John Gardner - Jason and Medeia

“And after the two great brothers,

from Attica came Butes, son of Teleon, and Phalerus, famous for their deadly spears. (Theseus, finest of the Attic line, was out of business. He’d gone with Peirithoös into the Underworld, and was kept

there, chained,

a prisoner deep in the earth.)

‘Then out of the Thespian town

of Siphai, Tiphys came. He was a mariner who could sense the coming of a swell across the open

sea

and knew by the sun and stars when storms were

brewing, six

weeks off. Athena herself had sent him to join us — she who’d supervised the building of our ship.

“Then Phlias

came, Dionysos’ son, who lived by the springs of

Asopos—

child of the black-robed god who was my father’s father. Phlias was a dancer, a tiger in battle. He never learned

speech.

“From Argos came Talaos and Areion, and powerful

Leodokos.

“Then came Herakles. He’d heard a rumor of the

expedition

when he’d just arrived from Arcadia. It was the famous

time

when he carried on his back — alive and thrashing—

the monstrous boar

that fed in the thickets of Lampeia. As soon as Herakles

heard it,

he threw down the boar, tied up its feet, and left it

squealing—

loud as a hurricane — blocking the gates of the great

market

at Mykenai. His squire, Hylas, that beautiful boy whom Herakles loved like a son — or like a god — came

with him,

serving as keeper of the bow. He was like a breeze,

like rain.

You see them sometimes, boys like Hylas, and you

pause, as if

snatched out of Time, stunned for an instant. It’s as

if you’ve come

suddenly, turning a familiar corner, to a world more

calm,

more innocent than ours, and there at the door of it, a deity, childlike, all-forgiving; you find yourself thrilled to what’s best in yourself, a spring not yet

corrupt,

and as religion wells in your chest — a strange humility — something else sweeps in, a curious sorrow, deep, mysterious despair. Such gentleness, such trust, such beauty of eyes and limbs … It was as if I knew

even then,

the instant I saw him, that something terrible awaited

him,

patient as a wolf, and knew that after the beautiful boy was gone, strange things would happen to us—

smoke-black darkness,

murderous winds, waves that ground at our ship like

monstrous

teeth … Impossible to say what I mean. He was like

a sign

of the best possible in nature, and his very goodness

made him …

“But enough. Let me think who else there was.

“There was Idmon the seer.

Of all the heroes of Argos, Idmon was the last to come. Like Mopsos, he knew by his own birdlore that for him

the trip

meant death; yet the poor devil came, for his reputation’s

sake.

A coward’s coward, I used to call him. He was terrified at the very idea that he ever might fly in terror.

“From Sparta

Aitolian Leda sent us the mighty Polydeukes, king of all boxers, and Kastor, master of the racing

horse.

She’d borne them as twins in Tyndareos’ palace, and

loved them so well

she swallowed her fear like bitter wine and allowed

them to go

as they wished. No wonder Zeus had loved her, a girl

like that,

and planted in Leda’s womb the most beautiful woman

on earth!

“From Arene the sons of Aphareos came, Lynkeus

and Idas.

They were both brave men and as powerful as bulls—

yet I hesitated

before I’d take them on board. Idas was crazy. He talked pure gibberish at times, and foamed at the mouth.

When sane,

he was quarrelsome, insolent, a chip on his shoulder

as big as a tree.

But Lynkeus wouldn’t have joined without him; and

Lynkeus had

the finest eyesight in the world. As easily as you and I see distant eagles, Lynkeus could see things

underground.

Yet Idas’ vision was keener still, I learned in the end. His beads were of human bone, and his cheek bore

lion scars,

and scorning, shaming, mocking was all he loved; yet

he was not

mad, exactly. Like leopards they watched the world,

those brothers,

though Idas fooled you. The man had the eyes of a

sleeping dragon.

“From Arcadia, Kepheus and Amphidamas came, two

sons of Aleos,

and their older brother Lykourgos sent us his

twelve-foot boy

Ankaios. He had to stay home, himself, to care for

his aging

father — a testy, sly old devil, as we saw for ourselves. The old man didn’t approve of allowing a boy so young to sail with us, whatever his size, and when argument

failed

to sway Ankaios’ father, old Aleos chewed his gums and schemed. Ankaios arrived at the ship in a bearskin,

waving

a two-edged axe in his right hand. His grandfather’d

hidden

his equipment in a corner of the bam, still hoping to

the very last

he’d keep his baby home.

“Augeias also came,

whose father was the sun; and Asterios and Amphion, from Pelles’ city on the cliffs. And Euphemos followed

them,

the fastest runner in the world — the boy Europa,

daughter

of Tityos, bore to Poseidon. He was a man who could run on the rolling waters of the sea so fast his invisible feet weren’t wet by it. — But Zetes and Kalais were faster

in the sky,

the two sons of the North Wind, whom Oreithyia bore to Boreas in the wintry borderland of Thrace. He’d

brought her

from Attica. She was whirling in the dance on the banks

of the Ilissos

when he snatched her from earth and carried her away

to Sarpedon’s Rock,

near the flowing waters of Erginos, where he wrapped

her up

in a dark cloud and raped her. It was an astounding

thing

to watch those sons of hers soar up into the sky,

the sea-blue

eagles’ road! The wings on each side of their ankles

whirred

and spangles of gold burst through like sparks from

the dusky feathers,

and they shot away. Their black locks whipped on their

shoulders and backs,

but their faces were steady as arrowheads in flight.

“The last

we took with us was Argus, gentle old craftsman, sly as Daidalos — but older, richer in ancient lore— a man who remembered secrets most of the gods

had long

forgotten. He was no fighter. In time of war he’d sit bent over, with his lips drawn tight, his blue eyes

violent,

alarmed, as though he’d pierced the forms of the ships

we’d burned,

the white bodies of the dead — had pierced the shapes

of our destruction,

and saw, beyond them, nothing. And yet he forgave

our work,

when breezes had cleaned the air of the stink and smoke,

and we’d laid

the dead away. Old Argus didn’t much care for us, destroyers of filigreed halls and high-prowed ships,

wasters

of goldsmiths’ work, despoilers of cities, the works of

mind.

There were times when that gentle scorn of his — a

sneer, almost—

inclined us to smash his head for him. But we couldn’t,

of course.

We needed him — needed his art, if not that calcifying smile. And Argus came, whatever his distaste, to guard his masterpiece — to guard, perhaps, whatever work he could. And because he was curious. Not death itself would have given the old man pause if he thought he

could learn from it.

For all his nobility of mind he was a man consumed by need to know, need to reduce the universe to facts.

“Such was my crew, or anyway the best of it;

all men of genius, sons of the immortal gods.