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
will escape me.
Your new tie, husband — my soul’s grim fire, familiar
heartache—
you’ll find more bitter than the last. You’ve proved
your cruelty.
Prepare for mine! You’ll ere long find your sweet
bedfellow
a lady Hades himself might prove reluctant to fold in his arms. So I pay you for mocking derision of a princess born
of the mightiest king on earth, a child of the sun-god’s
race!”
Then she left them, fleeing to her room to put on
dry clothes,
preparing in outer appearance for a secret and
deadly role.
The sewing women took up the golden cloth once more, their hearts quaking, too sick with sorrow and fear
to speak.
Their needles raced, in the corner Hekate in a long
black shawl,
sly-eyed and heavy, whiskered like a peasant,
and each whipstitch she sewed would prove a shackle
for the bride
who smiled now, gazing in her mirror, in Kreon’s palace.
The shadow
of Hekate, rocking on the wall, became a second ghost, the black, horned god himself in the service of Medeia.
When Jason learned, by questions to the slave Ipnolebes, what Kreon
had done,
he was filled with alarm — no less by the spiteful
gloating the slave
could scarcely hide than by knowledge of his wife.
But he bided his time,
watching the fiery rain, apprehensive, knowing
well enough
that the weather bore some message in it. He knew
beyond doubt
he was caught up now in a race against time. He could
hardly guess
in which direction the danger lay, couldn’t even be sure how grave it was; but he knew he must be in command
when she struck—
or best, get control before she struck — must stand
in position
to counter her, issue commands to protect them all.
Yet he could not press; he dared not even suggest that
the sceptre be granted to him
for fear that even now the king might repent and everything be lost. He remained with Pyripta,
smiling like a bridegroom,
stroking her cheeks and throat, lightly kissing her
eyelids, feigning
the adoration he must wait for a calmer time to feel.
The princess talked, pouring her pleasure in her new
husband’s ear—
talked as she never had talked before, and sometimes
broke off
to laugh at her chatter, yet believed his assurance and
chattered still more.
She had not known how much she loved him. With a
frightened look
she asked of his life with Medeia. He smiled and gently
kissed her,
silencing her. “You demand too much,” he said lightly,
his mind
racing down other, far darker lanes. “We have sons,”
he said.
“You must understand …” But catching the anger
and jealousy flashing
in her glance, he swiftly and easily guided her
elsewhere. I watched,
protected by a mist from their seeing me, and my heart
was divided,
loyal to the woman on the hill below, yet to Jason too, for he meant no harm, only good for them all, though
all he was doing
was false and tragically harmful. Again and again I felt on the verge of speaking to warn him, but each time
fear kept me silent.
The new solidity the gods had given was no great
advantage,
I knew to my sorrow. It seemed unlikely that empty
shadows
could harm me, or dreams turn real. Yet how could I
doubt those bruises,
that stabbing pain in my poor right hand, or my
spectacles’ ruin?
I constructed theories. Haven’t there been cases, I said
to myself,
when men fell down stairs while sleep-walking, and with
broken backs
dreamed on, explaining the pain by imagined giants?
And might
some action of mine inside this dream not trigger
repercussions
wherever it is that I really am? So I labored, guessing, and what was true I had no way of knowing, the rules
of the vision
kept hidden from me, however I strained to grasp them,
sweating,
and I kept my cowardly silence despite all nobler urges, huddling in protective mist.
At noon, at the midday feast, his waiting ended. In the presence of kings, high priests
in attendance,
the goddesses Hera and Athena behind him