et cetera …
I could do it. Oh, I’m no Telamon, no Orpheus; but I’d serve old Kreon better than he dreams. These
are stupid times,
intermixed bombast and bullshit whipped to a fine fizz. I may be a better man to ride them out than those I thought my betters once, my glorious Argonauts. I never lullabyed bawling seas with my harp, like soft-eyed Orpheus, or tore down walls with my bare hands like Herakles. But I’ve survived my glittering friends—
survived
their finest. Favored by the gods, as they say— Not
that I asked
for that. I no more trust the generosity of gods than I do that of men. I’ve seen how they
twist and turn,
full of ambiguous promises, sly double dealings.
They offer
power, then blast you with a lightning-bolt. Or if gods
are honest,
as maybe they are, their honesty’s filtered by priests
and magicians
who may or may not be frauds. How can man trust
anything, then,
beyond his own poor fallible reason? I keep an eye out, keep my wits. If the gods are with me, good. If not, I stumble on. I play the chancy world like a harp tuned by a half-mad satyr on a foreign isle, finding its secrets out by feel. If the music’s fierce and strange— kinsmen murdered, in my bed a woman from the
barbarous rim
of the world—don’t think I pause, draw back from
the instrument
in horror, shame. I play on, not lifting an eyebrow, fleeing from resolution to resolution.
“So now
I might play Kreon’s lust. —Mine too, Medeia would say. I could smile, ignore her. I’ve bent too much to that
hurricane.
Whose work but hers that I find myself where I am?—
great hero,
homeless, hopeless, my towering city in chaos, her
ancient
winding streets like interlocked serpents afire in
their own
dark blood—and I can do nothing, exiled, ruined for
Medeia—
ruined despite all my nobly intoned coronation vows. Vows indeed! Ask Trojan Hektor his feeling on vows, forced to defend an old lecher. Ask Hektor’s brother.
The gods
themselves pit vow against vow as men pit fighting
cocks.”
He paused, rubbing his throat and jaw, relaxing
muscles
that seemed to grow more constricted with every word.
Then:
“I could still be king there, sharing the throne with a
dodling uncle
I never hated, whatever he thought of me. But it wasn’t room enough for the daughter of mighty Aietes, Lord of the Bulls, Keeper of the Golden Fleece. So here
we are,
blood on the soles of our feet, heads filled with
nightmare-visions,
guilt more chilling than the halls of the dead.
My friends on the Argo would laugh, in the winds of
hell, if they heard it.
“It might be comforting … Kreon’s child. A gentler
princess,
as slight, by Medeia, as these hills next to the
Caucasus. …
” He pursed his lips, jaw muscles drawn in the
semi-dark
of temple columns, flickering torches; his eyes were
suddenly
remote, as if even casual mention of those windy days on strange seas, strange shores, could make them rise
in his mind
more real than the quiet night he loomed in now.
He closed
his eyes, breathed deep. The blind man bent his head,
as if
to listen to Jason’s mind sheared free of words. Jason turned abruptly to look at the palace, then away again. “At one quick stroke I could win not only the throne
of Corinth—
huge old city with all its wide, deep-grounded walls— but all my power back home. That’s all they’ve asked
of me:
Renounce the witch and her murder of Pelias; abandon
Medeia,
and Argos is yours—now Corinth as well. Why not?
No wife
at all, a prize of war that I treated too well, a bedslave grown too mighty to be tamed like Theseus’ Amazon. Betrayal, perhaps; but the guilt would be trifling beside
that guilt
that brings King Pelias’ ghost back night after night
to stalk
my rest—hooded like a cobra, silent, eyes as mad as Argos left without a king. And if I do nothing, what
then?
Get up, eat, take a walk, eat, stare out a window, eat again.… Surely, whatever my promises, no mere woman can hold me to that! ‘Stay clear of
the palace!’
A law. Who’d dare disobey the great, fierce daughter
of Aietes?”
He paused, musing. “There are laws and laws. I told
my tales
for Kreon, kind old benefactor. But I’d watch the girl as I told of those terrible battles, curious islands, long
nights
my arm as if
by accident. I encouraged it—pressed it. I could no more
pass up
a thing like that than I could pass up a cave, an
unknown city,
in the old days. It meant nothing, God knows—
except to Medeia.
One more conquest. —Winning means more than it
should to me,
no doubt. The usual case of the overly reasonable man who’s turned his cheek too often. —And yet I resisted,
in the end.
Heaven knows why.” He studied the night. “I make up
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
vanished in the night.
On bare feet then, no candle or torch to light her
way—
her eyes on fire, streaming, clutching old violence— Medeia moved like a cold, slow draught from room to
room,
fingertips brushing the damp stone walls, her white
robe trailing,
light as the touch of a snowflake on dark-tiled floors.
She came
to the room where her children slept, In one bed, side
by side,
and there she paused. She knelt by the bed and looked
at them,
and after a time she reached out gently to touch their
cheeks,
first one, then the other, too lightly to change their
sleep. Her hair
fell soft, glowing, as soft as the children’s hair. Then—
tears
on her cheeks, no sigh, no sound escaping her lips—
she rose
and swiftly returned to her room. The two old slaves
in the house—
the man and a woman—stirred restlessly.
There Jason found her,
lying silent and pale in the moonlight. He kissed her
brow,
too lightly to change her sleep, then quietly undressed
himself
and crawled into bed beside her. Half sleeping already,
he moved
his dark hand over her waist—her arm moved slightly
for him—
and gently cupped her breast. He slept. Medeia’s eyes were open, staring at the wall. They shone like ice,
as bright
as raven’s eyes. The garden, sheeted in fog, was still. A cloudshape formed. It stretched dark wings and
blanketed the moon.
3
I was alone, leaning on the tree, shivering. I listened
to the wind.
Below the thick, gnarled roots of the oak there was no
firm ground,
but a void, a bottomless abyss, and there were voices—
sounds
like the voices of leaves, I thought, or the babble of
children, or gods.
I made out a shadowy form. The phantom moved toward
me,
floating in the dark like a ship. It reached to me,
touched my hand,
and the tree became an enormous door whose upper
reaches
plunged into space—the ring, the keyhole, the golden
hinges
light-years off. Even as I watched the great door grew. I trembled. The surface of the door was wrought from
end to end
with dragon shapes, and all around the immense beasts there were smaller dragons, and even the pores of the
smaller dragons
were dragons, growing as I watched. Slowly, the door
swung open.
I had come to the house of the gods.
Above the cavern where the dark coiled Father of
Centuries
lay bound, groaning, in chains forged by everlasting fire, Zeus sat smiling, serene as the highest of mountaintops, his eyes like an eagle’s, aware of the four directions.
Beside him—
stately, magnificent, dreadful to behold—Hera sat,
draped
in snakes. Above her lovely head, like a parasol, a cobra flared its hood. It stared with dusty eyes through changing mists. I tightened my grip on my
guide’s hand.
“Goddess, porter, whatever you are,” I whispered,
“shield me!”
“Be still,” she said. I obeyed, trembling, straightening
my glasses,
buttoning up my coat.
The queen of goddesses
had beautiful eyes, as benign and warm as the eyes