Jason and Medeia (34 page)

Aietes,

a king whom he could not help but know, by reputation, as one of the world's great wizards, king of an

enchanted land,

and no mere mortal, for the sun each night when it took

to its bed

did so in Aietes' hall. I knew at a glance that the man from the South was no skillful magician. His eyes were

the eyes of one

who lives by shrewd calculation, forethought,

willingness to change

his plans. If my father were suddenly to raise up a

manticore

at his feet, the stranger would study it a moment,

consider the angles,

converse with it, probably persuade it. There could be

no guessing what

that strange prince thought or felt, behind those

mirroring eyes;

and all my impulsive, volcanic soul—the ages of Tartar, Indian and Kelt that shaped us all, as Helios' children, and made us passionate, mystical, seismic in love and

wrath—

went thudding as if to a god to that man for salvation.

My face

would sting one moment as if burned; the next, a

freeze rang through me.

Make no mistake! The spirit knows its physician,

howeverso halt, lame, muddled

the mind in its stiff bed reason! I watched his smile—self-assured, by no means trusting—and I

felt, as never

before, not even as a child, like a wobbly-kneed fool.

“And then

my father was speaking, and shifting my rapt gaze

from the stranger

I saw in amazement that my father was shuddering

with rage, his huge

fists clenched, his red beard shaking, his eyes like a

bull's. ‘Scoundrels!'

he bellowed at Phrixos' sons, my nephews. ‘Be gone

from my sight!

Be gone from my country, vipers in the nest! It was

no mere fleece

that lured you—you and these troglodytes—here to

my kingdom. You think

I'm a gudgeon who'll snap at a fishhook left unbaked?

You want

my throne, my sceptre, my boundless dominions! Fools!

Scarecrows!

D'you think you can frighten a king like Aietes with

sonorous poopings

of willow-whistles?—cause me to bang my knees

together

with the oracular celostomies of a midget concealed in an echo chamber? Boom me no more of the

Argonauts' power,

naming off grandiose names, panegyring their murder

of centaurs,

spidermen, Amazons, what-not! I am no horse, no bug, no girl! If you had not eaten at my table, I'd tear your

tongues out

and chop your hands off, both of them, and send you

exploring

on stumped legs, as a lesson to you!'

“The man called Telamon

came a step forward, his thick neck swelling, prepared

to hurl

absurd defiance at my father. I knew what would

happen if he did.

My father would crush him like a fly, for all his

strength. But before

the word was out, the stranger in black touched his

shoulder and smiled—

incredibly (what kind of being could smile in the

presence of my father's

wrath?)—and broke in, quick yet casual: “My lord,”

he said,

‘our show of arms has perhaps misled you. We were

fools, I confess,

to carry them in past your gate.'

‘The voice took my breath away.

It was no mere voice. An instrument. What can I say? (As my Jason says.) It was a gift, a thing seen once in,

perhaps,

a century. Not so deep as to seem merely freakish, yet

deep;

and not so vibrant, so rich in its timbre, as to seem

mock-singing,

yet vibrant and rich…. I remember when Orpheus

sang, the sound

was purer than a silver flute, but when Orpheus spoke,

it was

as if some pot of julep should venture an opinion.

The sound

of the famous golden tongue was the music of a calm

spring night

with no hurry in it, no phrenetics, no waste—the sound

of a city

wealthy and at peace—a sound so dulcet and

reasonable

it could not possibly be wrong. Had I not been in love

with him

before, I'd have fallen now. Wasn't even my father

checked,

zacotic Aietes? The ear grows used to that voice, in

time.

I have learned to hear past to the guile, the well-meant

trickery; but even

now when he leaves me on business, and we two are

apart for a week,

his voice, when I hear it at the gate, brings a sudden

pang, as if

of spring, an awareness of Time, all beauty in its

teeth. He said: ‘

We have not come to your palace, believe me, with any

such designs

as our bad manners impart. Who'd brave such

dangerous seas

merely to steal a man's goods? But we're willing to

prove our friendship.

Grant me permission to help in your war with the

Sauromantiae—

a war that has dragged on for years, if the rumors we've

gathered are true—

and in recompense, if we prove as loyal as we say

we are,

grant us the fleece we ask for—my only hope, back

in Argos.'

Father was silent, plunged into sullen brooding.

I knew

his look well enough, that deep-furrowed brow, the eyes

blue-white

as cracked jewels. He was torn between lunging at the

stranger, turning off

that seductive charm by a blow of his fist, or a white

bolt sucked

from heaven; or, again, putting the stranger to the test.

At last,

his dragon-eyes wrinkled, and he smiled, revealed his

jagged teeth.

“ ‘Sir, if you're children of the gods, as you claim,

and have grounds for approaching

our royal presence as equals, then we'll happily give

you the fleece—

that is, if you still have use for the thing when we've

put you to the proof.

We are not like your stuttering turkey Pelias. We're a

man of great

generosity to people of rank.' He smiled again. My veins ran ice.

“ ‘We propose to test your courage and ability

by setting a task which, though formidable, is not

beyond

the strength of our own two hands. Grazing on the

plain of Ares

we have a huge old pair of bronze-hoofed, fire-breathing bulls. We yoke them and drive them over the fallow of

the plain,

quickly ploughing a four-acre field to the hedgerow at

either

end. Then we sow the furrows—but not with corn:

with the fangs

of a monstrous serpent, and they soon grow up in the

form of armed men,

whom we cut down and kill with our spear as they

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