John Gardner - Jason and Medeia

through stiff branches,

howled in the battlements, walkways, spindrift parapets, moon-bruised stone escarpments sinking in tiers to

the sea …

falling endlessly, hopelessly … My mind was a nest of snakes. There was nothing to avenge, nor was I,

in any case,

keeper of Lemnos’ dead. Though the very earth cried out, voice of their blood, for vengeance (the earth did

not cry out),

how could all that be my affair? Search where I might, I saw no certain good, no certain evil, therefore nothing I dared to attack. It was not that I doubted

their guilt,

ultimately. But all the universe howls for freedom, strikes at the tyrant when he turns his back. Who

dares condemn

the goaded bull when, flanks torn, bleeding, heavy

of heart,

he sees his moment and, bellowing, charges the

farmer’s son?

We lead him away to the slaughterhouse with prods

of bronze,

twisting the ring in his nose till the foam runs pink;

for once

he’s tasted freedom, he’s dangerous, useless. And so

it was

with the Lemnian women. How could they love with a

pure heart now,

how put on a contrition devoid of intrinsicate clauses, secret reservations? And how could we men demand

it of them?

What I mean has nothing to do with mastery. Love

was dead

on the sad isle of Lemnos. Or so it seemed to me—

seemed

to all of us, those who were there. Old Argus waited

on the ship

with Herakles. Those two had refused to come with us, one too wise, the other too stiffly ignorant. So we stayed. Day followed day, and still we did not sail.

“That was no pleasant time for Hera, nursing

her grudge,

waiting for Pelias to pay for the times he’d slighted her. She troubled my chest with restlessness, caused me

to gaze

moodily out at the window, peer through the lattice,

pace

by the sea, debating, stirred by I knew not what. Nothing made sense. Why fight for a share in the kingdom with

Pelias, when here

I was king alone, for whatever it was worth? Why

risk Aietes’

rage for a hank of wool when here I had all the warmth of Hypsipyle — for what it was worth? What was

anything worth?

No doubt she made life on Olympos hard enough, that

queen.

When her patience wore out, she came in the shape of

a lizard, a spider,

a bird — who knows? — and whispered dreams into

Herakles’ head

where he slept, sullen, on the ship, held back by the

rest of us.

Then Herakles spoke. Said stupid words, great

bloated mushrooms—

Honor, Loyalty, Lofty Mission, Cowardice, Fame— grand assumptions of his lame-brained, muscular soul.

As if

the universe had honor in it, or loyalty, or lofty mission because, in the mindless knee-bends,

push-ups,

hammer-throws of his innocence, he believed in them. We could not look him in the eye or give him answer.

He had

the power to take off our heads as children tear off

branches

in a nut orchard, if he chose to think that “honorable.” Was I willing to die for Hypsipyle? Would she for me? You’ve lived too long, no doubt, when you’ve learned

that time takes care

of grief. We were young, but many bad lived too long.

So that

we said, rational as curled, dry leaves in an angry wind, we’d go. And prepared our gear.

“When the women got word of it

they came down running, and swarmed around us like

bees that pour

from the rocky hive when the meadows are jewelled with

dew and the lilies

are bloated with all bees need. Hypsipyle took my hands in hers and said, ‘Go then, Jason. Do what you must. Return when you’ve captured the fleece. The throne

will be waiting for you,

and I will be waiting, standing summer and winter on

the wall,

watching, surviving on hope. Believe in my love, Jason. Set my love like a seal on your heart, more firm

than death.

Swear you’ll return.’ I said I would. She didn’t believe it, nor did I believe she’d wait. We kissed. The gods be

with you,

‘I said. She studied my face. ‘Don’t speak of the gods,’

she said.

‘Be true to me.’ She guided my hand to her breast.

‘Remember!’

“And so we sailed. My gentle cousin Akastos wept for fair Iphinoe — they were both virgins when we’d

first arrived.

‘I’ll love her till the day I die,’ he said. listen to me,

Jason.

I see the defeat in your eyes. They say what Idas says: God is a spider. But I say, No! Beware such thoughts! God is what happens when a man and woman in love

grow selfless,

or a man feels grief for his friend’s despair, or his

cousin’s — grieves

as I do for you.’ He turned his head, embarrassed

by tears,

and Phlias the mute, Dionysos’ son, reached out and

touched him.

‘I’m only a man. I can’t undo all the evils of the world or answer the questions of the staring Sphinx who sits,

stone calm,

indifferent to time and place, his kingly head beyond concern for the love and hate that his lional chest

can’t feel.

I can’t undo your scorn for words, whether Herakles’

words

or mine. But I can say this, and be sure: I’ll love Iphinoe and swear that my gift is by no means uncommon, as

you may learn

by proof of my love for you. Scorn on, if scorn gives

comfort.’

I understood well enough his depth of devotion. I felt the same for him. How could I not? Those violent eyes, that scrawny frame in which, in plain opposition to

reason,

he’d stand up to giants. God knew. And be slaughtered.

“I let it pass,

watching the sea-jaws snap at our driving oars. So

Lemnos

sank below the horizon and little by little, sank from mind. The Argo was silent. Tiphys watched the prow, steering through rocks like teeth. Above, no two clouds

touched.

The sky was a sepulchre. It did not seem to me, that day, that gods looked down on us, applauding. No one spoke.

We sailed.

Ankaios said — huge boy in a bearskin—’Who can say what his fate may bring if he keeps his courage

strong? ‘I laughed.

Akastos’ jaw went tight. I understood, understood.”

Jason paused, frowning. He decided to say no more. So the day went, by Jason’s gift, to Paidoboron, mournful, black-bearded guest from the North. And

yet the day went

to Jason, too. From him those gloomy sayings came, sayings darker, I thought, than any Paidoboron spoke. Kreon said nothing when the tale was done, but stared

at his hands

on the table, looking old, soul-weary, as if he’d been

there.

As Jason rose, excusing himself to go home — it was

late—

the king stopped him. “You’ve given us much to think

about,

as usual. It’s a tale terrible enough, God knows. It’s filled my mind with shadows, unpleasant memories. My philosophy’s been, perhaps—” he paused, “—too

sanguine.” He looked

at Pyripta. Her gentle eyes were shining, brimming

with tears

for Lemnos’ queen. She had not missed, I thought, what

Jason

meant by that talk of betrayal. Were they not now

asking the same

of him — betrayal of Medeia? And was he not toying

with it?

“Consider Pyripta!” the tale cried out. But she was

a child,

and the demand strange. It came to me that she

was beautiful.

Not handsomely formed, like Medeia, and not

voluptuous,

but beautiful nevertheless — a beauty of meaning, like

a common

hill-shrine, crudely carved, to the gentlest, wisest of gods, Apollo, avenger of wrongs. The king said, glancing up, “You’ll return and tell us more? We’d be sorry to be left