John Gardner - Jason and Medeia

theories.

I tell myself I resist for Medeia’s sake. Offend the king and our last hope’s gone, we’re wandering

exiles again.’

I piously mumble: ‘Beware of wounding Medeia’s pride.’

“—All the same, whatever the reason,

I dodged the limetwig, slyly evaded his pretty Pyripta before the old man was aware himself what he planned

for me.

So Pelias comes, nights; stands in the shadows like

a dead tree—

solemn old ramdike trailing vines, mere daddock at

the core—

demanding something — the prince’s head in his hands,

Akastos

whom I loved once — loved as I loved myself, I’d have

said.

Guilt-raised ghosts.

“I know, I think, what they want of me.

Climb back. Redeem your home through Corinth’s

power. Atone.

My mind stretches toward it, trembling, and all at once I’m afraid. Beyond old Pelias’ ghost and that severed

head

There’s darkness, an abyss. — And yet what is it I fear,

I wonder?

Is conquering Jason the slave at last?” He paused, lips

pursed,

and glanced at the seer. “The night has a growl of

winter in it.

Stars like the flicker of corpse-candles, a sparkle of frost on the bronze lich-gate. Over soon. Grain of the valleys winnowed, garnered … whatever claims we’ve made

on the season

silenced, settling in the bin; on the snowed-in storehouse

walls

no lamps but dreaming bats. And for those who’ve made

no claims—”

Again he paused, reflecting, staring at the ground. At

last:

“If I went my way I could make Medeia rich, respected; if not a queen, then mother, at least, of kings — no cost but a night, now and then, alone in her golden bed.

That would not

wreck her, I think. In any case, let this chance slip, let some old enemy of ours snatch Kreon’s throne—

and where are we

then? This too: If I try and lose, that’s one thing.

But to let some fat fool win it by default—

“No, plainer than that.

She’s an Easterner, and a woman. She reasons with

her chest, the roots

of her hair. I should know too well by now where such

reasoning leads

— her brother murdered, betrayed to confound Aietes’

ships;

my uncle carved, strained, boiled by his daughter’s love;

and us

adrift, horrible to men. Late as it is, I should seize my duty as husband and father — the hope that lies in

Akhaian,

masculine brains, detached, remote from the violent

instincts

of child-bearing and giving suck, what women share with the lioness. I’ve left our destiny too long in witchcraft’s hands.” He paused, glanced at the blind

Theban.

“Say what you’re thinking.”

The blind man sat like stone, the light

of torches stirring on his cheek. His sunken eyes stared

out

at darkness beyond the harbor. “Men come for my help

in prayer,”

he said, “or for reading of oracles. What right have I to advise?”

“But say what you think.”

The old black Theban sighed,

continued looking at the night. The end is inevitable,” he said. His eyebrows, silver and thick as frost on rock, drew up, and he groped for Jason’s hand. He found and

held it.

“You want no advice from me, and even if you did,

the end

is destined. I need no help of signs to see that much, heavy as I am with experience. For seven generations I’ve watched the world’s grim processes. I saw the teeth of the dragon Kadmos slew rise up as fierce armed

men; I saw that perfect king and his queen

transmogrified

when Lord Dionysos — power that turns spilt blood to

wine,

unseen master of vineyards — awarded them mast’ry

of the dead.

And I’ve seen things darker still, though the god has

sealed my eyes.

All I have seen reveals the same: Useless to speak. Well-meaning man—” He frowned, looking into

darkness. “You may

see more than you wish of that golden fleece. Good

night.”

But Jason

stayed, questioning. “Say what you mean about the

fleece. No riddles.”

“Useless to say,” the blind man sighed. He shook his

head.

But Jason clung to his hand, still questioning. “Warn

me plainly.”

Again the blind man sighed. “If I were to warn you,

Jason,

that what you’ve planned will hiss this land to darkness,

devour

the sun and moon, hurl seas and winds off course,

kill kings—

would you change your course, confine yourself to your

room like a sick

old pirate robbed of his legs?” Jason was silent. The

black seer

nodded, frowning, face turned earthward. “There will

be sorrow.

I give you the word of a specialist in pains of the soul

and heart,

as you will be, soon. Let proud men scoff — as you scoff

now—

at the idea of the unalterable. There are, between the world and the mind, conjunctions whose violent

issue’s more sure

than sun and rain. So every age of man begins: an idea striking a recalcitrant world as steel strikes flint, each an absolute, intransigent. The collision sparks an uncontrollable, accelerating shock that must arc

through life

from end to end until nothing is left but light, and

silence,

loveless and calm as the eyes of the sphinx — pure

knowledge, pure beast.

Good night, son of Aison.” And so at last Lord Jason

released

the black man’s hand and, troubled, turned again to

the city.

The white stars hung in the branches above Medeia’s

room

like dewdrops trapped in a spiderweb. The garden,

below,

was vague, obscured by mist, the leaves and flowers

so heavy

it seemed that the night was drugged. Asleep, Medeia

stirred,

restless in her bed, and whispered something, her mind

alarmed

by dreams. She sucked in breath and turned her face on the pillow. The stars shone full on it: a

face so soft,

so gentle and innocent, I caught my breath. She opened

her eyes

and stared straight at me, as though she had some faint

sense of my presence.

Then she looked off, dismissing me, a harmless

apparition

in spectacles, black hat, a queer black overcoat…

She came to understand, slowly, that she lay alone, and she frowned, thinking — whether of Jason or of her

recent dream

I couldn’t guess. She pushed back the cover gently and

reached

with beautiful legs to the floor. As if walking in her

sleep, she moved

to the window, drawing her robe around her, and

leaned on the sill,

gazing, troubled, at the thickening sky. Her lips framed

words.

“Raven, raven, come to me:

Raven, tell me what you see!”

There was a flutter in the darkness, and then, on the

sill by her white hand,

stood a raven with eyes like a mad child’s. He walked

past her arm

to peek at me, head cocked, suspicious. And then he too dismissed me. She touched his head with moon-white

fingertips;

he opened his blue-black wings. They glinted like coal.

“Raven,

speak,” she whispered, touching him softly, brushing

his crown

with her lips. He moved away three steps, glanced at

the moon,

then at her. He walked on the sill, head tipped, his

shining wings

opened a little, like a creature of two minds. Then, in a madhouse voice, his eyes like silver pins, he said:

“The old wheel wobbles, reels about;

One lady’s in, one lady’s out.”

He laughed and would say no more. Medeia’s fists closed. The raven’s wings stretched wide in alarm, and he