Enchanted Fire

by Roberta Gellis

  She headed for the ladder with Hylas lagging behind, but she did not go for the pile of dry blankets. She sought instead the rag chest, drew out a dry tunic, and with the aid of her knife began to tear it into strips for bandages. Sidelong, she glanced at Hylas, wondering whether he would leave Polyphemus lying much longer on the cold ground and take the chance that Heracles would return and find the friend who had been wounded in his stead in that condition. If Hylas was that far gone, she would have to care for Polyphemus herself or the cold and damp would make him sicker. By the time she had torn a second tunic into strips, Hylas was gone. She heard voices closer, gathered up her bandages and the needles and thread she had bought, and ran down the ladder.

  The trees were apparently a more effective barrier to sound than she had guessed. She had expected to meet the men coming out of the woods, but when she reached the ground, she found five badly wounded men lying on the scant grass, others too hurt to work but less badly injured propped against the ship’s support poles while the greatest portion of the crew were starting fires, taking the dry clothing and blankets from the piles she had dropped from the ship, and attending to one another’s minor injuries. Someone had made and lit torches, setting them into the sand at intervals. She snatched up one and went quickly from one to another of the worst injured men, asking how they were hurt.

  Two did not answer, and she knelt beside the nearest, catching her breath when she saw it was Lynkeus until she could find his wound. His arm was broken, the bone thrusting through the flesh on the underside; it must have been so painful that he lost his senses. The wound was ugly, but she knew she could set the bone—the end was not splintered—and heal the flesh so no harm would be done. She turned away to the other, whom she did not know. This was worse, much worse; his left leg was torn open from knee to thigh and the blood was still pulsing out through a rough bandage. Eurydice thrust her torch into the sand as near to the wounded leg as she could get, tore off the blood-soaked bandage, and laid her hands on the highest point of the wound, from where most of the blood was coming. She pressed the gaping cut together, and to her great relief the man tried to twitch away from her and groaned.

  “What are you doing?” a voice cried. “Put back that bandage at once!”

  “Do you want him dead?” Eurydice snarled. “I am Healing him, you fool.”

  “Jason,” the voice cried, fading as if the speaker was running off into the woods.

  She had left the unknown man and, with Castor’s help—he had a cut high on one arm and several ugly looking bruises, which he accounted as not being hurt at all—had set Lynkeus’ broken bone. Lynkeus had screamed only once, as she drew the bone back to set it, before he lost consciousness again so that Eurydice was able to smooth the torn flesh together and bind it without his resistance. But she had Healed only lightly, and had reinforced her work with more mundane methods, a heavy splint, a bandage, and a sling.

  Even so, Eurydice was beginning to feel cold and faint. Never before had she needed to Heal such dreadful wounds so quickly. In the temple, patients had been brought one at a time with ample periods to rest in between, and, although she was the strongest, there were other Healers to help carry a heavy burden. No more, she resolved. I cannot spare more Power. I must save what is left in me for Orpheus. The thought sent a little cold shiver through her. When she had first seen that he was not among the worst wounded, Eurydice’s fears for Orpheus had receded. Now a far greater fear was beginning to eat at her, leaving her strangely hollow within. No more men were coming from the wood. Where was Orpheus?

  Not wishing to stand until the faintness that washed over her had receded, she had sat back on her heels and closed her eyes. A hand fell on her shoulder. She looked up then with frantic anxiety beyond the first face she saw.

  “Orpheus,” she cried, struggling to rise.

  He thrust away the hand on her shoulder—Jason’s—and lifted her, holding her against him.

  “What are you doing?” Jason asked her.

  “Are you safe? Unhurt?” she asked Orpheus.

  “Eurydice,” Jason snarled, “Admetos said you have killed Koronus.”

  “Orpheus? Eurydice shrieked when he did not answer, trying to push away far enough to see him.

  “Eurydice!” Jason shouted.

  “I am whole! I am whole!” Orpheus assured her, relaxing his grip enough so that she could look at him.

  “There is blood on you,” she cried.

  “Other men’s,” he said, shaking her lightly. “Answer Jason. What did you do to Koronus?”

  “Who is Koronus?” she asked angrily.

  “He is lying there,” Jason said, pointing.

  Eurydice blinked. “Oh, him,” she said. “I Healed him. I told you I could Heal a little.”

  Before she had finished her sentence, Jason had gone to kneel by Koronus. “He is breathing,” he said, sounding surprised and then, his voice rising with shock, “His wound is closed.” He stood up and gestured for Eurydice to come away from the little group of wounded. “Is Polyphemus also alive?” he asked.

  Eurydice had allowed Orpheus to lead her close to Jason. Now she let her head fall forward onto Orpheus’ breast. “He should be,” she sighed. “I do not know where he is lying. I told Hylas to put a dry tunic on him and a blanket around him. Someone should do that for Koronus, too.” She took a deep breath and lifted her head; under her cheek, Orpheus’ body had been warm and steady. Nonetheless, she was driven to ask again, “Are you sure you have no wound, Orpheus?”

  “If Koronus and Polyphemus are alive, you can Heal more than a little,” Jason said.

  “Desperation gives more strength than comes by nature,” Orpheus put in firmly. “Can you not see she is drained out?”

  “And I can do no more,” Eurydice added, keeping her voice faint, but that was largely because she did not wish to waken that acquisitiveness she had seen several times in Jason when her Power had been exposed. “I hope there are no more who will die, if I do not Heal them, but…”

  “No, it does not matter,” Jason said.

  He started to turn away and then stopped, looking confused as if he could not remember what he had intended to do.

  Once the immediate purpose of protecting one of the wounded from greater harm became ridiculous, a more overwhelming trouble that the emergency had overridden gripped him again. He glanced toward the woods, his jaw tightening, but the determination faltered—the first time she had ever seen that in Jason—and he looked down at the ground. Eurydice shrank back as she felt the well of horror in him that the minor fear for Koronus had covered, but her haven was no safe one. Orpheus also exuded a sick despair.

  “If it is very important,” she whispered, drawing in on herself, shivering, “I could try.”

  Jason shook his head. “There was one other I would have brought to be saved, if I had known you could save him and if he had not been dead already when my blade left his body.” He began to shudder and then stiffened against it. “You were right, Eurydice. There was too much blood, and this was the wrong battle, one we should not have fought. Kyzikos is dead, and by my hand. I took his guest-gift and then I killed him. I have sinned by refusing to heed your warning.”

  “Jason,” Orpheus said, “you fled for my sake. I share your sin.”

  Jason shook his head again. “You offered to let them take you.”

  “You mean it was Kyzikos and the Doliones who attacked you?” Eurydice asked, wide-eyed.

  “Yes,” Jason said. “They thought they were attacking a band of Gegeneis, who had raided the eastern side of the city the night we left. One of the dying cursed us for raiding and called us Gegeneis.”

  Eurydice shivered and Orpheus held her closer. “Then you might as well say I am to blame for being too stupid to interpret my own vision. Now I can see clearly enough. What battle could be a ‘wrong battle’ except one against our host?” She sighed heavily. “I am sorry. I was never trained to be a Seer.”

  “Whom they wou
ld destroy, the gods first make mad,” Jason said. “You were not so blind—or blinded—as I. Once we were out of the palace, why did I insist on fleeing the city? We could have stayed without putting Orpheus at risk. I could have hidden him, sent him away, said he was sick…”

  “I saw they were too enamoured of my singing,” Orpheus said. “Why was I so vain? I could have sounded a false note, sung less than my best.”

  “Now we all see.” Jason’s tone was bitter. “Now it is too late. We are left with a pretty choice—to abandon the ship or fight against overwhelming odds to save her. In any case, my dreams of glory must be abandoned.”

  Although he was still holding her, Eurydice felt Orpheus was no longer aware of her. “We cannot run,” he said dully. “To carry the wounded would slow us and I think they will pursue us however far we go.” Eurydice felt a tremor in his arm. “It was a mistake to try to kill them all. Now those who escaped will burn with hatred and rally a larger force against us.”

  “How could I know?” Jason muttered. “I thought they were an outlaw band, that they had nowhere to run to, and that the world would be better off without them. It is too late to worry about that now. I agree they will soon come again, and this time with an army prepared to overwhelm us. The question is, have we time enough to launch the ship? Is it possible to do so?”

  Eurydice could see Orpheus’ eyes turned toward the beach where, although the wind now blew only lightly, huge breakers still flung themselves so high that the ship strained at the mooring ropes and the anchoring poles. It was plain enough that to remove ropes and poles was to court immediate disaster and, if that did not befall, the hope of getting the ship through the passage into the cove was nil. More than half the men were wounded, and she had not seen Tiphys or Ankaios, who would need to be well and alert to steer the Argo.

  “We have a better chance to withstand an army,” Orpheus said, although he knew Jason was not really asking the questions of him. “You must ask Tiphys, of course, but I do not believe there is any way we could launch the ship.”

  “I do not need to ask. I know that launching could only destroy her and drown us. Perhaps this voyage is doomed. First I was beguiled by the women of Lemnos. Now I have sinned against my host. I wonder if I swore to return to Yolcos, to accept Pelias as king, whether that would save us.”

  Eurydice wanted to cry out that she knew it would not—the last thing she desired was to be taken into Greek lands, assuming they could save the ship—but she dared not urge Jason to continue lest what she said be taken as prophecy. On the other hand, she had to say something! She was sure that a good part of Jason’s and Orpheus’ trouble was that they were exhausted—as were all the other men, who, instead of resting, were still milling about doing useless things. They were exhausted from working so hard to save the Argo from the storm and fighting a bitter battle. Exhaustion of the flesh dulls the mind and often sinks the spirit into despair when there is little cause.

  Of course, the gods could be vengeful and unreasonable and snatch a defeat out of the jaws of victory by that means, if they wished, but it was stupid to assume that before it was proven. Her own Lady, Eurydice knew, was often mischievous and set testings and puzzles along the smooth path of life. And Eurydice sensed no evil ahead. The men needed a leader to order them to lie down and rest while Jason and Orpheus needed something that would jolt them out of the rutted road to despair. To accept an evil fate often brought that fate upon one. She searched within herself, but the pall of mourning that had oppressed her was gone completely. Unfortunately, that might mean no more than that her ability to See was gone. She must make that clear, but she must speak and offer some hope.

  “I have no Seeing,” Eurydice said firmly into the silence that had fallen. “That is gone, perhaps forever, but it seems to me that instead of moaning about mistakes and sin, you should set about amending the evil you have unwittingly done. Gather up the dead and wounded Doliones. Lay out the dead with honor and bind up the wounds of the living—”

  Both men looked at her as if she had grown an extra head.

  “An army is coming,” Orpheus repeated patiently. He touched her face. “Perhaps you had better leave the wounded now and slip away into the forest. They will not search for you.”

  Eurydice ignored him. She knew what he said was true and she could escape. Only…she did not wish to leave. She did not ask herself why; she only told herself she could slip away at any time if all else failed…if harm came to Orpheus. She pushed that thought away. For now, she was bound to these men—until Orpheus was free of them.

  “Might that army not pause if their own dead and wounded, carefully tended, were set in their path?” she suggested.

  Orpheus opened his mouth, but nothing came out of it.

  Jason shook his head as if he had been slapped and said, “That is a most excellent idea. I—” His voice stopped, and he stared at Eurydice. “Tell me, witch,” he went on softly, “why did I not think of that myself?”

  Eurydice wanted desperately to say it was because all men were idiots and could only think of fighting or running, never of smoothing over a quarrel to make peace, but she said nothing. In a way, she would rather have Jason suspicious that she had been manipulating him than admiring her Gift. If he feared she might try to rule him, he would be less likely to want to hold her.

  “Because we are both sore and weary and very sad,” Orpheus said, laying a hand on Jason’s arm. “It is nothing to do with Eurydice. I have just had a thought myself that should have come to me much sooner. When we have laid all out, I will sit by them and play a dirge to echo our sorrow over the ill we have done. The army will hear the music before they see us and their hearts will be filled with grief instead of hatred. If I can explain before the hatred returns—”

  Eurydice stiffened, but before she could protest Orpheus exposing himself, Jason shook his head and said, “I will explain. I have offended and I must be the one to offer apology and restitution, but playing a dirge will help. They will not shout if you are playing, and I will have a chance to speak.”

  “Yes, that is best,” Orpheus said. He turned to Eurydice with a brilliant smile. “You have cast us a life line, Eurydice. Where did you leave my cithara?”

  * * *

  The man who had been scia-Kyzikos had become Kyzikos. As he led his army up the eastern shore of the peninsula, the sun was high. He was much surprised to hear the clear notes of a seven-string cithara drifting through the trees. Tears filled his eyes as grief overwhelmed the rage that had driven him. The voice of the singer—he could not make out the words—was broken (most musically) with mourning, with a sorrow as deep as his own. He hesitated, then hurried forward, passing on to his leaders the word that they had come upon some friends. The voice, the music, could only be Orpheus. Having heard him once, no man forgot.

  The army followed him, but without haste or preparation to fight. The new Kyzikos thought, until he came through the last of the trees onto the small beach, that the singer and his party had been shipwrecked, that they had lost companions for whom Orpheus mourned. He had hoped to ask whether they had heard or seen the battle for the directions given by those who had escaped, as even the guidance of the few who had returned with them had failed to bring them to where their dead should have been scattered among the trees.

  Even when he saw the dead Kyzikos on the raised bier he only thought the Argonauts had found their dead, but the wailing of the cithara and the voice like honey trickling over raw-edged sorrow went on—and then he saw the man, tear-stained and ash smeared, who sat beside the bier.

  “Jason!”

  A last note of the cithara whispered into silence; the singer’s voice was still. Into the quiet, Jason cried, “I have sinned against my host, but not by my will nor by my intention.”

  “You! It was you who raided our city?”

  “No, not that,” Jason replied, lifting his streaked, red-eyed face. “We sailed away that very night. We had not even founded the peninsula wh
en your city was attacked. On the next day, we were overtaken by a terrible storm that drove us back onto your land—but we did not know it! We had never seen this shore. So when a force burst from the forest crying out for blood and death, we—we fought back.”

  “Not you!” the new Kyzikos cried. “Kyzikos did not attack you! You were his guest! You still had two days of full guest’s right. He would not attack you.”

  “Not by his will, or by intent, no,” Jason said.

  “It was the Gegeneis he went to destroy,” Kyzikos insisted, still unable to absorb the double tragedy.

  “Assuredly,” Jason agreed. “Who else would he bid his men fall upon without warning, without parley? Only an enemy who had already wreaked havoc. But it was owing to that lack of challenge that we came to blows. We thought those who had attacked us were outlaws who desired our ship and goods. I thought the world would be better without them—and so I ordered that no quarter be offered, that we pursue and kill every man we could.”

  He drew a deep breath, shuddered, and gestured toward the rows of bodies, washed clean of blood, with straightened limbs, and decently covered with blankets, to the few wounded, who had been sewed up, salved, bandaged, given clean tunics and dry blankets while his own men and he himself still shivered in damp clothing.

  “We grieve with you.” The cithara sounded softly, sadly, lending music to Jason’s voice. “If you desire it, we will go with you and hunt the Gegeneis.”

  Chapter Ten

  It was three weeks before the Argo finally set out again. Jason and the other lightly wounded had returned to the city with the new Kyzikos, leaving Tiphys to bring the ship, carrying the wounded, as soon as the sea calmed. Kyzikos had accepted Jason’s offer to go against the Gegeneis with them. He had evidence of the fighting skills of the Argonauts in the dead he was bringing home with him.