John Gardner - Jason and Medeia

strained to catch: a rhythmic cry and the faint whisper of oars swinging. He leaned both hands on the crook of

his cane.

“More company,” he said, and braced himself. A moment

later

I saw the Argo’s silver fangs come gliding out of

darkness,

the long oars swinging like the legs of a huge, black

sea-insect,

crusted with ice. The sail was stiff. On the island

around us

the ice and dark snow reddened, as if the war had

come nearer,

riding in the black ship’s wake.

Straight in toward shore she came, the oars now lifted like wings, and as soon as the

keel-beam struck,

down leaped a man in a great brown cape that he

swirled with his arm

as if hoping to frighten the night. His icy beard and

mane

were wild, his bright eyes rolling. When he saw me he

halted and covered

his eyes with both hands, then carefully peeked through

his fingers at me.

At last, convinced that the curious sight was no

madman’s dream,

he bowed to me, then turned and tip-toed over, through

the snow,

to Oidipus. He whispered, smile flashing, “My name is

Idas,

or so men call me, and I answer to it. Why increase,

say I,

the general confusion? Which is, you may say, an

immoral opinion.”

He glanced past his shoulder to the ship, then whispered

in Oidipus’ ear:

“I deftly reply, after careful study: I burned down the

city

of Corinth, sir, in the honest opinion it belonged to a

man

who’d sorely grieved me — but found too late that the

fellow had left it

to my dear old friend, in whom I was only, at worst,

disappointed,

which is not, you’ll agree, just cause for destroying an

old friend’s town.

But what’s done is done, as Time is forever inkling at us.

And, being a reasonable man, within limits, I turned

my faltering

attention to doing him good. I must make you privy to

a secret:

He’d had it worse than I, this friend. He’d lost his lady.

A nasty business. She murdered his sons and reduced

him to tatters—

it’s the usual story. In the merry words of our old friend

Phineus,

‘Dark, unfeeling, unloving powers determine our

human

destiny.’ He was beaten hands-down, poor devil. She

made

considerable noise about oath-breaking, and believed

herself,

as well she might, since she spoke with enormous

sincerity,

which is to say, she was wild with rage. She called down

a curse,

that Jason should die in sorrow and failure, on his own

Argo —

a curse that may well be fulfilled. On our sailyard,

ravens perch,

creatures beloved of the master of life and death,

Dionysos.

Having struck, she fled to Aigeus’ kingdom in

Erekhtheus,

which now we seek. Our luck has not been the best, as

you see.

Winds play sinister games with us; familiar landmarks change in front of our eyes, outrageously cunning — no

doubt

ensorcelled by Jason’s lady. From this it infallibly

follows,

if you’ve traced all the twists of my argument, that

we’ve landed here

to gain some clue to our bearings.” He smiled, eyes slyly

narrowed,

pulling at his fingers and making the knuckles pop.

King Oidipus

with his old head bent as if looking at the ground, said

nothing for a time.

At last he said, “Let me speak with this man.” Mad Idas

bowed.

“Of course! I had hoped to suggest it myself!” He

signalled to the ship,

and a moment later Lynkeus jumped down, and after

him Jason.

They came toward us. “You must understand,” mad Idas

said,

“that my friend cannot speak. He was once the most

eloquent of orators,

but a secret he suspected for a long time, and

continually resisted,

eventually got the best of him and took up residence in his mouth. Look past his teeth and you’ll see it there,

blinking like an owl,

huddled in darkness. He’s grown more mute than Phlias,

who could answer

the anger of the world with a dance. A terrible

business.”

The blind king listened as Lynkeus and Jason approached. When they

stood before him,

he reached out to feel first Lynkeus’ features, then

Jason’s. No man

was ever more ravaged — grayed and wrinkled, hunched.

Oidipus

dropped his hand to his side again and nodded. “I see it’s broken you, this sorrow. And yet you hunt her.”

Jason

nodded, a movement almost not perceptible

even to a man with sight, but Oidipus went on, as if he too had caught it: The world is filled with curious

stirrings.

I feel all around me some change in the wind. I see

things,

here on this hyperborean island a thousand miles from home. I catch queer rumors. Remote as I am, in

this place,

from the traffic and trade of man, you’re not the first to

touch here,

though the change struggling toward life in you is the

weirdest of them all.

That much I sense already. Yet what it is your life is groping toward I’ve not yet understood. It may come. It will come, I think. I feel myself almost closing on it, though of course I may not. I set great store by my

intellect once;

thought I was wiser than all other mortals.” He laughed

to himself.

“I answered the riddle of the Sphinx — sat pondering,

wringing my fingers,

and suddenly got it, leaped up shrieking, ‘It’s a man!

A man!’

Poor idiot! I thought after that that my crafty eye could

pierce

all life’s mysteries: Set myself up as a sage, became (gloating in my prizes — the throne of Thebes, and her

beautiful queen)—

became the most foolish of kings, unwitting parody of

one

who was truly wise in Thebes, the seer Teiresias, blinded for sights forbidden — the bosom and flanks of

Athena—

as I, too, would be blinded for knowledge not lawful.

I now

hold myself in less awe.” He smiled. “I have no virtue except, perhaps, humility. ‘Know thou art a man’ the

god warns—

Apollo, strangler of snakes. And I know it. Smashed to

the ground,

to wisdom. With every hair I lose, a desire dies; with every eyelid flicker, I forget some fact.” Abruptly, remembering the cold and his guests’ discomfort, the

old man said:

“Come in my cave, good sirs. There’s a fire, and stones

for chairs.”

He led the way, tapping with his stick, and we followed

him.

He’d shielded the entrance to the cave with scraps of

wood (old crating,

the salvaged planking of ships) till it looked like the

shacks you see

by the city dump. But the glittering walls of the cave

were warm.

Idas and Lynkeus stirred the coals, found logs to add. Jason stood quiet as a boulder, white-bearded, staring.

intensely

at something deep in the fire. Then all but Oidipus sat

down.

I sat in the shadow of the others and reached out

timidly for heat.

Oidipus tipped down his head, both hands on his cane,

his forehead

furrowed like a field. “That was not the least of visits when Theseus came with his Amazon, after his cruel

betrayal

of the beautiful Ariadne, whom Theseus swore he’d

praise

forever. He felt no remorse at that. All the world

betrays.

The fibers binding the oak together or the towering

plane tree

sever, sooner or later; or a life-giving storm from Zeus turns to an enemy and tears up the tree by its roots. In