Naturally enough, Heracles, who had given his oath to Jason, refused. He explained why he could not remain in Kyzikos to their host, who was regretful but understood, and tried to explain to Hylas, with rather less success than Orpheus had had with Eurydice. Finally, embarrassed and tired of the argument, Heracles simply picked the boy up and carried him back, leaving Polyphemus to gather up their belongings.
Hylas at first was hysterical with rage, which interfered with the crew’s work in getting the Argo under sail. Twice Heracles had to leave what he was doing to deal with the boy. The first time, he stopped Hylas from leaving the ship; the second time, when Hylas succeeded in getting down the ladder (most of the crew having gladly turned a blind eye to his escape), Heracles ran after him and brought him back. After that, while the crew rowed out of the harbor, he curled up under the deck to weep and wail. In self-defense, Eurydice tried to soothe him, but he only howled the louder. Only after the sail was set and the oars brought in and Heracles went to offer comfort did he concede that Jason would not turn back no matter how he screeched. He then decided to change into clothing more suitable for sailing than a thin silk tunic. It was then he discovered that some of the gifts his host had showered upon him were missing from his bundle.
Without a question or any further search, Hylas leapt on Polyphemus, screaming that he was a thief—and other things a good deal filthier and even less likely. Taken by surprise, Polyphemus was borne back against his oar, which jerked up, caught Heracles’ oar, and sent it over the side of the ship. Leaping to separate Hylas from Polyphemus, Heracles trod on Polyphemus’ oar, which had fallen back aslant against the rowing bench. The sudden sharp blow administered by Heracles’ great weight cracked the tough wood.
Unfortunately by the time Heracles plucked Hylas off his victim, Polyphemus had at last lost the last vestige of the calm courtesy he had always maintained toward Hylas. He sprang after the boy, slapping him hard on the face, and demanding an apology and a civil thanks for the trouble he had taken to gather up as much as he could find of Hylas’ scattered property. Heracles had turned around, setting his body between Hylas and Polyphemus and taking several of Polyphemus’ blows on his back. Attempting to move away while controlling his wildly struggling burden, he tripped and his flailing hand caught two more oars and tipped them overside.
Several men leapt up, some to try to grab for the oars, others to get out of the way. All were cursing Hylas and Heracles too, but not one was trying to hold back or calm Polyphemus. Castor at last ducked under the gangway—on which most of the port-side crew was sitting and watching—and seized Polyphemus’ arm. Blind with rage, Polyphemus struck at Castor; Polydeuces came to help his brother.
Eurydice had started to rise when Hylas first erupted from under the deck screaming filth, but Orpheus, who was sitting close to her, leaning against the port bulkhead, caught her. “What could you do?” he asked. Then shrugged. “And should you do anything, even if you could?”
“No, of course not,” she replied. “It would have been much better if Heracles had let Hylas escape. The boy could have found a protector easily enough in Kyzikos, one who would have allowed him to grow up. Why is Heracles so blind?”
“Because he killed Hylas’ father.”
“For Hylas?” Eurydice’s eyes went round. “I had not thought Heracles that kind of person.”
“No. It was some war or some challenge. There have been so many, I forget the exact story. Hylas was only seven or eight at the time, but Heracles has been making up for Hylas’ loss ever since.”
“Better he should have been a father and taught the boy to stand on his own feet. It is no good for any human being to be too dependent on another. What would happen to Hylas if Heracles should die?”
Orpheus did not answer. His attention had been drawn elsewhere. Jason, having waited awhile for his men to come to their senses on their own, had come from the prow deck. His roar had stopped the conflict and he began to ask sharp, cold questions. Under his icy glare all—except Hylas, who was still shrieking and squirming in Heracles’ grip—fell silent. In the next moment, Heracles put his hand over Hylas’ mouth and silenced him also. Oddly, it was Polyphemus that Jason reprimanded, saying that if he did not follow Heracles about like a mare needing servicing, this would not have happened and that Polyphemus should know better than to expect the behavior of a man from a wet-bottomed scut. A slap was all very well, Jason said, but to try to beat an apology out of a squalling infant was stupid. He cast a single glance at Heracles that bore neither love nor affection.
“I absolve you of your oath,” he said. “If he,” —Jason made a contemptuous gesture of the head toward Hylas— “will not come willingly the next time we go ashore, you are free to leave him and come alone or stay with him.”
Eurydice listened to this with a dropped mouth and staring eyes. When Jason turned and went back to his usual place without another glance at anyone, she shook her head. “I do not believe what I heard,” she murmured to Orpheus.
“That is because you did not accompany us on our campaign.” Orpheus’ voice had a flat, dry tone. “Heracles distinguished himself against the Gegeneis in his usual way. Jason also did well, but his efforts paled in comparison.” He shrugged. “My first skill is not excellence in any physical feat, so it does not matter to me that Heracles dulls all other men’s luster whether for running or lifting or fighting or throwing. If he were proud or boastful, the others could hate him and not feel mean. As he is, to be envious of him breeds shame, so the men try to bury the envy—but buried alive it only gnaws within.”
Eurydice cast an uneasy glance around, realizing that what Orpheus said was not only true but not a new thing. Thinking back, she remembered that for all his geniality, Heracles was almost never included in the groups of men that formed to gamble or talk to wile away the dull periods of sailing. She had assumed, without giving the matter any thought, that no one except Polyphemus came to sit and talk to Heracles or invited him to take part in a game because of Hylas. Now she saw that it was Heracles himself who made them uncomfortable.
“That is not healthy,” Eurydice said.
“No,” Orpheus remarked shortly, then moved away from her to sit on the edge of the deck and uncase his cithara.
Eurydice knew he was about to play such music and sing such songs as would soothe the men. She knew, too, that what he did was right and necessary. Nonetheless, she resented his leaving her. No, not resented, not really; she did not feel angry at Orpheus. She was just dissatisfied, restless, aching to touch him and speak to him. That was ridiculous when they were separated only by a few armlengths, but her need to possess him completely had been growing since their abortive love-making in her tent in the marketplace.
She stood up and leaned over the rail as the first soft chords of the cithara sounded. Odd, the music had less hold on her now that her need for the man was so overwhelming. Oh, she understood very well how unhealthy the men’s envy of Heracles was and how that envy grew the more it was repressed. Did she not know also, that her craving for Orpheus was not good? Yet the craving grew greater the more she tried to curb it.
It was a stupid and dangerous craving, particularly since she was growing less and less sure that Orpheus felt the same need. She did not doubt that he liked her or that he would have coupled with her gladly enough in the privacy of the tent. On the other hand, it seemed to Eurydice that the passion in her, which was ready to dismiss all else for the chance of satisfaction, did not move him. When she had offered herself the past night, after the excitement had diminished, Orpheus had told her curtly not to be a tease. The men would be coming aboard all night as Jason’s messengers found them, stowing their baggage, greeting each other and exchanging experiences. He had no inclination, Orpheus said, to be interrupted again.
What was she to do, Eurydice wondered. Should she speak to Jason and ask to leave the ship at the next large town? He would never allow it, she thought—to her chagrin—with relief. He had seen her
Heal, and her Seeing had been proven true. He felt she had value, as Idmon had said he felt about Orpheus, and he would not wish to part with her until his given promise made that necessary.
Irritably, she lifted and dropped a shoulder. Why should she ask Jason? Merely for the excuse he would provide by forbidding her to leave the company? No one could stop her if she decided to slip away at the next town… For a long time she stared out at the heaving water, bitterly ashamed because she knew she would not. But why not? No person had ever bound her spirit as Orpheus did. At first she had been drawn by the music but now, although she loved the beauty of the sounds he drew from the cithara and the greater beauty of his voice, she could think, even talk if anyone spoke to her, while he was playing. What bound her?
At last she turned, leaning her back against the rail, to look at Orpheus and, all unintended, her spirit lifted and she smiled. He was completely immersed in his music, more its slave than those who listened. He was self-possessed.
When the word came into her mind, Eurydice leaned forward a little to see him better. It was true in more ways than his bondage to his music. Although he was on excellent terms with all the crew, Orpheus was somewhat apart from them. He never took from any, not even from her, except what was a rightful gift for his service. He gave to her always, a constant care and thoughtfulness. She smiled again.
She was not such a fool for wanting to stay with him. All her life, since her Gift became manifest, those who professed to care for her had wanted to use her. Not all had been evil; the priestesses had been genuinely concerned for her—but only because her Gift was so powerful, never because she was Eurydice. Orpheus was the first person she had ever met who asked nothing of her and offered care. He was indifferent to, even irritated by, her Gift. Unlike Jason, whatever commitment Orpheus had—if he had any—was to Eurydice, not to the wielder of Power.
Eurydice frowned. The doubt that had thrust through her thought about commitment brought her back to the very beginning. Was it wise to make a bonding with one who felt less than you did?
Feeling her eyes on him, Orpheus turned his head and smiled. Eurydice smiled back. Sooner or later they would find a place to be alone. Likely, once she had stilled the craving of her body, her mind would regain its balance. Perhaps surfeit would even permit her to free herself from him without pain. The notion was comforting, allowing her to feel less contempt for her inability simply to dismiss him from her life. She would—
“Four oars?”
The outrage in Jason’s voice broke Eurydice’s train of thought and drew her attention. Everyone else turned to him too, since Orpheus stopped playing abruptly. She saw Idmon and Heracles standing beside Jason, Idmon’s hand outstretched as if to deter Jason from striking out.
“That lunacy cost us four oars?” Jason bellowed. “And your own oar, Heracles?”
“I am very sorry,” Heracles said, but his voice was flat, lacking its usual engaging note of rueful humor.
Eurydice glanced at Orpheus, but he sat where he had been playing, just watching, and she did not wish to move and draw attention to herself. It was not a Seeing, but still Eurydice knew that some point of no return had been reached.
Jason stood still for a moment his hands clenching and unclenching, clearly swallowing what he wished to say. Idmon leaned toward him and made some comment, but his voice was too low to carry.
Jason shook his head. “Be that as it may, I am not docking in any city to buy oars. They will not have one strong enough for Heracles in any event.” He walked away from them without another word, going along the gangway until he found Mopsus, to whom he said, “Look for a cove that is well forested.” Then he raised his voice so all could hear and added, “Among us, if we find suitable trees, we can make our own oars.”
In fact, when Tiphys steered the ship closer to the shore, it became clear that the coast was all forested. Unfortunately, what was lacking was a suitable cove. The one place where the land did not drop into the water as a cliff—sometimes higher sometimes lower, but in no place suitable for beaching a ship—was occupied by a small town. In deference to Jason’s mood, Tiphys did not even ask about investigating it and sailed right by. But, as if to mock them because Jason had said they would not dock at a city, not a league beyond the headland sheltering the harbor of the town was a much smaller, but most inviting, beach. It was cut on one side by a sparkling stream running from the thick woods that backed it into the sea. Again, they sailed on without stopping, but beyond the much smaller headland on the eastern edge of beach the land rose steeply and there stretched what seemed an endless, beachless cliff.
By then, the sun was lowering. Jason knew from asking questions at Kyzikos’ court and elsewhere that the higher cliffs marked the beginning of another peninsula. From the tip of that land, one could make sail northeast across a span of open water. It was not too dangerous an attempt because even if the direction was too far north or too far east, the ship would come to land. Then it was necessary to sail along the coast to find the narrow passage of the Bosphorous. Since he did not know how far they were from the tip of the peninsula, he did not dare sail on into the dark.
Casting a venomous glance at Heracles, Jason said they would go back to the cove they had passed. He ordered the sails furled and the oars out. Adjustments had to be made: Castor and Polydeuces, who had manned the same oar opposite Heracles to match his great pull, each brought a replacement oar from the port to the starboard side. The great oar they had manned was left at rest as was one on the lower bench which countered Polyphemus’ pull. Polyphemus moved to port and took a sound oar there. Orpheus got out his flute and began his chant. The men sang—they had to do so to keep the rhythm of the rowing—but there was something in it that Eurydice did not like. She felt again, as she had felt when Jason was speaking, that something unpleasant was going to happen, but she had no sense of any way to avoid it or even that they should avoid it. Nor did she feel any compulsion to speak, as she had with the Seeing in Kyzikos’ court.
Despite her feeling, the Argo was drawn up on the shore and settled for the night without any difficulty. As soon as the ship was moored, Heracles said he was going to look for a tree suitable to cut for his oar. A few minutes after he was out of sight, Eurydice went to the stream to look for herbs or any edible greens and roots that could be gleaned—and also to give Orpheus an opportunity to approach her out of hearing of the others. She was just reaching for a clump of ferns when she noticed Hylas carrying a bundle and going upstream at a determined pace. Her lips parted to call out, but she clamped them shut and went on with her gathering. If the boy wanted his freedom, he had a right to it. If this was a ploy for sympathy and attention, he did not deserve either. Then she forgot him. Orpheus was coming slowly across the beach toward her.
Eurydice almost turned and ran away from him. She could see how reluctant he was, his head down and his shoulders slumped—yet he was not carrying the cithara. Surely that meant he intended to lie with her. But he looked more like a man going to his funeral than to a joyful release. She wanted to cry out, “What is wrong with me?” but she knew she could get no sound past the tightness in her throat.
When he reached her, he stood silent for a moment, then asked, “Are you willing to come to Greece with me and be my wife?”
It was the last thing she expected him to say, the very last. She could not imagine what had brought him to ask so unlikely a question and she stared back, wordless, until finally she remembered what she had said about love and lust soon after they had met.
“That is not what I meant,” she said.
He looked surprised. “What you meant?” he repeated.
“I know we spoke once of coupling and I said that was not love, but that was before I knew you. I did not mean that one must be bound for life before one can taste pleasure. I only meant that a pair must know each other, take joy in talking and doing things together. That can be for a few weeks or a few months—”
“Not for me,” Orpheus
said. “I have been thinking of little else since we came near to joining our bodies in the marketplace. When I came back for you and you were gone… I thought you had run away and that I would never find you. That was a torment I could hardly bear, and then I began to think that if we were lovers, as you say, for weeks or months, and then we parted—” He stopped and shook his head. “No.”
The hurt Eurydice had felt when she saw how reluctant he was to come to her had been soothed away by his confession that he had been as troubled as she after that abortive love-making. She smiled at him. “But Orpheus, you cannot ask me to marry you, really, you cannot. How could you take what your people call a witch to wife? As ill as is the lot of the Gifted here in the east, I have heard that it is far worse in Greece.”
“Not in my village,” he said. “You would be safe there. They are accustomed to me. And if you do not use your Gift, who will know?”
“But my Gift is part of me,” Eurydice protested. “Would you have me abandon part of myself? Think of it in another way: What if someone dear to you fell ill? Would you rather see that person die than that I should use my Gift for Healing? What if a child were lost—as that woman’s child was lost? Should I let the poor thing die of hunger and thirst or be torn to bits by wild animals rather than Find it? In the end, what would you think of me for setting my own good above the lives of others? Would you not grow to hate me?”
He began to smile and shake his head before she was half finished, and at her final question, he laughed. “Do not be so silly. My friends and neighbors are not such monsters as to wish you dead for saving lives. No one would think of harming you for Healing or Finding. They might not be so reasonable if you were casting spells, but your Gifts do only good.”
“So you think,” Eurydice said bitterly. “I know better. Do you think I worked great conjurations in any of the places where I settled? No! First, I was welcome, then there would be one beyond my healing who died, and I would be blamed for unwillingness or ill will. Someone would claim that I was greedy, that I did not try or deliberately worked ill because I was not paid enough. I am not the Goddess. If She does not choose to give me the strength, if She desires that one come to Her or go to Hades’ dark realm, I am helpless. Just as often, someone would ask for a spell that I could not—or would not—cast. Then rumors would fly, and suddenly I would be to blame; for every accident and illness in the town. Twice, I was only stoned out of the place. Once, I barely escaped those who came with bindings to sacrifice me.”
Enchanted Fire Page 19
