John Gardner - Jason and Medeia

was light,

shocking as crimson ruddle on a snow white lamb:

their spears

arked through blackness to the tinder of sails like

rushing meteors,

like baetyls hurled by infuriate gods. Then men on the

ships,

stumbling, half awake, snibbed the hawserlines,

struggling to flee

the incineration of the ships struck first — there men

with mattocks

and fire-axes struck out, blinded by smoke and steam, at timbers redder than rubies — but they found no

channel for flight,

pleached on all sides by their own burning ships, lost in

a forest

of hissing swirls of smoke. Hulls shogged together,

sailmasts

clattered to smouldering decks, and still the resin that

saved them at sea caught fire,

racing from barque to barque like flame through grass;

and above where the moored ships burned,

ash hung white as mist, then slowly settled, a floating

scurf. And now

came the rowing cry, unholy celeusma ringing on the

cliffs, and we shot to seaward,

a third of Aietes’ fleet — five hundred lean-prowed

ships — descending, flaming,

bartizans fallen like collapsed tents, to seek out the

harbor floor. Old Argus

stared back, sooty and sweaty, at the sinking ships,

and his fists

were clenched. ‘Insanity!’ he whispered, but no one

heard.

“As vast

as the sea, numberless as the leaves that fall in autumn

from the beams

of trees, the army of Aietes gathered and rushed to the

shore,

the king in his chariot of fire drawn, swift as the wind,

by the horses

of Helios. Beside him rode Apsyrtus, my brother— Apsyrtus, golden maned, gentle-eyed as a girl. But

already,

driven by gods and the Argonauts, our ship stood far to sea. In a frenzy, Aietes lifted his hands to Helios calling his father to witness the outrage. Then howling,

half mad,

he cursed his people and threatened them one and all

with death

if they failed to lay hands on his daughter; said whether

they found her on land

or captured the ship on the high seas, they must bring

him Medeia,

for Aietes was sworn to be avenged for that monstrous

betrayal. Thus

Aietes thundered. The sun dimmed; the gray earth

shook.

But the Argo sailed on, protected by a wind from Hera.

At once

the Kolchians equipped and launched their remaining

ships — an immense

armada despite all the damage we’d done — and out they

came,

flight on flight of dark swallows, fleeing catastrophe. Hera was determined that Medeia must reach the

Pelasgian land,

bring doom to the house of Pelias. But the Argonauts’

eyes were grim,

their faces stern, for still Lord Jason was strange with

them,

no longer himself.

Then young Orpheus abandoned his shield

and took up, instead, the golden lyre with which he

could tame

not only trees, fish, cattle, but even the grudge-stiff

hearts

of men. Lord Jason looked fierce, but I reached out my

hand to him,

touching the border of his mantle, and he kept his

silence, waiting.

“It was strange music for that desperate time: not

charging rhythms

urging the rowers to out-do themselves, but music as

calm

as the glass-smooth sea untouched by the magical wind

from Hera.

One by one the Argonauts — who, heaving at the oars or proffering shields, had glanced again and again at

Jason,

distrustful, stirred by wordless doubt — grew calmer,

forgetful

of the secret anger they could not themselves

understand. Orpheus

sang of the pride of Zeus and the labor of Hephaiastos, and how Zeus, awakened from his dream, wept. The

lyre fell silent.

Jason stared down, ashamed, yet hardly aware what

his shame

might mean. Aithalides spoke, whose memory never

slept.

‘You cast your eyes to the sky, the shore, and at times,

it seems,

toward us, apprehensive. It’s a trifling slight, though

we should have deserved,

by now, more trust. But for all your care that the

fleece be guarded,

you’ve forgotten the words of Phineus — that we’ll sail

back home

by a different route. Surely his words were not idle,

Jason.

Troubles await us in the route we steer. So the seer

foretold.

Turn your mind from its jealousy to that!’ The son of

Aison,

touched like the rest by the music, showed no anger.

He glanced

in my direction for help. But despite the pursuing fleet and my certain knowledge that I, beyond all the rest,

was the quarry,

I could not advise him. The wind blew steadily,

plunging us on.

He turned to the old seer Mopsos, bedraggled, smiling

like a fool

at some joke. He too was helpless — not a bird in sight.

Then, moved

by a god, or by his lunacy — who can say? — mad Idas crowed like a rooster and lifted one hand from his oar

to flap it

like a wing, to mock the seer. With strange attention,

the old

man watched. And when Idas fell back laughing, the

old man said,

‘It’s true, yes. Ridiculous … but never mind.’ And to

Jason:

‘Imagine a time when the reeling wheel of stars was not yet firm — when one would have looked in vain for the

Danaan race,

for no men lived but the Arcadians, who were there

before even

the moon. Egypt was the corn-rich colony of dawn,

for the sun

arose, in those dim days, from the south. Dark tales

remain,

remembered by migrating birds, old sundials wrong

about time,

as earth tells time — remembered by temples whose holy

gates

are askew by a quarter turn. Old sea-birds speak of it. Birds of the farmyard scoff.’ He paused,

straining to remember. ‘From Egypt, a certain man set

out—

there had been some terrible catastrophe, explosions in

the ocean,

a continent lost — a man set out with a loyal force and made his way through the whole wilderness of

Europe and Asia,

and founded cities as he went. A few, so birds report, survive. I have seen myself old tablets of stone

containing,

allegedly, old maps. On one there’s a river. The priests of the Keltai, old as their oak trees, call it Ister. I can say no more, or nothing but this: If the ancient stream still

flows,

if the ages have left that forgotten seaway navigable, our route lies somewhere to the west.’ No sooner did

his voice cease

than Hera granted us a sign. Ahead of us, a blinding

light

shot westward, down to the horizon. The Argonauts sent

up a shout,

and away, all canvas spread, our black ship sailed.

“One fleet

of Kolchians, riding on a false scent, had left the

Black Sea,

between the Kyanean rocks. The rest, with Apsyrtus in

command,

unwittingly made for Ister, blindly hunting. — But it

was

more than that, I know; was he not my brother? He was

no

devil, sorcerer or not. He had hoped to have no part in capturing me. But the stars at his birth were

unkind to him.

They discovered the river and entered it — his heart full

of dread—

turned at the first of the river’s two mouths, while we

took the second,

and so his fleet outstripped us. His ships spread panic

as they went.

Shepherds grazing their flocks in the broad green

meadows by the banks

abandoned their charge and fled, supposing the ships

great monsters

risen from the sea, old Leviathan-brooder, for never

before—

or never in many a century — had the Ister been plagued by ships. Apsyrtus’ eyes grew vague. He was of two