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 tearsâso 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-holdsâall but Tiphysâ
and waited
for the end, the shriek of the ship breaking up. We
feltânothing!
no change, the great wave rolling on south, and behind
it the river
calm, as quiet as a pool. âWhat happened?' I yelled
at Tiphys.
Our hearts were pounding like sledges. He said he had
no idea.
âImpossible!' I said. âYou 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. âPerhaps some god,'
he said,
pushing his long yellow hair back. âMaybe 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 intuitionâor so men saidâas 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 bedânone saw it but one
aged ravenâ
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 trembledâage and weaknessâ
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 thenâhorrible!âthe creature we'd taken to be
dead for days,
rotting on the road, moved his hand a littleâa 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: âArgonauts, welcome! You've come to
my rescue at last!'
He moved his tongue around his mouth, then wiped his
hand, spitting dust
and blood. âFrom 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. âO 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. âI'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 fatedâlike everything: endlessly, drearily, stupidly,
cruelly
fatedâI'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: âBelieve 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 Aisonâ' I cleared my
throat.
He stretched out his hands to stop me. âDon't ask!' he
implored. âDon'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 sightâ
an affliction bitter enough, God knowsâand not only
am I
forced to drag through the years far past man's usual
span,
aging, withering, no end in sightâbut worse than that, Harpies plague meâeaglelike 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 cloudsâdark, swifter than lightningboltsâ
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 leaveâso 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, âPoor 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 usâ' Before he could finish, the old man
cringed.
âI 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 deadâmay 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.'
   “ âVery 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 seerâthe 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 flashâthe meal had vanishedâand
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 sawâ vanished like ghosts. They nearly caught themâ
touched them, in fact.
But just as their fingers were closing on the creatures'
throats, the sky
went white, and a voice said: âStop! 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:
âListen. 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
âcalled 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. âI 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, âI 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 meâor considered my voice (he was
blind)âthen answered,
“Doubtless, Phineus. Clearly I was fooled, one way or
another:
if not by reality, then clearly by something in myself.