Sjon - The Whispering Muse

And would you know it? This time the easily pleased protagonist spotted a basket of bait that had somehow rolled over and was propped up on its side in the lee of a blue-and-white-striped fishing boat, while the shark bait — consisting mainly of mares’ intestines — lay wet and inviting in the sand. Caeneus glided into the shade and began to bolt down this feast in frenzied rivalry with the other gulls (his words), and the rapture of the competitive glut was so all-consuming that Caeneus couldn’t tear himself away from the delicacies even when an unseen bird-catcher jerked a string that was buried in the sand and tied to the end of the twig propping up the basket. The swarm of gulls whirled from under the keel of the boat like a foaming wave and Caeneus felt like the luckiest dog alive to be left alone with the mares’ bowels in the darkness of the basket.

The bird-catcher soon put an end to the fun, however. He stuck his hairy human hand under the bait basket, seized the feather-soft bird’s neck he encountered there and extracted Caeneus, who realised belatedly that he had walked into a trap.

Caeneus fought viciously with the hunter, pecking at his hands with his strong yellow beak, beating his head with silver-grey wings and clawing his chest with pink, fleshless feet, but the hunter tightened his hold on his prey, whirling Caeneus around hard in the hope of breaking his neck. It was an unequal struggle. The god of heaven had granted Caeneus the power of imperviousness to weapons and fists whereas the bird-catcher was the most wretched of vagabonds: a bald, haggard, pinch-bellied, shrunken-limbed old man — and as such was bound to yield to the bird in the end. But just as the bird-catcher loosened his grip and Caeneus squirmed from his hands, their eyes met:

‘Oh no…’

Grief crushed the liver-red gull’s heart as Caeneus recognised in the tramp’s burst pupils the most splendid champion the world had ever known, the man who had commanded the most famous heroes in days of yore, he who had won the love of queens and enchantresses; yes, there the gull saw the ruins of his old captain, Jason son of Aeson.

Caeneus shrank away from this terrible revelation. He called Jason’s name, called his own name, called on Hermes to free his tongue from its fetters, but all the son of Aeson could see and hear was a herring gull squawking on a rock. Caeneus craned his neck, cocked his head back and screeched:

‘Arrk, arrk! Ga-ga-ga-ga! Arrk, arrk…’

The greybeard Jason fled down the beach and the fleet-winged Caeneus took to the air in pursuit. Although stones harmed him no more than spears or knuckles, it took energy and concentration to dodge the pebbles that Jason was throwing in his direction, and Caeneus was worn out from the fight. So he hovered at a safe height above the knock-kneed man as he ran and crawled away over the sand. But soon hunger overcame fear and Jason began to search for something else to eat; at least the crazed herring gull seemed to have stopped trying to peck him. When the decrepit hero of the seas had scraped together enough for his supper he sought somewhere safe to eat it, in peace from other vagabonds, wild dogs and rats. He found sanctuary in the fabled graveyard of ships.

Here the sea castles of yesteryear lay rotting like beached whales on the sand, their timbers brittle, ropes rotten, nails rusty, the black and red paint that had adorned them from gunwale to keel quite worn away. Jason found a place by the prow of one of the many-nailed hulks and began to gorge himself in frantic haste, with constantly darting eyes. Once the meal was over he leant against the ship’s hull, took a deep breath and sighed as happily as after a banquet of old.

At that the splendid timberwork behind him creaked as if the rotten ship were groaning.

Then he heard a voice say:

‘Jason? Is that you?’

The voice was hollow and cracked, yet so powerful that it fluttered the tramp’s white beard. With a shriek of terror Jason flung himself on all fours and peered around in search of the foe. The voice continued:

‘O Jason, have you come to take me away?’

Jason spun round on his knuckles and yelped:

‘What? Where are you? Come out if you dare!’

‘Lord, I have awaited your coming ever since we landed at the city of Iolcus, when the harbour resounded with the cheers of the welcoming multitude for thrice nine days and nights, when the precious wine overflowed my thwarts from bow to stern, when the leafy olive branch wound up my mast, when the perfume of the vestal virgins’ incense wafted over my yards and rigging — when you disembarked, never to return.’

For, you see, Caeneus and Jason were not the only members of the famous quest for the golden ram’s fleece to be present in Corinth that night. That many-nailed masterpiece, the Argo, was there as well. She it was who lay there in the ships’ graveyard, gnawed through by the teeth of time, lamenting so plaintively:

‘Take me away. Sail me out to sea, the blue sea, where Poseidon shakes his trident at bold seafarers who steer their ships through the mountainous waves as if they were thunderbolts from the hand of supreme Zeus.’

But Jason recognised neither the galley nor her voice, and it made no difference how softly she cajoled her old captain:

‘Oh, how I have missed the feel of your strong feet walking my decks…’

He merely raged in the sand like a fighting cur, and when the enemy failed to show itself he rolled over on his back and began to howl and lament — sure that madness had taken hold of him.

Caeneus, who had observed the whole scene from his vantage point in the sky, now arrived on silent wings and perched on the Argo where the bowsprit met the prow.

The weary old ship creaked:

‘Caeneus?’

‘ARRK! ARRK! ARRK!’

The gull squawked and flapped its wings as the bow timber gave way with a groan of pain and fell to the ground, crushing the man beneath.

And that was the end of Jason son of Aeson.

But Corinth was not the end of the road for the herring gull Caeneus. He flew away, bearing in his claws a splinter of wood from the bow timber, which he has used for his storytelling ever since. Feeling things had become too hot for him in the Aegean, he persisted in his flight until he came all the way north to Finnmark. There a shaman took him under his wing and turned him back into the likeness of a man.

He had stayed a long time in the land of the Lapps, and since then had always worked on Scandinavian ships, generally as mate but occasionally as a telegraphist.

So Caeneus maundered on until the early hours. I must have fallen asleep in my chair and been carried by him to my quarters. I have no memory of undressing myself — it must have been him because my clothes were not in the cupboard but lay on the desk chair, though everything was neatly folded and the shirt and jacket had been hung over the back. This is still further proof that he had been well brought up, in spite of his interminable verbal diarrhoea.

I slept until three o’clock in the afternoon.

Today is Good Friday.

Need I say more?

In an attempt to make the day of crucifixion bearable for us, Captain Alfredson ordered a more lavish spread than usual, so we would have all the ingredients for a feast, as far as circumstances allowed. As the evening progressed the guests grew merry, and the captain was not behindhand in ensuring that everyone had a thoroughly good time. People told jokes which frequently raised a smile, and many of them were well received, though others were not quite as adept at finding the words for what they wished to say, and there were those who verged on the risqué. But, on the whole, one cannot deny that the evening was most congenial.