John Gardner - Jason and Medeia

huntress! She was

a wife already, sullied with the knowledge of

compromise,

faults in nobility, flickering virtue in the flesh-fat heart. She knew him too well, the husband each tick of the

universe

brought nearer, whatever her wish. She was no fool.

Admired

the courage of his mind. But she could not walk in

bridal radiance

to a future unknown and clean, the gradual discovery

of a past

sacred, intimate, hallowed by slow revelations of love.

Yet knew, because a princess, that she would walk,

wear white;

knew she would serve, covenant of Corinth, accept the

bridegroom

chosen for her, for the city’s sake. Perhaps she loved

him.

It had nothing to do with love, had to do with loss.

Her loss

of the limitless; descent to the leaden cage of enslaving humanity. Joy or sorrow, no matter. Loss.

The dark-eyed slave at her bedside watched in

compassion and grief

and touched Pyripta’s hand. “The omens are evil,” she

said.

“Resist this thing they demand of you. The city is

troubled,

the night unfriendly, veiled like a vengeful widow. Men

talk

of fire in the palace, wine made blood.” The princess

wept,

unanswering. I understood her, watching from the

curtains.

I remembered the tears of Medeia, lamenting her

childhood’s loss.

By the window another, a princess carried in chains out

of Egypt—

eyes of an Egyptian, the forehead and nose and the full

lips

of the desert people — whispered softly, angrily to the

night;

“Increase like the locust,

increase like the grasshopper;

multiply your traders

to exceed the number of heaven’s stars;

your guards are like grasshoppers,

your scribes and wizards are like a cloud of insects.

They settle on the walls

when the day is cold.

The sun appears,

and the locusts spread their wings, fly away.

They vanish, no one knows where.”

At the door one whispered — a woman of Ethiopia,

who smiled and nodded, gazing at the princess with

friendly eyes:

“Woe to the city soaked in blood,

full of lies,

stuffed with booty,

whose plunderings know no end!

The crack of the whip!

The rumble of wheels!

Galloping horse,

jolting chariot,

charging cavalry,

flash of swords,

gleam of spears. .

a mass of wounded,

hosts of dead,

countless corpses;

they stumble over the dead.

So much for the whore’s debauchery,

that wonderful beauty, that cunning witch

who enslaves nations by her debauchery,

enslaves the houses of heaven by her spells!”

Another said — whispering in anger by the wall, cold

flame:

“Are you mightier than Thebes

who had her throne by the richest of rivers,

the sea for her outer wall, and the waters for

ramparts?

Her strength was Ethiopia and Egypt.

She had no boundaries.

And yet she was forced into exile, sorrowful

captivity;

her little ones, too, were dashed to pieces

at every crossroad;

lots were drawn for her noblemen,

all her great men were loaded with chains.

You too will be encircled at last, and overwhelmed.

You too will search

for a cave in the wilderness

refuge from the wrath of your enemies.”

On the dark of the stairs an old woman hissed, her

wizened face

a-glitter with tears like jewels trapped:

“Listen to this, you cows of Corinth,

living on the mountain of your treasure heap,

oppressing the needy, crushing the poor,

saying to your servants, ‘Bring us something to

drink!’

I swear you this by the dust of my breasts: The days are coming

when you will be dragged out by nostril-hooks,

and the very last of you goaded with prongs.

Out you will go, each by the nearest breach in the

wall,

to be driven to drink of the ocean.

This I pledge to you.”

So in Pyripta’s room and beyond they whispered,

seething,

kindled to rage by the death of the boy Amekhenos, or troubled by some force darker. For beside Pyripta’s

bed

there materialized from golden haze the goddess

Aphrodite.

Sadly, gently, she touched Pyripta’s hair. Then the room was gone, though the goddess remained, head bowed.

We stood alone

in a pine-grove silver with moonlight. I heard a sound—

a footstep

soft as a deer’s — and, turning in alarm, I saw a figure striding from the woods — a youth, I thought, with the

bow of a huntsman

and a tight, short gown that flickered like the water in

a brook. As the stranger

neared, I saw my error: it was no man, but a goddess, graceful and stern as an arrow when it drops in

soundless flight

to its mark. Aphrodite spoke: ‘Too long we’ve warred,

Goddess,

moon-pale huntress. I come to your sacred grove to

make

amends for that, bringing this creature along as a

witness,

a poet from the world’s last age — no age of heroes, as

you know,

and as this poor object proves. Don’t expect you’ll heat

him speak.

He’s timid as a mouse in the presence of gods and

goddesses;

foolish, easily befuddled, a poet who counts out beats on his fingers and hasn’t got fingers enough. But he

understands Greek,

with occasional glances at a book he carries — in secret,

he thinks!

(but the deathless gods, of course, miss nothing). He’ll

have to do.”

The love goddess smiled almost fondly, I thought. But

as for Artemis,

she knew me well, stared through me. The goddess of

love said then:

“I come to you for a boon I believe you may gladly

grant

when you’ve heard my request. Not long ago a murderer buried his victim in secret, in this same

grove

sacred to the moon. As soon as the body was hidden,

he fled

with the woman he claimed to love, Medeia, the

daughter of Aietes.

I protected them — their right, as lovers. But now the

heart

of the son of Aison has hardened against his wife. He

means

to cast her aside for the virgin Pyripta, daughter of

Kreon

of Corinth. So at last our interests meet, it seems to me.

Forgive me if I’m wrong, chaste goddess. I can see no

other way

than to throw myself on your mercy, despite old

differences.

Set her against him firmly, and I give my solemn

pledge,

I’ll turn my back on the daughter of Kreon forever, no

more

stir love in her bosom than I would in the rocks of Gaza.

Just that,

and nothing more I beg of you. Charge Pyripta’s mind with scorn of Jason, and even in Zeus’s hall I’ll praise your name and give you thanks.” So the goddess spoke.

And Artemis

listened and gave no answer, coolly scheming. I did not care for the glitter of ice in the goddess of purity’s eye, and I glanced, uneasy, at the goddess of love. She

appeared to see nothing

amiss. Then Artemis spoke. “I’ll go and see.” That was

all.

She turned on her heel, with a nod inviting me to