Jason and the Argonauts (19 page)

Aeëtes vowed that, once the bulls had ravaged

the man who had agreed to undergo

the lethal labor, he would fell the oaks

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atop the wooded banks and torch the ship

and all the men aboard it, so that they

might scream away their wicked insolence,

and all their wanton scheming come to nothing.

He never would have welcomed to his hearth

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Phrixus the son of Aeolus, despite

the fact that he surpassed all other guests

in piety and kindness, and despite

his desperate need, had Zeus himself not sent

Hermes from heaven as a messenger

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to make sure Phrixus found his host receptive.

So much the less, then, would the band of pirates

who had descended on his land abide there,

uninjured, long. Their only interest

was laying hands on other people's goods,

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hatching dishonest plots, and plundering

the herdsmen's steadings in tumultuous raids.

He added that, beyond these penalties,

the sons of Phrixus personally should pay him

fitting indemnities for bringing home

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impetuous marauders who were plotting

to drive him from his throne and royal power.

In fact, his father Helius had once

uttered a baleful prophecy that warned him

to be on guard against clandestine plots

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and treachery within his family—

that was the reason he had sent the boys

out of the way to Hellas, though the trip

was what they wanted and their father's bidding.

He knew his daughters never could devise

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infernal schemes, nor could his son Absyrtus.

No, he assumed Chalciope's sons only

would bring the prophecy to its fulfillment.

So in his rage he spoke of horrid deeds

among his subjects and with mighty threats

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warned them to watch the ship and heroes closely

and make sure none of them escaped destruction.

Argus, meanwhile, had reached Aeëtes' palace

and with resourceful pleading urged his mother

to ask the girl for help. Chalciope

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had thought of this already, but a fear

had gripped her heart, a fear that fate would stop her

or her appeals would come to naught because

the girl would dread their father's deadly anger

or, even if the girl agreed to help them,

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their plan would be discovered and forestalled.

The girl herself was lying on her bed.

Deep sleep at first relieved her of her torment,

but soon beguiling, violent dreams assailed her,

as often happens with an anxious girl.

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She dreamed the stranger undertook the trial

not from a need to bring the fleece to Hellas,

no, that was not why he had visited

Aeëtes' palace; rather, he had come

to take her back home as his wedded wife.

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She dreamed that she herself had undertaken

the contest and performed the tasks with ease,

but that her parents backed out of the promise

since they had set the labor of the yoking

not for their daughter but the visitor

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alone. And then a two-edged quarrel broke out

between her father and the visitors.

Both sides submitted to her arbitration

and bade her side with whom her heart preferred.

Straight off she chose the stranger and ignored

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her parents. Infinite resentment gripped them.

They howled in rage and at their howling sleep

released her. She awoke in shock and shivered,

her wild eyes swiveling from wall to wall

around the room. She strained to pull her spirit

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back down inside herself and said aloud:

“Oh, how these baneful dreams have frightened me.

I fear the coming of these heroes means

catastrophe. My thoughts keep fluttering

around that stranger. Let him go and woo

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a Greek girl far away among his people.

Maidenhood and the palace of my parents

should be my lone concerns. And yet, my heart

made
shameless as a bitch's, I no longer

shall stand aside but go feel out my sister

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to see if she entreats me to assist

the trial, because she hopes to save her sons.

Yes, that would quell my heart's rebellious anguish.”

So she resolved, then rose and left the chamber,

barefoot and covered only by a nightgown.

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She was desperate to see her sister,

yet, when she crossed the threshold of the courtyard,

she lingered for a spell before her chamber,

checked by shame.
She turned around, returned,

then stepped outside again, and then again

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shrank back inside. Her feet conveyed her here,

there, nowhere, since, whenever she emerged,

the shame within her turned her steps around.

Whenever shame, though, turned her steps around,

fierce longing turned her back and urged her onward.

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Three times she started and she stopped three times.

The fourth time, though, she whirled about, then tumbled

headlong onto her bed.

Think of a girl,

a bride, bewailing in the marriage chamber

the absence of the blooming youth on whom

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her parents and her brothers had bestowed her—

how, out of shame and shyness, she does not

make conversation with his household's servants

but sits apart in grief. Some death has claimed him

before, as man and wife, they had the pleasure

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of one another's charms. Her heart on fire,

she looks upon her freshly widowed bed

and sobs in silence, worrying that women

will mock and scorn her. So Medea wept.

Just then it chanced that, while she was lamenting,

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one of the servants who attended her

approached and noticed her and right away

bustled next door to tell Chalciope,

who happened to be with her sons, debating

how she might win her sister to their cause.

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Though busy planning, she did not ignore

the serving woman's unexpected news

but rushed in wonder straight out of her chamber

into the chamber where Medea lay

distraught, with two fresh scratches on her cheeks.

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Chalciope could see her sister's eyes

were dim with weeping, so she started thus:

“Dear, dear Medea, why are you in tears?

What's wrong? What heavy grief has crushed your heart?

What, has some heaven-sent affliction wrapped

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its coils around your body? Have you heard

some dire threat that father has pronounced

against my sons and me? If only I

were not now looking on our parents' palace

or even on this city but were living

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off at the world's outskirts where the word

‘Colchian' never, ever has been spoken.”

So she exclaimed. The maiden's cheeks turned red,

and for a long time virgin modesty

restrained her, though she ached to tell her tale.

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At one time words were rising to her tongue's tip

and at another sinking in her breast.

Time and again they reached her shapely lips

and strained to blossom forth,
but no sound came.

When she at last could speak, she lied, because

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the stubborn love gods still were pressing on her:

“Chalciope, my heart is all atremble

over your sons. I fear our father shortly

will cut them down together with the strangers.

Sleeping just now a fitful sleep, I saw

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such ghastly nightmares. May a god make sure

they never come to pass. Yes, may you never

endure hard sorrow for your children's sake.”

So she exclaimed to find out if her sister

would come out with a plea to save her sons.

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The story overwhelmed Chalciope

with terror past all bearing. She disclosed:

“I, too, was worrying about this matter

and came to see if you, perhaps, might work

together with me to devise a plan.

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First,
you must swear by Heaven and Earth to seal

whatever I reveal inside your heart

and thus be my accomplice. In the names

of all the blessed gods, in your own name,

and those of father and mother, I implore you

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not to sit by and watch an evil doom

viciously cut my children down or else,

when I have died beside my darling sons,

I shall return hereafter out of Hades

as an avenging Fury to torment you.”

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So she threatened, and a flood of tears

burst forth when she had finished. Then she knelt

and gripped Medea's knees with both her arms

and laid her head upon her sister's lap.

Each of them poured out piteous lamentation

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over the other, and the sound of wailing

echoed faintly through the court. Grief-stricken

Medea was the first to speak again:

“How can I help you, sister, when you threaten

Furies and baneful curses? All I want is

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to save your sons. I summon as my witness

the potent oath code of the Colchians

by which you have insisted that I swear.

I call as well on mighty Heaven and Earth,

the mother of the gods, to witness that,

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as much as there is strength within my body,

you never shall be lacking in support,

provided what you ask is possible.”

So vowed Medea, and her sister asked:

“To save my sons, Medea, could you please

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conjure some trick to help the stranger win

the contest? He is desperate as well.

Argus, in fact, has just now come from him

and asked that I attempt to win your aid.

When I came out, I left him in my chamber.”

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So she explained. The heart within Medea

leapt up for joy. Her lovely cheeks went flush.

She melted with delight. A mist descended

over her liquid eyes, and she replied:

“Sister, I shall provide whatever aid

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you and your sons would find most beneficial.

Never may dawn again light up my eyes,

nor may my mouth take in another breath,

if I place anything above your life

and that of all your sons. They are my brothers,

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my dear protectors and my playmates. Yes,

I tell you that I am a sister to you

and daughter also, equal with your sons,

because you nursed me at your breast when I

was but an infant, as I've heard my mother

many times declare.

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Go now, but bury

all that I shall perform for you in silence,

so that I can do what I must do

without my parents finding out. At daybreak

I shall be at the shrine of Hecate

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with drugs to beat the bulls and so assist

the stranger who has started all this trouble.”

With that, her sister strode out of the chamber

to tell her sons about Medea's plan.

Shame, though, and hateful terror gripped the maiden

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when she was left alone. To help a stranger

by weaving schemes behind her father's back!

Now night was covering the earth in darkness,

and sailors from their ships were studying

the stars of Ursa Major and Orion.

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Travelers and watchmen turned their thoughts
toward sleep,

and deep, deep slumber was relieving even

those mothers who had lately lost their children.

No dogs were barking in the streets; no voices

echoed; silence held the blackening gloom.

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Sweet sleep, however, never eased Medea—

no, worry and her love for Jason roused her.

She feared the bulls, the overwhelming force

beneath which he was all but sure to suffer

shameful destruction on the field of Ares.

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Her heart was fitful, restless in the way

a sunbeam, when reflected off the water

swirling out of a pail or pitcher, dances

upon the walls—yes, that was how her heart

was quivering. And tears of pity flowed

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out of her eyes, and anguish burned her insides

by smoldering into her skin and sinews,

even into the apex of her spine,

the point where torment peaks when the relentless

love gods have filled us up with agony.

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Sometimes she said, yes, she would offer him

the magic drug to charm the bulls; at others,

no, she would not and she would kill herself;

at others, she would neither take her life

nor offer him the magic, but remain

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just as she had been, suffering, in silence.

She sat down then and, wavering, exclaimed:

“Which of these woes am I to choose? My mind

is reeling. There's no respite from the pain.

It burns and burns. It burns. I wish the arrows

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of Artemis had struck me dead before