Jason and Medeia Read online

  Abruptly,

  I sat up, trying to check my gloomy thoughts—trying, to tell the truth, to shake off my sudden, senseless

  shame.

  Idas saw me. As darkness thickened he’d watched,

  invisible,

  except for his eyes. He laughed his nasty, madhouse

  laugh

  and yelled at me, too loud, like a deaf man. ‘Jason,’ he

  bawled,

  ‘tell us your morbid thoughts, O Lord of the Argonauts!’ His eyes were wild. ‘Is it panic I spy on the face of the

  warlike

  Jason son of Aison? Fear of the dark, maybe? Lo, we’ve chosen you keeper of us all, and there you sit, quiet as a stone! Be brave, good man! We’ll all protect

  you,

  now that we’ve solemnly chosen you—after deepest

  thought,

  you understand, and the most profound reflection!’

  He laughed.

  “By my keen spear, the spear that carries me farther in

  war

  than Zeus himself, I swear that no disaster shall trouble a hair of Jason’s beard, so long as Idas is with him. That’s the kind of ally you’ve got in me, old friend!’ I couldn’t tell if the lunatic meant to mock me or meant to defend me against some imagined foe. I doubt if he

  knew

  himself. I did know this: with a word, a single wild assertion, he’d made the night go stony dark as if he’d closed a door on the gods, and in that selfsame

  gesture

  closed out his friends—perhaps closed out the very

  earth

  at his feet. He lifted a full beaker with both dark hands and guzzled the sweet unwatered wine till his lips and

  beard

  were drenched with it. The men all cried out in anger

  at his words,

  and Idmon said—it was no mere guess, he spoke as

  a seer—

  Tour words are deadly!—and it’s you, black Idas, who’ll

  die of them!

  Crazy as you are, you’ve scoffed at almighty Zeus

  himself!

  Laugh all you will, the time will come—and soon,

  man, soon—

  when you’ll roll your eyes like a sheep in flight from a

  wolf, and no one,

  nothing at your back but Zeus!’

  “More loudly than before, mad Idas

  laughed. “Woe be unto Idas! For he hath drunk of the

  blood

  of bulls. He will surely die! He’ll crawl on his belly,

  eat dust,

  and children will kick him in the head! —Come now, my brave little seer! Employ your second sight and tell me: How do you mean to escape from poor mad Idas once he’s proved your prophecies lie? I’ve

  heard

  you prophesied once you’d love some lady of Thrace till

  your dying

  day. Where’s she gone now? Snuck off to the woods,

  Idmon?

  Wringing her fingers and moaning and plucking the

  wild flowers,

  timid as a rabbit, hiding from the eyes of men like

  one of

  the god’s pale shuddering nuns? I have it on authority that Zeus is a man-eating spider.’ He spoke in fury,

  with the hope

  of raising Idmon against him and cutting him down.

  I leaped

  to my feet—and so did the others—yelling, Herakles

  in rage,

  my cousin Akastos shocked and grieved. Mad Idas’ mind was gone from behind his eyes leaving nothing but

  smoke, dull fire,

  the look in the eyes of a snake before it strikes.

  “Then something

  happened. We hardly knew, at first, what it was we

  heard,

  but the night grew strangely peaceful, as if some

  goddess had touched

  the sea, the fire, the trees, with an infinitely gentle hand and soothed them, made them sweet. Orpheus stroked

  his harp,

  singing as if to himself, ears cocked to the sea and stars, half smiling, like a man in a dream. Then Idas was

  calm, and recovered,

  and the evil spirit left him.

  “He sang of the age when the earth

  and sky were knit together in a single mold, and how

  they were

  sundered, ripped from each other by terrible strife, how

  mountains

  rose from the ground like teeth. And then, in terror

  at what

  they’d done, and what might follow, they paused and

  trembled. Then stars

  appeared, sent out by the gods to move as sentinels, and streams appeared on the mountainsides, and

  murmuring nymphs

  to whisper and lull the earth back into its sleep. He told how, out of the sea, the old four-legged creatures came, a sacrifice gift from the deeps to the growling shore,

  and birds

  were formed of the earth as a peace-offering to the sky.

  Then dragons,

  cursed race still angry, challenged the gods. King Zeus was still a child at play in his Dictaian cave. They

  roamed

  the earth, terrifying lesser beasts, alarming even the gods, an army of serpents who threatened all who’d

  warred

  in the former age—the earth and sea and sky, the

  roaming

  mountains, stalkers in the night. But then the Cyclopes

  borne

  of earth, for love of Hera, earth’s majestic mother, fortified Zeus with the thunderbolt. Then Zeus ruled all, great god of peace. And all the earth and the arching

  sky

  shone calm and bright as a wedding dress. And the

  wisdom of Zeus

  was satisfied. The craftsman of the gods invented

  flowers

  and green fields, and the world became as one again.

  “So Orpheus sang, but how he ended none of us could

  say.

  We slept. The sea lapped gently, near our feet. And thus the first night passed, quiet as the legend he sang to us.

  “When radiant dawn with her bright eyes gazed at the

  towering crags

  of Pelion, and the headlands washed by wind-driven seas stood sharp and clear, Tiphys aroused us, and quickly

  we shook off

  sleep and gulped our breakfast down and ran to the

  waiting

  ship. The Argo growled at us, from her magic beams, impatient to sail. We leaped aboard and followed in file to our rowing benches. Then, all in order, our gear

  beside us,

  we hauled the hawsers in and poured libations out to the sea. Then Herakles settled amidships, cramped

  for space,

  huge Ankaios beside him. The ship’s keel, underfoot, sank low in the water, accepting their weight. I gave

  the signal.

  My eyes welled up with tears I scarcely understood

  myself,

  snatching a last quick look at home, and then our oars, spoonshaped, pointed like spearheads—Argus’ sly

  design—

  dug in, in time with Orpheus’ lyre like dancers’ feet. The smooth, bright blades were swallowed by the waves,

  and on either side,

  the dark green saltwater broke into foam, seething in

  anger

  at our powerful strokes. The ship lunged forward, riding

  the roll

  that came to us, swell on swell, out of landless distances. Our armor glittered in the sunshine bright as fire;

  behind

  our stern, our wake lay clear as a white stone path on

  a field,

  or clear except … I forget. Some curious after-image, memory or vision, obscurely ominous. … Never mind.

  “All the high gods, it seemed to us, were looking down from heaven that day, observing the Argo, applauding

  us on;<
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  and from the mountain heights the nymphs of Pelion

  admired our ship,

  Athena’s work, and sighed at the beauty of the

  Argonauts swinging

  their oars. The centaur Kheiron came down from the

  high ground—

  he who had been, since my father’s death, my friend

  and tutor.

  Rushing to the sea, and wading out in the gray-green

  surf,

  he waved again and again with his two huge hands.

  His wife

  came down with Akhilles, Peleus’ son, on her arm and

  held him

  for his father to see. “Now there’s the man to row

  for us!’

  Telamon yelled, Peleus’ brother, and Peleus beamed.

  “Till we left the harbor with its curving shores behind

  us, the ship

  was in Tiphys’ hands, swerving like a bird past sunken

  rocks

  as his polished steering-oar bid. When the harbor

  receded, we stept

  the tall oak mast in its box and fixed it with forestays,

  taut

  on either bow. We hauled the sail to the mast-head,

  snapped

  the knots, unfurled it. Shrill wind filled it out. We made the halyards fast on deck, each wrapped on its wooden

  pin,

  and thus we sailed at our ease past the long Tesaian

  headland.

  Orpheus sang. A song of highborn Artemis, saver of ships, guardian of the peaks that lined that sea. As

  he sang,

  fish of all shapes and kinds came over the water and

  gambolled

  in our wake like sheep going home to the shepherd’s

  pipe. The wind

  freshened as the day wore on, and carried the Argo,

  swift

  and yare as a wide-winged gull.

  “The Pelasgian land

  grew dim, faded out of view; then, gliding on, we passed the stern rock flanks of Pelion. Sepias disappeared, and sea-girt Skiathos hove in sight. Then, far away, we saw Peiresiai, and under the cloudless blue, the mainland coast of Magnesia, and Dolops’ tomb.

  And then

  the thick wind veered against us. We beached our ship

  in the dark,

  the sea running high, and there we stayed three days.

  At the end

  of the third, when the wind was right again, we hoisted

  sail.

  We ran past Meliboia, keeping its stormy rocks to leeward, and when dawn’s bright eyes shone, we saw

  the slopes

  of Homole slanting to the sea close by. We skirted

  around it

  and passed the mouth of the Amyros, and passed, soon

  after,

  the sacred ravines of Ossa and then Olympos. Then,

  running

  all night long before the wind, we made it to Pallene,

  where

  the hills rise up from Kanastra. On we sailed, through

  the dawn,

  and old Mount Athos rose before us, Athos in Thrace, whose peak soars up so high it throws its shadow over Lemnos, clear up to Myrine. We had a stiff breeze all that day and through the night; the Argo’s sail was

  stretched.

  But then with dawn’s first glance there came a calm.

  It was

  our backs that carried us in, heaving at the oars—

  carried us,

  grinning like innocent fools, to the first of our

  troubles—Lemnos,

  bleaker, more rugged than we thought, a place where

  murdered men,

  ghosts howling on the rocks …”

  Abruptly, Jason paused,

  the beautiful gray-eyed goddess whispering in his ear.

  He frowned

  and looked around him like a man Just startled out of

  sleep. The sky

  was gray, outside the windows of Kreon’s hall. The king sat leaning on his hands, eyes vague, as if still listening though Jason’s voice had stopped. At the tables, some

  were asleep,

  some leaned forward like children seated at an old

  man’s knee,

  half hearing his words, half dreaming. Pyripta glanced

  at Jason

  shyly, sleepy, but waiting in spite of her weariness. Then Jason laughed, a peal that startled us all. “Good

  gods!

  I’ve talked the night away! You’re mad to endure it!”

  The old king

  straightened. “No no! Keep going!” But then he blushed.

  He knew

  himself that his words were absurd, even when others,

  at the tables,

  echoed the request. At the king’s elbow, Ipnolebes spoke, beloved old slave in black, his beard snow-white.

  He said:

  “Good Kreon—if I might suggest it—it’s true that it’s

  late, as Jason

  says. But it seems to me that you might persuade our

  friend

  to sleep with us here—we have rooms enough, and

  servants sufficient

  to tend to the needs of one more man. And then, when

  Jason—

  and all of us—are refreshed, he could tell us more.”

  The king

  stood up, nodding his pleasure. “Excellent!” he said.

  “Dear Jason,

  I insist! Stay with us the night!” The hall assented,

  clapping,

  even fat Koprophoros, for politeness, though it spiked his spleen that Jason should steal the light

  from him,

  slyly rebuke him with an endless, cunning tale. (But do

  not think from this

  the Asian was easily overcome. His outrage was play, we’d all soon learn. He knew pretty well what his power

  was,

  and knew what the limit would be for Aison’s son.)

  —Nor was he

  alone in seeming distressed. Stern King Paidoboron, beard dyed blacker than a raven’s wings, scowled

  angrily;

  Jason had struck him from the shadows, cunning and

  unjust, light-footed,

  a thousand times. He’d slashed deep, by metaphors, casual asides too quick for a man to expose, so that Paidoboron’s message was poisoned, at least for now.

  Nor would

  his chance to reply come soon. Gray-eyed Athena’s words in Jason’s ear had shown him a stratagem for keeping

  the floor,

  and even now old Kreon was begging him to stay.

  But Jason

  raised his hand, refusing. He was needed at home, he

  said;

  and nothing Kreon could say would change his mind.

  At last

  he allowed this much: he’d return the following

  afternoon

  and tell the rest—since his noble friends insisted on it. And so it was agreed. Then hurriedly Jason left his

  chair

  and went to the door, only pausing, on his way, for a

  dozen greetings

  to friends not seen in years.

  By chance—so it seemed to me,

  but nothing in all this dream was chance—the slave

  who brought

  his cloak was the Northerner, Amekhenos. He draped

  the cloak

  on Jason’s powerful shoulders without a word, head

  bowed,

  and as Jason moved away, the young man said, “Good

  night.”

  Jason paused, frowned as if listening to the voice in

  his mind,

  then turned to glance at the slave. He studied the young

  man’s features,

  frowning still, his fist just touching his chin: pale hair, a Kumry mouth that could laugh in an instant, perhaps

  in an instant more, forget;

  shoulder
s of a prince, and the round, red face of a Kelt, and the dangerous, quiet eyes… But the

  memory

  nagging his mind—so it seemed to me—refused to

  come,

  and the slave, his eyes level with Jason’s, as though he

  were

  no slave, but a fellow king, would give no help. At last Jason dismissed it, and left. But in front of his house

  (it was morning,

  birdsongs filling the brightening sky), he paused and

  frowned

  again, studying the cobblestones under his feet, and

  again

  the memory, connection, resemblance, whatever it was,

  would not

  come clear.

  The dark house rising above the vine-hung, crumbling outer walls, the huge old trees, seemed still asleep, hushed in the yellowing light as an ancient sepulchre. The feeble lamp still burned at the door. The old male

  slave,

  a Negro stooped and gentle, with steadily averted eyes, lifted the hooks at the door to let him in, and took his scarlet cloak. Jason walked on to the central room which opened onto the garden. His gaze hit the fleece

  at once—

  or he heard it, felt it with the back of his neck before

  he saw it—

  and it seemed to me that the words of the seer had

  returned to him

  like a shock: You may see more than you wish of that

  golden fleece.

  He crossed to it quickly and kneeled to touch it, then

  drew back his hand,

  snatched it away like a man burned. And then, more

  gently,

  thinking something I couldn’t guess, he touched it again. Did the fleece have for him, I wondered, the meaning

  it had for Medeia?—

  love sign, proof that despite the shifting, deceiving mists of their lives together, he knew her worth—understood

  her childlike

  needs as well as he understood, I knew from his tale, his own? He raised it in his hands and went over to

  stand with it

  by the fireplace. There was no fire, but the wood was

  piled

  in its bin; the lamp stood waiting. With a jolt, I

  understood.

  He meant to destroy the thing, outflank his destiny. The same instant, I felt Medeia’s presence with us. She stood at the door, in white. In panic, I searched

  her face

  to see if she too understood. But I couldn’t tell. No sign. She watched him fold the cloth and lay it on the carved

  bench.

  They went up. I found myself shaking. Who remembers

  the elegant speeches

  he makes to his wife, the speeches she laughingly

  mocks herself,

  but clings to more than she thinks? If I were Jason and