to investigate. He coasted the currents of air over the island, watching. It was not a ball of fire but points of light bunching, trundling. He heard a golden bugling sound as of great stallions trumpeting.

And now he saw what was coming: Ares’ brass chariot pulled by great roan stallions across the blue meadow of the sky—wheel spokes flashing, hub-knives turning and casting sheaves of light. Ares stood tall at the reins, helmet and breastplate flashing.

“Can he be doing it so crudely?” thought Hermes. “Simply charging across the sky in full daylight to murder the boy?”

He flew higher, angling away from the island, placing himself above the path of the oncoming chariot. He saw a black smudge shooting out from behind the treetops. It was the witch on her snake, climbing to intercept the chariot.

“I shall hover here and watch her in action,” he said to himself. “I’m eager to see her lay her ground fog and watch that brass bully groping through the magic mist.”

She had climbed now to a spot just below Hermes and floated there as the chariot grew larger and larger, thundering toward her. She reached into her pouch. Then Hermes saw her head snap about as if something below had caught her attention. He looked down and saw something floating in the sea. A plume of smoke arose. Gulls swooped toward the smoke. Hermes was another gull diving.

It was a raft floating there, but weirdly freighted. It bore a platform of stones; on that platform a fire burned. Tending the flame was one of Hades’ turnspit demons, and turning on the spit was a suckling pig, its skin crackling, sending rich savors into the air that maddened the gulls.

The witch stuffed the scroll of fog back into her pouch and put her snake into a dive. She plunged toward the water, shrieking gleefully, scattering the gulls. They rose, screaming back at her in the path of her dive.

“A decoy!” thought Hermes. “This is no brute assault but a coordinated attack. They have drawn off the sentinel. Now Ares can kill Jason at his leisure.”

The roan stallions were galloping under him now, pulling the great clattering brass chariot. Ares held the reins in one huge hand and a battle-ax in the other. Master charioteer that he was, he did not dive the horses toward the island with the tremendous weight of metal behind them, but brought them down along a gentle slope of descent.

Hermes also dived, became a bolt of gray feathers, and landed on the beach before Ares arrived. Jason was gone.

“I hope he has sense enough to hide in the wood,” thought Hermes.

Ares’ chariot landed on the beach. The stallions raced along the edge of the sea, trumpeting, rejoicing to feel the earth under their hooves again. Hermes rose into the air and followed the chariot as it made a complete circuit of the island.

“Jason!” roared Ares. “Jason! Where are you, you little rat? Coward! Are you prince or slave? Do you skulk in the woods when an enemy comes? Jason … Jason … come out and fight!”

Ares dismounted. The stallions pawed the earth, tossing their manes, rolling their brilliant eyes. Ares entered the woods, shouting, “Hide yourself well! Dig your hole deep, you dog! I’ll dig you out wherever you are!”

“I’d better take a hand,” said Hermes to himself. “Jason will never withstand these taunts. He’s not hiding; I know he’s not. He is couched on a limb like a young leopard waiting to spring on Ares as he passes beneath. For I know him, know him after just one look at him, know him right down to the lining of his heart. He will not wait in ambush like a seasoned warrior. No, he will seek to engage this killer hand to hand. I shall have to intervene.”