Jason and the Argonauts (11 page)

together. Once he reached the door, his knees

buckled. He crumpled on the courtyard threshold.

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Dark dizziness enveloped him. The ground,

it seemed, was spinning, and he slipped away

into a torpor, helpless, speechless, still.

Soon as the heroes spotted him, they gathered

around in awe. After a while he sucked

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a rasp up from the bottom of his lungs

and uttered prophecy unto them:

“Hear me,

bravest of the Hellenic heroes—that is,

if you are actually the men whom Jason

leads in the
Argo
questing for the fleece

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under the orders of a ruthless king.

Yes, it is you. My mind has grasped the fact

through divination. Racked by miserable

afflictions though I am, I still shall give

Apollo son of Leto proper credit.

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By Zeus the guardian of suppliants

and sternest judge of sinful men, by Phoebus,

by Hera, too, who most of all the gods

protects your quest, I beg you, help me please!

Save an accursed man from degradation.

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Please, oh, please, do not just sail away

and with indifference leave me as I am.

Not only has a Fury dug her feet

into my eyes, not only must I drag out

old age interminably day by day,

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but, in addition to these woes, a still

more bitter evil lurks above me: Harpies

swoop down from some exotic nest of spite

and rip the food out of my mouth. I know

no way I can relieve myself of them.

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When famished for a meal, more easily

could I escape from my own mind than them,

so swiftly do they plummet through the air.

And even when they leave some scrap behind,

it breathes an odor putrid and unbearable.

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No mortal could endure approaching it,

not even if his heart were forged of iron.

But bitter, cruel necessity compels me

to stay there all the same and, while I'm there,

force it into my miserable stomach.

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An oracle holds the sons of Boreas

shall stop the Harpies' aerial thefts and, trust me,

whoever does so will be dear to me,

that is, if I am still that Phineus known

for wealth and seercraft, and if indeed

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I am my father's son, and if indeed,

when king of Thrace, I purchased Cleopatra

(the sister of you sons of Boreas)

with bridal gifts and brought her to my home.”

So spoke the son of Agenor, and deep

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compassion worked its way through all the heroes,

especially the sons of Boreas.

As soon as Zetes had repressed his tears,

he went up to the venerable man,

a man of sorrow, took his hand and said:

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“Sad old man, of all the men on Earth

not one, I swear, has suffered more than you.

Why have so many woes been heaped upon you?

Surely you must have uttered prophecies

in awful brashness to offend the gods

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and make them rage so violently against you.

Nevertheless, keen as we are to help,

the minds within us are uneasy, wondering

whether some god has truly offered us

this special honor. Here among us mortals

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gods' punishments hit all too close to home.

So, though we long to help you, we shall not

drive off the Harpies till you promise us

that we shall not incur the gods' disfavor

because of it.”

So Zetes sought assurance.

330 (254)
The old man opened up his empty orbs,

swiveled them round to him and answered,

“Hush,

my child. Don't fill your head with thoughts like those.

I call as witness Leto's son, the god

who kindly taught me the prophetic art;

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I call the dismal fate that is my lot,

to wit, this smoky cloud upon my eyes;

I call as well the Gods of Underground

(when I am dead, may they be kind to me)—

yes, in the names of all these powers, I swear

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the gods will not resent the help you give me.”

After this oath the sons of Boreas

were keen to drive the Harpies off. Straightway

the younger heroes put a feast together,

the Harpies' final meal, and Calaïs

345 (265)
and Zetes stood on either side of Phineus,

ready to snatch their weapons up as soon as

the Harpies swooped.

At just the very moment

the old man laid his hands on food, the Harpies

descended without warning from the clouds,

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like gales, like lightning, shrieking out their hunger.

The heroes shouted when they saw them coming

but, even as they shouted,
whoosh
! the creatures

had gobbled up the banquet and were gone

far, far away across the sea. The stench

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they left behind them was insufferable.

Nevertheless, the sons of Boreas

took sword in hand and flew off in pursuit.

Zeus gave them boundless speed. Without his help,

they never could have kept up since the Harpies

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had always outstripped even Zephyr's gales

both when they dived for Phineus and left him.

Imagine mastiffs on a mountainside,

pedigreed trackers, chasing goats and deer—

how,
when their muzzles near the quarry's haunches,

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their fangs can snap and snap to no avail,

that's how the brothers Calaïs and Zetes

swooped in behind the Harpies' tail feathers

and grazed them with their fingertips in vain.

They were at last quite close to catching them

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way out above the Ever-Floating Isles

and surely would have cut the fiends to pieces,

contrary to the gods' intent,
had not

swift Iris seen them, streaked out of the sky,

and halted them with these imperious terms:

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“Justice forbids you, sons of Boreas,

from touching with your swords almighty Zeus'

feathered hounds, the Harpies. But I here

do solemnly proclaim that they shall never

again return to bother Phineus.”

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She swore an oath upon the river Styx

(the gods' most firm and formidable pledge),

vowing the Harpies never in the future

would come and harry Phineus' house—

so had the Fates ordained. The brothers yielded

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before the oath and turned around to fly

back to the ship, and still today men call

the islands where they turned the Turning Isles

and not the Floating Isles (their former name).

Then Iris and the Harpies parted ways:

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the latter to Minoan Crete to find

their cage again; the former fluttering

on rapid wings back up to Mount Olympus.

The men meanwhile were scrubbing years of foulness

off the old man's hide and sacrificing

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sheep taken from the plunder of Amycus.

Once they had cooked them up, they held a banquet.

Phineus ate as well, and ravenously,

sating his lust
as people do in dreams.

When they had dined and drunk themselves to fullness,

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the heroes stayed awake all night awaiting

Zetes and Calaïs. The aged seer

sat at the hearth among them, prophesying

how they should travel to complete their quest:

“Now heed me well. The gods do not permit you

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to know in detail all that is to come,

but what they do permit I shall reveal.

You see, I made an error long ago

by rashly prophesying Zeus' plans

from start to finish. He himself insists

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humanity possess, through divination,

abridged foreknowledge, so that we are always

lacking some portion of divine intent.

When you depart from me, you will discern,

first off, the Cobalt Clashing Rocks, two headlands

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right where the estuary narrows. No one,

and I repeat, no one, has ever sailed

between them. Lacking deep bedrock to root them

into the ocean floor, they often crash

together into one, and briny spume

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boils above them, and the rugged shores

roar hoarsely. Therefore, if you are endowed

with prudent thoughts and truly fear the gods,

if you are not mere reckless adolescents

heading for a self-assured destruction,

heed my instructions now:

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Send out a dove

to fly before the ship and as an omen

test the Rocks. If it survives the flight

through them into the Pontus, all of you

no longer hold off on your outward journey

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but grip the oars solidly in your hands

and cleave that narrow stretch of sea. Survival

will then depend less on how hard you pray

than on how strong your hands are. Scorn distraction

and heave, heave all your strength into the oars—

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though, mind you, I do not forbid you prayer

before that time.

However, if the dove

dies halfway through, you may as well start sailing

for home again, since it is far, far better

to bow before god's will. No, even if

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your ship had iron planks, you couldn't then

escape a dismal fate between the Rocks.

Unlucky men, do not then disregard

my prophecy, not even if you think

the gods upon Olympus loathe me three times

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more than in fact they do—no, even if

you think they loathe me more than that—do not

defy the dove and push the
Argo
onward.

What will come to pass will come to pass.

But if you do outrun the Rocks' concussion

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and coast, unscathed,
into the Pontic Sea,

sail with the land of the Bithynians

to port and guard against the barrier reefs

until you round the swiftly flowing Rhebas

and Sable Promontory and at last

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make landfall on the Isle of Thynias.

From Thynias row out across the sea

and put in at the Mariandynian land

opposite. There a footpath switchbacks down

to Hades, and the Acherousian headland

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pierces the sky, and Acheron's white spate

shoots out of an unfathomable chasm

and flows back down by cutting through the cape.

Once you have passed this river, you will pass

the uplands of the Paphlagonians.

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Their patriarch was Enetean Pelops—

such is the blood that courses through their veins.

There, underneath the astral Bear Helica,

a headland rises steep on all sides round.

Carambis is its name. The seaward face

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projects so high that Boreas' squalls

split on its summit. You will find the Long Shore

stretching beyond it. At the farther end,

beyond a jutting cape, the river Halys

disgorges a bewilderment of froth.

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Not at all far from there, the Iris drains

its less tumultuously churning current

into the sea. Still farther on from there

a large, sharp cape projects out of the coast.

Beyond it you will find the Thermodon,

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which, after wandering across the mainland,

ends in a tranquil harbor at the base

of the Themiscyreian promontory.

Here are the steppes of Doeas, and the three

forts of the Amazons that stand upon them.

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Next you will reach those miserable wretches

the Chalybes who live upon a pinched,

illiberal soil. They are heavy drudges,

workers in iron. Tibarenians,

men rich in sheep, dwell on a plain nearby

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beneath the Genetaen cape, a site

sacred to Zeus the God of Guests and Hosts.

Next in line and neighbors to these men

the Mossynoeci dwell on woodland plains

and mountain spurs and cols. They build their homes

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from bark inside of towers made of timber,

rugged towers. They call the things ‘mossynes'

and take their name from them.

Once you have passed them,

make landfall on the barren isle nearby,

but only after using every means

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to drive off the repugnant, homicidal

birds who nest on it in countless numbers.

Here Otrera and Antiope,

two Amazonian queens, once built a shrine

in Ares' name when they were on campaign.

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Here from the unforgiving sea a boon

will come to you, a boon I dare not name.

Still, I exhort you with benign insistence

to harbor there. Why should I go too far

a second time with my prophetic art?

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Why tell you
everything from start to finish?

Beyond this island and the facing coastline

dwell the Philyres; the Macrones next,

and next in turn the multitudinous tribes

of the Becheirieans. Next in order

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dwell the Sapeires, the Byzeri, then