for the fleece and not dream of being a passenger on the Argo? To be in the company of Herakles. These last stormy nights I’ve dreamed of being among the chosen. But I’m a bookworm imposter and in my visions I hide from the breath-stealing wind under the rowing seats, arranging draping bits of sail to make a tight tent so I won’t be noticed by the heroes. No spray or rain disturbs me. And I have a bearskin or ram fleece of my own, stuffed in my dreamer’s backpack. I spread it across the Athena-sawn boards, stretch out and wrap my cloak about me. I can hear the sons of Boreas leading the boasts as the wine goes round at the prow, hear Orpheus trying to lull the storm with his song, hear the soft, barefoot step of the barbarian princess, restless and wide-eyed at the stern, trying to catch a scent of her lost homeland on the warm night air.