John Gardner - Jason and Medeia

the roll

that came to us, swell on swell, out of landless distances. Our armor glittered in the sunshine bright as fire;

behind

our stern, our wake lay clear as a white stone path on

a field,

or clear except … I forget. Some curious after-image, memory or vision, obscurely ominous. … Never mind.

“All the high gods, it seemed to us, were looking down from heaven that day, observing the Argo, applauding

us on;

and from the mountain heights the nymphs of Pelion

admired our ship,

Athena’s work, and sighed at the beauty of the

Argonauts swinging

their oars. The centaur Kheiron came down from the

high ground—

he who had been, since my father’s death, my friend

and tutor.

Rushing to the sea, and wading out in the gray-green

surf,

he waved again and again with his two huge hands.

His wife

came down with Akhilles, Peleus’ son, on her arm and

held him

for his father to see. “Now there’s the man to row

for us!’

Telamon yelled, Peleus’ brother, and Peleus beamed.

“Till we left the harbor with its curving shores behind

us, the ship

was in Tiphys’ hands, swerving like a bird past sunken

rocks

as his polished steering-oar bid. When the harbor

receded, we stept

the tall oak mast in its box and fixed it with forestays,

taut

on either bow. We hauled the sail to the mast-head,

snapped

the knots, unfurled it. Shrill wind filled it out. We made the halyards fast on deck, each wrapped on its wooden

pin,

and thus we sailed at our ease past the long Tesaian

headland.

Orpheus sang. A song of highborn Artemis, saver of ships, guardian of the peaks that lined that sea. As

he sang,

fish of all shapes and kinds came over the water and

gambolled

in our wake like sheep going home to the shepherd’s

pipe. The wind

freshened as the day wore on, and carried the Argo,

swift

and yare as a wide-winged gull.

“The Pelasgian land

grew dim, faded out of view; then, gliding on, we passed the stern rock flanks of Pelion. Sepias disappeared, and sea-girt Skiathos hove in sight. Then, far away, we saw Peiresiai, and under the cloudless blue, the mainland coast of Magnesia, and Dolops’ tomb.

And then

the thick wind veered against us. We beached our ship

in the dark,

the sea running high, and there we stayed three days.

At the end

of the third, when the wind was right again, we hoisted

sail.

We ran past Meliboia, keeping its stormy rocks to leeward, and when dawn’s bright eyes shone, we saw

the slopes

of Homole slanting to the sea close by. We skirted

around it

and passed the mouth of the Amyros, and passed, soon

after,

the sacred ravines of Ossa and then Olympos. Then,

running

all night long before the wind, we made it to Pallene,

where

the hills rise up from Kanastra. On we sailed, through

the dawn,

and old Mount Athos rose before us, Athos in Thrace, whose peak soars up so high it throws its shadow over Lemnos, clear up to Myrine. We had a stiff breeze all that day and through the night; the Argo’s sail was

stretched.

But then with dawn’s first glance there came a calm.

It was

our backs that carried us in, heaving at the oars—

carried us,

grinning like innocent fools, to the first of our

troubles — Lemnos,

bleaker, more rugged than we thought, a place where

murdered men,

ghosts howling on the rocks …”

Abruptly, Jason paused,

the beautiful gray-eyed goddess whispering in his ear.

He frowned

and looked around him like a man Just startled out of

sleep. The sky

was gray, outside the windows of Kreon’s hall. The king sat leaning on his hands, eyes vague, as if still listening though Jason’s voice had stopped. At the tables, some

were asleep,

some leaned forward like children seated at an old

man’s knee,

half hearing his words, half dreaming. Pyripta glanced

at Jason

shyly, sleepy, but waiting in spite of her weariness. Then Jason laughed, a peal that startled us all. “Good

gods!

I’ve talked the night away! You’re mad to endure it!”

The old king

straightened. “No no! Keep going!” But then he blushed.

He knew

himself that his words were absurd, even when others,

at the tables,

echoed the request. At the king’s elbow, Ipnolebes spoke, beloved old slave in black, his beard snow-white.

He said:

“Good Kreon — if I might suggest it — it’s true that it’s

late, as Jason

says. But it seems to me that you might persuade our

friend

to sleep with us here — we have rooms enough, and

servants sufficient

to tend to the needs of one more man. And then, when

Jason—

and all of us — are refreshed, he could tell us more.”

The king

stood up, nodding his pleasure. “Excellent!” he said.

“Dear Jason,

I insist! Stay with us the night!” The hall assented,

clapping,

even fat Koprophoros, for politeness, though it spiked his spleen that Jason should steal the light

from him,

slyly rebuke him with an endless, cunning tale. (But do

not think from this

the Asian was easily overcome. His outrage was play, we’d all soon learn. He knew pretty well what his power

was,

and knew what the limit would be for Aison’s son.)

— Nor was he

alone in seeming distressed. Stern King Paidoboron, beard dyed blacker than a raven’s wings, scowled

angrily;

Jason had struck him from the shadows, cunning and

unjust, light-footed,

a thousand times. He’d slashed deep, by metaphors, casual asides too quick for a man to expose, so that Paidoboron’s message was poisoned, at least for now.

Nor would

his chance to reply come soon. Gray-eyed Athena’s words in Jason’s ear had shown him a stratagem for keeping

the floor,

and even now old Kreon was begging him to stay.

But Jason

raised his hand, refusing. He was needed at home, he

said;

and nothing Kreon could say would change his mind.

At last

he allowed this much: he’d return the following

afternoon

and tell the rest — since his noble friends insisted on it. And so it was agreed. Then hurriedly Jason left his

chair

and went to the door, only pausing, on his way, for a

dozen greetings

to friends not seen in years.

By chance — so it seemed to me,

but nothing in all this dream was chance — the slave

who brought

his cloak was the Northerner, Amekhenos. He draped

the cloak

on Jason’s powerful shoulders without a word, head

bowed,

and as Jason moved away, the young man said, “Good

night.”

Jason paused, frowned as if listening to the voice in

his mind,

then turned to glance at the slave. He studied the young

man’s features,

frowning still, his fist just touching his chin: pale hair, a Kumry mouth that could laugh in an instant, perhaps

in an instant more, forget;

shoulders of a prince, and the round, red face of a Kelt, and the dangerous, quiet eyes… But the

memory

nagging his mind — so it seemed to me — refused to

come,

and the slave, his eyes level with Jason’s, as though he

were

no slave, but a fellow king, would give no help. At last Jason dismissed it, and left. But in front of his house

(it was morning,

birdsongs filling the brightening sky), he paused and

frowned