Jason and Medeia (57 page)

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

to learning,

mouthing obfuscating phrases with no more ground

in them

than tumbling Chaos, the truly learn'd seem an insult

and threat.

So my life proves. For since I have knowledge,

some find me odious,

some too stickling and, indeed, a wild fool. As for you,

you shrink

for fear of powers you imagine in me, or trust out

of rumor,

and punish me solely on the chance that I might

do injury.”

She stretched her arms out, ten feet away. Beaten

down by rain,

a woman who seemed no more deadly than a child,

she cried out, imploring,

“Kreon, look at me! Am I such a woman as to seek out

quarrels

with princes merely from impishness? Where have

you wronged me?

You have merely given your daughter to the man

you chose. No, Kreon,

it's my husband I hate. All Corinth agrees you've done

wisely in this.

How can I grudge you your happiness? Then prosper,

my lord!

But grant me continued sanctuary. Wronged though

I am,

I'll keep my silence, and yield to Jason's will, since

I must.”

   He looked at her, pitying but still afraid. And at last

he answered,

“You speak mild words. Yet rightly or wrongly, I fear

even now

that your heart in secret may be plotting some

wickedness. Now less than ever

do I trust you, Medeia. A cunning woman betrayed

into wrath

is more easily watched than one who's silent. Be gone

at once.

Speak no more speeches. My sentence stands. Not all

your craft

can save you from exile. I know you firm-minded and

my enemy.”

   Medeia moved closer, pleading in the steadily

drumming rain,

stretching her arms toward Kreon. “By your

new-wedded child,” she said …

“You're wasting words. I cannot be persuaded.”

   “You spurn me, Kreon?” “I feel no more love, let us say, than
you
feel for

my
family.”

“O Kolchis, abandoned homeland, how I do long for

you now!”

“There's nothing more dear, God knows, unless it's

one's child, perhaps.”

“God, what a murderous curse on all mankind is love!” “Curse or blessing, it depends.”

   “O Zeus, let him never escape me!” “Go, woman—or must whips drive you? Spare me

that shame!”

“I need no whipping, Kreon. You've raised up

welts enough.”

“Then go, go—or I'll bid my menials do what

they must.”

“I implore you—”

   “You force me to violence, then?”

   “I will go, Kreon. It was not for reprieve I cried out. Grant me just this:

Let me stay

for one more day in Corinth, to think out where

we may flee

and how I may care for my sons, since their father

no longer sees fit

to provide for them. Pity them, Kreon! You too are

a father.”

   The old man trembled, afraid of her yet; but he

feared far more

the powers he'd struggled against all his life,

laboring to fathom,

straining in bafflement to appease. He said:

“My nature is not

a tyrant's, Medeia.” He pursed his lips, picking at

his chin

with trembling fingers. “Many a plan I've ruined by

relenting,

and some I've ruined by relenting too late. The gods

riddle us,

tease us with theories and lure us with hopes into

dragons' mouths.

With Oidipus once, gravely insulted, threatened

with death

on a mad false charge, I held in my wrath when by

blind striking out—

so the sequel proved—I'd have saved both the city

and a dearly loved sister.

Yet with Oidipus' daughter I proved too stern, refused

all pause

or compromise, and there, too, horror was the issue.

I will act

by Jason's dictum, trusting to instinct and hoping

for the best,

expecting nothing. Though I see it may well be folly,

I grant

this one day's stay. But beware, woman! If sunrise

tomorrow

finds you still in my kingdom, you or your sons,

you will die.

What I've said I'll do; have no doubt of it.”

   So saying, he departed, ascending the hill through fire and rain. She returned to her house, and the women of Corinth at the door

made way for her.

   Indoors, the slave Agapetika waited, gray, weighed

down

by grief. She said, “No hope for us,” then, weeping,

could say

no more. Medeia touched her, her eyes remote. She said, grown strangely calm again, “Do not think the last word has been said—not yet! Troubles are in store for the

newlyweds,

and troubles for the wily old marriage-broker. Do you

think I'd grovel

in the rain to that foolish old man if not for some

desperate purpose?

Never have I spoken to Kreon before or touched

his hand. But now in his arrogance

he grants me time to destroy him and all he loves.

And that

I will—and all I have loved myself.” Her lips went white.

“Never mind,” she whispered to herself. “Never mind.”

“Medeia, child,”

the old woman moaned, eyes wide.

   The daughter of Aietes turned, and struck like lightning: “Go from me! Leave this

house! Go at once!

Live in fields, old ditches! Never let me see you!”

The Corinthian women

stared, astounded, and no one spoke. The slave

backed away,

unsteady and shaking, retreating from the room, and

in her own room fell

like a plank breaking, to groan on her bed. No one

dared comfort her.

   Medeia said, as if drained of emotion—the tears

on her cheeks

independent of her mind and heart, mechanical as

stars turning—

“Go to her, one of you. Tell her I repent. My war is not with women, sad fellow-sufferers.” She closed her eyes. “Do not think I don't love that old woman. I have

dealt with her

more gently than I can with those I love far more.”

And then,

suddenly whispering in panic and squeezing her

blue-white hands:

“Suppose them slain. What city will receive me? what

friend give refuge?

None. So I still must wait, for a time, conjure some

tower

of defense. That too I can manage, yes. By the goddess

Hekate,

first and last friend welcome to my hearth, not one