you, we're
not much. We've sent our thousands, you and I, to
the cave
to wait for us. It hardly matters how long they wring their shadowy hands and watch. Choose what you will.'
The Amazon
laughed. âNothing of my virgin beauty? Nothing, O king, of my fierce pride, my loyalty? Nothing of how, in the
hall,
passing the golden bowl, my great robes trailing, I
might
adorn your royal magnificence?âNothing of my breasts,
my thighs?'
Theseus sighed. âI'd serve you better than you think.
I have seen
dead womenâshadowy thighs, sweet breastsâgoing out
and away
like a sea.'
“Then, more than by all his talk of Briareos
and the rest, the queen was moved. She said: âYou do
not fear
I'll kill you, then, in your bed?' Old Theseus touched
her chin,
tipped up her face. âI fear that, yes.' And so he left her, and so the war was resolved; she became his queen.
The two
became one creature, a higher organism with meanings
of its own,
groping upward to a troubled kind of sanctity. (All that was later. We knew, at the time the old men told the
tale
of Herakles, nothing of Theseus' later gains.) I saw, whatever the others saw, one more clear proof of the
beauty
of cool, tyrannical indifference, and the comic stupidity of Herakles' simpering charity, girlish fright. The future lies, I thought, not with Herakles, howling in the night
for love
of a boyâmuch less with such boys themselves, sweet
scented, lost.
The future lies with the sons of the
Argo's
officers, rowing in furious haste past peace, past every peace, searching out war's shrill storm of conflicting wills.
“We struck
and plundered, then fled that Amazon land, moved on
to the shores
of the Khalybes, that dreary race that plants no corn, no fruit, never tames an ox. They dig in search of iron, darken the skies with soot. They see no sun or moon, and know no rest. From a mile offshore you can hear
their coughing,
dry as a valley of goats. We took on water and left in haste. We'd seen too much, of late, of death. Yet they were men like ourselves, we knew by the eyes in their
smudged faces,
blacker than Ethiopians'. Surely they had not meant to evolve into this! âBut we had no heart to pity or ponder that. Ghost ships passed us. Vast, dark dreams, troubles in the smoky night. Sometimes the strangers
hailed us,
called out questions in a foreign tongue. We bent to
the oars,
pushed on. And so we eluded them.
“We passed the land
of the Tibareni, where men go to bed for their wives in
their time
of labor. He lies there groaning, with his quop of a head
wrapped up,
and his good wife lovingly feeds him, prepares a bath.
We passed
the land of the Mossynoeki, where the people make love in the streets, like swine in the trough; oh, they were a
pretty race,
as gentle as calves. When Orpheus sang to them of
shame, remorse,
of beasts and men, they smiled, blue-eyed, and
applauded his song.
We were baffled; finally amused. We kissed them,
women and men,
and left. Let the gods improve them. And so to the
island of Ares,
where the war god's birds attacked us. We soon
outwitted them.
   “That night old Argus sat on the ground, by the
firelight,
studying the wing of a bird, one of those we'd killed.
His eyes
were slits. âStill learning?' I said. The old man smiled
and nodded.
âSecrets of Time and Space,' he said. The gods are
patient.'
I waited. He said no more. His delicate fingers spread the pinions, brighter than silver and gold in that
flickering light.
The bird's head flopped on its golden neck, beak open,
bright
eyes wide. They had seen the god himself. Now nothing.
I said:
âIt's old, this creature?' Argus nodded. âOld as the
world is.
Older than the whole long history of man from Jason
down
to the last pale creature crawling in poisonous slime
to his loveless
lair, the cave of his carnage.' I stared at him, alarmed.
âExplain.'
Old Argus smiled, looked weary, and made a pass
with his hand.
âThere are no explanations, only structures,' he said. âA structured clutter of adventures, encounters with
monsters, kings â¦'
He gazed toward sea, toward darkness. The mind of
manâ' he said,
then paused. The thought had escaped him. In the
lapping water, the
Argo
sighed. You
are caught in irrelevant forms.
So I'd heard,
in my dream.
Caught,
the black ship whispered. I would make the best
of it.
Tiphys was dead, our pilot, and Idmon, younger of the
seers.
We were left to the steering of a boy, the visions of a
half-cracked witch.
We were better off, could be. We knew where we stood.
“There came
a storm, sudden, from nowhere. We cowered in the
trees. Mad Idas
whispered, âGo to it! Show your violence, Zeus! We're
learning!
“Submit and obey,” says the wind, “for I am a wind
from Zeus,
Great Father who beats my head and batters my ass as I whip yours. Submit and obey! Look upward with
cringing devotion
to me just as I do to Zeus, for I am better. Do I not shake your beard? Crack treelimbs over your head?
Sing praise
of Boreas!” ' Idas' moustache foamed like the sea, and
his eyes
Jerked more wildly than the branches whipping in the
gale. His brother,
staring out into darkness, made no attempt to hush him. âWe're learning, still learning,' mad Idas howled. He
got up on his knees,
and the gale shot wildly through his robes, sent him out
like a flag. âAs you
whip us, great Boreas, we the lords of the
Argo
will whip Aietes' menâcornhole the king and his counsellors, fuck great ladies! So much for kindness, the hope of the cow!
So much
for equality, soft, nonsensical, sweetness of the
whimsical tit!
We're learning!' At a sudden gust, he fell headlong.
Lynkeus reached out
and touched him, without expression. The fierce wind
whistled in our ears.
Orpheus was silent, daunted. If Idas was wrong, it was
not for
Orpheus to say: he was an instrument, merely: a harp
to the fingers
of the gods. (And I was by no means sure he was
wrong.)
“Then came
dawn's eyes, and we looked out to sea and we saw, to the
east and west,
black wreckage. And we saw a beam in the harbor,
rising and falling,
and men. As they came toward land, we stripped and
went out to them
to help. We drew them to the sandy shore. Four men,
half drowned,
clinging to the splintered beam with fingers stiffened
into claws.
We laid them down by the fire and fed them. Soon as
they could speak,
we asked their race. The sons of Phrixos, they said.
(We were not
surprised. We'd heard from Phineus how we'd meet
with them,
and all their troubles before.) They came from Kolchis,
kingdom
of Aietes, where exiled Phrixos lived. You know the
story:
   “The king of the Orkhomenians had two wives. By the first, he had two sons, Phrixos and Helle. When
the first wife
died, and he married the second, that cruel and jealous
woman
twisted an old, murky oracle and suggested to the king that Phrixos be given in sacrifice for the pleasure of
Zeus.
The king agreed, but Phrixos escaped with his brother,
flying
on a monstrous ram of gold which the great god
Hermes sent.
Above the Hellespont, Helle fell off and was lost. The
huge ram
turned his head, encouraging Phrixos on, and so they came at last to Kolchis, and there, on the ram's
advice,
Phrixos gave up the ram in sacrifice to Zeus, and gave the fleece to Aietes, the king, in return for his eldest
daughter.
Now the four sons had abandoned Aietes' city to return to their father's homeland, city of the Orkhomenians, intending to claim their rights. But Zeus, to show his
power,
stirred Boreas up from his sleep and ordered pursuit of
them.
The North Wind had softly blown all day through the
topmost branches
of the mountain trees and scarcely disturbed a leaf; but
then
when nightfall came, he fell on the sea with tremendous
force
and raised up angry billows with his shrieking blasts. A
dark mist
blanketed the sky; no star pierced through. The sons of
Phrixos,
quaking and drenched, were hurled along at the mercy
of the waves,
spinning like a top at each sudden gust and flaw. The
dark wind
tore off the sailsheets, split the hull at the keel. They
caught hold
of a beam, the last of the firmly bolted timbers that
scattered
like birds alarmed in the night as the ship broke up.
Black wind
and waves were pushing them to shore when a sudden
rainstorm burst.
It lashed the sea, the island, and the mainland opposite. They gave up hope, passed out, still clinging to the
beam. So we
discovered them, close to the shore, some whimsical
gift or tease
from the gods.
“ âWhoever you are,' the sons of Phrixos said, â
we beg you by Zeus to provide us help in our need.
We are men
on a mission we cannot abandon, not even now,
stripped bare,
weakened, ridiculed by winds. We have sworn a solemn
vow
to our father, the hour of his death, that we will
redeem his throne
and wealth. No easy adventure, beaten as we are, pushed
past
despair. Yet the vow's been made, and we will fulfill it
if we can.'
“I glanced at my crew. It seemed they hardly
understood what wealth
the sea had sent. No need of a Tiphys or an Idmon now! We had, right here in our hands, men born and bred in
the east,
sailors who knew these streams as we knew the Pegasai, and they knew the kingdom of Aietesâno doubt had
friends among
that barbarous race. We could use these poor drowned
rats! I seized
the hands of the man who spoke for them, youngest of
the brothers, Melas.
âKinsman!' I said, and laughed. I turned to the others.
“You
who beg us for strangers' help are long lost kinsmen,
for I
am Jason, son of Aison, son of Dionysos, Lord of the Underworld. Your famous father and my own
father
were cousins, and I have sailed with these friends for
no other cause
than to seek you out and return you safe to your
homeland, with all
the chattel and goods you may rightfully claim as your
own. Of all that
more in a while. For now, let us dress you and arm you,
and offer
a sacrifice, as is right, to the god of this island.' The crew brought clothes, the finest we had, and heirloom swords,
and we built
an altar and made a great sacrifice of sheep. When that was done and we'd feasted our fill, I spoke to them
again, framed words
to suit their needs and mine, and to please the
Argonauts,
indeed, to please even Orpheus, if possible.
“ âZeus is most truly the all-seeing god! Sooner or later
we god-fearing men that uphold the right must come to
his attention.
See how he rescued your father Phrixos from a heartless
woman,
his cruel step-mother, and made him a wealthy man
besides.
And see how he saved you yourselves, preserved you in
the deadly storm
and brought you directly to those who have come here
in search of you!
And finally this: see how he's armed you, not only with
swords
but with fighting companions, the mightiest fighters now
livingâAkastos,
my cousin, and Phlias, my father's half-brother (don't
mind those staring
eyes: he has no mind; a dancer)âand Orpheus, king of all harpers, and Mopsos, king of all seers, and
Argus,
famous artificerâ' Thus I named them all, and praised
them,
praising the god. They listened smiling, heads bowed.
I said:
The sacred vow you have sworn to your dying father
gives all
this crew, I think, new purpose. For it cannot be hidden,
I think,
loath though I am to speak of itâthat we've suffered
great losses,
sorrows and pains that have checked us, nearly
overcome us. Your vowâ'
I paused, as if undecided. âOn board our ship you can
travel
eastward or westward, whichever you choose. Either to
the city
Aietes rules, or home to your dear Orkhomenos. You'll
need
no stronger craft, your own smashed to bits by the
angry sea,
never having come, if I remember, even to the Clashing
Rocks,
those doors no ship but the
Argo
has ever passed.' I