Jason and Medeia (15 page)

with the hope

of raising Idmon against him and cutting him down.

I leaped

to my feet—and so did the others—yelling, Herakles

in rage,

my cousin Akastos shocked and grieved. Mad Idas' mind was gone from behind his eyes leaving nothing but

smoke, dull fire,

the look in the eyes of a snake before it strikes.

“Then something

happened. We hardly knew, at first, what it was we

heard,

but the night grew strangely peaceful, as if some

goddess had touched

the sea, the fire, the trees, with an infinitely gentle hand and soothed them, made them sweet. Orpheus stroked

his harp,

singing as if to himself, ears cocked to the sea and stars, half smiling, like a man in a dream. Then Idas was

calm, and recovered,

and the evil spirit left him.

“He sang of the age when the earth

and sky were knit together in a single mold, and how

they were

sundered, ripped from each other by terrible strife, how

mountains

rose from the ground like teeth. And then, in terror

at what

they'd done, and what might follow, they paused and

trembled. Then stars

appeared, sent out by the gods to move as sentinels, and streams appeared on the mountainsides, and

murmuring nymphs

to whisper and lull the earth back into its sleep. He told how, out of the sea, the old four-legged creatures came, a sacrifice gift from the deeps to the growling shore,

and birds

were formed of the earth as a peace-offering to the sky.

Then dragons,

cursed race still angry, challenged the gods. King Zeus was still a child at play in his Dictaian cave. They

roamed

the earth, terrifying lesser beasts, alarming even the gods, an army of serpents who threatened all who'd

warred

in the former age—the earth and sea and sky, the

roaming

mountains, stalkers in the night. But then the Cyclopes

borne

of earth, for love of Hera, earth's majestic mother, fortified Zeus with the thunderbolt. Then Zeus ruled all, great god of peace. And all the earth and the arching

sky

shone calm and bright as a wedding dress. And the

wisdom of Zeus

was satisfied. The craftsman of the gods invented

flowers

and green fields, and the world became as one again.

“So Orpheus sang, but how he ended none of us could

say.

We slept. The sea lapped gently, near our feet. And thus the first night passed, quiet as the legend he sang to us.

“When radiant dawn with her bright eyes gazed at the

towering crags

of Pelion, and the headlands washed by wind-driven seas stood sharp and clear, Tiphys aroused us, and quickly

we shook off

sleep and gulped our breakfast down and ran to the

waiting

ship. The
Argo
growled at us, from her magic beams, impatient to sail. We leaped aboard and followed in file to our rowing benches. Then, all in order, our gear

beside us,

we hauled the hawsers in and poured libations out to the sea. Then Herakles settled amidships, cramped

for space,

huge Ankaios beside him. The ship's keel, underfoot, sank low in the water, accepting their weight. I gave

the signal.

My eyes welled up with tears I scarcely understood

myself,

snatching a last quick look at home, and then our oars, spoonshaped, pointed like spearheads—Argus' sly

design—

dug in, in time with Orpheus' lyre like dancers' feet. The smooth, bright blades were swallowed by the waves,

and on either side,

the dark green saltwater broke into foam, seething in

anger

at our powerful strokes. The ship lunged forward, riding

the roll

that came to us, swell on swell, out of landless distances. Our armor glittered in the sunshine bright as fire;

behind

our stern, our wake lay clear as a white stone path on

a field,

or clear except … I forget. Some curious after-image, memory or vision, obscurely ominous. … Never mind.

“All the high gods, it seemed to us, were looking down from heaven that day, observing the
Argo,
applauding

us on;

and from the mountain heights the nymphs of Pelion

admired our ship,

Athena's work, and sighed at the beauty of the

Argonauts swinging

their oars. The centaur Kheiron came down from the

high ground—

he who had been, since my father's death, my friend

and tutor.

Rushing to the sea, and wading out in the gray-green

surf,

he waved again and again with his two huge hands.

His wife

came down with Akhilles, Peleus' son, on her arm and

held him

for his father to see. “Now there's the man to row

for us!'

Telamon yelled, Peleus' brother, and Peleus beamed.

“Till we left the harbor with its curving shores behind

us, the ship

was in Tiphys' hands, swerving like a bird past sunken

rocks

as his polished steering-oar bid. When the harbor

receded, we stept

the tall oak mast in its box and fixed it with forestays,

taut

on either bow. We hauled the sail to the mast-head,

snapped

the knots, unfurled it. Shrill wind filled it out. We made the halyards fast on deck, each wrapped on its wooden

pin,

and thus we sailed at our ease past the long Tesaian

headland.

Orpheus sang. A song of highborn Artemis, saver of ships, guardian of the peaks that lined that sea. As

he sang,

fish of all shapes and kinds came over the water and

gambolled

in our wake like sheep going home to the shepherd's

pipe. The wind

freshened as the day wore on, and carried the
Argo,

swift

and yare as a wide-winged gull.

“The Pelasgian land

grew dim, faded out of view; then, gliding on, we passed the stern rock flanks of Pelion. Sepias disappeared, and sea-girt Skiathos hove in sight. Then, far away, we saw Peiresiai, and under the cloudless blue, the mainland coast of Magnesia, and Dolops' tomb.

And then

the thick wind veered against us. We beached our ship

in the dark,

the sea running high, and there we stayed three days.

At the end

of the third, when the wind was right again, we hoisted

sail.

We ran past Meliboia, keeping its stormy rocks to leeward, and when dawn's bright eyes shone, we saw

the slopes

of Homole slanting to the sea close by. We skirted

around it

and passed the mouth of the Amyros, and passed, soon

after,

the sacred ravines of Ossa and then Olympos. Then,

running

all night long before the wind, we made it to Pallene,

where

the hills rise up from Kanastra. On we sailed, through

the dawn,

and old Mount Athos rose before us, Athos in Thrace, whose peak soars up so high it throws its shadow over Lemnos, clear up to Myrine. We had a stiff breeze all that day and through the night; the
Argo's
sail was

stretched.

But then with dawn's first glance there came a calm.

It was

our backs that carried us in, heaving at the oars—

carried us,

grinning like innocent fools, to the first of our

troubles—Lemnos,

bleaker, more rugged than we thought, a place where

murdered men,

ghosts howling on the rocks …”

Abruptly, Jason paused,

the beautiful gray-eyed goddess whispering in his ear.

He frowned

and looked around him like a man Just startled out of

sleep. The sky

was gray, outside the windows of Kreon's hall. The king sat leaning on his hands, eyes vague, as if still listening though Jason's voice had stopped. At the tables, some

were asleep,

some leaned forward like children seated at an old

man's knee,

half hearing his words, half dreaming. Pyripta glanced

at Jason

shyly, sleepy, but waiting in spite of her weariness. Then Jason laughed, a peal that startled us all. “Good

gods!

I've talked the night away! You're mad to endure it!”

The old king

straightened. “No no! Keep going!” But then he blushed.

He knew

himself that his words were absurd, even when others,

at the tables,

echoed the request. At the king's elbow, Ipnolebes spoke, beloved old slave in black, his beard snow-white.

He said:

“Good Kreon—if I might suggest it—it's true that it's

late, as Jason

says. But it seems to me that you might persuade our

friend

to sleep with us here—we have rooms enough, and

servants sufficient

to tend to the needs of one more man. And then, when

Jason—

and all of us—are refreshed, he could tell us more.”

The king

stood up, nodding his pleasure. “Excellent!” he said.

“Dear Jason,

I insist! Stay with us the night!” The hall assented,

clapping,

even fat Koprophoros, for politeness, though it spiked his spleen that Jason should steal the light

from him,

slyly rebuke him with an endless, cunning tale. (But do

not think from this

the Asian was easily overcome. His outrage was play, we'd all soon learn. He knew pretty well what his power

was,

and knew what the limit would be for Aison's son.)

—Nor was he

alone in seeming distressed. Stern King Paidoboron, beard dyed blacker than a raven's wings, scowled

angrily;

Jason had struck him from the shadows, cunning and

unjust, light-footed,

a thousand times. He'd slashed deep, by metaphors, casual asides too quick for a man to expose,
so
that Paidoboron's message was poisoned, at least for now.

Nor would

his chance to reply come soon. Gray-eyed Athena's words in Jason's ear had shown him a stratagem for keeping

the floor,

and even now old Kreon was begging him to stay.

But Jason

raised his hand, refusing. He was needed at home, he

said;

and nothing Kreon could say would change his mind.

At last

he allowed this much: he'd return the following

afternoon

and tell the rest—since his noble friends insisted on it. And so it was agreed. Then hurriedly Jason left his

chair

and went to the door, only pausing, on his way, for a

dozen greetings

to friends not seen in years.

By chance—so it seemed to me,

but nothing in all this dream was chance—the slave

who brought

his cloak was the Northerner, Amekhenos. He draped

the cloak

on Jason's powerful shoulders without a word, head

bowed,

and as Jason moved away, the young man said, “Good

night.”

Jason paused, frowned as if listening to the voice in

his mind,

then turned to glance at the slave. He studied the young

man's features,

frowning still, his fist just touching his chin: pale hair, a Kumry mouth that could laugh in an instant, perhaps

in an instant more, forget;

shoulders of a prince, and the round, red face of a Kelt, and the dangerous, quiet eyes… But the

memory

nagging his mind—so it seemed to me—refused to

come,

and the slave, his eyes level with Jason's, as though he

were

no slave, but a fellow king, would give no help. At last Jason dismissed it, and left. But in front of his house

(it was morning,

birdsongs filling the brightening sky), he paused and

frowned

again, studying the cobblestones under his feet, and

again

the memory, connection, resemblance, whatever it was,

would not

come clear.

The dark house rising above the vine-hung, crumbling outer walls, the huge old trees, seemed still asleep, hushed in the yellowing light as an ancient sepulchre. The feeble lamp still burned at the door. The old male

slave,

a Negro stooped and gentle, with steadily averted eyes, lifted the hooks at the door to let him in, and took his scarlet cloak. Jason walked on to the central room which opened onto the garden. His gaze hit the fleece

at once—

or he heard it, felt it with the back of his neck before

he saw it—

and it seemed to me that the words of the seer had

returned to him

like a shock:
You may see more than you wish of that

golden fleece.

He crossed to it quickly and kneeled to touch it, then

drew back his hand,

snatched it away like a man burned. And then, more

gently,

thinking something I couldn't guess, he touched it again. Did the fleece have for him, I wondered, the meaning

it had for Medeia?—

love sign, proof that despite the shifting, deceiving mists of their lives together, he knew her worth—understood

her childlike

needs as well as he understood, I knew from his tale, his own? He raised it in his hands and went over to

stand with it

by the fireplace. There was no fire, but the wood was

piled

in its bin; the lamp stood waiting. With a jolt, I

understood.

He meant to destroy the thing, outflank his destiny. The same instant, I felt Medeia's presence with us. She stood at the door, in white. In panic, I searched

her face