A familiar shape was sitting on the beach. Atalanta saw me and thrust out her chin in greeting. I took my place next to her and watched as the sunrise began to paint its colors across the sky—gold and indigo, blush pink and coral.
I moved a little closer and leaned against her like dogs or horses do. She did not draw away but instead leaned back, and that gave me hope. Hope that I had not seen the last of this entrancing, marvelous woman, that she would honor my invitation to exchange letters and visits.
There, caught between the ending of my old life and the beginning of the new, I suddenly recalled a vivid memory of my youth when I dropped a pail of water. I’d been swinging it to and fro on my way to the temple of Hekate, when suddenly the handle slipped from my hand and flew through the air, spilling its contents everywhere.
What struck me most about the memory was not the mess or the frustration of wasted effort, but the brief beauty of it. The perfect arc the pail described in the air, and the spray of water fanning out like a flurry of diamonds, each droplet winking in the light. A moment of sublime loveliness before everything came crashing down.
Part Three
52
Jason
The next morning, after the party is finished and the bonfires have died down to ash, Jason faces a split in the road. He must decide which to prioritize first: confronting Pelias, the killer of his father, or doing something even more terrifying.
Visiting his mother.
Jason elects for the latter; best to get it over with. He is none too sure what Alcimede will think of his new wife, but Jason has a duty, and he heads with Medea to the shepherd’s hut in the foothills of Mount Pelion.
His mother opens the door with a look of suspicion that quickly melts into joy when she sees Jason with the Golden Fleece around his shoulders. When Alcimede takes his face in her hands and kisses him, Jason can almost believe that his mother loves him.
Alcimede is less enthusiastic about Medea, especially when Jason introduces her as his wife. Though Medea clasps her hand and greets her with all the fine manners of an eastern princess, Alcimede’s face remains closed. Jason feels the prickle of sweat on his back and hurriedly plasters a smile on his face before sweeping both women inside.
Medea lays out the feast of cheese and olives and fruit, and they all fall to it. Jason shows off the Golden Fleece and tells wondroustales of the journey, like the sighting of the six-armed men and the appearance of Thetis (leaving out, of course, that Medea was supposed to marry Achilles).
For a while, the visit goes better than Jason ever dared hope. Medea and Alcimede exchange a few words, and Jason’s mother even smiles once or twice. Jason allows himself to imagine that things might actually work out after all.
Then Medea steps out to use the privy, and the smile slides from Alcimede’s face.
“I do not like that girl,” his mother says. “Divorce her forthwith.”
Jason’s fledgling hopes shatter like an egg dropped from a high cliff. “Why?”
Alcimede’s eyes are hard as flint. “She is a foreigner and no advantage to you. Did she bring you a dowry? Troops? Land?”
“She brought me the Golden Fleece.”
“Youbrought yourself the Golden Fleece,” Alcimede corrects. “You are the hero. She is a foreign woman with no connections here. I suppose she was not even lawfully given in marriage by her father?”
Jason hesitates, rubbing the back of his head in a nervous gesture. Alcimede nods primly, as if this tells her all she needs to know, and pops an olive in her mouth.
“If she was not properly bestowed by her male relatives, then the marriage is invalid,” his mother says. “I saw it often when I advised your father. Sailors marrying pretty harlots from foreign brothels, that sort of thing.”
A new feeling swells in Jason’s chest, one he slowly recognizes as anger. Medea is no harlot; she’s his partner and helpmeet. She stood by Jason on theArgo’s journey and saved them all more than once. He will not stand for anyone speaking about Medea like that—not even his own mother.
“Medea is my wife,” Jason says. “I made a promise to her in front of men and gods—”
“All the same,” Alcimede interrupts, dismissing his concerns with a wave. “Divorce her and marry one of Pelias’s daughters instead. You may have the Fleece, but Pelias is a murderer and a thief, and you cannot depend on him to keep his word. Pick one of his daughters and marry her, then he will not be able to deny you your rightful place on the throne.”
Jason stares at Alcimede, speechless, even as repulsion ripples across his skin at the thought of marrying any of his cousins. Once, he might have capitulated to his mother’s commands, but submission does not come so easily now that he has sailed to the ends of the earth and lived to tell the tale.
Besides, Jason has a wife to think of, one who is listening in the doorway even now with her hand pressed over her mouth and tears in her eyes. Medea has heard everything.
That settles it. Jason hesitates for only a moment before taking to his feet, looming over a startled Alcimede. He sees now what he is to his mother—a bargaining chip. His only worth in what he can accomplish, his only purpose to bring glory. Enough!
“All my life I have done what you asked of me, Mother,” Jason says. “Every action I took was for you and the memory of Father. But I made my own choice when I married Medea, and I stand by it. You will respect this or I will never speak to you again.”
Alcimede goes white with rage. Medea gasps, looking up at Jason with tear-filled eyes, so soft and vulnerable that Jason wants to scoop her up and hold her forever.
