“I’ll consider it,” Jason says, though he already knows that he will never dismiss Peleus. He needs every hand on deck if they are going to make it back to Iolcus alive. Besides, Peleus has become something like a friend to him.
Jason’s thoughts are interrupted by a cry from the lookout. It seems that theArgohas arrived at the island of Circe.
34
Jason
Aeaea, the sorceress’s domain, does not come into view slowly like other islands. Instead, it appears suddenly on the horizon like an ambushing lion. A hawk circles lazily above it, feathers fanned out against the flawless blue sky.
“When was the last time you saw your aunt?” Jason asks, trying to lighten the suddenly tense mood that has fallen over the ship.
“I have never met her,” Medea replies, looking at the island. “I wouldn’t even have known she existed if not for something my sister Chalciope once said.”
“Ah,” Jason says uncertainly, considering the wisdom of turning up unannounced on the doorstep of a sorceress.
TheArgodrifts toward shores covered in abundant foliage. A shale beach rises up to a sandy plateau, terminating in dense undergrowth. Tiphys sets the ship at anchor, unwilling to risk bringing them to shore. The crew is edgy, like horses catching the scent of wolves.
Jason steels himself for the ordeal ahead, donning his armor and taking his spear in hand. When he returns, he finds Atalanta standing next to Medea, fixing him with an insouciant glare.
“You weren’t planning on coming ashore, were you, Jason?” Medea asks, taking in his attire. “Circe’s island is far too dangerous for men.”
Jason, glorious in his armor, wilts a little.
“But I will take that, please.” Medea points at the Golden Fleece. “Circe will know what happened when she sees it and what I need from her. It is the best way. I will bring it back soon, don’t worry.”
Reluctantly, Jason hands over the Golden Fleece to Medea, watching as she descends with Atalanta into the water. This is a reversal of the natural order of things—the man observing from safety as the woman dives headlong into danger. Jason burns with a double shame: for being the sort of man whose wife must strike out alone on such a hazardous undertaking... and for the relief he feels at being spared the risk himself.
Awkward in his armor, Jason watches as Medea cuts her way through waist-deep water to the shore, the Golden Fleece glowing around her shoulders. And he wonders if he will ever see either of his treasures again.
Atalanta
When we find Circe,” Medea said as we splashed along the shore of Aeaea, “don’t speak, don’t say a thing to her. Let me handle the negotiations. It’s best if she invites us in herself—and she will, I’m sure, when she sees the Fleece. She must hate Aeetes for exiling her.”
A dubious plan, but I would follow wherever Medea led. I squinted at the scrub that lined the island, certain that the shapes of animals moved in the underbrush. In deference to Medea’s instructions I had not brought any weapons, but now my hands itched for a spear.
We rounded a corner, coming upon an inlet surrounded by trees whose long branches reached forward to brush the water. There, in the center, was Circe.
She was naked, her spine sweetly curved like the stem of a flower, splashing water over her arms and torso. As we watched, she cupped more in her hands and poured it over her face. Her tawny hair, marked with a strange, striated pattern, lay slick against her bare shoulders. She turned to look at us.
Her eyes were startling yellow gold, a color I had only seen before in the eyes of Medea. I felt a flare of embarrassment at intruding on such a private moment, but Circe seemed utterly unbothered.
“Hello, Aunt Circe,” Medea said softly. “I’m Medea, Aeetes’s daughter.”
Circe studied us serenely. If there was a flicker of surprise on her lovely face, it was quickly consumed by curiosity. She began to walk toward us, water parting around her thighs. She was all voluptuous curves and manifold softness, her generous breasts jumping slightly as she walked. My skin suddenly felt too warm, and I averted my gaze.
Medea laid a hand on the Fleece, which hung around her shoulders. When Circe noticed it, the sly smile faded from her face. She looked at Medea questioningly, one eyebrow raised. Medea nodded.
“Come with me,” Circe said, her voice oddly hoarse. “And I will give you what you need.”
She headed to shore, to the tree where her chiton hung. I watched Circe’s hips sway as she walked, round buttocks lifting out of the water like the rising sun.
Animals waited for us nearby. Some of them I recognized—wolves, lions, and wild cats—but others were strange composites with the mingled traits of different animals. A few were sluglike and ill-defined in form, leaving trails of slime as they crawled along the ground.
“My pets,” Circe explained. “Transformation is a difficult process, and not every batch of tincture is a success. Sometimes I have done better and other times I have done worse.” She paused to admire a creature with a swan’s neck but the mouth of a shark.
Circe led us to a house with floors of smooth marble and a central fire that illuminated a fine wooden table. Most of the animals stayed outside, but one of them—a rabbitlike creature bearing antlers and a small pair of wings—came in with us and flopped down on the floor nearby, stretching out on its belly as serene as a Sphinx.
All my instincts screamed at me to leave this place where unspeakable shapes darkened the door, but Medea sat down stiffly at the table, and I joined her. Whatever dangers awaited us here, I would not let Medea face them alone.
