John Gardner - Jason and Medeia

transmogrified, changed

to a dragon and a monstrous snake, now rulers of the

dead, chief thanes

of Dionysos. Thus began Hera’s rage at Thebes, and

the sorrows

of Kadmos’ line: Oidipus weeping blood, Jokasta hanged, Antigone buried alive.

“So Orpheus sang

the age-old riddle of things, and it seemed that the still

sea listened.

“Then, for no reason, there was air again, and the sail

bellied out,

and the ship began to move. Toward noon, we spotted

land.

“As we beached the ship, a huge old man came out

to us,

his arms folded on his chest, his gray beard brustling

from his chin

like a bush. Without even bothering to ask what race

we were

or what had brought us to his shore, he said: ‘Listen,

sailormen:

There’s something you should know. We have customs

here, in the farming country of the Bebrykes.

No foreigner daring to touch these shores

moves on, continuing his journey, until he’s first put up his fists to mine. I’m the greatest bully in the world,

you’ll say—

not without justification. I’m known, throughout these

parts,

as Amykos, murderer of men. I’ve killed some ten of

my neighbors,

and here I am, remorseless, waiting to kill, today, one of you. It’s a matter of custom, you see.’ He

shrugged as if

to say he too disliked it; and then, cocking his head, wrinkling his wide, low brow, he said: The world’s

insane.

It used to fill me with anguish when I was a boy. I’d

stare,

amazed, sick at heart, at the old, obscene stupidity— the terrible objectness of things: sunrise, sunset; high-tide, low-tide; summer, winter; generation,

decay…

My youthful heart cried out for sense — some signpost,

general

purpose — but whatever direction I looked, the world was a bucket of worms: squirming,

directionless — it was nauseating!’

He breathed deeply, remembering well how it was.

He said:

‘I resolved to die. I stopped eating. For a number of

weeks

(I kept no count; why should I?) I spurned all food as

if it were

dirt. And then one day I noticed I was eating. It

seemed mere

accident: my mind had wandered, weakened by my fast, and pow! there I was, eating. Absurd! But after my first amazement, I saw the significance

of it.

The universe had within it at least one principle: survival! I leaped from my stool, half mad with joy,

ran howling

out to the light from my cave, leading all my followers. I exist!” I bellowed. “Us too!” they bellowed. We ate

like pigs.

But soon, alas, we were satiated. Though we rammed

our fingers

down in our throats and regurgitated, still, the feast was unappetizing. They looked up mournfully to me

for help.

For three long weeks, in acute despair, I brooded on it. And then, praise God! it came to me. My own existence was my first and only principle. Any further step must be posited on that. I examined my history, searched voraciously night and day for signs, some hint of pattern. And then it came to me: I had killed four

men

with my fists. Each one was an accident, a trifling event lost, each time, in the buzzing, blooming confusion

of events

that obfuscate common life. But now I remembered!

I seized it!

Also, I seized up the follower dodling nearest to me— meaningless dog-eyed anthropoid, source of calefactions, frosts, random as time, poor worm-vague brute existent, “friend” in the only sense we knew: I’d learned his name by heart. By one magnificent act, I transmuted him. I defined him: changed him from nothing-everything he

was before

to purpose — inextricable end and means. I seized him,

raised

my fists, and knocked him dead; and this time I meant

it. No casual

synastry. My disciples were astonished, of course. But

when

I explained to them, they fell, instantly, grovelling

at my feet,

calling me Master, Prince of the World, All-seeing Lord. On further thought, I came to an even higher

perception:

As the soul, rightly considered, consists of several parts, so does the state. It follows that what gives meaning

and purpose

to the soul may also give meaning and purpose to the

state. I needn’t

describe the joy that filled my people on learning this

latest

discovery of (if one may so express oneself) their Philosopher King. To make a long story short,

we began

a tradition — a custom, so to speak. Namely, no foreigner

touching

these shores is allowed to leave without first putting up

his fists

to mine. Regrettably, of course, since you’re so young.’

He shrugged.

‘Who’s ready? — Or, to shift to the general: Who’s

your sacrifice?’

He waited, beaming, pleased with himself — his

enormous fists

on his hips. None of us spoke. We simply stared,

dumbfounded,

the old man’s crazy philosophy bouncing in our heads.

At last

Polydeukes stepped forward, known as the king of all

boxers.

It seems he’d taken Amykos’ boasts as a personal affront.

“ ‘Enough!” he said, eyes fierce. ‘No more of your

polysyllabic

shadowboxing. I am Polydeukes, known far and wide for my mighty fists. You’ve stated your rules — your

ridiculous law—

and I stand here ready, of my own free will, to meet

them.’

The king

frowned darkly, not out of fear of our brilliant

Polydeukes,

but annoyed, it seemed, by some trifling verbal

inaccuracy.

‘Free will,’ he said, and laughed. ‘ I made the ridiculous

rules,

not you. I have free will, not you. You bump against my laws like a boulder bumping against a wall.’

“ ‘Not so,’

Polydeukes said, voice calm. ‘I choose to meet you.

A man

may slide with the current of a mountain stream or

swim with it.

There’s a difference.’ Old Amykos stammered in rage.

In another minute

they’d have started in without gloves, unceremoniously, but I intervened with persuasive words. They cooled

their tempers,

and Amykos backed away, though even now he glared at Polydeukes, his old eyes rolling like the eyes of a lion who’s hit by a spear when they hunt him in the

mountains and, caring nothing

for the crowd of huntsmen hemming him in, he picks

out the man

who wounded him and keeps his furious eyes on him

alone.

“Polydeukes was wearing a light and closely woven cloak, the gift of his Lemnian wife. He laid it aside. The fierce old man threw down his dark double mantle

with its

snake-head clasps. They chose a place — a wide, flat field, and the rest of us then sat down, two separate groups.

“In looks,

no two could have been more opposite, the old man

hunchbacked,

bristled and warted like an ogre’s child, the younger

straight

as a mast, bright down on his cheek. He seemed no more

than a boy,

but in strength and spirit he was hardening up like a

three-year-old bull.

He feinted a little, seeing if his arms were supple after

all that

rowing, the long hot span in the calm. He was satisfied, or if not, he kept it hidden. The old man watched him,

leering,

eager to smash in his chest, draw blood. Then Amykos’

steward,

a man by the name of Lykoreus, brought rawhide gloves, thoroughly dried and toughened, and placed them

between them, at their feet. “

“ ‘We’ll cast no lots,’ old Amykos said. ‘I make you a