Up from the depths of my memory floated the face of Medea, bringing with it a familiar wistful sadness. My love for her persisted, but muted and at a distance, like a lyre player in another room. Medea had already borne a son, and she’d written to me about him in a letter, her delicate script slanting over the expanse of creamy papyrus. I’d let the letter languish without a reply for some time, but now I rallied.
Medea would understand my feelings, and it would be good to have someone else to talk to about the joy and terror of having a child. It would be good to remember that love could end without death.
With a great force of will, I let go of the crib and sought out something else: Melanion’s writing kit, stored in a dusty corner of our cottage.
By the illumination of a single lamp, I removed the inkstone, stylus, and sheets of papyrus soft as new-fallen leaves, spreading them across the floor. Thanks to Medea, I knew how to use them. Painstakingly, I began to form the letters—mu, epsilon, delta, another epsilon, iota (that’s how it was spelled, was it not?), and alpha—that made up her name.
60
Medea
Dishes, diapers, and darkness. That was what my world became.
One day, some four years after our arrival in Corinth, I looked into the mirror and did not recognize myself. Who was this woman with dark circles under her eyes and sagging cheeks? Surely not Medea. But then Thessalus started to cry, and I put the mirror down to go tend to him.
I loved my son, even if his birth had been an agony.I’d rather stand on a battlefield three times than give birth once,Atalanta said, and now I saw the truth of it. Still, I loved my son, this new possibility born from my flesh. It was this love that sustained me, even if it took all my attention to prevent Thessalus from shoving new and dangerous things into his mouth.
After Thessalus lay down for a nap, I carried the laundry to the courtyard. Best to get on with it so I could start supper next. This was my life, grinding like a wheel, day after day in an endless loop.
Was I ever a priestess and a witch?I wondered, looking down at my hands, chapped from washing laundry in the cold air. When I’d dreamed of having my own family, was this what I wanted?
The square of sky I could see from the courtyard was overlaid with gray clouds, echoing my mood. Jason had found a betterhouse for us after his promotion a few months before, one with a large central courtyard and a door painted in bright colors. But this only meant more to clean, and we couldn’t afford any servants yet. So all the work fell to me.
I bore my labors uncomplainingly, my every act atonement for the death of Pelias. Jason accepted the homage I paid him, but he never quite looked me in the eye.
Jason. The thought of him was like an unhealed wound. My husband, and yet a stranger, spending every day from morning to night at the palace. Sometimes I thought Jason hoarded his words the way a desert camel hoarded water. He’d won the acclaim of the Corinthian king Creon with his wit and eloquence, securing a better life for our family. But when Jason came home, the winning smile melted from his face and he would sit in silence, as though he’d used up all his conversation and had none at all left for me. Once I would have begged Jason to share his thoughts with his wife, but now I was simply too tired.
Maybe it was all a dream,I thought as I swirled the laundry through water, watching the cracks in my hands split and bleed. A dream, that I ever rode upon theArgo, or destroyed a bronze automaton, or matched wits with a sorceress. TheArgo’s journey had taken on a golden patina in my memory, because that was where I’d mether.
The thought of Atalanta was a bright star in the darkness of my life, a source of both hope and despair. She said she’d write and even suggested she might visit someday. But perhaps she’d forgotten me when she went back to her forests, because four years had gone by without a word. Not once had I received a response to the copious letters I’d sent to Arcadia.
I threw my head back, seeking the coin-like disk of the sun through its veil of clouds. If I was the praying type, I would begthe gods to let her hear me. If I was not forbidden to use my witchcraft, I would magic her into a response. But as matters stood, I was helpless.
A knock on the door echoed through the courtyard, causing me to startle and splash water on myself. I took my hands from the barrel of laundry and raced across the courtyard, heart pounding. Who could it possibly be? I had no friends in Corinth, and no one seeking Jason would ever come to his private residence. Though the Greeks believed it improper for a woman to answer the door of her own home (such strange ideas these people had), I opened it anyway.
A messenger stood there. “For Medea,” he said in an Arcadian accent, and handed me a letter.
When I saw the sticklike handwriting, rife with misspellings, it was as though the sun burst through the clouds for the first time in weeks, warming the dew on the grass. The world filled with color again, and birds began to sing.
She hadn’t forgotten. At last, at long last, she had answered me.
Breathlessly, I tore open the letter and began to read.
61
Atalanta
Rain fell down in silver curtains, rendering the outside world a distant blur. Water pooled into small lakes just below the roof and turned the dusty roads into cold, oozing mud.
Inside the abandoned farmhouse where Melanion and I had taken shelter, a fire crackled merrily. The half-collapsed roof let in a steady drip of rain but also provided an escape for the smoke that rose from the fire. Both Melanion and I stripped off our damp clothes and hung them over the flames, where they gave rise to clouds of steam.
I was in a sour mood. Not because of the rain, but the delay it represented. We’d come here at the request of the king of Thebes to hunt a hydra, and the success of this endeavor was evidenced by a sack in the corner containing the beast’s head. I was impatient to present this trophy to the Theban king, receive my reward, and get on with the next step of the journey: visiting Medea in Corinth.
The very thought made me feel like I had swallowed lightning. For the first time since the end of theArgo’s journey five years before, I would see Medea face-to-face. We’d exchanged letters in the interim, and she’d been full of useful wisdom about raising a son. Indeed, she was the one who recommended leaving Parthenopaios with Melanion’s mother so that we could get some time alone. But it would be different toseeher, to sit and talk together as we once had.
Itching with impatience, I poked at the fire so that it would burn hotter and dry our clothing more quickly. Melanion sat next to me, reaching out to rub the chill from my bare limbs. Surprised into a smile, I reciprocated the gesture. How enthusiastic Melanion had been when I suggested visiting a friend in Corinth, though I did not reveal all that Medea and I once were to each other.
It was cold in the ramshackle farmhouse, and Melanion and I had to rub each other quite vigorously to keep warm. We pressed our bodies close, shivering and laughing at the same time. The firelight bathed our bodies in a golden glow.
