John Gardner - Jason and Medeia

no sound

came down to the room where Medeia stood with her

seamstresses,

no faintest whisper of a trumpet, but like a vast

sepulchre,

a palace in the ancient kingdom of Mu sunk deep

in the Atlantic,

the great house loomed, the hour of its trouble come

round. The women

gazed in sorrow at Medeia. “We’ll not betray you,”

one said.

Some, needles flying on the golden cloth, were afraid

of her,

the room full of shadows not easily explained.

And some shed tears.

So through the night they sewed, minutely following

the instructions

of Aietes’ daughter. And sometimes among the eleven

a twelfth

sat stitching, measuring, easing seams — a fat

old farm-wife

with the eyes of a wolf — the goddess of the witchcraft,

Hekate.

And so through the night in the palace of Kreon

the revels ran on,

the slave in black, Ipnolebes, watching with eyes

like smoke.

Thus swiftly, shamefully married — or so it seemed

to many—

the lord of the Argonauts turned on his children and

wife, his mind

supported by high-sounding reasons and noble

intentions. Near dawn,

when the storm had grown steady, prepared to continue

for days, it seemed,

the lord led his bride to the marriage bed — a cavernous

room

scented like a funeral chamber with flowers and

crammed wall to wall

with the gifts of Kreon, his vassals and allies. Strong

guards, black slaves,

took posts by the door to protect the pair from

impious eyes,

and kings melodious with wine sang the hymeneal.

Then I saw

on the lip of Corinth’s harbor — high and dry on logs and sheltered from the storm by a long dark barn—

the proud-necked Argo,

blacker than midnight, on her bows a virl of

gleaming silver

like the drapery carved on a casket’s sides. It loomed

enormous

in the barn’s thick night, oars stacked and roped on

the rowing benches,

sails rolled below — all waiting like a gun. White

crests of waves,

plangent as the roaring storm, came climbing the

steep rock slope

calling the ship out to sea. I could feel in my bones,

that night,

that the Argo was alive, though sleeping — the whole

black night alive,

like a forest in springtime watching for the first grim

stirring of bears.

Then gray dawn came — the Corinthian women sewed

on in silence,

Medeia like marble, in her thirst for revenge

hydroptic, as if bitten

by the dispas serpent whose fangs leave a thirst not

all the water

in the world can quench. Her heavy old slave

Agapetika prayed

at the shrine in her room, stubbornly, futilely

urging her will

’gainst Fate’s rock wall. The male slave fed the children,

keeping them

far from their mother, his mind abstracted, his stiff,

knobbed fingers

automatic, even his reproaches automatic, holding

those quarrelsome

voices to a whisper — for something of the crepitating

anger in the house

had reached their sleep, had filled them with suspicions

and obscure fears,

so that now, whatever the old man’s labors, there were

sharp cries of “Stop!”

and “Hand it back to me!” If Medeia heard them,

she revealed no sign.

In the palace, though he’d hardly slept, the Argonaut

opened his eyes,

suddenly remembering, and raised up in his bed,

leaning on an elbow,

to gaze through arches eagerly, as he’d gazed in

his youth

to the north and west on some nameless island, hoping

for a break

in the stretch of bad weather that pinned him to land,

the black ship hawsered,

dragged half its length up on shore for protection from

the breakers’ blows.

Rain was still falling, the mountains in the distance

as gray as the sea,

the sky like a corpse, bloodless, praeternaturally hushed.

He must wait

for the king to rise, wait for old Kreon in his own

good time

to relinquish the sceptre. There were things to be done—

mad Idas and his men

wasting in the dungeon — a dangerous mistake indeed,

he knew,

the fierce brother watching from a hundred miles off,

with motionless eyes.

Above, Kreon was awake, old man who never slept. He stood at the balusters, peering intently at the city

as his slaves

powdered and patted him, dressed him in the royal

attire he’d wear

this morning for the last time. They put on his corselet

of bronze,

his glittering helmet, his footguards and shin-greaves,

finally his gauntlets,

and over his bronze-armed shoulders they draped his

purple cloak,

and they placed in his hand his jewel-studded sceptre.

Then, armed

as well as a man can be against powers from

underground,

the king descended to the hall where his counsellors

and officers waited,

and tall guards stiffly at attention, hands on sword-hilts.

He eyed

his retinue, sullenly brooding, and gave them a nod.

Then, chaired

by slaves, canopied from rain, he went down to the

dark house of Jason.

She came to meet him at the gate. The old man

feared to go nearer,

finding her dressed all in black, her eyes too quiet.

The rain

drenched her in a moment; she seemed to be wholly

unaware of it.

He raised his sceptre, a protection from Almighty Zeus

against charms

and spells.

In the presence of nobles, in the lead-gray

rain, he said:

“Woman whose eyes scowl forth thy dangerous rage

against Jason—

daughter of mad King Aietes — I bid thee go hence

from this land,

exiled forever, and thy two sons with thee. Neither

find excuses

for tarrying longer. I’ve come here in person to see

that the sentence

is fulfilled, and I’ll not turn homeward again till I see

thee cast forth

from the outer limits of my kingdom.”

So he spoke, and Medeia stared through him, her spirit staggering, but her body like a rock. “Now my

destruction

is complete,” she whispered. “My enemies all bear

down on me

full sail, and no safe landing-place from ruin.”

But at once,

steeling herself, only the tips of her fingers touching

the vine-thick gatepost of stone for steadiness,

Medeia asked:

“For what crime do you banish me, Kreon?”

“I fear you,” he said. “I needn’t mince words. I fear you may do to my child

and throne

some mischief too terrible for cure. I have reason

enough for that dread.

You are subtle, deep-versed in evil lore. Losing the love of your husband, you are much aggrieved. Moreover,

it’s said you threaten

not only vengeance on your husband but also on his

bride and on me.

It’s surely my duty to guard against all such strokes.

Far better

to earn full measure of your hatred at once than

relent now

and repent it hereafter.” Though his words were stern

and his lower teeth

laid bare, I could see no hatred in him. His fear of

the woman

was plain to see, yet he seemed more harried than

wrathful.

She said:

“Not for the first time, Kreon, has gossipping opinion

wronged me

and brought me shame and agony. Woe to the man who

teaches

arts more subtle than those of the herd! Bring to

the ignorant

new learning and they judge you not learned but

a dangerous trouble-maker;

and both to those untaught and to those who pretend