John Gardner - Jason and Medeia

creatures gaze

amazed at the brave new world with goggle-eyed

creatures in it,

as usual. And all that past minds dreamed or wrote, feared, predicted with terrible insight — all mind loved and mocked — is vanished like snow, cool archaeology. Cheer up, sailors! The wind of time was always dark with ghosts, pacing, angrily muttering to be born.’

“The death-ship

vanished, and a moment later, the music; finally the

smell.

We talked, held councils; but obviously we could make

no sense

of senselessness, and so, in the end, pushed on. And had adventures, each more lunatic than the last. Not even Orpheus knew how to twist the thing toward reason,

impose

some frame. In any case, I can tell you, it wasn’t

courage

that kept us going. It wasn’t sweet curiosity. For reasons we hadn’t understood at the time — nor did

we now—

we’d launched this expedition, and so we continued.

They did not

love me for it now. Muttered and grumbled.

“As I say,

we passed the Clashing Rocks. Never mind the details.

Two great black

boulders that rose from the sea like a pair of jaws,

and snapped

at any who passed between. The prank of some playful

god

in the First Age, before the gods grew ‘serious.’ A prank deadly for men, though one can see, in a way, the entertainment value. We’d been forewarned of

them

by Phineus — one of his endless, tedious meanderings. We followed instructions — hurled in a dove, by which

we learned

the pace of the thing … Never mind. We rowed for our

lives, and made it,

and saw the stone jaws lock, to move no more. Ironic. We could have sailed through at ease, like merchants,

chatting, if we’d known their

time was almost out. But in any case, we made it, and travelled senselessly on.

‘Then Tiphys spoke, overpleased

at how slyly his oar had steered us through — fatuous, unctuous with success … unless already the mortal

fever

was in him, befuddling his wits, and some subliminal

fear,

intuition of silence, now stirred his soul to noise. He

said,

pompous and hearty, too jovial: ‘I think, Lord Jason, we can safely say all’s well! The Argo’s safe and sound, and so are we! For which we may thank pale-eyed

Athena,

who gave our ship supernatural strength when Argus

drove in

the bolts. The Argo shall never be harmed. That seems

to be Law.

And so, since heaven’s allowed us to pass through the

Clashing Rocks,

I beg you, put off all worries. There can be no obstacle this crew can’t easily surmount!’

“Our brilliant pilot, I thought,

is a dolt. I turned my head, looked back at the two

great rocks,

now motionless, then glanced at him, one eyebrow

raised.

But the next instant it struck me that Tiphys’ words

could be turned

to use. I frowned and steeled myself for the necessary dullness, and, sighing, taking him gently to task, I said:

“ ‘Tiphys, why do you comfort me? I was a blind fool, and the error’s fatal. When Pelias ordered me out on

this mission

I should have refused at once, even though he’d have

torn me limb

from limb. It was selfish madness which even in selfish

terms

has turned out all to the bad. Here I am, responsible for all your lives — and no man living less fit for it! I’m wracked by fears, anxieties — hating the thought

of the water,

hating the thought of land, where surely hostile natives will claim some few of our lives, if not the majority. It’s easy for you, good Tiphys, to talk in this cheerful

vein.

Your care is only for your own life, whereas I, I must

care

for all your lives. No wonder if I never sleep!’ So

I spoke,

playing the necessary game (and yet I confess, I

enjoyed it,

querning the world to words) — and the whole crew rose

to it,

or all but one. ‘No man,’ they cried, ‘in the whole world could vie with Jason as fitting lord of the Argonauts! It’s surely that very anxiety which wrecks your sleep that steers the Argo safely past every catastrophe! Never doubt it, man! We’d rather be dead, every one

of us,

than see you harmed by Pelias!’ With old unwatered

wine

they drank my health and set up such shouts that the

sea-wall rang

and I nearly shouted myself. But Orpheus looked

toward shore,

not drinking. I ignored the matter. ‘My friends,’ I said,

‘your courage

fills me again with confidence. The resolution you show in the face of these monstrous perils has

made me feel

I could sail through hell itself and be calm as a god.’

Thus I

played Captain, kept their morale up. I needn’t deny

I enjoyed it.

Was it my fault the Argonauts — even the slyest (Mopsos and Idmon, for instance) — had natures a flow

of words

could carry away like sticks? And was it my fault that

words

were my specialty? I ask you, what other choice did

I have?—

though Orpheus watched me, scorned me, keener than

the rest at spying

craft (a wordsman himself, though one of a very

dissimilar

kind). He said in private, later, avoiding my eyes, tuning his lyre with fingers as light as wings, ‘Come,

come!

“Limb from limb,” Lord Jason! This is surely some new

Pelias—

the stuttering mouse turned lion!’ ‘I do what I must,’

I said.

‘Would you have me tell them the truth — that life

itself, all our pain

is idiocy?’ He feigned surprise. ‘You think so, Jason?’ I knew his game. Play innocent, defensive. Draw out

your man,

give him the rope to hang himself. And I knew, too, his arrogance. It’s easy for the poets to carp at the men who lead, the drab decision-makers who waste no time on niceties — pretty figures merely for aesthetics’ sake, rhymes for the sake of rhymes. They see all the world

as forms

to be juxtaposed, proved beautiful — no higher purpose than harmony, the static world proved lovely as it is. But what world’s static? We create, and we long for

poets’ support,

we who contract for whatever praise or blame is due and get the blame — ah, blame that outlasts our acts

by centuries!

“I said: ‘My friend, we’re booty hunters. We’ve come

this far,

murdered and lost this many men — the friendly king of the Doliones, Herakles, Hylas, Polydeukes, and the rest — for nothing but a boast, an adventure

of boys. It’s time

we turned those crimes to account. I think it’s easy for

you

to be filled with pompous integrity. My job’s more dull. Whatever high meaning our journey may have — or

lack of meaning—

my job is to carry us through. That means morale, poet. That means unity, brotherhood!’ Orpheus smiled, ironic, avoiding my eyes, and not from embarrassment, it

seemed to me,

but as if to glance for a moment in my direction would

be

bad art, misuse of his skills. He glanced at Argus,

instead,

our sly artificer, who smiled. They have a league, these

artists:

a solid front in defense of their grandiose visions of the

real,

destroyers of sticks and stones. I was angry enough,

God knows.

But that, too, went with the job.

“He said: Your pilot’s sick.

I studied him, puzzled. He looked at his lyre. Tour

beloved Tiphys

is sick, at death’s very door. Does that make you

“anxious,” Captain?

Does it make you a trifle remorseful of your fine facility for turning all passing remarks to the common good?’