by Paula Guran
I know what you’re thinking right now. You’re thinking, “What is the worst possible thing Jason could have done to sabotage this difficult and sensitive task?”
How exactly did Jason of Thessaly fuck it up?
I present the following evidence: The King of Colchis had a daughter. A young, barely marriageable and voluntarily chaste daughter.
The epic poem writes itself, doesn’t it?
Medea reminded me of myself. She was a princess who would rather be anywhere than her father’s palace. She wanted to escape, and in Jason she saw a handsome, golden prince straight out of a children’s tale. She saw a hero.
She was smart, Medea, but young, and she crumbled beneath the golden boy’s charm. She became our secret weapon—we would never have got past the dragon or escaped the city without her.
Later, years later, Jason claimed that Medea’s love for him was a gift from the gods; if that is true, then he is not the only one in debt to Aphrodite.
I would be dead, were it not for our quiet, dark-eyed princess and her skills of healing. Medea saved me.
If only she could have saved herself.
(7)
The worst part of that night . . .
I can’t speak of it yet, give me a moment to gird my strength.
We ran, Argonauts all, back to our ship with the stolen Fleece and the stolen princess. There were shouts and cries and torches, and we knew how badly we had gone astray.
King Aëetes was going to kill and eat us all, and who could blame him? Two hard-faced young warriors with fine clothes and expensive swords—Medea’s brothers—met us at the dock, ready to kill us all. My Meleager and Perseus and the others stepped up to fight at Jason’s side.
I was already hurt, having taken the kind of slow wound you don’t recover from, while our fearless leader was seducing his new girl.
Our heroic crew made short work of the princes and left them bleeding out on the ground. We had to step over the bodies to make the ship ready: ropes and sails flying through our hands.
I dragged the Fleece aboard, wretched and foul-smelling thing that it was.
Medea stood on the docks, wrapped in her shawl. Jason hovered on the gangplank of the Argo, his hand outstretched and faltering. Did she want to join us or not?
“We should bring the bodies,” she said finally. “My father is a superstitious man. If we separate their limbs and scatter them in the seas, our pursuers will be delayed by trying to restore the bodies of the princes.”
We all stared at her. What a mind she had, to come up with such a plan: devious and devastating.
“Make haste!” Jason cried, hauling Medea aboard. He gave the orders to seize the bodies and bring them on deck.
It was foul work that we did, butchering those corpses and dropping the pieces one by one in the waters of the shallow shores of the Aegean.
True to Medea’s prediction, the men of Colchis collected our grisly gift, piece by piece, and risked drowning to plunge after the pieces that floated further and further away.
We sailed to safety.
“A strange people,” Jason said later, his eyes on the princess as she worked on my belly, smearing the neatly stitched wound with a poultice that stung my eyes with its fumes. I would not die after all. Her hands were cool as she worked; her face professional.
Medea had served Hekate since she was six years old. Her skills went beyond a talent for potions and creams. She was witch, sorceress, priest-ess. She was more dangerous than anyone on our ship.
Jason saw only a girl that he wished to possess.
I lay back on the ship’s deck, in a haze of sweet-smelling drugs and the smell of my own blood, while Medea saved my life. Through my heavy eyelids, I observed the princess, that angry, powerful, dead-inside witch, and I thought: that girl needs a friend.
(8)
Never let Meleager tell you the story of the golden apples, especially when he’s drunk.
It is not his story to tell.
The story of the apples belonged to a younger, prettier man: Hippomenes of Thebes. Hippomenes Fleet-Foot. Hippomenes Sharp-Wits.
I had already run away from home once by the time I was sixteen. I joined the great Hunt for the Calydonian Boar, a monster set upon the world by a vengeful Artemis. This was my first taste of what it was to be a hero: the Hunt was full of men desperate to earn a line or two for themselves in an epic ballad.
Men, and me.
King Oeneus of Calydon called for heroes to save his kingdom from the rampaging beast; he forgot to specify that those heroes be male. When I arrived with my bow and leathers, many so-called adventurers refused to join the hunt if a woman came along. Meleager, son of King Oeneus, was in charge of listing our names, and he thought it a grand old joke to let me play.
It was less of a joke when my arrow found the Boar first: fourteen of us brought the creature down in the final battle, but I had made first touch and thus, when the spoils were divided, I won the hide.
Meleager placed it around my shoulders and winked at me; I lifted my chin and thought myself dignified because I did not let him charm me into his bed. (Not then, at least, not yet.)
My furious father dragged me home to Arcadia. He demanded I marry like a proper princess, or dedicate my chastity to the gods—anything but live the life of adventure I had barely begun to taste.
Over-confident with the smell of fresh-killed boar hide still lingering in my hair, I pledged to my father this: I would marry any prince who bested me in a foot-race.
No prince was that fast.
I saw off dozens of suitors, all embarrassed and limping by the end of their travails, but it was Hippomenes who got the better of me.
This is the story that Meleager tells (that all men tell, when they repeat it): Hippomenes tossed golden apples before me as we ran, and thinking myself unbeatable, I allowed myself to be distracted by the pretty trinkets.
A princess after all: soft and weak for beautiful objects, for the gifts of the gods.
In truth: he did not throw apples, but rocks. There was no godly work in this. He broke my leg.
I never saw my father so furious as when he exiled Hippomenes from the kingdom; never saw him so guilt-ridden, so completely on my side.
So I asked a boon of him: to let me have my quest, as all heroes do, before they settle down. I almost had him convinced. But my father could not imagine a world in which a woman was a hero without being raped and ruined. He refused me.
Once my leg healed good and straight, I stole myself all over again. This time, my father did not catch me. I found Meleager, and Jason, and the Argo.
Atalanta of Arcadia sailed into adventure, and never looked back.
(9)
Ours was no grand romance. Meleager and I simply fell in with each other. I liked his wit; he liked the swing of my hips and my bold talk.
He thought himself in love; I did not challenge the notion.
If Meleager were not married already, I might have given in to the notion of being a wife: I liked the idea of a husband who could be friend and travel companion. His hands were warm and clever in the dead of night, while our friends slept around us on the deck. A future together would have been amiable.
But he was not free, and I was no Medea; there would be no poisoning of my lover’s wife.
(That horror was still in her future, as the Argo creaked around us, carrying us home.)
Medea made a good companion. She charmed the men with cheerful prophecies of their noble futures. She made a herbal soup that made us all merry and filled our bellies with cheer.
As my mortal wound healed, I watched Medea blossom into the role of Jason’s wife. Happiness suited her.
We faced monsters on the way back to Thessaly. Medea hypnotized them, and made them bleed. We grew comfortable and lazy as her powers steered us safely home.
She was heavily pregnant by the time we stepped ashore in the city where it all started. Pregnancy did not slow her down in the least; her fierce loyal
ty meant that she was already calculating how best to support her man.
There was a parade in Iolcus for the returned prince: Jason was given the people’s ovation. He waved the Golden Fleece with one hand, and clutched his stolen princess with the other. We followed in his wake, his Argonauts, waiting for the pomp to end so we could escape.
He had promised his ship to us. He would need the Argo no longer, when he replaced his uncle as king. We stayed for every feast and celebration, while King Pelias grew harder of face and stiffer of shoulder.
Meleager danced with me, wine on his breath and hands warm on my hips. “We’re not getting that ship,” he whispered, and I saw that his eyes were not as glassy as I had believed. “We have to leave, tonight.”
“But he promised us the Argo,” I replied in my own furious whisper.
“Jason’s going to need her to escape with his life,” Meleager whispered back. “Look at them all.”
Above the celebrations, King Pelias and his daughters watched a would-be usurper dance his way across their banquet hall.
I loved theArgo, but I wasn’t stupid enough to die for her. “You’re right,” I conceded. “We don’t want to be here for what happens next.”
(10)
Here is what happened to Meleager: after many adventures: animals hunted, monsters slain, treasures found, he begged his lover Atalanta to return home with him and be his mistress while he filled his wife with a new generation of royal babies.
Atalanta refused politely, and they parted on good terms.
Meleager died many years later, in a fire that may or may not have been a curse from the gods. His family line continued. He had allowed his daughter to learn the bow and the knife; a better choice on whole than when he arranged for his sister Deineira to marry Herakles.
Heroes make the worst husbands.
What of Atalanta?
I took my own share of the spoils we won together and went to Argus, builder of the original Argo, and one of our former shipmates. I commissioned a ship: the Calydonian Boar. She was a splendid craft, small enough to manage with a minimal crew.
I sailed into adventure.
Sometimes, I heard word of the Argonauts: of Herakles and his labors; of Laertes, father of Odysseus, of Perseus and Castor and Deucalion and all the rest.
The stories of Jason and Medea were the worst: they left murder and misery in their wake. King Pelias’ daughters became convinced that Medea’s herbs and spells were enough to heal their father of his silver hair and the pains of age, when in fact the best choice for his health would have been to give up the throne and live in comfortable retirement.
Medea’s spells went wrong; Pelias died. The anger of the people sent Jason and his witch wife into exile. They went to Corinth, I heard. Corinth, a bright and prosperous city which had need of a new king, as long as he did not mind setting Medea aside to marry a nubile young princess.
Jason, you will be shocked to learn, did not mind that in the least.
(11)
Long after the fellowship of the Argo ended, there were times when I missed Medea. It might seem strange to you, that I liked the woman; she was clearly a monster. And yet, there were many who thought the same of me.
We lived in a world that did not allow women to breathe; how could we be anything but monsters?
Medea saved my life. She sang songs that made the wind catch the sails faster. Her soup was delicious. I could use a witch like her on my crew, were she not busy with her children and her errant failure of a husband.
Years passed, and I did not hear from her. I hoped she had found happiness.
I had my own happiness: wind in my hair, wood firm under my feet, salt in my teeth. I had a crew willing to take orders from a female captain as long as I paid them well and looked the other way when they spent my gold on whores and wine.
One day, I received a letter that broke my heart. It said: My children are dead, and Corinth wants me dead too.
I went to rescue Medea. Of course I did. That’s what friends do.
Jason’s new bride Creusa was murdered. The method was a poisoned dress: a wedding “gift” to the woman who stole Medea’s husband. The people of Corinth hounded Medea out of the city. They hurled stones at her that did not find their mark, because she had doused herself in hasty protection spells.
The stones rebounded on her children.
Now she was alone and heart-sick, a prisoner of her own grief.
She was a monster, they said, for of course the city claimed that she had killed the children herself, in vengeance against Jason.
“I did not expect you to come,” she said when I broke open the lock on her prison door. “I do not deserve to survive this, Atalanta.”
“Suffer if you must,” I told her calmly. “But don’t do it here. I have need of a witch on my crew. The pay is decent, and you will be far from that ass you once called husband.”
Medea frowned at me, as if she did not quite understand. “They failed to kill me. I thought you might do it. You were always the noble one, of that whole crew. Your arrows fly the straightest.”
I rolled my eyes at her. “If you must die, do it battling a monster or facing down an endless whirlpool of terror, like a normal person.”
“Like a hero,” Medea scoffed.
I took her hand, and led her out into the sunshine. “If Jason counts as a hero, anyone can.”
(12)
This is the story of the Argo, and how she died.
Of all Jason’s failings, this is the worst: he let his ship rot. She could have survived for generations if he took proper care of her, but without children to carry on his blood, Jason grew bitter and more selfish.
He lived out his later years deep in his cups, allowing the greatest ship of our age to fall to wrack and ruin.
We grew old too, Medea and I; past the age of motherhood, we settled for being sailors and adventurers. The Calydonian Boar wintered on Circe’s island every year, so that Medea could learn from her aunt, the greatest sorceress who ever lived. It helped, I think. Circe gave Medea a peace she had never known, the forgiveness of her last surviving family member, and the companionship of a woman who knew how to read and write and think deep thoughts.
I spent those winters wandering the island during the day, gamboling with sheep and goats, and reading epic poetry. In the evenings, we drank wine, ate cake, and told stories of our adventures to entertain our hostess. Sometimes a boat would deliver supplies from the mainland: honey, oil, spices, and the snippets of news and gossip that Circe was always keen to pay for.
I had heard about Meleager’s own untimely demise exactly like this, three winters earlier.
Now Medea read aloud to us by candlelight. “Jason’s dead,” was all she said and then: “Oh, the Argo,” as if her heart was breaking.
I have never loved her more.
Circe snatched the parchment from her niece. “Her mast was rotted through,” she said in disapproval. “That sounds highly unsafe.”
“Clearly,” said Medea. “As it fell on Jason’s head.”
We drank wine and shared a moment of silence for the ship that Medea and I had both loved so very much. Our first taste of freedom and adventure. We would always be Argonauts.
“If Jason is dead,” I said a moment later.
“It changes nothing,” said Medea instantly. “We should sail the Boar further south this summer, if you’re willing? I’ve always wanted to find a dragon.”
I grinned back at her. “When have you ever known me to say no to an adventure?”
“SIMARGL AND THE ROWAN TREE”
EKATERINA SEDIA
When he died, he was handed a fiery sword and an absinthe spoon. He tucked the former under his leather belt, and gave the latter a careful looking over. No doubt, the spoon in question was his own, the very instrument of his demise. He run his fingers over the feathered slots of the antiqued silver, and thrust the spoon into the back pocket of his jeans, his elbow encountering an unexpected obsta
cle in the shape of a pair of wings. He then turned to the faceless luminous figure that endowed him with the accoutrements of the afterlife.
“What do I do now?”
“You guard heaven,” the figure said, and gestured vaguely in the direction of the endless azure expanse, where a golden chariot idled, waiting. “Your name is Simargl. Follow Ra.”
That explained the wings, then.
Simargl nodded his agreement, and headed down a steep aurora borealis to the waiting chariot that cradled a giant, glowing orb. A man in a hawk mask, the driver of the chariot, gave him a slow nod. “You must be our new Simargl. Welcome.”
“What happened to the old one?”
“Nobody lasts forever. Even I am getting old.” The sun god heaved a sigh. “So, I presume you have killed yourself by fire?”
“It was an accident,” Simargl replied, the spoon in his back pocket flaring hot at the memory. “But I suppose it was self-inflicted.”
Ra clucked his tongue, and the chariot started to move, slowly at first but soon gaining speed, forcing the new Simargl to trot after it. “This is what Simargls are,” Ra said. “Suicides by fire.”
The day went on, as the chariot arced through the blue plains. As he trotted along, Simargl noticed that running was much easier on all fours, and that a fiery aura had grown around him. As far as he could guess, he looked more like a winged dog than a man. Just as Simargl started to fear that the azure void would never end, a green glittering jewel caught his eye. When they got closer, the green turned into a fresh meadow, studded with white and yellow flowers, sliced through by a sparkling stream. A cow—a gleaming white cow, and the most beautiful creature Simargl had ever laid eyes on—grazed among the flowers sagely.
“This is the Celestial Cow Zemun,” Ra said, and pointed at the wide berth of tiny white stars that stretched above the meadow. “That’s the Milky Way—she made it.”
“Hello,” Simargl said.
The cow smiled, with a mischievous twinkle in her emerald eyes. “Ah, good. It is about time you got here. Just make sure you do your duty, and don’t give into the lure of the middle world.”