Jason and Medeia Read online

  rise up against us on every

  side. We yoke our team in the morning; by evening

  we’re through

  our harvesting. That is what we do. If you, my good

  man,

  can manage the same, you can carry the fleece to your

  tyrant’s palace

  on the same day. If not, then you shall not have it.

  Make no

  mistake: It would be wrong for the grandson of

  dragons to truckle to a coward.’

  “Lord Jason

  listened with his gaze fixed on the floor. For a long time he said nothing, turning it over in his

  mind.

  At last he brought out: Your Majesty, right’s on your

  side and you leave

  us no escape whatever. Therefore we’ll take your

  challenge,

  despite its preposterous terms and although we’re aware

  that we’re courting

  death. Men can serve no crueler tyrant than Necessity, a lord whose maniac whims brook no man’s reasoning and no appeal to kindness.’

  “He wasn’t much comforted

  by my father’s sinister reply: ‘Go, join your company. You’ve shown your relish for the task. Be aware: if

  you hesitate

  to yoke those bulls, or shirk that deadly harvesting, I’ll take up the matter myself, in a manner calculated to make all other men shrink from coming and

  troubling their betters.’

  They left. My heart flew after them. He was

  beautiful, I thought,

  and already as good as dead. I was overwhelmed with

  pity

  and I fled to my room to weep. What did it mean, this

  grief?

  Hero or villain (and why did I care which? ) the man was walking to his doom. Well, let him go! I had seen

  men die

  before, and would again. What matter? —But my sobs

  grew fierce,

  tearing my chest for a stranger! ‘And yet how I wish

  he’d been spared,’

  I moaned.‘—O sovereign Hekate, grant me my prayer!

  Let him live

  and return to his home. But goddess, if he must be

  conquered by the bulls,

  may he first learn that I, for one, will be far from glad

  of it!’

  The voice fell silent. I continued to listen in the

  dark. Then:

  “On the ship, her lean bows virled with silver, black

  hull bruised

  and cracked, resealed with oakum—the scars of narrow

  escapes;

  pounding of the stormwaves, battering of rocks—the

  crew of the Argo

  listened in silence to the water lapping, the bullfrogs

  of the marsh.

  “Then Melas spoke, my cousin, the boldest of

  Phrixos’ sons—

  bolder by far than my sister. ‘Lord Jason, I’ve a plan

  to suggest.

  You may not like it, but no expedient should be left

  untried

  in an emergency. You’ve heard me speak of Aietes’

  daughter

  Medeia, a witch, and priestess of Hekate. If we managed

  to win

  her help, we’d have nothing to fear. Let me sound my

  mother out

  and see if Medeia can be swayed.’ The son of Aison

  laughed

  (I forgive him that), and said, ‘Things are serious

  indeed when the one

  pale hope of the glorious Argonauts is a girl!’ All the

  same,

  he put it to the others. For a time they were silent in

  impotent despair.

  For all their power, there was no man there who could

  yoke those oxen;

  not even Idas was so far riven of his wits as to dream he might. Melas spoke again. ‘Do not underestimate Medeia. The goddess Hekate has taught her

  extraordinary skill

  with spells both black and white, and with all the

  magic herbs

  that grow on land or in water or climb on the walls

  of caves.

  She can put out a raging forest fire, stop rivers in spate, arrest a star, check even the movements of the moon.

  My mother,

  her sister, can make her our firm ally.’

  “They wouldn’t have believed,

  but the gods, who watch men enviously, deprived by

  nature

  of man’s potential for sorrow and joy, broke in on

  the Argonauts’

  helplessness with a sign. A dove pursued by a hawk dropped into Jason’s lap, while the hawk, with its

  murderous speed,

  was impaled on the mascot at the stem. Immediately

  Mopsos spoke:

  ‘My lords, we’re in Aphrodite’s hands. The sign’s

  unmistakable.

  This gentle bird whose life was spared is Jason’s and

  belongs

  to her. Go, Melas, and speak with your mother.’

  The Argonauts

  applauded; and so it was decided. At once young Melas

  set off.

  “Poor Khalkiope! The princess was chilled to the

  bone with fear.

  Suppose Medeia should be shocked and, stiff with the

  righteousness of youth,

  tell all? Suppose, on the other hand, she agreed and,

  aiding

  the Argonauts, should be caught by that half-mad

  wizard?—Either way

  horror and shame and sorrow!

  “Meanwhile Medeia lay

  in her bed asleep, all cares forgotten—but not for long. Dreams soon assailed her, bleak nightmares of a soul

  in pain.

  She dreamed that the stranger had accepted the

  challenge, but not in the hope

  of winning the golden fleece: his plan was to carry

  her away

  to his home in the South as his bride. She dreamed

  that she, Medeia,

  was yoking the bulls of bronze. She found it easy work, pleasant as flying. She managed it almost listlessly. But when all was done, her father was enraged. The

  brother she’d loved

  past all other men stepped in. Old Aietes struck him

  with a club,

  then, horrified, broken, he gave the decision to her:

  she could do

  as she pleased. Without a moment’s thought, she turned

  her back

  on her father. Aietes screamed. And with the scream

  she woke.

  “She sat up, shivering with fright, and peered round

  the walls of her room.

  Slowly reality crept back, or something akin to reality: an airy dream she mistook for memory of Jason.

  Why could

  he not stay home, court Akhaian girls, torment the kings of Hellas, and leave poor Medeia alone to her

  spinsterhood?

  Tears sprang to her eyes; in one quick motion of mind and body, she leaped from her bed and, barefoot,

  rushed to the door

  and opened it. She would go to her sister—away with

  this foolish

  modesty! She crossed the threshold, but once outside, was uncertain, ashamed. She turned, went back into

  her room again.

  Again she came out, and again crept back. Three times

  Medeia

  tried, and three times failed. She clenched her fists

  in fury

  and threw herself face down on the bed and writhed

  in pain.

  Then, lying still, she was aware of the softness of her

  breasts. She whispered

  the stranger’s name, and at the magic word—more

  powerful spell

  than any she’d learned from Hekate—her tears came


  flooding.

  “Presently one of the servants, her own young maid,

  came in

  and, seeing Medeia in tears, ran swiftly to Khalkiope, who was sitting with Melas, considering how they might

  best win Medeia’s

  aid. When Khalkiope heard the girl’s story, she jumped

  up, terrified,

  and hurried to her sister. ‘Medeia!’ she cried, ‘what’s the

  meaning of these tears?

  Has Father told you some awful fate he’s decided on for my sons?’

  “Medeia blushed. How hungry she was to give answer! But her heart was chained by shame. Ah, time and

  again the truth

  was there on the tip of her tongue, and time and

  again she swallowed it.

  Her lips moved; but no words came. Then her mind’s

  eye

  saw Jason gazing at the floor before Aietes, slyly

  preparing

  some answer to stall his wrath. Inspired by the image,

  Medeia

  brought out: ‘Oh, sister, I’m terrified for your sons. It

  seems

  our father will certainly kill them, and the strangers

  with them. I had

  a terrible vision just now, and I saw it all.’

  “It was Khalkiope’s turn to weep. The tears ran

  rivers down her cheeks.

  Medeia furtively watched, her heart like a fluttering

  bird. ‘

  I knew it!’ Khalkiope gasped between sobs. ‘I’ve been

  thinking the same.

  That’s what brought me to your room. Dear Medeia, I

  beg you to help me.

  First, swear by earth and heaven you won’t tell a word

  of what I say,

  but will work with me to save them. By the blessed gods,

  I implore you,

  do not stand by while my precious children are

  murdered! If you do,

  may I be slain with them and afterward haunt you

  from hell, an avenging fury!’

  “With that she burst into tears once more, sank down,

  and

  throwing her arms round her sister’s knees and burying

  her head

  in Medeia’s lap, sobbed as if her heart would burst.

  The younger sister, too,

  wept long and hard. Throughout all the house you could hear their lamentations.

  “Medeia was the first to speak: ‘

  Sister, you leave me speechless with your talk of curses

  and furies.

  How can I ease your heartache? As God is my judge,

  Khalkiope—

  and by earth and heaven, and by all the powers of

  land and sea—

  I will help you to save your sons with whatever strength

  or skill

  I have.’

  “Then Khalkiope said, ‘Could you not devise some

  scheme,

  some cunning ruse that will save the stranger, for my

  children’s sake?

  He needs you as much as they do, Medeia. Oh, do not

  be merciless!’

  “The girl’s heart leaped, her cheeks crimsoned; her

  eyes grew misty

  with joyful tears. ‘Khalkiope, dearest, I’ll do anything

  at all

  to please my sister and her sons. May I never again see

  morning

  and no mortal see me in the world again if I place any

  good

  ahead of the lives of your sons, my beloved kinsmen.

  Now go,

  and bury my promise in silence. At dawn I will go to

  the temple

  with magic medicine for the bulls.’ Khalkiope left,

  carrying

  her news of success to her son. But Medeia, alone once

  more,

  was sick with shame and fear at her daring to plot

  such things

  in defiance of her father’s will.

  “Night drew down darkness on the world;

  on the ship the Argonauts looked toward the Bear and

  the stars of Orion.

  Wanderers and watchmen longed for sleep. The cloak of

  oblivion

  stilled both sorrow and laughter. At the edges of town,

  dogs ceased

  to bark, and men ceased calling one another. Silence

  reigned

  in the blackening gloom. But sleep did not come to

  Medeia. More clear

  than the bedroom walls, the stars beyond the window

  frame,

  she saw the great bulls, and Jason confronting them.

  She saw him fall,

  the great horns tearing at his bowels. And the maiden’s

  poor heart raced,

  restless as a patch of moonlight dancing up and down

  on a wall

  as the swirling water poured into a pail reflects it.

  Bright tears

  ran down her cheeks, and anguish tortured her, a

  golden fire

  in her veins. One moment she thought she would give

  him the magic drug;

  the next she thought, no, she would sooner die; and the

  next she’d do neither,

  but patiently endure. And so, as Jason had done before

  Aietes,

  she debated in painful indecision, her eyes clenched

  shut. She whispers:

  “ ‘Evil on this side, evil on that; and I have no choice but to choose between them. Would I’d been slain by

  Artemis’ arrows

  before I had ever laid eyes on that man! Some god,

  some fury

  must have brought him here with his cargo of grief and

  shame. Let him

  be killed, if that is his fate. And how can I get him

  the drug

  without my father’s knowledge of it? What story can

  I tell

  that his dragon’s eye won’t pierce?’ Then, suddenly

  panicky, she thought:

  ‘Do I meet him alone? And speak with him? And even

  if he dies,

  what hope have I of happiness? Far blacker evils than any I toy with now will strike my heart if Jason dies! Enough! No more shame, no more glory! Saved

  from harm,

  let Jason sail where he pleases, and let me die. On the

  day

  of his triumph may my neck crack in a noose from

  the rooftree, or may

  I fall to the sly bite of poison.’ She saw it in her mind

  and wept:

  and saw that even in death she’d be taunted like mad

  Jokasta,

  who bucked in bed with her royal son, and every city, far or near, would ring with her doom—the wily little

  whore

  who threw away life for a stranger! Then better to

  die,’ she thought,

  this very night, in my room, slip out of the world

  unnoticed,

  still innocent.’

  “She ran out quickly for the casket that held

  her potions—some for healing, others for destruction—

  and placing

  the casket on her knees, she bent above it and wept.

  Tears ran

  unchecked down her cheeks, and she saw her corpse

  stretched out in state,

  beautiful and tragic. The city howled, and fierce Aietes tore out his hair in tufts and cursed his wickedness, he who’d brought his daughter to this sad pass. She

  was now

  determined to snatch some poison from the box and

  swallow it,

  and in a moment she was fumbling with the lid in her

  sorrowing eagerness …

  but suddenly paused. Clear as a vision, she had seen

  death,

  at the corner of her eye. An empty
room, a curtain

  blowing,

  some dim memory or snatch from a dream … There

  was icy wind

  whistling in the walls of her skull, collapsing her chest

  like the roof

  of an abandoned palace. And now the pale child’s lip

  trembled.

  She thought of her playmates—more girl than woman—

  and the scent of fire

  in the temple, and of caracolling birds and of newly

  hatched birds in their nests

  in the plane trees, cheeping to heaven. And all at once

  it seemed

  she had no choice but to live, because life was love—

  every field

  and hillside shouted the same—and love was Jason.

  “She rose,

  put the box in its place. Irresolute no longer, she waited for dawn, when she could meet him, deliver the drug to

  him

  as promised. Time after time she would suddenly open

  her eyes

  believing it must be morning, but the room was black.

  “At length

  dawn came. Now the tops of the mountains were alight,

  and now the spring-

  green stath where the flamebright river flowed past

  long-shadowed trees,

  and now there were sounds in the peasant huts, the

  stone and wattle

  barns. Medeia was filled with joy, as if risen from the

  dead,

  and her mind went hungrily to meet the light, the smell

  of new blossoms,

  and newploughed ground and the sweat of horses. And

  she whispered, ‘Yes,’

  and was ready.

  “She gathered the flamebright locks that swirled past

  her shoulders,

  washed the stains from her tear-puffed cheeks and

  cleansed her skin

  with an ointment clear as nectar. She put on a beautiful

  robe

  with cunning broaches, and draped a silvery veil across her forehead and hair, all quickly, deftly, moving about oblivious to imminent evils, and worse to come.

  “She called

  her maidens, the twelve who slept in the ante-chamber

  of Medeia’s

  room, and told them to yoke white mules to her chariot

  at once,

  as she wished to drive to the splendid temple of

  Hekate.

  And while they were making the chariot ready, she

  took out a drug

  from her casket. He who smoothed it on his skin, after

  offering prayer

  to Hekate, would become for that one day invulnerable. She had taken the drug from flowers that grew on twin

  stalks

  a cubit high, of saffron color. The root was like flesh that has just been cut, and the juice was like sap from a

  mountain oak.

  The dark earth shook and rumbled underneath her