Soldiers from another fable

Under the low slung brassy moon our owl faced argonauts, most mendacious and titular, quarrel. The sea lay quiet, for a while at least, no wisp of wind or plish of wave to ruffle it’s wine dark depths. Though one might not expect them in this region of the earth (perhaps we are not on the terrestrial globe we think we are), several small otters trickle through and on and about the glittering black sand of the far off island, where the palm trees sway. (Solace of a desert oasis –  remember those floating images, those from the cigarette scented library books, loaded with pen ink illustrations of brahmin, rutabagas, white stags, and bright ruby carbuncles. The murmur of fairy besotted waters, a little heaven in the dry dry desert, some kind of resting place to smoke the genie from a lantern wrestled from the grotto ogres knobby digits – all these are mere memories from the dewey decimal stacks. Great tall shelves they were, and beyond the whoosh of air conditioned climate control, the stacks trembled with the raging clamor of gods, the fighting throes of cotton pickin’tar babies, and the bow shaped kissing lips of silver screen lovlies.)

Under the low slung brassy moon, in a most unexpected turn of events, the grave warriors of Ilion cross paths with Jason, and his well-worsted sailors. “Wool,” they of the fallen city cry, “wool to cover our weary heads, to clean the entrails of Troy’s last survivors, to mop the inevitable mess in Atreus’s dread halls.”

Jason’s crew replies: “But are you but wolves to feed upon our soft merino vests? Avengers to mash about in the carded rolags of our spleen? How can we know that our macedonian adventurers fit the mixology of your wily hollow horsemen?” The argonauts, led by a great liar, naturally distrust strangers from another fable.

The soldier of Ilion have answers in the form of questions. “Ah, but how do you know we are these so called internal jockeys, who race on counterfeit nags – perhaps we are the men besotted with the great hinny, the people who fell for ambiguas in vulgum spargere voces?” 

It is a quandary.


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