JASON AND HIS DISCOMBOBULATED ARGONAUTS
Here we present a fascinating and long-forgotten firsthand relation of the age of Argonauts, and those things that look like women but have wings and horns and that. The words, though a little odd-on-the-ear by our modern standards, have survived the centuries and seventeen translations, which was mostly an exercise in showmanship by our translator-in-chief, Corduroy Landmineson, to be with you. Here. Now. These missives, between an old retired Argonaut, Diabulous Upp, and a young lad he had befriended at a party named The King of Sweden, have recently been unearthed by accident by moles in the library.
Dear Your Highness,
I trust Sweden is well.
Jason wasn't very nice to his Argonauts, you know. He used to make us jog around on the beach every morning in our pants, and often told us to row off into the sea without giving us a good reason. He said he wanted to have the best Argonauts in the world, and that we were all very fat and stupid and ugly and kind of odd-looking in the face. I often thought that life as an Argonaut would be top-hole, what with the rowing and fighting skeletons. Though I had endured several months of drunken jibing, from the lads down at the tavern, and I had to think twice before taking the plunge and actually apply to be an Argonaut.
I thought twice, and on the second thoughting I changed my mind and asked Jason if I could be an Argonaut. He wrestled the plunge from me and threw it at a cat. The cat's name was Terry, but that's not really important right now. He said that he'd think about it, but whilst he was thinking about it why didn't I get some Argonaut practise in, and start carrying a barrel around the market, from the inside. It was a dark and tiring task indeed, and seemed to go on for an eternity. My knees hurt terribly after the first three hours of this, crouched as I was within the barrel. I waddled slowly around the empty stalls and discarded vegetable slush, like some wooden crab with all of its legs pulled off and in a market.
When I surfaced from my barrel-induced coma the next morning, amongst the confusing crowd of legs and bags in the busy market, I realised that I may have passed Jason's test of resilience. My conclusion was confirmed, as I reached the golden beach, bathed as it was in the golden light of a new day, when Jason poked me in the eye with his ringed finger - to show me how easily these things can happen at sea or on a beach. I was in. We spent the morning rehersing stabbing actions. This involved standing very still, or burying ourselves in the sand, and then lunging with our swords at the passing joggers, who loved to skip through the salty spray and take chances with our deadly Argonaut blades. Jason was pretty much a law unto himself at this point, and the authorities were perfectly happy to sweep any body count under the carpet for him - especially when any emergency rowing needed to be done. Which was often, and sometimes twice at the weekends.
Fine days. Days of glorious adventure. Clouded with mystery and intrigue. Time soaked in the blood of indescriminately slaughtered peoples holding only slightly differing opinions to ourselves. But yesterday is but a mosquito trapped in the molten amber of our memory; and there are some children dismantling my hovel; so I really must go. Please send me more of your bread and questions soon, and I will happily tell you further of my time spent lashed to the hull of Jason's ships, like a barnacle, as we Argonauts assisted him in his many adventures spent exploring, collecting souvenirs and killing. Send some cheese, next time, if you can. I like cheese.
Coming soon: (I expect - Ed) Assorted Argonautical Tales
Jason and His Argonauts Form a Successful Folk Band.
All content © www.tinyhorsey.co.uk