too bright,
“But I cannot deny, my lord, that my mind’s on fire
to understand
how you can hope to keep this one, for surely your
promise to me,
that Jason shall rule in Corinth, must cancel the
opposing promise
that Jason will cleave to Medeia. I beg you, end
our suspense
and explain away this mystery, for my peace of mind.”
For the first time, the beams of the eyes of Zeus
swung down
and he met the gaze of his cunning child Athena.
He said,
his voice dark beyond sadness, “By murder and agony on every side, by release of the dragons and the burning
of Corinth,
by shame that so spatters the skirts of the gods that
never again
can any expect or deserve man’s praise — by these
cruel means
I juggle your idiot demands to their grim
consummation.” So he spoke,
So he spoke,
and spoke no more. The goddesses gazed at each other,
aghast,
then looked again, disbelieving, at Zeus.
It was Hera who spoke, queen of goddesses. “Husband, your words cut deep,
as no doubt
you intend them to. But I know you too well, and I
think I know
your disgusting scheme. You told us at the time of
your promises
that our wishes were selfish and cruel. In your bloated
self-righteousness,
you imagine you’ll shock us to shame by these terrible
threats, pretending
we’ve brought these horrors on ourselves. My lord,
we’re not such children
as to tumble to that! The cosmos is fecund with
ways and means,
and surely you, who can see all time’s possibilities— such, if I’m not mistaken, is your claim — surely you
could find
innumerable tricks to provide us with all we desire,
without
this monstrous bloodbath and, at last, this toppling of
the whole intent
of our three wishes. O Master of Games, I remain
unpersuaded
by your floorless, roofless nobility. You want no more
or less than we do:
triumph and personal glory. It’s to spite us you do these things. Like the spiteful bigot who
dances in the street
when the brothel burns and the wicked run screaming
and flaming to the arms
of Death, you dance in your hell-cavern mind
at the terrible sight
of hopes-beneath-your-lofty-dignity shattered, proved
shameful.
Well I — for one — I’ll not bend to that high-toned
dogmatism!
Bring on your death’s-heads! Kindle your hellfires!
Unleash the shrieks
of humanity enraged! Prate, preach, pummel us!
I’ll not be fooled:
from rim to rim of the universe, all is selfishness
and wrath.”
So saying, she struggled to free her hand from the
arm of the throne
and Zeus’s grip, but his hand lay on hers as indifferent
and heavy
as a block of uncut stone. Then Hera wept. And before my baffled eyes her form grew uncertain, changing
and shadowy,
as if hovering, tortured, between warring potentials,
and one of them
was Life. I remembered Phineus.
Gently and softly Athena spoke. Her eyes were cunning, watching
her father
like a hawk. “My lord, your words have upset us,
as you see. If we speak
in haste, our words not carefully considered, I’m sure
your wisdom
forgives us. Yet perhaps the queen of goddesses is right
after all
that there may be some way you’ve missed that could
lead to a happier issue—
satisfaction of our wishes without such deplorable
waste.”
“There’s none,” said Zeus. She glanced at him, sighed,
then began again.
“Perhaps now — knowing what our wishes entail — we
might modify them.”
She glanced at Aphrodite. The goddess of love with
a fiery glance
at Hera said, “It was you — you two — if you care
to remember,
who begged me to start this love affair. But now,
just like that,
I’m to turn my back on it. “Run along, Aphrodite, dear, you’ve served your purpose.’ ” She stretched out an arm
to Zeus. “I ask you,
would you put up with such treatment? Am I some
scullery-slave,
some errand runner? What have they ever done for me?”
Zeus sighed,
said nothing. Athena pleaded, “But what are we to do?
Am I
to grovel at the sandals of this cosmic cow? And
even if I did,
would Hera do it?” The queen of goddesses flashed,
“Don’t be fooled!
If tragedy strikes, there’s no one to blame but Zeus!”
Then they waited,
leaving the outcome to Zeus. He stared into space. At last he lowered his fist slowly from his chin. “Let it be,”
he said.
From wall to wall through the infinite palace, the
gods gasped,
and instantly all the earth was filled with the rumble
of dragons
growling up out of the abyss, all the oldest, gravest
of terrors
from the age before hunters first learned to make peace
with the bear they killed,
the age when the farmer in Eden was first
understanding remorse
for the tear he made in Nature when he backed away,
became
a man, devourer of his mother and bane of his father,
his sons,
outcast of all Time-Space — Dionysos’ prey, and scorn of the endlessly fondling, fighting baboons. All progress,
like the flesh
of the sick old trapper in the lair of his daughters,
those dragons rose,
like violent sons, devouring. The sky went black
with smoke.
“No!” I whispered, “it mustn’t be allowed!” The
goddess said nothing.
I grew more excited. I would do something foolish in a
moment, I knew,
but the knowledge failed to check me. I snatched off
my glasses and whispered,
“Where are those others, those three goddesses who
danced? They must help us!”
“They’re here,” she answered, “but obscured, weighed
down.” She nodded at the three
by Zeus’s throne, and I saw that it was so: Vision
burned dimly,
like a hooded candle, in Athena’s eyes, and Love
flickered
in Aphrodite’s, and Life fought weakly, like a failing
blush,
in Hera’s cheeks. “But you,” I said then, my excitement
rising,
“you, Goddess of Purity and Zeal — surely you at least are one and unchangeable! Your power could save us,
yet here in the house
of the gods, you’re silent as stone.” Then, horribly,
before my eyes—
no surer than anything else in my vision’s deluding
mists—
the shadowy figure altered, became like a heavy
old farm-wife,
sly-eyed, smiling like a witch. She croaked: “Come,
see me as I am.
The crowd of the living are phrenetic with business.
I alone am inactive.
My mind is like a dolt’s. All the world is alert; I alone
am drowsy.
Calm like the sea, like a high wind never ceasing.