Jason and the Gorgon's Blood

by Robert J. Harris

  “I don’t need your assistance!” he snapped.

  Jason felt a spark of anger but quickly quenched it. This was far too dangerous a spot for a fight. “Next time I won’t bother,” he muttered, working his way farther along the ledge.

  Two sliding steps more and Jason found he suddenly had room to move. Looking ahead, he saw that the path was definitely broadening out again. He beamed.

  “It gets easier from here,” he called to the others.

  He had hardly begun to enjoy his sense of relief when a startled cry made him look back. Lynceus had lost his balance and was toppling backward. His arms were spinning frantically. His javelin had gone flying from his hand and was hurtling end over end through the air.

  In the blink of an eye, Idas had tossed his own spear away and dug his fingers into a cleft in the rock, scraping the flesh from them. With his other hand he snatched hold of Lynceus’ belt just as his brother’s feet slipped off the edge.

  For an instant Lynceus dangled in space, his eyes bulging in panic. Only the strength of his brother’s arm was keeping him from his doom. Then Idas swung Lynceus back, slamming him into the rock so hard, his face was almost flattened.

  “You … can … let … go … now.” Lynceus gasped, his lips rasping against the stone wall.

  Idas released his grip and flexed his arm with a scowl. “I’ve thrown away my best spear to save you,” he grumbled. “I’m not sure it was a good trade.”

  The other boys laughed nervously before moving on.

  It took another half hour to reach the end of the ridge. By that time every muscle in Jason’s body was aching and his legs felt as though they had turned into stalks of straw. He thought, If I feel this way I can only imagine how the others are doing. But he kept those thoughts to himself. As leader—or guide—he had to be strong.

  Scrambling up onto the mountain slope like a half-drowned man dragging himself onto the shore, he checked to see where they were. The area was dotted with pricker bushes and shriveled trees that had to survive on what little rainwater seeped into the cracks in the hard rock, but it was the sweetest piece of land Jason had ever set eyes on.

  He flung himself down flat on the ground and breathed easily for what seemed the first time in hours.

  One by one the others flopped down beside him, panting and groaning.

  Lynceus let out a squeaky laugh. “If I knew which god to thank for getting me across safely, I’d build him a temple right here.”

  “You’ve me to thank,” said Idas, “and I don’t want a temple.”

  “Good,” Lynceus gasped. “I haven’t the strength for building one anyway.”

  “I say we eat something and then move on,” Jason said.

  “Move on?” Admetus and Lynceus spoke as one, and Idas shook his head. Only Acastus, sitting apart from the others, refused comment.

  “Move on,” Jason repeated, “because this is no place to spend the night.” He gestured to the hard, open ground and the gray, dying trees.

  After a brief meal the boys resumed their trek, but silently, as if adding words to their burdens would have been more weight than they could carry.

  Working their way around the curve of the slope involved clambering over boulders, squeezing through tight gaps, and then clawing their way up steep inclines littered with loose pebbles. But after the trial they had just completed, no one complained.

  Once they were on a safer path, Jason let his mind wander back to his last conversation with Chiron. He gnawed on it like a wolf on a bone. How could the old centaur have let him spend all these years thinking he was a nobody, a goat boy, with no family and no home? Wouldn’t his life have been different if he’d known from the start that his grandfather had been a king? That his father was alive and had sent him away for safety? That in his own right he should be king?

  Then he shook his head. What had being raised as a prince done for Acastus? Only made him selfish and arrogant and unwilling to learn. Of course Admetus was a prince, too, and not so unpleasant. But look at all the time he wasted trying to prove to Acastus he was just as important.

  Perhaps, Jason thought, it hasn’t been so bad growing up in a mountain cave, far from the centers of power and riches. If only—he could not get the thought out of his head—if only I’d known.

  The sun was sinking as they descended the far slope, and at first they did not see what lay ahead. It was Lynceus who let out a cry, alerting the others.

  Cutting directly across their path was a vast chasm. It stretched off into the distance to both right and left. As far as any of them could see, there was no possible way across.

  “What now, Goat Boy?” asked Acastus.

  Jason wished he had an answer.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE CHASM

  THEY MOVED DOWN IN silence toward the edge of the chasm. Far below, almost lost in the shadows, a ribbon of water gurgled and foamed around jagged rocks that jutted up like fangs. Helplessly they gazed both east and west. “I suppose your hunter friends just flapped their arms and flew across this?” Acastus’ sarcasm was like the crack of a whip.

  “They did get across,” Jason answered feebly, desperately racking his brain to remember what they had said. “I knew we were fools to trust him,” Admetus muttered.

  “Not so long ago you were playing the lamb to his shepherd,” Acastus said. “If he walked over the edge of this hole, you’d probably follow him to your doom.”

  “Sooner that than follow you, Acastus!” Admetus exclaimed.

  The two princes clenched their fists and glared at each other.

  “I’ve a good mind to knock your heads together,” said Idas.

  “Oh, let them fight it out, Idas,” said his brother.

  “There is a way,” Jason declared, stepping between them. “I remember it now. It’s farther west, a spot where the gap narrows to only a few feet. It can be jumped there.”

  “Really?” Acastus raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Is that the best you can do? Can’t you just admit you were wrong?”

  Lynceus stared hard toward the west. Suddenly he pointed. “There.” His finger held true. “There is a place where our side juts out into the gap.”

  “Then let’s take a look,” said Idas, slapping his brother on the back.

  They practically sprinted westward along the side of the chasm, but when they reached the place that Lynceus had spotted, Jason’s heart sank. Even on the very edge of this promontory, the gap between their side and the other was twenty feet across at least.

  “There must be another place,” Jason said without much hope in his voice. He put a hand up to shade his eyes and looked around, but the ravine seemed bigger and the gap across wider the longer he stared at it.

  Meanwhile Lynceus was checking the way they had come, then ahead, but finally he said dismally, “Nothing within half a day’s trek of here. And that would take us back round to the south. Not exactly where we want to go.”

  “I suppose we could just retreat,” said Admetus. “Try to find another way around.”

  “And lose two or three days in the process.” Acastus looked grim. “By the time we reached Mount Ossa, the centaurs would be long gone, and those cursed jars of Chiron’s with them.”

  While they argued, Lynceus sank down on his hands and knees, examining the ground.

  “Look here,” he said suddenly, “at the edge of the stone.” They gathered around him but didn’t know what they were supposed to be seeing, so Lynceus explained. “There’s no moss growing on it, and it’s hardly been touched by the weather.”

  “So?”

  “That means it’s fresh stone. A chunk of rock must have broken off from here, and recently, too.”

  “There was that earthquake a few months ago,” Admetus recalled, “before we all came up Mount Pelion to study with Chiron.”

  “Yes,” Acastus said. “I remember. My father ordered a dozen bulls sacrificed to appease Poseidon, earth shatterer.”

  “The earthquake must have
caused the rock to break,” said Jason. “So up until then this was the way across.”

  “Well, that explains it,” said Idas, “but it doesn’t help us. We’re still stuck here on this side.”

  The boys all agreed, nodding.

  “We followed your lead, Jason.” Acastus gestured toward the yawning chasm. “And see what it’s brought us to.”

  “That’s not really Jason’s fault,” Admetus put in quickly.

  “When you are leader, everything is your fault,” said Acastus. “My father taught me that.”

  “And what would you have done differently?” Jason demanded. “Would this be any less of a dead end if you had been in charge? Did your father teach you to fly?”

  “No, and he didn’t teach me to hide either,” Acastus retorted.

  Hide? Jason wondered what Acastus meant. But before he could consider it further, Lynceus’ voice caught his attention.

  “It’s only about twenty feet. That’s not so far, is it?”

  “Then you think you can jump it, brother?”

  “Of course not.” Lynceus made a face at Idas. “But perhaps we could build a bridge.”

  “Do you know how long it would take to build a bridge long enough to span that gap and strong enough not to collapse?” asked Acastus.

  “We could cut down a tree and shove it across,” said Idas, looking up at some of the trees that lined the slopes above them. None of them looked particularly sturdy.

  “Even if we could find one tall enough, its own weight would topple it into the chasm before we could push it all the way over,” said Lynceus.

  This thought sobered them all, and they took off their packs and sat down near the edge. For a long moment they were silent, each considering the gulf before them.

  At last Jason broke the silence. “Maybe we can make a bridge of sorts.”

  As one, they stared at him.

  “Get a rope across, and fasten it at both ends,” he explained. “We wrap our arms and legs around it and slide across one at a time.”

  “What? Hang over that drop?” Lynceus gulped. “You might as well just jump in and get it over with.”

  But Idas looked interested. Finger to his lip, he said, “It would have to be fixed securely.”

  Jason pointed. “Do you see those rocks on the far side?” He stood and Lynceus got up with him. Jason put a hand on Lynceus’ shoulder. “Can you see a place where we might secure a hook of some sort?”

  Lynceus stared hard for a few moments. “Yes,” he said hesitantly. “But there’s no guarantee the rope would hold.”

  “And we don’t have a hook,” Acastus pointed out. “Or did you think to hide one away in your tunic before we left?” He, too, stood and came over to stare across the chasm at the rocks.

  Idas and Admetus scrambled to their feet, and soon all five of them were standing in a line on the chasm’s edge.

  “We can lash two swords together in a cross,” said Jason. “We’ll tie the rope to the center of the cross and throw it over. With any luck it should catch between the rocks. You can throw it that far, can’t you, Idas?”

  “Of course I can,” said Idas. “Lynceus can point out the target to me.”

  “If it works, we won’t have lost any time,” said Jason. “And if it doesn’t …” He shrugged. “Well, we won’t be any worse off than before.”

  “Except for the swords,” Acastus pointed out.

  Taking his own sword and Admetus’, Jason lashed them together with his belt so that they formed a cross of bronze.

  Meanwhile, Idas unslung the rope from his shoulder and began unwinding it.

  “It’s barely long enough, Jason,” he said grimly.

  “That’s all it needs to be,” Jason said. He worked the end of the rope through the leather lashing and tied a double knot to hold it secure.

  “You see,” Lynceus pointed out to his brother, “there’s a pair of rocks there, one sticking up like a finger, the other shaped like a shepherd’s cap. Try and get the cross between them.”

  Idas said nothing, but his lips were pressed so hard together, they looked like one lip. With his right hand he gripped the end of the rope just below the makeshift grapple. Then, swinging his arm back and forth—once, twice—he threw the line across the gap on the third swing.

  The crossed swords struck the ground just short of the target and slipped off the edge. Idas reeled them in, grinding his teeth in frustration. No one said a word as he started to swing the line again.

  With a grunt he tossed it into the air, the bronze blades glinting in the sun. This time the metal cross struck the tall rock and bounced back into the chasm.

  Idas let out an angry snarl, and no one ventured a word as he pulled the rope back up. Stepping as close as he dared to the edge of the chasm, Idas started swinging the line again. Under his breath he said what might have been a prayer—or a curse.

  Up flew the swords, down they came—just beyond the two rocks.

  “That’s it!” Lynceus cried.

  Idas beamed as he gave a tug and the swords locked in place.

  “Does it look secure?” Jason asked.

  Lynceus peered across the gap and shrugged. “They’re fitted kind of awkwardly. I wouldn’t like to trust myself to that.”

  “It’s firm enough,” said Idas, yanking on the rope.

  “Pull harder,” Acastus ordered.

  “If it breaks free, then it’s all been for nothing,” Idas said.

  “If it breaks when one of us is on it, it’ll make him nothing,” Acastus muttered.

  Idas pulled. The swords seemed secure.

  “You should let us help you hold the line,” said Lynceus, reaching for the rope.

  “I can manage it myself,” said Idas, shrugging him away. “There’s little enough of it to grip as is.”

  “But how will the last one get across?” Admetus wondered.

  “I’ll tie the line there,” said Idas. He tilted his head in the direction of a sapling that was rooted in the ground about five feet from the cliff’s edge.

  “Are you sure it can take your weight?” Lynceus asked, giving the sapling a dubious stare.

  “Are we going to stand around talking or are we going to get started?” Acastus demanded sharply.

  “We’d better do it quickly, then,” said Admetus. “We’ve no more than an hour of daylight left.”

  “Acastus is right,” said Jason, stepping forward. “I’ll go first.”

  Acastus stepped in front of Jason, blocking his way. “Why should you go first?”

  “Because I led us here. Because being here, at an impossible chasm, is my fault and therefore my responsibility. Isn’t that what your father would say?”

  Acastus opened and closed his mouth like a fish, as if he could think of nothing to say in answer.

  Jason wished he could take more satisfaction from that small victory, but the real challenge lay ahead. He walked around the prince and took a firm grip on the rope with both hands. Then he swung his feet up and crossed his ankles over the line.

  Now he was hanging like a boar slung on a pole after a hunt. The sun had sunk so low, when he looked down he saw only darkness, which—he thought—was small comfort. He could hear water hissing unseen around the rocks below. The sound seemed to whisper to him, call to him. For an instant he felt as though the shadows were reaching up to pull him down. He turned his eyes away and fixed them on the far side of the chasm.

  Seeing him waver, Admetus cried out, “Are you all right, Jason?”

  Jason nodded and started to slide slowly along the rope, moving wormlike, a little bit at a time. The rope scraped his calves and before long all his muscles ached.

  This was a stupid idea, he thought. Acastus is right. What kind of a leader am I? And if I can’t get across, how can the others? His arms began to tremble and he worried about holding on.

  Behind him, the other boys held their breath as they watched him inch along. Idas gripped the rope so tightly, the veins were st
anding out on the back of his broad hands.

  Jason was all too aware of the fact that only a pair of short swords lashed with leather was holding him aloft. One wrong move might break his grip and send him plunging to his doom.

  Oh, Poseidon, earth shatterer, he prayed, hold the blades together.

  He wondered if the twelve bulls Acastus’ father had given the god were enough. The gods could be incredibly greedy.

  Suddenly he heard the makeshift grapple slip in its rock moorings, felt a horrible slackening of the line. Clenching his teeth against a scream, he sent up a silent cry for help: O ye gods, don’t let me fall.

  CHAPTER 9

  ONWARD AND UPWARD

  JASON FELT A COLD sweat break out over every inch of his body, but the line held. There had been no cry of alarm from the other boys. Perhaps nothing had happened at all.

  It’s only my imagination, he told himself. What was it Chiron had said? He tried to remember. And then he had it: There is no wound, no sickness, worse than the fear that grows in a man’s own heart, for that is an enemy that attacks from within.

  But the worm in his mind said otherwise. If he was wrong, if the grapple was coming loose, his next move might pull it away altogether. Suddenly he couldn’t move. “What’s wrong?” he heard Lynceus mutter. “He looks like he’s turned to stone.”

  Jason twisted slightly, looked back, and saw Acastus place a hand on Idas’ arm.

  “Keep a tight hold,” the prince was saying. “The slightest slackening of your grip could shake Jason loose.”

  Idas shrugged him off roughly. “Stand clear! This is hard enough without you getting in the way.”

  Acastus stepped away, but his eyes were still fixed on Jason.

  Jason sucked in a deep breath. I … won’t … surrender … to … fear. Gritting his teeth, he forced his muscles to move, his hands to slide forward a few inches. He worked his legs down after them.

  The rope held.

  Pressing on steadily, Jason went inch by painful inch until he felt his fingers touch the far side and scrape onto solid ground, and he dragged himself the rest of the way onto the land.

  He heard a ragged cheer from his companions and lay on the ground with a foolish grin on his face, his exhaustion forgotten in the glow of triumph.