The truth was that I’d lost Procris long ago, on the day she’d packed up her camp and disappeared. She did not want to befound, and on some level I had always known this, which was why I had been so aimless and foolish in my search. If I did not find her, I could at least dream of the possibility of a reunion.
But Procris had chosen to return to her husband, and he had killed her for it. To me, Procris had been like the sun and the moon and all the stars in the night sky. To her, I had been nothing more than an escape.
I became aware of a presence beside me in the dark. A hand pressed between my shoulder blades, rubbing in comforting circles. Cracking open my swollen eyes, I saw the familiar profile of Medea silhouetted against the light streaming down the stairs.
“We don’t need to talk,” she said. “But I’m with you. I have water, and food too whenever you want it. And if anyone tries to bother you, I’ll turn him into a pig.”
Medea’s hand resumed tracing circles on my back, and she began to sing softly in the tongue of her native land. Her presence was a balm on my aching soul.
Our promises to each other had been fulfilled—she had her magic, and I knew where Procris was. Yet some invisible cord still tethered us to each other. She was very much like me, I realized. Where I was caught between the human world and the animal one, Medea was somewhere between the human and the divine. How she shone, like the moon on a dark and endless night. How gentle her hands, which offered comfort and worked the tangles from my hair. How sharp her wit, a match for my own. Though grief would dog me all the days of my life, my affection detached itself from Procris and instead began to circle around the head of Medea, like a crown of dancing stars.
39
Jason
Shouts and the creak of ropes echo through the air as the Argonauts pull the ship to shore that evening, tugging its belly onto the sand. The setting sun flashes on the sea spray kicked up by their feet, turning the droplets into momentary jewels suspended in the air.
Jason looks around and sees someone waiting on a promontory nearby. Not an armored assortment of warriors as on Lemnos, but a single old man.
The man is so ancient that he seems composed of driftwood. Tendons stand out under skin like the thinnest papyrus. Tufts of white fluff adorn his head, and his beard is sparse as a goat’s. He leans heavily on a walking stick as ancient and sun-bleached as himself. He might be a corpse risen from a tomb, but then he begins to speak.
“Jason and his Argonauts,” the old man calls. “Bravest of heroes, I greet you. I am King Phineus. For a long time, I have awaited your coming.”
A ripple runs through the gathered Argonauts, and they murmur to one another uneasily. How does he know who we are? What does he want? Jason steps forward gamely, though he finds he is getting very, very tired of random men turning up on supposedly deserted islands.
“We greet you, honored Phineus,” Jason begins. “Please, tell me what it is that you need.” He is careful to make no promises before finding out what sort of threat they face; Jason wants to help, but he also wants to get himself and his men home as soon as possible.
“It will be easier to show you,” Phineus says. “Follow me.”
Phineus turns and begins tapping his way along the shale-covered beach with his walking stick. Moving as one, the Argonauts follow him.
They come to a dilapidated palace, a place with roof tiles missing and cracks all through the foundation. Mold darkens the corners, and only a smattering of weary-looking servants disturb the silence. Yet judging from the richness of the murals and the grandeur of the high ceilings, this must have been a magnificent building once.
“Not so long ago, great gatherings were hosted here,” Phineus says in his reedy voice. “Feasts for the kings of Greece, and emissaries from Persia, and the hierophants of Egypt. Once my library was the object of envy. Now it is all dust and ghosts.”
They arrive in the feasting hall, a room of tall, cobwebbed ceilings stretching away into the gloom. As the Argonauts enter, a servant comes out with a plate. Resting upon it is a single piece of bread.
As the standing forest of Argonauts watch, King Phineus pulls out a chair, sits down, and lifts the bread to his mouth.
At once, a shadow falls upon the room.
A winged form swoops through the smoke hole in the roof, followed by a second and a third. They are much larger than hawks, wingspans vaster than those of eagles. They have clawed feet like the talons of a bird, but human faces glare at Jason from behind dark feathers.
Harpy.The name comes to Jason suddenly. Stealthy snatcher, dread goddess, punisher of the wicked. He thinks at once of Medea. He isn’t quite sure what happened with Circe, but perhaps nothing can fully expiate Medea’s deeds, and the dark gods have come calling for her at last. Jason shields her with his body, placing himself between his future wife and danger.
But the Harpies are not here for Medea. One of them swoops down and snatches Phineus’s bread from his hands with gnarled claws. The second Harpy follows, tipping over Phineus’s wineglass so that a puddle of violet spreads over the table like a bleeding wound. The third looses her bowels, raising a horrible stink.
Their task apparently accomplished, the three Harpies fly out again through the smoke hole. The only relic of their presence is the putrid waste contaminating the table.
“So you see,” Phineus says with a sigh, “I have a bit of a problem.”
40
Medea
As the last Harpy disappeared through the smoke hole, the room exploded into conversation. The Argonauts fell over themselves putting forth conflicting solutions to the problem before us.
I cared for none of it. Instead, I stood on tiptoes trying to pick out Atalanta’s tall form in the crowd. We’d become separated after arrival, and I did not want to leave her alone in her bitter distress. The visions that rose from the deer’s liver disturbed me—the last moments of that strange woman who seemed so dear to Atalanta. But try as I might, I could not catch a glimpse of Atalanta’s tawny-haired head.
