Jason and Medeia Read online

  like stars

  in a dark, beclouded sky. If we weren’t a match for

  Aietes,

  Keeper of the Fleece, then nobody was. As the people

  watched us

  hurrying along in our armor, one of them said—a

  wail—

  “Zeus! Pelias has lost his mind! Who’d dare to drive such men as these from Akhaia? If Aietes dares to

  refuse

  the golden fleece when they ask for it, they can send

  up his palace

  in flames the same day they land. —But the ship must

  get there first.

  I’ve heard men say there are dangers beyond what a

  god would face.’

  The women stood weeping, their hands stretched up

  in prayer to the gods

  for our safe return. There was one, an old servant that

  I knew. Her eyes

  bored into me, and she wailed of my mother with

  a harsh voice

  and a maniac look, pretending she didn’t know me.

  I stood

  like a child before her, shaken, rooted to the spot.

  “ ‘Ye gods,’

  she moaned, ‘poor Alkimede! Thank God I’ve got no son! Better for her if she’d long since gone to her lonely

  grave,

  wrapped head to foot in her winding-sheet, still ignorant of this madman’s expedition! ? that Phrixos had sunk in the dark waves where Helle died, and the

  monstrous golden

  ram still clamped in his legs! ? why was Jason—

  heartless,

  arrogant fool—not born to her dead, to spare her this? She weeps her eyes out, cries and cries in such

  black despair

  that her sobs come welling too fast for Alkimede to

  sound them. He might

  have buried his mother with his own hands—that

  much at least

  he might have stayed to do for her, having sea-dogged

  half

  his life, far out of her sight, carousing with strangers,

  fighting

  all men’s wars but his father’s, and his poor old

  mother worried

  sick! She stood as high in her time as any woman in Akhaia. But now she’s left like a servant in an

  empty house,

  widowed, pining in misery after her only son who cares no more for his mother than he would for

  a dying dog,

  care for nothing and nobody, only for Jason, apple of her eye—and apple of his own! Dear gods, I wish

  you could see

  how slyly that boy consoles her—and believes every

  word of it

  himself, as if Jason could do no wrong! “Dear mother,”

  says he,

  all piety, “do not be grieved that I leave you alone. We’re all alone, we mortals, whether we’re near to

  each other

  or far apart. Locked inside ourselves, foolishly, blindly struggling to do what’s right.” He moons out the

  window, sad

  as a priest, and she’s impressed by it. —Oh my but

  that boy

  can be pretty, when he likes! He kisses her hand and

  tells her, “Do not

  be afraid, Mother. I’m doing what the gods demand.

  The omens

  show it. We used to be rich, Mother. Now that

  we’re poor,

  we ought to have learned that nothing counts but the

  gods’ friendship.

  Let me serve them; then when you die, you’ll die in

  peace,

  whether I’m near or not. You’ve told me yourself,

  Mother,

  that all there is in the world, at last, is the war or peace of dying men and the old undying gods. The omens favor the trip. I must go.” And he kisses her cheeks.

  Ah, Jason!

  Cunning burled so deep he can’t see it himself! Omens! Did he ask his friends the augurers what omens they see for his mother? Or Pelias? Or the city? Would that the

  birdsongs sang

  his death!’

  And then she was gone; her black shawl

  vanished in the crowd.

  My throat was dry with shame. I was numb. I stood

  too stunned

  to think. If I could have summoned speech that instant,

  I might

  have called it off on the spot, to hell with the

  consequences.

  But then, from nowhere, a man appeared at my side,

  a man—

  or god, who knows?—hooded till only his beard

  peeked out.

  I thought by the mad-dog hunch of his shoulders, the

  growl in his throat,

  it was crazy Idas, Lynkeus’ brother. He touched my arm. ‘She never liked you, did she, man.’ The words

  confused me.

  I remembered the old woman’s slapping me once, and

  calling out sharply,

  another time—I was only a child, and I wasn’t to

  blame for

  whatever it was she charged me with. My mind grew

  clouded.

  “I moved in a kind of daze toward the boat, the streets of the city behind me, and I racked my brains over

  whether or not

  the woman was right. When I came down to the

  beach, my friends

  were waiting, waving. They raised a shout so loud

  the gulls

  flew higher in sudden alarm. The crew was grinning,

  their armor

  blazing like the sun at noon. They pointed, and I looked

  behind me,

  and lo and behold, Akastos himself was running toward

  me,

  Pelias’ son! He’d slipped away from the house while

  the king

  was sleeping, bound to go out with us, whether

  the old man liked

  or not. I seized my cousin in my arms and laughed,

  and we ran

  to the ship. And so I forgot what the old crone said,

  or forgot

  till later, miles from shore.

  “The wind was right, the ship

  and the Argonauts both eager to go, and the sooner

  the better.

  I stood on a barrel and waved my arms for attention.

  I shouted,

  and the Argonauts grew quiet. Three last details,’ I said. The sea-wind whipped my words away. I shouted louder. The first is this. We’re all partners in the voyage to

  Kolchis,

  the land where Aietes guards the golden fleece, and

  we’re partners

  bringing it home—we hope. So it’s up to you to choose the best man here as our leader. And let me warn you,

  choose

  with care, as if our lives depended on it. ’ When I had spoken, they turned like one man toward Herakles, where he sat in the center of the crowd, and with one

  voice they called out,

  ‘Herakles!’ But the hero scowled and shook his head, and without stirring from his seat, raising his right

  hand

  like a pillar, he said, ‘No, friends, I must refuse.

  And I must

  refuse, also, to let any other man stand up. The man who wears the pelt of a panther has shown

  good sense

  so far—Jason, Aison’s son. Let Jason lead.’

  “They clapped at his generosity and slapped my back, praising my cunning, swearing that I was the man

  for the job,

  no doubt of it! What can I say? I was flattered, excited. —But no, the thing’s more complicated. I was a boy,

  remember,

  and beloved of the goddess of will, as many things since

  have proved.

  It had never crossed my mind that the crew would

  turn like that,

  as if they’d planned it, and all choose Herakles. —An
d

  now

  when the giant handed it back to me, and led the

  clapping

  himself, grinning, white teeth flashing, his muscular

  face

  all innocence, so open and boyish that we all smiled too, what I secretly felt was jealousy, almost rage. It makes me laugh now. What a donzel I was! But ah, at the

  time,

  how my heart smarted, hearing them praise me like

  a god! He was

  their leader, whatever they pretended. And rightly, of

  course, he was better,

  as plainly superior to me as the sun to a mill wheel.

  And yet

  I resented him, and I burned like a coal at their

  feigned delight,

  their self-delusion, in choosing me. I had half a mind to quit, sulking, and crawl away to some forest and live like a hermit. Screw them all! At the same time,

  however,

  I wanted to lead them, whether or not I was worthy—

  I was,

  God knew (and I knew), ambitious. All my life I’ve hated standing in somebody’s shadow. So, with as good a grace as possible, I blinded myself to the obvious.

  I accepted. Orpheus smiled, studying his fingernails.

  “ ‘Second detail,’ I shouted, and cleared my throat—

  looking

  guilty as sin, no doubt. ‘If you do indeed trust me with this honorable charge—’ It came to me I was

  putting it on

  a trifle thick, and I hastily dropped the orbicular style. “We’ve two things left, and we may as well start on

  both of them

  at once. The first is the sacrifice to the gods—a feast to Phoibus, for warm, clear days, to Poseidon for

  gentle seas,

  and to Hera, who’s been my special friend—thanks to

  Pelias’

  scorn of her. Also an altar on the shore to Apollo, the god of embarkation. And while we’re waiting for

  the slaves

  to pick out oxen from the herd and drive them down

  to us,

  I suggest that we drag the Argo down into the water

  and haul

  our tackle on, and cast lots for the rowing benches.’ They all agreed at once and I turned, ahead of them

  all—

  to show my fitness as a leader, I suppose, or escape

  their eyes—

  and threw myself into the work. They leaped to their

  feet and followed.

  “We piled our clothes on a smooth rock ledge which

  long ago

  was scoured by seas but now stood high and dry. Then, at Argus’ suggestion, we strengthened the ship by

  girding her round

  with tough new rope, which we knotted taut on

  either side

  so her planks couldn’t spring from their bolts but would

  stand whatever force

  the sea might hurl against them. We hollowed a runway

  out,

  wide enough for the Argo’s beam, and we gouged it into the sea as far as the prow would reach, deeper and

  deeper

  as the trench advanced, below the level of her stem.

  Then we laid

  smooth rollers down, and tipped her up on the first of

  the logs.

  We swung the long oars inside out—the whole crew

  moved

  like a single man with a hundred legs—and we lashed

  the handles

  tight to the tholepins of bronze, leaving nearly a foot

  and a half

  projecting, to give us a hold. We took our places then on either side, and we dug in with our feet and put our chests to the oars. Then Tiphys, king of all

  mariners, leaped

  on board, and when he shouted, ‘Heave; we echoed

  the shout

  and heaved, putting our backs into it, pushing till

  our necks

  were swelled up like a puff-adder’s, and our thick legs

  shook

  and our groins cried out. ‘Ah!; the Argo whispered. ‘Ah!’ At the first heave we’d shifted the ship from where

  she lay,

  and we strained forward to keep her on the move.

  And move she did!

  Between two files of huffing, shouting Akhaians,

  the craft

  ran swiftly down to the sea. The rollers, ground and

  chafed

  by the mighty keel, wheezed like oxen at the ship’s

  weight

  and sent up a pall of smoke. The ship slid in and gave a cry and would have been off on her own to that

  land of promise

  if Herakles hadn’t leaped in and seized her, the rest of

  us shouting,

  straining back on the hawsers with all our might.

  She rocked,

  gentle on the tide, singing, and we watched that

  gentle roll,

  and my heart was hungry for the sea.

  “No need to tell you more.

  We piled up shingle, there on the beach, working

  together

  like one man with a hundred hands, and we made

  an altar

  of olive wood. The herdsmen came to us, driving

  the oxen

  and we hailed them, praising their choice. A few of us

  dragged the great

  square beasts to the altar, and others came with

  lustral water

  and barleycorns, and I called to Apollo, god of my

  fathers,

  as I would have called to a man I knew—that’s how

  I felt

  that morning, with the Argo singing, the men all

  watching me,

  arm in arm—I’d completely forgotten my resentment

  now;

  ‘O hear us, Lord, Great God Apollo, you that dwell in Pegaisai, in Aison’s city, you that promised to be my guide! Lord, bring our ship to Kolchis and back, and my friends all safe and sound! We’ll bring you

  countless gifts,

  some in Pytho, some in Ortygia. O, Archer King, accept the sacrifice we bring you, payment in advance

  for passage

  safe to the fleece and home! Give us good luck as

  we cast

  the ship’s cable; and send fair weather and a gentle

  breeze.’

  “I sprinkled the barleycorns in the fire, and Herakles and mighty Ankaios girded themselves for their work

  with the beasts,

  the child Ankaios, twelve feet tall, still wearing his

  bearskin.

  The first ox Herakles struck on the forehead with his

  club, and it fell

  where it stood. Dark blood came dribbling from its nose

  and mouth. The second

  Ankaios smote with his huge bronze axe—blood sprayed

  and steamed—

  and the ox pitched forward onto both its horns. The

  men around them

  slit the animals’ throats, and flayed them, chopped

  them up

  with swords, and carved the flesh. They cut off the

  sacred parts

  from the thighs and heaped them together and, after

  wrapping them

  in fat, burned them on the faggots. I poured libations

  out,

  old unmixed wine. And Idmon the seer, with Mopsos

  at his back,

  both of them wise in the ways of the gods, watching

  intently,

  smiled and nodded, agreeing as surely as two heads

  ruled

  by a single mind, for the flames were bright that

  surrounded the meat,

  and the smoke ascended in dark spirals, exactly as it

  should.

  ‘All’s well for you,’ they said, ‘though not for us all,

  and not

  without some troubles, and terr
ible dangers later.’ It was enough, God knows, for the moment. The crew was

  jubilant.

  “We finished our duties to the other gods in the

  same spirit.

  It seemed to us that they all stood around us smiling,

  unseen,

  like larger figures of ourselves, all arm in arm, as

  we were,

  some with their hands on our shoulders, sharing our

  joy. Great Zeus,

  the very sea and hills, it seemed, locked arms and

  shared

  our joy, our eagerness to go! I wouldn’t have given

  much

  that moment for the holy hermit’s life in his sullen

  woods

  or stalking the barren island conversing with gulls

  and snakes

  praying, clenching his teeth against the civilities of man!

  “Then we all cast lots for the benches, choosing our

  oars—

  or all of us but Herakles, for the whole crew said, and rightly, that a giant like that should take the midships seat, and the boy Ankaios

  beside him;

  and Tiphys, they all agreed, should be our helmsman,

  the man

  who knew when a swell was coming from miles away.

  It was settled.

  “The time of day had come when, after his midday

  rest,

  the sun begins to stretch out shadows of rocks over

  fields,

  and trees are dark at the base but bright above. We’d

  spent

  too long at our preparations. But no use fretting now. We strewed the sand with a thick covering of leaves

  and lay

  in rows, above where the surf sprawled, gray in the

  dark. We ate,

  and we drank the mellow wine the stewards had drawn

  for us

  in jugs. The men began telling stories, the way men will when things are going well and there’s no more work,

  and the wine

  has made them conscious of the way they feel toward

  friends, old times,

  and the rest. There was nobody there, you’d have

  thought, who could work up a mood

  for quarrelling. I lay a little apart from the others, looking at the sky with my hands behind my head and

  thinking,

  hardly listening to the talk. And after a while, a strange malaise came over me. All was well for me, the seers had said, but not for all of us. I thought, briefly, of my mother. I might never see her again. I wondered

  which

  of my friends would never reach home. It was a queer

  thing

  I was doing. I suddenly wondered why—and saw myself as a murderer: Herakles, laughing by the fire, huge as

  a mountain,

  beautiful Hylas looking up at him, laughing in a voice that seemed an imitation of the hero’s; Orpheus, polishing his delicate harp with hands like a lover’s …