felt, as never
before, not even as a child, like a wobbly-kneed fool.
“And then
my father was speaking, and shifting my rapt gaze
from the stranger
I saw in amazement that my father was shuddering
with rage, his huge
fists clenched, his red beard shaking, his eyes like a
bull’s. ‘Scoundrels!’
he bellowed at Phrixos’ sons, my nephews. ‘Be gone
from my sight!
Be gone from my country, vipers in the nest! It was
no mere fleece
that lured you — you and these troglodytes — here to
my kingdom. You think
I’m a gudgeon who’ll snap at a fishhook left unbaked?
You want
my throne, my sceptre, my boundless dominions! Fools!
Scarecrows!
D’you think you can frighten a king like Aietes with
sonorous poopings
of willow-whistles? — cause me to bang my knees
together
with the oracular celostomies of a midget concealed in an echo chamber? Boom me no more of the
Argonauts’ power,
naming off grandiose names, panegyring their murder
of centaurs,
spidermen, Amazons, what-not! I am no horse, no bug, no girl! If you had not eaten at my table, I’d tear your
tongues out
and chop your hands off, both of them, and send you
exploring
on stumped legs, as a lesson to you!’
“The man called Telamon
came a step forward, his thick neck swelling, prepared
to hurl
absurd defiance at my father. I knew what would
happen if he did.
My father would crush him like a fly, for all his
strength. But before
the word was out, the stranger in black touched his
shoulder and smiled—
incredibly (what kind of being could smile in the
presence of my father’s
wrath?) — and broke in, quick yet casuaclass="underline" “My lord,”
he said,
‘our show of arms has perhaps misled you. We were
fools, I confess,
to carry them in past your gate.’
‘The voice took my breath away.
It was no mere voice. An instrument. What can I say? (As my Jason says.) It was a gift, a thing seen once in,
perhaps,
a century. Not so deep as to seem merely freakish, yet
deep;
and not so vibrant, so rich in its timbre, as to seem
mock-singing,
yet vibrant and rich…. I remember when Orpheus
sang, the sound
was purer than a silver flute, but when Orpheus spoke,
it was
as if some pot of julep should venture an opinion.
The sound
of the famous golden tongue was the music of a calm
spring night
with no hurry in it, no phrenetics, no waste — the sound
of a city
wealthy and at peace — a sound so dulcet and
reasonable
it could not possibly be wrong. Had I not been in love
with him
before, I’d have fallen now. Wasn’t even my father
checked,
zacotic Aietes? The ear grows used to that voice, in
time.
I have learned to hear past to the guile, the well-meant
trickery; but even
now when he leaves me on business, and we two are
apart for a week,
his voice, when I hear it at the gate, brings a sudden
pang, as if
of spring, an awareness of Time, all beauty in its
teeth. He said: ‘
We have not come to your palace, believe me, with any
such designs
as our bad manners impart. Who’d brave such
dangerous seas
merely to steal a man’s goods? But we’re willing to
prove our friendship.
Grant me permission to help in your war with the
Sauromantiae—
a war that has dragged on for years, if the rumors we’ve
gathered are true—
and in recompense, if we prove as loyal as we say
we are,
grant us the fleece we ask for — my only hope, back
in Argos.’
Father was silent, plunged into sullen brooding.
I knew
his look well enough, that deep-furrowed brow, the eyes
blue-white
as cracked jewels. He was torn between lunging at the
stranger, turning off
that seductive charm by a blow of his fist, or a white
bolt sucked
from heaven; or, again, putting the stranger to the test.
At last,
his dragon-eyes wrinkled, and he smiled, revealed his
jagged teeth.
“ ‘Sir, if you’re children of the gods, as you claim,
and have grounds for approaching
our royal presence as equals, then we’ll happily give
you the fleece—
that is, if you still have use for the thing when we’ve
put you to the proof.
We are not like your stuttering turkey Pelias. We’re a
man of great
generosity to people of rank.’ He smiled again. My veins ran ice.
“ ‘We propose to test your courage and ability
by setting a task which, though formidable, is not
beyond
the strength of our own two hands. Grazing on the
plain of Ares
we have a huge old pair of bronze-hoofed, fire-breathing bulls. We yoke them and drive them over the fallow of
the plain,
quickly ploughing a four-acre field to the hedgerow at
either
end. Then we sow the furrows — but not with corn:
with the fangs
of a monstrous serpent, and they soon grow up in the
form of armed men,
whom we cut down and kill with our spear as they
rise up against us on every
side. We yoke our team in the morning; by evening
we’re through
our harvesting. That is what we do. If you, my good
man,
can manage the same, you can carry the fleece to your
tyrant’s palace
on the same day. If not, then you shall not have it.
Make no
mistake: It would be wrong for the grandson of
dragons to truckle to a coward.’
“Lord Jason
listened with his gaze fixed on the floor. For a long time he said nothing, turning it over in his
mind.
At last he brought out: Your Majesty, right’s on your
side and you leave
us no escape whatever. Therefore we’ll take your
challenge,
despite its preposterous terms and although we’re aware
that we’re courting
death. Men can serve no crueler tyrant than Necessity, a lord whose maniac whims brook no man’s reasoning and no appeal to kindness.’
“He wasn’t much comforted
by my father’s sinister reply: ‘Go, join your company. You’ve shown your relish for the task. Be aware: if
you hesitate
to yoke those bulls, or shirk that deadly harvesting, I’ll take up the matter myself, in a manner calculated to make all other men shrink from coming and
troubling their betters.’
They left. My heart flew after them. He was
beautiful, I thought,
and already as good as dead. I was overwhelmed with
pity
and I fled to my room to weep. What did it mean, this
grief?
Hero or villain (and why did I care which?) the man was walking to his doom. Well, let him go! I had seen
men die
before, and would again. What matter? — But my sobs
grew fierce,
tearing my chest for a stranger! ‘And yet how I wish
he’d been spared,’
I moaned.‘—O sovereign Hekate, grant me my prayer!