Jason and Medeia Read online

  shook.

  2

  In Corinth, on a winding hillside street, stood an old

  house,

  its stone blackened by many rains, great hallways dark with restive shadows of vines, alive though withered,

  waiting—

  listening for wind, a sound from the bottom of the sea—

  climbing

  crumbling walls, dropping their ancient, silent weight from huge amphoras suspended by chains from the

  ceiling beams.

  “The house of the witch,” it was called by children of

  the neighborhood.

  They came no nearer than the outer protective wall of

  darkening

  brick. They played there, peeking in from the midnight

  shade

  of olive trees that by half a century out-aged the oldest crone in Corinth. They spied with rounded

  eyes

  through the leaves, whispering, watching the windows

  for strange lights,

  alarming themselves to sharp squeals by the flicker of

  a bat,

  the moan of an owl, the dusty stare of a humpbacked

  toad

  on the ground near where the vines began.

  He saw it, from his room

  above, standing as he’d stood all day—or so I guessed by the way he was leaning on the window frame, the

  deep-toned back

  of his hand touching his jaw. What he thought, if

  anything,

  was locked in his mirroring eyes. Great Jason, Aison’s

  son,

  who’d gone to the rim of the world and back on nerve

  and luck,

  quick wits, a golden tongue—who’d once been crowned

  a king,

  his mind as ready to rule great towns as once it had been to rule the Argonauts: shrewd hero in a panther-skin, a sleek cape midnight-black. The man who brought

  help.” No wonder

  some men have had the suspicion he brought it from

  the Underworld,

  the winecup-crowded grave. His gray eyes stared out now as once they’d stared at the gleaming mirror of the gods,

  the frameless

  sea. He waited, still as a boulder in the silent house, no riffle of wind in the sky above. He tapped the wall with his fingertips; then stillness again.

  Behind the house, in a garden hidden from strangers’

  eyes

  by hemlocks wedged in thick as the boulders in a wall,

  a place

  once formal, spare, now overrun—the vines of roses twisting, reaching like lepers’ hands or the dying limbs of oaks—white lilies, lilacs tilting up faceless graves like a dry cough from earth—his wife Medeia sat, her two young sons on the flagstones near her feet.

  The span

  the garden granted was filled like a bowl with sunlight. Seated by the corner gate, an old man watched, the household slave whose work

  was care

  of the children. Birds flashed near, quick flame: red

  coral, amber,

  cobalt, emerald green—bright arrows pursuing the

  restless

  gnat, overweening fly. But no bird’s wing, no blossom shone like Medeia’s hair. It fell to the glowing green of the grass like a coppery waterfall, as light as air, as charged with delicate hues as swirling fire. Her face was soft, half sleeping, the jawline clean as an Indian’s. Her hands were small and white. The children talked.

  She smiled.

  Jason—gazing from his room as a restless lion stares from his rocky cave to the sand where his big-pawed

  cubs, at play,

  snarl at the bones of a goat, and his calm-eyed mate

  observes,

  still as the desert grass—lifted his eyes from the scene, his chest still vaguely hungry, and searched the wide,

  dull sky.

  It stared back, quiet as a beggar’s eyes. “How casually you sit this stillness out, time slowed to stone, Medeia! It’s a fine thing to be born a princess, raised up idle, basking in the sunlight, warmed by the smile of

  commoners,

  or warm without it! A statue, golden ornament indifferent to the climb and fall of the sun and moon,

  the endless,

  murderous draw of tides. And still the days drag on.” So he spoke, removed by cruel misfortunes from all

  who once

  listened in a spell to his oratory, or observed with

  slightly narrowed eyes

  the twists and turns of his ingenious wit. No great wit now, I thought. But I hadn’t yet seen how

  well

  he still worked words when attending some purpose

  more worthy of his skill

  than private, dreary complaint. I was struck by a curious

  thing:

  The hero famous for his golden tongue had difficulty

  speaking—

  some slight stiffness of throat, his tongue unsure. If once his words came flowing like water down a weir, it was

  true no longer:

  as Jason was imprisoned by fate in Corinth—useless,

  searching—

  so Jason’s words seemed prisoned in his chest,

  hammering to be free.

  A moment after he spoke, Medeia’s voice came up to the window, soft as a fern; and then the children’s

  voices,

  softer than hers, blending in the strains of an ancient

  canon

  telling of blood-stained ikons, isles grown still. He

  listened.

  The voices rising from the garden were light as spirit

  voices

  freed from the crawl of change like summer in a

  painted tree.

  When the three finished, they clapped as though the

  lyric were

  some sweet thing safe as the garden, warm as leaves.

  Medeia

  rose, took the children’s hands, and saying a word too

  faint

  to hear in the room above, moved down an alleyway pressed close on either side by blue-green boughs. Jason turned his back on the window. He suddenly laughed.

  His face

  went grim. “You should see your Jason now, brave

  Argonauts!

  Living like a king, and without the drag of a king’s

  dull work.

  Grapes, pomegranates piled up in every bowl like the

  gods’

  own harvest! Ah, most happy Jason!” His eyes grew

  fierce.

  In the street below, the three small boys who watched, in

  hiding,

  hunched like cunning astrologers spying on the stars,

  exchanged

  sharp glances, hearing that laugh, and a visitor standing

  at the gate,

  Aigeus, father of Theseus—so I would later find out, a man in Medeia’s cure—looked down at the

  cobblestones,

  changed his mind, departed. In the garden, Medeia

  looked back

  at the house, or through it. It seemed her mind was far

  away.

  “Mother?” the children called. She gave them a nod.

  “I’m coming.”

  They ran ahead once more. She followed with thoughtful

  eyes.

  Her feet moved, hushed and white, past crumbling grave

  markers.

  A shadow darkened the sky, then passed. At Jason’s

  gate

  a mist shaped like a man took on solidity: Ipnolebes, Kreon’s slave. The three boys watching fled. With a palsy-shaken hand, a crumpled lizard’s claw, he reached to the dangling rod, made the black bronze

  gate-ring clang.

  A slave peeked out, then opened the gate, admitting

  him.

  Jason met him at the door with a smile, an extended

  hand,

  his eyes hooded, covering more than they told. The bent-backe
d slave spoke a few hoarse words, leering, his

  square gray teeth

  like a mule’s. Lord Jason bowed, took the old man’s arm,

  and led him

  gently, slowly, to the upstairs room. The old man’s

  sandals

  hissed on the wooden steps.

  When he’d reached his seat at last,

  Ipnolebes spoke: “Ah!—ah!—I thank you, Jason, thank you! Forgive an old man’s—” He paused to catch

  his breath.

  “Forgive an old man’s mysteries. It’s all we have left at my age—he he!” He grabbed awkwardly for Jason’s

  hand

  and patted it, fatherly, fingers like restless wood. The son of Aison drew up a chair, sat down. At last, his voice detached though friendly, Jason asked, “You have some

  message

  from the king, Ipnolebes?” The old man bowed. “I do,

  I do.”

  His skull was a death’s head. Jason waited. “It’s been

  some time,”

  Ipnolebes said, a sing-song—old age harkening back— “It’s been some time since you visited, up at the palace.

  Between

  the two of us, old Kreon’s a bit out of sorts about it. He’s done a good deal for you—if you can forgive an

  old fool’s

  mentioning it. A privilege of age, I hope. He he! Old men are dolts, as they say. Poor innocent children

  again.”

  Jason pressed his fingertips to his eyelids, said nothing. “Well, so,” Ipnolebes said. It seemed that his mind had

  wandered,

  slipped from its track not wearily but in sudden

  impatience.

  He frowned, then brightened. “Yes, of course. Old

  Kreon’s quite put out.

  “Miffed,” you might say. He was a happy man when

  you came, Jason—

  the greatest traveller in the world and the greatest

  talker, too.

  You know how it is with a man like Kreon, whole life

  spent

  on bookkeeping, so to speak—no more extended views than windows give. It was a great stroke of luck, we

  thought,

  when you arrived, driven from home on an angry wind through no fault of your own.” He nodded and clasped

  his hands.

  His eyes moved, darting. The son of Aison studied him. That’s Kreon’s message?” Ipnolebes laughed. “No, no,

  not at all!

  I spoke no thoughts but my own there. Ha ha! Mere

  chaff!”

  The old man’s voice took on a whine. “He asks you to

  supper.

  I told him I’d bring the message myself. I’m a stubborn

  man,

  when I like, I told him. A hard devil to refuse.” Again he laughed, a stirring of shadows, Ipnolebes leaned

  toward him.

  “Pyripta, his daughter—I think you remember her,

  perhaps?—

  she too is eager that you come. A lovely girl, you know. She’ll be marrying soon, no doubt. How the years do

  fly!” He grinned.

  Jason watched him with still eyes. Ipnolebes wagged his head. “He’ll be a lucky man, the man that snags Pyripta. Also a wealthy man—and powerful, of course.” Jason stood up, moved off. He leaned on the window

  frame.

  “Between just the two of us,” the old man said,

  “you could

  do worse than pass a free hour or so with Pyripta.

  You never

  know. The world—”

  Jason turned to him, frowning. “Old friend,

  I have a wife.” Ipnolebes bowed. “Yes, yes. So you do. So you feel, anyway. Forgive a poor old bungling fool. In the eyes of the law, of course … but perhaps our

  laws are wrong;

  we never know.” His glance fled left. “ ‘Our laws,’

  I say.

  A slave. My care for Kreon carries me farther than

  my wits!

  And yet it’s a point, perhaps. Am I wrong? In the

  strictly legal

  sense—” He paused. He tapped the ends of his fingers

  together

  and squinted as if it were hard indeed to make his

  old mind

  concentrate. Then after a moment: “In the strictly legal sense, you have no wife—a Northern barbarian, a lady whose barbarous mind has proved its way—

  forgive me—

  more than just once, to your sorrow. The law no

  more allows

  such marriages into barbarian races than it does

  between Greeks

  and horses, say. If you hope to make your Medeia a

  home,

  and leave something to your sons, it can hardly be as

  a line

  of Greeks. If you hope to gain back a pittance of all

  she’s wrecked—

  it can never be, if I understand Greek law, as Medeia’s husband, father of her sons. —But I’m out of my

  depth, of course.”

  His laugh was a whimper. “I snatch what appearance

  of sense I can

  for Kreon’s good.”

  Jason said nothing, staring out.

  So he remained for a long time, saying nothing.

  The slave

  chuckled. “It’s a rare thing, such loyalty as yours,

  dear man.

  She’s beautiful, of course. Heaven knows! And yet a

  mind … a mind

  like a wolf’s. So it seems from the outside, anyway—

  seems to those

  who hear the tales. A strange creature to have on

  the leash—

  or be leashed to, whichever.” His chuckle roused

  the dark

  in the corners of the room again, a sound like spiders

  waking,

  the stir of uncoiling sea-beasts dreaming from the

  deeps toward land.

  “Well, no part of the message, of course. I shouldn’t

  have spoken.

  Marriage is holy, as they say. What a horror this world

  would become

  if solemn vows were nothing—whether just or foolish

  vows!

  Even if there are no gods, or the gods are mad—

  as they seem,

  and as some of our learned philosophers claim—a

  vow’s a vow,

  even if we grant that it’s grounded on no more than

  human agreement.

  Indeed, what would happen to positive law itself

  without vows?—

  even if vowing is a metaphysical absurdity as it may well be, of course.” The old man grinned,

  shook his head.

  “—And yet for a man to be locked in a vow his whole

  life long—

  a marriage vow illegal from the strictly human point

  of view,

  sworn in the ignorant passion of youth, in defiance

  of reason,

  and proved disastrous!—” Ipnolebes closed his

  heavy-knuckled

  hands on the arm of the chair and, with a rasping sigh, labored up unsteadily out of his seat. Slowly, inches at a time, he eased his way to the stairs.

  “Well, so,”

  he said. “I’ve delivered the message. Do come,

  tomorrow night,

  if it seems to you you can do it without impiety. Oh yes—one more thing.” His head swung round.

  “There are friends of yours

  at the palace, I think. Men from the weirdest corners

  of the world.

  Merchants, sea-kings.” The old man chuckled, dark as

  the well

  the stairs went down. “All telling travellers’ tales—he he! Monstrous adventures to light up a princess’ eyes and

  awe

  a poor old landlubber king. It’ll be like old times!” He peered, smiling, at J
ason’s back. “You’ll come,

  I hope?”

  Jason turned from the window, eyes fixed on Ipnolebes’

  beard.

  “I’ll help you down. The stairs are steep.” He came

  and touched

  the slave’s arm and carefully took his weight. “You’ll

  come,”

  Ipnolebes said, and smiled. Lord Jason nodded, the

  barest

  flick. “Perhaps.” His eyes did not follow the black-robed

  slave

  to the gate. The street went dark for an instant; a

  whisper of wind.

  Medeia, standing in the garden with folded hands,

  looked up

  and winced. Take care, Hera,” she whispered. She

  called the children,

  pale eyes still on the sky. “I know your game, goddess.”

  On a hill, late that night, in the windswept temple

  of Apollo

  ringed by towering sentry stones, immemorial keys of a vast and powerful astrolabe, stern heaven-watcher, Jason stood, black-caped. On a gray stone bench nearby a blind man sat, at times a reader of oracles and soothsayer, at times a man of silence. Corinth glittered below like a case of lighted jewels falling tier by tier to the sea. The palace, high and wide, like a jewelled crown at the center of the vast display,

  shone

  like polished ivory. The harbor was light as dawn

  with sails,

  the ships of the visiting sea-kings.

  “I know pretty well what he’s up to,”

  Jason said. “Better than he knows himself, perhaps.” The seer was silent, leaning on the staff of come! wood that served as his eyes. Whether or not he was listening, no one could say. Visions had made his face unearthly, stern cliffs, crags, the pigment blackened as if by fire, the thick lips parched. He was one of those from the

  fallen city

  of dark-skinned Thebes, old Kadmos’ city: the seer

  Teiresias

  who learned all the mystery of birth and death when

  he saw, with the eyes

  of a visionary, the coupling of deadly snakes. Men said he paid in sorrows. Heros Dionysos—majestic lord of the dead, son of Hades, snatched at birth from his

  mother’s pyre—

  sent curses from under the ground to the man who

  had seen things forbidden:

  changed Teiresias to a woman for a time, and for

  seven generations

  refused him the soothing cup, sweet sleep of death. He

  was now

  in his last age. Jason turned to him, not to see him but to keep from looking at the palace. He began to

  pace, frowning,

  bringing his words out with difficulty, by violence of will. “I’d win his prize. Terrific match, he’d think. Bold Jason, pilot of the mighty Argo, snatcher of the fleece,