Jason and Medeia (8 page)

abandoned

and all is nothing and nothing is everything, and all

paradox

melts. My friend, I was an ant in a thousand thousand

lives,

and in a thousand thousand lives a Zeus, and in others

a king,

a slave, a rat, a beautiful woman. I have wept and torn my hair and longed for death at the graves of a

billion billion

daughters and sons; a billion billion of those I loved have died in wars, plagues, earthquakes, floods. And

with every stroke

of catastrophe, my chest has screamed in pain. All

these

are feeble metaphors—as I am metaphor, a passing

dream,

and you, and all our talk. But this is true: Life seeks to pierce the veil of the dream. I seek forgetfulness,

silence.'

“Abruptly, the holy man ceased and immediately

vanished, and the boy,

in the same flicker of an eyelid, vanished as well.

And Zeus

was in his bed, with Hera in his arms. And he saw,

despite his dream,

that she was beautiful. Then Zeus, King of the Gods,

wept.

At dawn when he opened his eyes and remembered,

Zeus smiled.

He commanded the craftsman to create a magnificent

arbor for Hera,

and after that he demanded nothing more of him.” So the harper of the gods sang, and so he closed. With his last word, the hall of the gods went dark.

I was alone.

“Strange visions, goddess!” I whispered, “stranger and

stranger!” She was gone.

Then, like a sea-blurred echo of Apollo's harp, I heard the music of Kreon's minstrel. Soon I saw Kreon's hall, the sea-kings gathered in their glittering array, and

Kreon himself

at the high table, his daughter beside him, blushing,

shy—

like a spirit, I thought: more child than woman. Beside

her, Jason

stood with his strong arms folded, muscular shoulders

bare,

his cloak a luminous crimson, bound at the waist with

a belt

gold-studded, blacker than onyx. Behind him, to his

left, stood the shadow

of Hera; at his feet sat Aphrodite, and behind his

right shoulder,

lovely as rooftops at dawn, the matchless, gray-eyed

Athena.

“Ipnolebes,” Kreon whispered, “command that the

meal be brought.”

The old king chuckled, patted his hands together,

winked.

Ipnolebes bowed and, moving off quickly, quietly,

was gone.

The hall waited—dim, it seemed to me: discolored as if by age or smoke. The sea-kings' treasures, piled high

against

walls that seemed, when I first saw them, to be

gleaming sheets

of chalcedony and mottled jade, with beams of ebony, were dark, ambiguous hues, uncertain forms in the

flicker

of torches. There were figures of goldlike substance—

curious ikons

with staring eyes. There were baskets, carpets, bowls,

weapons,

animals staring like owls from their lashed wooden

cages. The hall

was heavy, oppressive with the wealth of Kreon's

visitors.

The harpsong ended. In a shadowy corner of the great

dim room

dancing girls—slaves with naked breasts—jangled

their bracelets

and fled. A horn of bone sang out. A silence. Then … as flash floods burst in their headlong rush down

mountain flumes

when melting snowcaps join with the first warm

summer rains,

sweeping off all that impedes them, swelling the

gullies and creeks

to the brim and beyond, all swirling, glittering,—so

down the aisles

of Kreon's hall, filling each gap between trestle-tables, platters held high, hurtling along like boulders and

driftwood,

silver and gold on the current's crest, came Kreon's

slaves.

Their trays came loaded with stews and sauces, white

with steamclouds,

some piled high with meats of all kinds; some trailed

blue flame.

A great
Ah!
like the ocean drawn back from the pebbles

of the shore

welled through the room. Jason, dark head lowered,

smiled.

The huge Koprophoros snatched like a hungry bear at

food.

They mock me,” he whimpered to the man beside him.

They'll change their tune!”

The torches flickered. Kreon patted his hands together. When I closed my eyes the sound of their eating was

the faraway roar

of dark waves grinding over boulders—ominous,

mindless.

4

Sunset. She sat in the room that opened on the terrace

and garden

watching the red go out of roses, the red-orange flame drain gradually out of the sky. Leaves, branches of

trees,

flowers that an hour before had been sharp with color,

became

all one, dark figures etched into dusk. Shade by shade they became one tone with the night. From Kreon's

palace above,

its torchlit walls just visible here and there through gaps in the heavy bulk of oaks, occasional sounds came down, a burst of laughter, a snatch of song, the low boom of table chatter, and now and then some nearer voice, a guard, a servant at the gates—all far away, bell-like, ringing off smooth stone walls and walkways, glancing

off pools,

annulate tones moving out through the arch of

distances.

At times, above more muted sounds, I could hear the

drone

of the female slave, Agapetika, putting the children to

bed,

and sometimes a muttered rebuke from the second of

the slaves, the man.

Medeia sat like marble, expressionless, white hands

clamped

on the arms of her chair. It was as if she were holding

the room together

by her own stillness, a delicate balance like that of the

mind

of Zeus o'ervaulting the universe, enchaining dragons by thought. So she sat for a long time. Then, abruptly, she turned—a barely perceptible shift— and looked at the door, listening. Two minutes passed. The breathlike whisper of sandals came from the

corridor.

After a time, the old woman's form emerged at the

doorway,

stooped, as heavy as stone, her white flesh liver-spotted, draped from head to foot in cinereal gray, her weight buttressed by two thick canes. The slave looked in,

dim-eyed.

Thank you, Agapetika,” Medeia said.

No answer. But slowly—so slowly I found it hard to

be sure

from second to second whether or not she was still

moving—

the old woman came forward. “Medeia, you're ill again!” A moan like a dog's. Medeia got up suddenly, angrily, and went out to stand on the terrace, her back to the slave. Another long silence. The sounds coming

down from the palace

were clearer here, like sounds through wintry fog:

the clatter

of plates, laughter like a wave striking. She said, not

turning,

“It's a strange sound, the laughter of a crowd when

you've no idea

what they're laughing at.” She turned, sighing. “I'm

fiercely jealous,

as you see. How dare the man go up and have dinner

with the king

and leave me wasting?”

The slave did not smile. “You should sleep, Medeia.

She shook her head, refusing her mistress further

speech.

The lids of the old woman's eyes hung loose as a

hound's. She said:

“When you came to Pelias' city bringing the fleece,

your hand

on Jason's arm—the beautiful princess and handsome

prince,

lady of sunlight, hero in a coal-dark panther skin— that time too your eyes were ice. Oh, everyone saw it, and a shiver went through us. —And yet you'd saved

him, and he'd saved you,

and nobody there, no matter how old, could recall he'd

seen

a handsomer couple.” She closed her eyes and rocked,

as slow

as a merchant ship sunk low in the water when the wind first fills her sails. She said, ‘Your

face was flushed,

and when Jason moved his hand on your arm, the air

in the room

turned rich, overripe as apples fallen from the tree—

despite

that glacial stillness of eyes. I was heavy with years,

life-sickened

already by then. I saw I must end my days in the service of a lord and lady whose love was a fadge of guilt

and scorn,

a prospect evil enough. And little by little, as the tales of the Argonauts came to our ears, we understood.

Such a passion

as Queen Aphrodite had put on you two was never seen on earth before; not even in Kadmos and Harmonia was such fire seen. But passion or no, he hated you. How could he not?—a princely Akhaian, and you'd

saved his life

by the midnight murder of your own poor trusting

brother! No matter

to Jason that that was your one slim chance. He'd

sooner be dead

than safe and ashamed. Worse yet … Don't be

surprised, lady,

that I dare to speak these things. I can see how it

drains your cheeks,

the mention of your brother's murder. No better than

you can I tell

which way your anger will strike, at yourself or me.

You suck in

breath, and I'm shaken with fear—but my fear is more

by far

for you than it is for myself. I've seen how you wince

and cry out,

alone. It fills me with dread. You'll plunge into

madness, Medeia,

hating what couldn't be helped, wrenching your heart

out in secret,

proud—oh, prouder than any queen living—but even

at the height

of that fierce Aiaian pride, uncertain, doubting you merit the friendship of any but the

Queen of Death.

You're poisoned, Medeia. Venomed as surely as the ivy

burning

from within. I'd cure you if I could, if I knew how to

force you to hear me.

Think, child of the sun! Think past the bouldered hour that dams the flow of your mind. Lord Jason hated you. Justly, you think? Unselfishly? Is Jason a god? He'd agreed to your plan—agreed for
your
life's sake,

not his.

To save your life, the woman who scattered his wits

like a vision—

like the sizzling crepitation of a lightning-bolt— he'd do what he'd never consider to save himself. No

wonder

if after he'd saved what he worshipped, your Jason

gnawed his fists

and hated all sight of what proved his weakness.

—Jason who once

loved honor, trusted his courage. You taught him his

price.”

The slave

was silent awhile. Medeia waited—high cheeks

bloodless.

The slave said softly, “—But time soon changed all that. Not any intentional act of yours, Medeia, nor any act of his. Mere time. We saw how he tensed when you screamed in the pain

of your labor, bearing him

sons. Great tears rushed down his cheeks, and his

shoulders shook.

In part of his mind—we saw it shaping—he must have

seen

that the fault was his, not yours: you showed him what

had to be,

and gave him a plan. He'd acted upon it as gladly, that

night,

as he'd have changed places with you now. Or the fault

was no one's—love

a turmoil prior to rules, and rumbling on beyond the last idea's collapse. His eyes grew warmer then. And yours as well. No house was ever more happy,

for a time—

the twins babbling in their sunlit cribs, the master and

mistress

warmer than sunbeams arm in arm, sitting at the

window,

talking and laughing, or sitting in jewelled crowns,

on thrones

level with Pelias and his queen's. If troublesome

shadows of the past

returned, you could drive them back.

“But soon time changed that too.”

Her wide mouth closed, trembling, and her faded slate

eyes stared.

“Pelias was a fool; perhaps far worse. And now, at times, when Pelias would hinder his will, Lord Jason would

frown, speak sharply

to you, or to us, or the twins. Your eyes got the she-wolf

look.

His slightest glance of annoyance, and up your poison

seethed,

old bile of guilt, self-hate, pride, love—black nightmare

shapes:

Aphrodite whispered and teased, cruel Hera, and Athena, gray-eyed fox.
Seize the throne for him!
—
Jason's

by right!

Would old Aietes hesitate even for an instant, dismayed by a sickly usurper of a nephew's lawful place?

Strike out!'

I needn't remind you of the rest. Screams in the palace,

blood,

the cries of the children awakened in haste when you

fled. And now,

for that, from time to time, his eyes go cold.”

The slave

came forward a little, tortuously moving her thick

canes inch

by inch. “I've lived some while, Medeia. There are

things I know.

Give the man time, and he'll come to see, now too,

that the fault

was as much his own as yours. Let him be. Be patient,

my lady.

No woman yet has defeated a stubborn, ambitious man by force.”

Medeia turned, smiling. But her eyes were wild.

“I won't win his heart with labor pains again,” she said, “barren as a rock, wrecked as the cities he burns in his

wake

with the same Akhaian lust.”