John Gardner - Jason and Medeia

I seemed

to fall toward them, and they weren’t eyes now but

pits, an abyss,

unfathomable, plunging into space. I cried out, clutched

my spectacles.

The wind soughed dark with words and the pitch-dark

wings of ravens

crying in Medeia’s voice:

“I little dreamed, that night,

sleeping in my father’s high-beamed hall, that I’d

sacrifice

all this, my parents’ love, the beautiful home of my

childhood,

even my dear brother’s life, for a man who lay, that

moment,

hidden in the reeds of the marsh. Had I not been happy

there—

dancing with the princes of Aia on my father’s floors of

brass

or walking the emerald hills above where wine-dark

oxen

labored from dawn to dusk, above where pruning-men

crept,

weary, along dark slopes of their poleclipt vineyard

plots?

I’d talked, from childhood up, with spirits, with

all-seeing ravens,

sometimes with swine where they fed by the rocks

under oak trees, eating

acorns, treasure of swine, and drank black water,

making

their flesh grow rich and sweet and their brains grow

mystical.

No princess was ever more free, more proud and sure

in the halls

of her father, more eager to please with her mother.

But the will of the gods

ran otherwise.”

The voice grew lighter all at once, the voice

of a schoolteacher reading to children, some trifling,

unlikely tale

that amuses, fills in a recess, yet troubles the grown-up

voice

toward sorrow. She told, as if gently mocking the

tragedy,

of gods and goddesses at ease in their windy palaces where the hourglass-sand takes a thousand years to

form the hill

an ant could create, here on earth, in half an hour. She

told

of jealousies, foolish displays of celestial skill and

spite;

and in all she said, I discovered as I listened, one thing

stood plain:

she knew them well, those antique gods and mortals,

though she mocked

their foolishness. I peered all around me to locate the

speaker,

but on all sides lay darkness, the infinite womb of

space.

She told, first, how Athena and Hera looked down

and, seeing

the Argonauts hidden in ambush, withdrew from Zeus

and the rest

of the immortal gods. When the two had come to a

rose-filled arbor,

Hera said, “Daughter of Zeus, advise me. Have you

found some trick

to enable the men of the Argo to carry the fleece away? Or have you possibly constructed some flattering

speech that might

persuade Aietes to give it as a gift? God knows, the

man’s

intractable, but nothing should be overlooked.” Athena sighed. She hated to be caught without schemes. “

I’ve racked my brains, to be truthful,” she said, “and

I’ve come up with nothing.”

For a while the goddesses stared at the grass, each

lost in her own

perplexities. Then Hera’s eyes went sly. She said:

“Listen!

We’ll go to Aphrodite and ask her to persuade that

revolting boy

to loose an arrow at Aietes’ daughter, Medeia of the

many

spells. With the help of Medeia our Jason can’t fail!”

Athena

smiled. “Excellent,” she said and glanced at Hera, then

away.

Hera caught it — no simpleton, ruler of the whole

world’s will.

“All right.” she said, “explain that simper,

Lightning-head.”

Athena’s gray eyes widened. “I smiled?” Hera looked

stern. Athena

sighed, then smiled again. ‘There is … a certain logic to events, as you know, Your Majesty. Your war with

Pelias

has taken, I think, a new turn. If Medeia should fall in

love

with Jason and win him the fleece, and if she returned

with him

and reigned with him — and Pelias …” Queen Hera’s

eyebrows raised,

all shock. “I give you my solemn word I intended no such thing!” Then, abruptly, she too smiled. Then both

of them laughed

and, taking one another’s arms, they hurried to the love

goddess.

She was alone in her palace. Crippled Hephaiastos

had gone to work early,

as he often did, to create odd gadgets for gods and

men

in his shop. She was sitting in an inlaid chair, a

heart-shaped box

on the arm, and between little nibbles she was combing

her lush, dark hair

with a golden comb. When she saw the goddesses

standing at the door,

peeking shyly through the draperies — in their dimpled

fingers

fans half-flared, like the pinions of a friendly but

timorous bird—

she stopped and called them in. She crossed to meet

them quickly

and settled the two, almost officiously, in easy chairs, before she went to her own seat. “How wonderful!”

she said,

and her childlike eyes were bright. “It’s been ages!”

The queen of goddesses

smiled politely, cool and aloof in spite of herself. She

glanced at Athena,

and Athena, innocent as morning, inquired about

Aphrodite’s

health, and Hephaiastos’ health, and that of “the boy.”

She could not

bring herself to come out with the urchin’s name. When

the queen

of love had responded at length — sometimes with tears,

sometimes

with a smile that lighted the room like a burst of pink

May sun,

the goddess of will broke in, a trifle abruptly, almost sternly, saying: “My dear, our visit is only partly social. We two are facing a disaster. At this very

moment

warlike Jason and his friends the Argonauts are riding

at anchor

on the river Phasis. They’ve come to fetch the fleece

from Aietes.

We’re concerned about them; as a matter of fact I’m

prepared to fight

with all my power for that good, brave man, and I

mean to save him,

even if he sails into Hades’ Cave. You know my justified fury at Pelias, that insolent upstart who slights me

whenever

he offers libations. ‘Peace whatever the expense’ is his

motto.

Even those beautiful images of me he’s ordered ripped

down

from end to end of Argos, for fear some humble herder may dare to assert himself as Pelias himself did once, when his brother was rightful king. I won’t mince

words: I want

his skull, and I want it by Jason’s hand — not just

because

he’s proved himself as a warrior (though heaven knows

he’s done so).

Once, disguised as an ugly old woman with withered

feet,

I met him at the mouth of the Anauros River. The river

was in spate—

all the mountains and their towering spurs were buried

in snow

and hawk-swift cataracts roared down the sides. I called)

out, pleading

to be carried across. Jason was hurrying to Pelias’ feast, but despite the advice of those who were with him,

despite the rush

of the ice-cold stream, he laughed — bright laugh of a

demigod—

and shouted, ‘Climb on, old mother! If I’m not strong

enough

for two I’m not Aison’s son!’ Again and again I’ve

tested

his charity, and he’s always the same. Say what you

like

about Jason, he does not blanch, for himself or for

others.”

Words failed

the queen of love. The sight of Hera pleading for favors from her, most mocked of all goddesses, filled her with

awe. She said:

“Queen of goddesses and wife of great Zeus, regard me as the meanest creature living if I fail you now in your need! All I can say or do, I will, and whatever small strength I