Chapter 39
Jason
Shouts and the creak of ropes echo through the air as the Argonauts pull the ship to shore that evening, tugging its belly
onto the sand. The setting sun flashes on the sea spray kicked up by their feet, turning the droplets into momentary jewels
suspended in the air.
Jason looks around and sees someone waiting on a promontory nearby. Not an armored assortment of warriors as on Lemnos, but
a single old man.
The man is so ancient that he seems composed of driftwood. Tendons stand out under skin like the thinnest papyrus. Tufts of
white fluff adorn his head, and his beard is sparse as a goat’s. He leans heavily on a walking stick as ancient and sun-bleached
as himself. He might be a corpse risen from a tomb, but then he begins to speak.
“Jason and his Argonauts,” the old man calls. “Bravest of heroes, I greet you. I am King Phineus. For a long time, I have
awaited your coming.”
A ripple runs through the gathered Argonauts, and they murmur to one another uneasily. How does he know who we are? What does
he want? Jason steps forward gamely, though he finds he is getting very, very tired of random men turning up on supposedly
deserted islands.
“We greet you, honored Phineus,” Jason begins. “Please, tell me what it is that you need.” He is careful to make no promises before finding out what sort of threat they face; Jason wants to help, but he also wants to get himself and his men home as soon as possible.
“It will be easier to show you,” Phineus says. “Follow me.”
Phineus turns and begins tapping his way along the shale-covered beach with his walking stick. Moving as one, the Argonauts
follow him.
They come to a dilapidated palace, a place with roof tiles missing and cracks all through the foundation. Mold darkens the
corners, and only a smattering of weary-looking servants disturb the silence. Yet judging from the richness of the murals
and the grandeur of the high ceilings, this must have been a magnificent building once.
“Not so long ago, great gatherings were hosted here,” Phineus says in his reedy voice. “Feasts for the kings of Greece, and
emissaries from Persia, and the hierophants of Egypt. Once my library was the object of envy. Now it is all dust and ghosts.”
They arrive in the feasting hall, a room of tall, cobwebbed ceilings stretching away into the gloom. As the Argonauts enter,
a servant comes out with a plate. Resting upon it is a single piece of bread.
As the standing forest of Argonauts watch, King Phineus pulls out a chair, sits down, and lifts the bread to his mouth.
At once, a shadow falls upon the room.
A winged form swoops through the smoke hole in the roof, followed by a second and a third. They are much larger than hawks,
wingspans vaster than those of eagles. They have clawed feet like the talons of a bird, but human faces glare at Jason from
behind dark feathers.
Harpy. The name comes to Jason suddenly. Stealthy snatcher, dread goddess, punisher of the wicked. He thinks at once of Medea. He
isn’t quite sure what happened with Circe, but perhaps nothing can fully expiate Medea’s deeds, and the dark gods have come
calling for her at last. Jason shields her with his body, placing himself between his future wife and danger.
But the Harpies are not here for Medea. One of them swoops down and snatches Phineus’s bread from his hands with gnarled claws.
The second Harpy follows, tipping over Phineus’s wineglass so that a puddle of violet spreads over the table like a bleeding
wound. The third looses her bowels, raising a horrible stink.
Their task apparently accomplished, the three Harpies fly out again through the smoke hole. The only relic of their presence
is the putrid waste contaminating the table.
“So you see,” Phineus says with a sigh, “I have a bit of a problem.”