by David Vann
Call on Hekate now, Evadne says. You are no priestess.
Medea can’t speak.
Lie on your back. Arms over your head.
Medea tries to stretch out again, closes her eyes, hears the leather through air and feels the whip again across her breasts. She curls and her lungs heave, as if she is sobbing, but no sound.
Barbarian, Evadne says. Acastus was right. You are from another time, something left over. Some beast. And we should cut off your feet and hands and cut out your tongue and eyes. Not because you might call on any god, but because you are an animal. Stretch out again.
Medea can’t make herself do this, but Evadne pulls one of her arms, kicks her in the back, and this is a new pain, dull and deep. Asteropeia, Medea gasps. Please.
Asteropeia won’t help you. She will do what I say.
Evadne stretches Medea and pins her arms against the stone. Her face close, looking down into Medea’s eyes, heavy hot breath, enjoying this. Whip her, she says.
Asteropeia only a girl, not yet fully grown, a child caught in something that can’t be understood. Holding a strap of leather and walking closer very slowly until she stands at Medea’s side. Innocent and frightened.
Now, Evadne says. Whip as hard as you can.
But Asteropeia is frozen, staring into Medea’s gray eyes, wolf’s eyes. She believes. She believes everything about Medea.
Hekate, Medea calls, chants in their tongue, tear the womb from every daughter of Pelias. Even this innocent. Reach inside her with your bare wolf’s claws and rend until no wall is smooth.
Cold forest, air the sound of water, track of fear. Medea must bring this forest close, make its breath visible. She stretches her jaw forward, teeth bared, feels her spine hunch and screeches from all that is terror. She twists and bites Evadne’s arm, clamps and locks her jaw.
Medea dragged over the floor by her mouth as Evadne tries to escape. Atavistic pleasure, sinking teeth into flesh, sucking air from the corners of her mouth, shaking from her neck trying to rip flesh from bone. Deepest pleasure.
Evadne in full flight now, some ape struggling low over the floor, bent on hand and foot, made a beast herself, rumored horror from far beyond Egypt, screaming. Whip forgotten. Slave forgotten. No daughter of a king but only an animal maimed. Dragging her arm with this demon attached. When she rips free, Medea tastes blood, rolls onto all fours, corners Asteropeia. Hackles raised, teeth clicking. The girl alone now with the beast.
Loose forest floor, all that has fallen and decayed. Mist in the trees, their tops gone, known only by wind, rising along every ridge. Quiet place of listening and waiting, sound impossible to locate, lost in mountains, lost in cold.
Asteropeia pressed into a corner, still holding the leather strap. Dark frightened eyes, pulse visible in her neck, beating fast.
Medea could devour. Some deep need to kill and tear and taste more blood, and her prey frozen, unable to move, unable to make a sound. Closer and the pull at her spine twisting her sideways, unbearable, lifting her into the air, a thrill that would make her lunge. Flat stink of fear. She opens her jaws and wants this child, aches and hears a moan from inside her, low and desolate and strange.
31
Medea returns to her washing at the shore, watches the half-moon rise, heavy and rounded. She can almost see the dark half of it, some sense of that hidden orb, its felt outline against darker sky. White rock around her mirroring. Second sun, night sun, the form Medea would take, granddaughter of Helios worshipping night. Drawn without chariot, some liquid movement within Nute, within skies contained.
Form inside her just as impossible, just as difficult to reach or believe. Some other moon, night-body, following its own movement. Medea slaps wet clothing against rock, swings and breathes and small waves break around her, but she’s listening, also, for something else, same as trying to hear the slow glide of the moon, some hollow lost within other sound.
When she’s finished with her work, she slips into the water, cool and clean, salty and dark, and swims out far beyond the shore into the deep. Surface opaque from the moon, no stars below and only faint above, held in this barrier between worlds. Medea now and Medea with child. Dangling at the roof of the world unknown, all that will be.
Born into slavery. Pelias able to reach her child at any moment to bash a soft head on stone. Jason gone.
Nute, Medea says to the night. Hekate. If this child is better dead, then take it now. Don’t let Pelias take it.
Medea spreads her legs beneath the waves. Take it now if it will be no more than a slave.
1
Cauldron of bronze large enough to hold a body. How it was forged, Medea cannot imagine. Tin and copper melted, enough to form a pool, and from that pool rose some hand that could paint liquid onto air, shape walls burning and hold them in place until all cooled. Story of how what was once shapeless hardened and why we’ve taken these forms and not others.
Surface pitted and stained and worn, figures hidden, encased, soundless, revealed by fire and vanished again. Years of standing before this one cauldron, before this fire, punishment from Evadne. Boiling day and night, wellings in liquid never the same twice, watching source and revelation.
Asteropeia visits nearly every night. A young woman now, no longer a child, she imagines Medea knows every dark way, and Medea lets her imagine this. Medea a mother to her and also ready to kill her, for years now.
Medea’s own children without a mother, two sons left each day to scratch at the dirt and wait, slaves too young yet to be of use, fattened for a future they can’t possibly believe.
Asteropeia’s face wet from the heat, beading, hair soaked, and so beautiful. She does not want a suitor. She wants Hekate.
Find something I can give to my father, she tells Medea. Something that will be enough. Something to release me.
Night after night of this, Medea silent, staring into broth and stew, watching scum on the surface for signs. Waiting for chunks of meat tumbling in darkness and brought to the surface to breach and leer and be devoured again. Her sons will be old enough soon, so she must find something.
She would look also to the stars, but Evadne has placed Medea’s cauldron in a small stone room with a low ceiling and one tiny window. Wood for fuel stacked along the walls, goats and sheep led in bawling, crowding into the corners, trying to escape flame. Medea made butcher and fire keeper and cook. For her, the rest of the world has nearly ceased to exist. A few hours in the final darkness of each night to sleep, to hold Jason and her sons and try to remember, then she returns for all the long day and most of the night and forgets again.
Asteropeia’s skin so soft even wet, faint down of her neck and even her eyebrows Medea would like to lick. Her mouth opens whenever Asteropeia comes near, and she wants to devour. Young skin, no line or crease or slack, lit by some other heat, a fullness to it.
Condemned to burning, this room of fire radiating back from every wall, so Medea no longer wears clothing, only her own sweat, and Asteropeia, too, stands naked beside her, shadowed curves and fire skin flickering, shapes across her belly and breasts and neck. Medea watches here too, uses her hand to trace image, and Asteropeia stands without moving, closes her eyes and memorizes.
Forms of what will be, Medea says. Shape in shadow, in pulse. Asteropeia listens. Medea’s hand sliding down to hold a breast with stretched hand, pulling downward as if this bulb could be planted.
Youth, Medea says. All you have to offer is youth.
Asteropeia’s lips parted, eyes closed, swaying where she stands. Medea’s hand grasping impossible flesh. Your father can be made young. We can rejuvenate him. That’s the gift that will set you free.
Asteropeia’s eyes open. You can do that?
Bring another of your sisters, and bring an old ram. Tomorrow night. We must hurry, before the moon changes. I will make this ram young, and then we’ll do the same for your father.
Joy pure and simple in Asteropeia, clinging to Medea now, soft breast against
breast, and Medea’s mouth on her neck, breathing in desire, unbearable.
Later she walks alone down to the sea, immerses as she does every night, to cool and wash off the sweat and smell and all of her existence. She holds her breath, sinks below the surface, holds her arms around her breasts as if she were holding Asteropeia, slow fall into darkness, lost and without sound.
More and more difficult each night to surface, to leave water and walk up the hill to her home, round mud hovel not much larger than her cauldron. She pushes in between Jason and her sons, smells their filth, dense hot cloud as stifling as the room of fire and vapor, scent of rock and feel of Jason turning to stone, skin become dust and flesh hardening beneath, returning to the first form of earth god, ledge and weight compacting layer upon layer until his footsteps will sink.
She lies on her side, turned away from Jason, and wraps an arm around her sons. Thin, unlike children, smelling like goats, smelling of shit caked on their hands and feet and knees, flinching in their sleep and grabbing at shapes in the air. When they wake, they will talk without pause, questions and telling her everything about nothing. She doesn’t know if this is their age or because they have only a few waking moments together. Medea has never spent a full day with her children. She doesn’t know what they should be or who she should be. All she can do is put her arm around them, breathe in their acrid scent, and sleep.
2
Old ram, brains gone and replaced by bone, huge shelf of a head above dark senseless eyes, caverns of time and silence and no recognition. Refusing to be pulled in any direction, crabbing sideways then butting hard against a leg. Dark white in the moon, full curl of horns rough and patterned, unfelt scars and forgotten battle.
Medea and Asteropeia and one of her sisters all struggling in the yard, trying to reach the door. Bleating of sheep and goats from within, roar and heat of fire, smell of meat and blood boiling, and the ram somehow knows. Black mouth biting, then lowering his head again, hooves opening furrows in the hard ground.
Three ropes around him now: around his horns, cinched high around a front leg, and catching a hind hoof. They pull him backward, hind leg first, make him hop. Medea without mercy, feeling nothing, yanking her way back into the room. This ram could be Pelias and she would pull the same.
Every sheep and goat inside smelling the old ram, bleating and pushing away from him into corners, knocking over piles of wood, legs caught and tumbling, chaos. At the threshold, he butts hard enough to raise dust from the wall. Leaping now and falling hard as his legs are pulled out, scrabbling up, hooves against stone, head and neck bucking at the air. A form of king, unable to believe, dominion absolute.
Asteropeia standing close, fearless, pulling at the rope around his horns. True believer, without hesitation. Her sister backing farther away but still holding her rope, an accomplice suitable enough, thick and strong.
Medea reaches for an ax, dark blade of bronze, newly sharpened, hands it to Asteropeia, who is yanked hard now by only one arm. The ram still charging, wanting the open night.
Now, Medea yells. Kill the ram. Chop off his head.
Asteropeia drops the rope, raises the ax in both hands. Beautiful even in slaughter, swing of her young breasts, mouth open and insane and perfect, warrior more terrible than any demigod king. When this is her father, the blade will come down just as certainly. In his bed in some mammoth chamber of stone and hide, his two daughters let in without question, in darkness as he sleeps. All Medea can hope for is that the first blow doesn’t kill, that he is only maimed, a shoulder hanging, and tries to rise up, sees his beautiful daughter swinging the ax again, innocent Asteropeia, believing she’s making her father young.
The ram shakes his head, free now, sees night, dull blackness to mirror the void inside, and rears back for his final charge, but the blade slices thick muscle at his neck, breaks open his spine, and all limbs fail, fall to the floor, hard stone. Eyes open, still alive, still willing movement impossible. Medea wants this moment for Pelias, only a few strings of flesh connecting, no response but still willing, still knowing. She wants him to know this was her doing.
Asteropeia, she says. You must say these words before his eyes are gone. Medea releases you of your old flesh. Hekate will make you young again.
Asteropeia holds the ax high and yells, Medea releases you of your old flesh. Hekate will make you young again. Then she swings again and severs the ropy neck.
Yes, Medea says. Yes. You must say this to your father before his eyes fade. He must know.
We can’t do this, Asteropeia’s sister says. Still holding the rope taut. Young and plump and blank as any beast, and Medea would slaughter her too. Medea made a slave, for years. She would slaughter every one of them now.
What’s your name? Medea asks.
Peisidike.
Is Peisidike the daughter who wants her father to grow old and die? Does she want to be the one who denied his second youth? Watch what happens to this old ram, and then decide. It will be up to you. We will make your father young only if you say to do it.
No, Peisidike says. I can’t be the one to decide.
You will decide.
Mask of fear, Peisidike lost. Still holding that rope, unable to move.
Cut him into thirteen pieces, Medea says. Quick, before his blood cools. He must be in the cauldron before he loses his last heat.
Asteropeia hacks at a shoulder. Peisidike, she yells to her sister. Pull the leg so I can sever the joint.
Medea smiles. Such a willing butcher.
Peisidike helps, finally, kneels to pull at each leg as Asteropeia hacks. Spray of filth over Peisidike’s face with every chop, blood and small bits of flesh and bone. She’s too stunned even to look away. She has no hope of resisting. She will pull at her father’s leg as Asteropeia severs.
Dismembered, headless trunk, but there must be thirteen pieces, so Asteropeia hacks into ribs. Foam of lungs flung as she yanks the ax free, this room a cavern of gore and fire, wet sopping sound when she strikes again. Cauldron waiting.
Hurry, Medea yells. His blood must still be hot.
Medea puts an ax in Peisidike’s hands, makes her chop at the spine to separate pelvis from ribs.
Upper cage opened by Asteropeia, and Medea tells her to reach in for the heart. Asteropeia to her elbow in blood and foam with a knife comes out with a slick muscle and holds it high. Ancient form, some scream from deep within her as she sees the heart bare.
Yes, Medea says. Throw that in the cauldron. First piece.
Asteropeia shaking from the thrill, head twisting, throwing this heart and returning to her ax to hack at spine.
Peisidike has severed the lower part and stands frozen again. Cut off his balls, Medea yells at her. Now.
So Peisidike kneels on the wet floor and folds the testicles and penis and hide over the sharp blade, slices until they’re free.
Medea pulls her to her feet and brings her to the edge of the cauldron, hot dark bronze radiating. She whispers in Peisidike’s ear. You will make your father young, she says. Only you. You are the one with the power to do this. You are a priestess. Hekate favors you.
Peisidike frightened but also stupid enough to believe. Soft flesh raised for nothing.
What makes him old is in his balls, Medea says. Old ram same as your father. His children have taken his life. But if you break each one in your teeth and then spit into the cauldron, all that constrains him will be broken. This is how he will be made young again. Death will lose its hold.
Peisidike looks at the dark meat in her hands, wet hide, testicles unsheathed and wrapped in vein or worse. But she raises this horror to her mouth, bites into a testicle, breaks it, and vomits onto the floor.
Only one more, Medea says. One more and you’ll release him. Peisidike about to faint, pale even in firelight, eyes wet and mouth still gagging. But she bites into the other testicle, releasing some flood that opens her mouth in awful grimace.
Throw them in now, Medea says. And spit his see
d, also, into the cauldron, to make him new.
Peisidike throws the bloody pelt into the cauldron and spits.
Help your sister now, Medea says.
Able butchers chopping the torso. Ropy entrails endless, slick iridescent orbs of organs sliced, thick overpowering smell of bile, of all that rots inside, and how are thirteen pieces to be counted?
So Medea tells them he’s ready. All pieces into the cauldron, she says. They throw flesh and bone and hide into the dark stew that already contains other meat and blood and will contain more.
Medea with a long thin paddle made of wood stirs the great vat, pushes the pieces of the ram under, chants to Hekate in her barbarian tongue, song unintelligible to the sisters. Hekate, she calls. Tonight I kill a king. My sons will not be slaves. I will not be a slave. My husband will not be a slave. Tonight I kill a king and feed his balls to his daughter. Hacked into pieces with no burial, no funeral rites, fed to his family. Son of Poseidon cooked in a stew. The only great waves to form will be from whatever I stir. I will rule Iolcus, and all will be my slaves, and my sons will walk on streets of flesh.
Torches, Medea says to Asteropeia and Peisidike in their ugly tongue. Light torches in the fire and go outside to pray to the moon, to Hekate, for this old ram to be made young. We must pray to Hekate until a young lamb emerges from the cauldron. That body is forming now, but we must help it along, help Hekate and Nute give birth in night.
Asteropeia in a kind of trance, mute and doing whatever Medea says. Peisidike not as strong, at the edge of collapse, but this is only the beginning. She has work to do.
They light their torches in the fire beneath the cauldron and step outside as Medea stirs and stokes and chants. Old prayers to Hekate, from Colchis, from when she would sacrifice a lamb or a goat. Take these pieces, dismember all, separate night from day and let day never be found again. Let all but your priestess wander without light.