and stands now naked and trembling, awaiting her loved
one’s hands,
fearing he’ll scoff at her gift as shameful. What
could I say?
I could easily think, in the cloak’s unnatural light,
that all
her words were lies. Yet how could I know? Old
Argus wove
the cloth. There was magic in it, the magic of Athena,
queen
of cities, builder of the Argo. And what did Athena care for Hypsipyle, the quiet power a man might gain as king on that lonely island, guarding its old,
deep-grounded
walls, defending its women, right or wrong? As for all Aithalides saw and heard, should I trust the evidence of another’s fallible senses and not my own? A case of desperate rationalizing, you may say. I grant it. But I think no man but a fool would have dared to
avenge those deaths
with no more case for Hypsipyle’s guilt than that. She
was
no ordinary beauty, moreover—whatever her sins. She was fait as the moon, resplendent as the sun; in
her gem-rich robes
as dazzling as an army with all its banners flying.
“I rose.
‘We need your help, Hypsipyle,’ I said, ‘and all you
can give us.
But the sovereignty I must leave to you—though not
from indifference.
An urgent calling forces me on. I’ll talk with my men and come once more to your palace.’ I stretched my
hand to her
and she took it A touch like fire. I quickly turned and
left,
and countless young girls ran to me, dancing around
me, smiling,
kissing my hands, my cheeks, my clothes. They knew
what it was
to be women, manless for a year and more. Before
I reached
the shore, they were there before me with
smooth-running wagons laden
with gifts. They did not find it hard to bring my
Argonauts
home with them. Queen Aphrodite, changeable as summer wind, was in every blade of grass; she shone in every rock and tree. And so I spent the night with Hypsipyle, my truncheon under the pillow. And
spent
the next night too, and the next. And I could find no
sign
of wickedness in those dove-soft eyes, no trace of a lie on her apple-scented lips. Nor could my men find evil hidden in the women who led them gently, shyly, home to bed. They were not racked by nightmares, prodded
and pinched
by guilt, hounded by furies. If they were alarmed
at times
by images, were their husbands not alarmed before
them,
those who’d raided and bloodied the fields of Thrace?
Do innocent
sheep not sometimes cringe, ambushed by memory,
the same as
wolves?
“As I lay beside her one night, my left hand under
her head, my right embracing her, she whispered, ‘Jason, are men capable of love?’ I glanced at her eyes. They
seemed
a child’s eyes, baffled and lonely, but far more beautiful than any ordinary child’s. ‘Are women?’ I asked.
Her eyes
formed tears—whether false or honest tears, who
knows? I listened.
The night outside our window fell forever, a void. I heard the dark sea pounding on the land, the dark
wind shaking
trees, and I fell into a dream of wheeling birds,
old sea-beasts,
monsters crawling on the land on short, dark legs.
If we were
centaurs landed on Lemnos, violent murderers, still I’d be here in her arms, and might be fond of her. And Thoas’ daughter would move her hand on my
wiry mane,
my gift to her coiled in her womb. When hot Aphrodite
strikes,
sanity shifts to loblogic. My nightmare turned to numbers bumping in space like rocks in a vortex.
I sat up,
staring. She touched my cheek. We slept again,
and again
at dawn the fire awoke in me and I took her in my arms and thought her filled with light. And still the old gray
waves
crashed on the rocks, and the rocks took them, hurled
them away again,
took them again; and the ghost-filled wind moved
through stiff branches,
howled in the battlements, walkways, spindrift parapets, moon-bruised stone escarpments sinking in tiers to
the sea …
falling endlessly, hopelessly … My mind was a nest of snakes. There was nothing to avenge, nor was I,
in any case,
keeper of Lemnos’ dead. Though the very earth cried out, voice of their blood, for vengeance (the earth did
not cry out),
how could all that be my affair? Search where I might, I saw no certain good, no certain evil, therefore nothing I dared to attack. It was not that I doubted
their guilt,
ultimately. But all the universe howls for freedom, strikes at the tyrant when he turns his back. Who
dares condemn
the goaded bull when, flanks torn, bleeding, heavy
of heart,
he sees his moment and, bellowing, charges the
farmer’s son?
We lead him away to the slaughterhouse with prods
of bronze,
twisting the ring in his nose till the foam runs pink;
for once
he’s tasted freedom, he’s dangerous, useless. And so
it was
with the Lemnian women. How could they love with a
pure heart now,
how put on a contrition devoid of intrinsicate clauses, secret reservations? And how could we men demand
it of them?
What I mean has nothing to do with mastery. Love
was dead
on the sad isle of Lemnos. Or so it seemed to me—
seemed
to all of us, those who were there. Old Argus waited
on the ship
with Herakles. Those two had refused to come with us, one too wise, the other too stiffly ignorant. So we stayed. Day followed day, and still we did not sail.
“That was no pleasant time for Hera, nursing
her grudge,
waiting for Pelias to pay for the times he’d slighted her. She troubled my chest with restlessness, caused me
to gaze
moodily out at the window, peer through the lattice,
pace
by the sea, debating, stirred by I knew not what. Nothing made sense. Why fight for a share in the kingdom with
Pelias, when here
I was king alone, for whatever it was worth? Why
risk Aietes’
rage for a hank of wool when here I had all the warmth of Hypsipyle—for what it was worth? What was
anything worth?
No doubt she made life on Olympos hard enough, that
queen.
When her patience wore out, she came in the shape of
a lizard, a spider,
a bird—who knows?—and whispered dreams into
Herakles’ head
where he slept, sullen, on the ship, held back by the
rest of us.
Then Herakles spoke. Said stupid words, great
bloated mushrooms—
Honor, Loyalty, Lofty Mission, Cowardice, Fame— grand assumptions of his lame-brained, muscular soul.
As if
the universe had honor in it, or loyalty, or lofty mission because, in the mindless knee-bends,
push-ups,
hammer-throws of his innocence, he believed in them. We could not look him in the eye or give him answer.
He had
/> the power to take off our heads as children tear off
branches
in a nut orchard, if he chose to think that “honorable.” Was I willing to die for Hypsipyle? Would she for me? You’ve lived too long, no doubt, when you’ve learned
that time takes care
of grief. We were young, but many bad lived too long.
So that
we said, rational as curled, dry leaves in an angry wind, we’d go. And prepared our gear.
“When the women got word of it
they came down running, and swarmed around us like
bees that pour
from the rocky hive when the meadows are jewelled with
dew and the lilies
are bloated with all bees need. Hypsipyle took my hands in hers and said, ‘Go then, Jason. Do what you must. Return when you’ve captured the fleece. The throne
will be waiting for you,
and I will be waiting, standing summer and winter on
the wall,
watching, surviving on hope. Believe in my love, Jason. Set my love like a seal on your heart, more firm
than death.
Swear you’ll return.’ I said I would. She didn’t believe it, nor did I believe she’d wait. We kissed. The gods be
with you,
‘I said. She studied my face. ‘Don’t speak of the gods,’
she said.
‘Be true to me.’ She guided my hand to her breast.
‘Remember!’
“And so we sailed. My gentle cousin Akastos wept for fair Iphinoe—they were both virgins when we’d
first arrived.
‘I’ll love her till the day I die,’ he said. listen to me,
Jason.
I see the defeat in your eyes. They say what Idas says: God is a spider. But I say, No! Beware such thoughts! God is what happens when a man and woman in love
grow selfless,
or a man feels grief for his friend’s despair, or his
cousin’s—grieves
as I do for you.’ He turned his head, embarrassed
by tears,
and Phlias the mute, Dionysos’ son, reached out and
touched him.
‘I’m only a man. I can’t undo all the evils of the world or answer the questions of the staring Sphinx who sits,
stone calm,
indifferent to time and place, his kingly head beyond concern for the love and hate that his lional chest
can’t feel.
I can’t undo your scorn for words, whether Herakles’
words
or mine. But I can say this, and be sure: I’ll love Iphinoe and swear that my gift is by no means uncommon, as
you may learn
by proof of my love for you. Scorn on, if scorn gives
comfort.’
I understood well enough his depth of devotion. I felt the same for him. How could I not? Those violent eyes, that scrawny frame in which, in plain opposition to
reason,
he’d stand up to giants. God knew. And be slaughtered.
“I let it pass,
watching the sea-jaws snap at our driving oars. So
Lemnos
sank below the horizon and little by little, sank from mind. The Argo was silent. Tiphys watched the prow, steering through rocks like teeth. Above, no two clouds
touched.
The sky was a sepulchre. It did not seem to me, that day, that gods looked down on us, applauding. No one spoke.
We sailed.
Ankaios said—huge boy in a bearskin—’Who can say what his fate may bring if he keeps his courage
strong? ‘I laughed.
Akastos’ jaw went tight. I understood, understood.”
Jason paused, frowning. He decided to say no more. So the day went, by Jason’s gift, to Paidoboron, mournful, black-bearded guest from the North. And
yet the day went
to Jason, too. From him those gloomy sayings came, sayings darker, I thought, than any Paidoboron spoke. Kreon said nothing when the tale was done, but stared
at his hands
on the table, looking old, soul-weary, as if he’d been
there.
As Jason rose, excusing himself to go home—it was
late—
the king stopped him. “You’ve given us much to think
about,
as usual. It’s a tale terrible enough, God knows. It’s filled my mind with shadows, unpleasant memories. My philosophy’s been, perhaps—” he paused, “—too
sanguine.” He looked
at Pyripta. Her gentle eyes were shining, brimming
with tears
for Lemnos’ queen. She had not missed, I thought, what
Jason
meant by that talk of betrayal. Were they not now
asking the same
of him—betrayal of Medeia? And was he not toying
with it?
“Consider Pyripta!” the tale cried out. But she was
a child,
and the demand strange. It came to me that she
was beautiful.
Not handsomely formed, like Medeia, and not
voluptuous,
but beautiful nevertheless—a beauty of meaning, like
a common
hill-shrine, crudely carved, to the gentlest, wisest of gods, Apollo, avenger of wrongs. The king said, glancing up, “You’ll return and tell us more? We’d be sorry to be left
in this mood.”
He said nothing. I noticed, of Jason’s staying in the
palace, this time.
Jason was looking at the princess, seeing her as I had
seen her.
No wonder. I thought, if he longed to escape from
Medeia’s stern eyes
to those—unjudging, filled with innocent compassion.
“If you wish,”
he said. The old king squeezed his hand. Pyripta smiled. “Come early tomorrow,” she said. She seemed surprised
that she’d spoken.
That morning, seven of the sea-kings made small
trades—rich ikons,
jewels and tapestries—and left. The omens were bad.
Medeia
naked on her bed—old Agapetika beside her—stared at nothing. For a moment, like Jason, I thought she was
dead. The slave
shook her head, too grieved for speech. He called a
physician.
The doctor examined her, listened to her heart, looked
solemn. She would
be well, he said, though the lady might lie in this
deathlike carus
for days—perhaps three or four, perhaps a week. He saw her face but did not inquire concerning the scratches.
Jason
closed the door on her softly, going to his sons. He took
them
from the old man’s care and held them a moment. Then
they went out
and walked in the early morning air, though he hadn’t
yet slept. I sat
beside her, touching her hand, watching the shadows of
the garden
travel across her face. Her slave had cleaned the wounds. They’d leave no scars. Her scars were deeper. Poor
innocent!
My hands moved through the cloth when I tried to
cover her.
Kreon, looking at the city, showed his age. His fingers shook. The game has changed,” he said. Ipnolebes—
standing
bent, morose, beside him—peered into memories:
tongues
of flame exploring curtains, the silent collapse of beams, hurrying men in armor, old women screaming, their
shrieks
soundless in the roar of fire. (I saw what Ipnolebes
saw—
trick of the dead-eyed moon-goddess. “End it, my
lord,” he said.
But Kreon frowned. “The gods will see to the e
nd when
it’s time.
Our man has begun a voyage on what he took to be familiar seas, and found the world transformed. By
chance—
the accident of an angry woman, a scene on the street— Athena’s ship is transmogrified, and all of us with it. Get off if you can! The pilot’s eyes have changed;
the world
he sailed, all childish bravura, has grown more dark.
Shall we
pretend that his darkened seas are a harmless phantasy? I don’t much care for nightmare-ships. No more than
you do.
But I do not think it wise to flee toward happier dreams, singing in the dark, my eyes clenched shut, if the
nightmare world
is real. Somewhere ahead of us, the throne of Corinth waits for her king’s successor—law or chaos. Towns are not preserved, I fear, by childish optimism. Alas, my friend, he’s turned the Argo’s prow to the void. We’ll watch and wait, follow him into the darkness
and through it.”
So the old king spoke, nodding to himself. Then went to bed. Ipnolebes sighed, went down to his own small
couch.
“Hopeless,” I whispered, bending close to the old
slave’s ear,
for surely he, at least, had the wits to hear me.
“Darkness
has no other side. Turn back in time!” The slave slept on, snoring. I stared at the hairy nostrils, peeked at the blackness beyond the fallen walls of teeth, then
stepped back,
shocked. There was fire in his mouth: the screams of
women and children.
“Goddess! Goddess!” I whispered. But the walls of the
dream were sealed,
dark, deep-grounded as birth and death. I heard their
laughter,
dry and eternal as the wind. No trace of hope.
8
He said:
“Faith wasn’t our business. Herakles’ business, maybe; sailing the cool, treacherous seas of the barbarians. Or faith was Orpheus’ business—singing, picking at his
lyre,
conversing with winds and rain.
“We beached at Samothrace,
island of Elektra, Atlas’ child, where Kadmos of Thebes first glimpsed his faultless wife. The stop was
Orpheus’ idea.
If we took the initiation, learned the secret rites, we might sail on to Kolchis with greater confidence, ‘sure of our ground,’ he said. I smiled. But gave
the order.
I knew well enough what uncertainty he had in mind, on my back the sky-blue cape from Lemnos’ queen,
a proof
of undying love, she said; and all around me on the
Argo,
slaves of Herakles’ strength, if not of his idiot ideas; betrayers, as I was myself, of vows of faithfulness. Trust was dead on the Argo, though no one spoke of it. We had at least our manners … perhaps mere mutual