Bright Air Black

by David Vann

  She was only a girl then, and she always imagined the form of a wolf, Hekate as wolf somewhere behind her in the trees, watching, ready to devour but waiting. When she’d return the next night, the carcass was always gone, dragged away, bones scattered.

  She will wait long enough for Asteropeia and Peisidike to despair, to lose all faith and believe the old ram is gone. They must believe Medea and Hekate have failed. Staring into that moon, they should feel its distance, cold, unreachable, and hear their torches in the wind, a tearing of empty air, shield against nothing. They must feel alone.

  Solid weight of head and horns deep in the cauldron. Medea pries with the paddle from the edge, lifts the old ram as she will lift the head of Pelias, just to let him fall again. Boiled in blood, sharing the stew with the ram. If any creature rises, it will be half man, half ram, entrails intertwined, half covered in hide, half bare, heads fused. Pelias’ head mounted on the back of the ram’s, teeth snapping at the sky. Brain turned to bone, without memory, arms half buried in the ram’s back, hands useless on short stumps, legs gone below. Wandering trackless, never seeing what will come, staring without shelter into the bare sun. Even this would be too good for Pelias.

  Clot of wool in one corner of the room, the sheep jammed in so thick, all their butts facing her, afraid to turn their heads to see what’s coming. The goats much craftier, edging for the door. Medea grabs the youngest lamb, bleating, and flings it into the air above the cauldron.

  Asteropeia! she yells. Peisidike!

  The lamb hits with all four legs wide spread. Dark stew red brown and thick taking shapes in the air, as if some new phantom might form or be read, augury of all to come. Vanished too quickly, spattered against floor and walls and wasted, Medea not quick enough. White wool submerged, but she reaches in with her bare hand, burning, and pulls the lamb free as the sisters appear. Midwife to an unnatural birth, lamb pulled from welter and gore of a ram, no need of a womb. She drops it bleating onto the stone floor and douses it with fresh water from an urn to stop the burning.

  Asteropeia falls to the floor, hugging the lamb, weeping, laughing, a madwoman. No butcher after all. Peisidike aghast at what powers might be. Medea pulls her close. Peisidike, she says. Hekate favors you. Will you give your father a new youth? Will you let him be reborn?

  Yes, she says quietly, clearly without thought, only staring at the lamb, this concoction of air, impossibility made real. Brown burning thing emerged from darkness screaming new life.

  3

  The moon too bright, every stone in relief, the air itself illuminated and shortened. When she passes a guard, there is no distance. She walks slowly, careful not to run, takes her usual path to the sea to bathe and then home. She must hold her sons and Jason one last time. She knows she may not survive the night.

  The sisters washed and naked, carrying their clothing in their hands, axes hidden within. No unusual thing for the many daughters of Pelias to visit him at night. Every girl and young woman in a kingdom belongs to the king, even his own daughters.

  The guards let them in, and the sisters cross an open stone floor in darkness. They will let the garments fall. No guards in here. Only two daughters, naked, axes held high, stepping closer to their father.

  Asteropeia’s love for Medea, her trust, her innocence and pure belief. The pain of this makes Medea want to howl. But still, she would have every king in every land lie asleep tonight while his daughters step closer with axes.

  Medea pulls her sons so close and tight they squirm away even in sleep, refusing. She has only moments left. Asteropeia and Peisidike will return to the cauldron not only with the body of their father but also with every one of his guards and with his son, Acastus. The sisters know to wrap the pieces of Pelias in cloth, but they didn’t ask how no one would notice. Most likely Pelias will scream and the guards will come in before he’s dead. Maimed and his beautiful daughter Asteropeia above him swinging her ax again, chopping deep into his flesh then telling him, Medea releases you.

  Scent of her children, something buried deep within all other smell that hooks at her spine and lungs and can never be dislodged. She would protect them even as Jason is dragged away, even as she herself is torn to pieces. Animal and unknowable. She has put them at risk now in order to save them, to keep them from being slaves, but this risk is too terrible. She would go back and undo everything.

  Nute, she calls inside without sound. Allow passage through this night. Let my sons remain whole.

  She buries her nose in their necks, one last breath each to memorize, and then rises.

  Moon almost full, bright world of shadow. Her bare feet on dirt and stone. She knows it may be Pelias waiting when she returns to the cauldron. Holding the axes she gave to his daughters, waiting with his men, ready to torture. That room of fire and stone, hot bronze of the cauldron, all that she might fear.

  Iolcus quiet. Sound of her feet only, and perhaps nothing will happen, the sisters too afraid.

  Her low room looks like a stone shepherd’s hut from outside, uneven walls and roof, bare yard. But far too bright, glowing with heat, the only large flame on this hillside every night, burning through every small crack and hole in constellation, as if Helios could be contained.

  Medea steps into this inferno for the last time. Whatever happens tonight, all will be broken. She will not come here again. Even if the sisters do nothing, she will take an ax and go to Pelias herself.

  Thick ash beneath the cauldron, gray and lit by coals still red, patterned like snakes fallen jointed. Broom of sticks, and when she sweeps, the ash collapses and coals submerge. Buried and sinking farther still into some abscess yet undiscovered where even stone has been consumed.

  She sweeps ash and coal toward the door, levels it, hidden and waiting. Anyone who comes for her will walk on coals first.

  Then she rebuilds the fire, packs it tight, fans new flame. Let Helios rekindle here. Let this room be unbearable to all who enter, even the walls ignited. Sheep and goats tethered in the corners no longer bleating. Low terrified moans, succumbing to heat, collapsing. Medea douses herself in water, drinks and steams as if appearing suddenly from another world, naked and terrible and ready to destroy all.

  She hears them outside, tramp of soldiers and women lamenting, the other daughters of Pelias no doubt, a great crowd on the run, the entire citadel, and smiles. The sisters have done their work.

  Pelias enters first, headless. Borne by guards, body hacked and naked and misjointed, pulling apart, ribboned by axes. Blood turned dark already.

  Soldiers crushing coals, one of them with feet bare and falling now with a scream against the cauldron, where he sticks momentarily then tears himself away. The cauldron itself unmoved, heavy center to the world, immutable, holding all. Pelias dropped onto ash and coal and stone, guards trying to lift again something too loose to be held, a body that can unfold infinitely.

  Acastus at the door, thin boy, no king, holding his father’s head high for her to see. Dipped in blood, hair wet and dark. Mouth loose, cave hole without sound. Eyes alive still, almost, large and whited and gazing somewhere beyond her. Head of her father, head of Helios, head of every king and king to be, but her brother’s head was not the same. If she could go back, it would be her father’s head this time.

  Medea, Acastus says. His voice is fear, thin and swallowed.

  Where are the waves? Medea asks. The great flood returned. The son of Poseidon slain. We should all run for higher ground.

  My father, Acastus says. Bring him back to life.

  Medea laughs. So that my slavery can be endless? Shall I make him immortal? Perhaps I can fuse a whip to each hand, or give him claws to tear at my back. Or the tail of a scorpion. Do you remember the scorpion?

  Acastus squinting away from the fire, too bright and hot, his father’s head no longer held high but sagged against his leg, heavy. His soldiers backing against the walls, body abandoned in ash.

  Bring him to the sea, Medea tells him. Let Poseidon make
him whole.

  Acastus steps outside and returns with Asteropeia and Peisidike, each held by a guard. They are naked and spattered in blood. Medea would have all vanish and only Asteropeia remain. Sea nymph. If all women have been only one woman, if Medea’s mother and grandmother were the same and descended from another woman also the same, the Titaness Tethys, then Asteropeia is the ideal form all would return to. Medea herself would take this form.

  Daughters, Medea says. Daughters of a king. Peisidike is the one who made an old ram young, who bit into what made him old and let him come back as a lamb. I witnessed it here myself. She is favored by Hekate.

  All eyes on Peisidike, who is too frightened to speak. Brought close to her father’s mutilated form.

  Let me go, Asteropeia yells. His blood must still be hot. Thirteen pieces. Tell them, Medea.

  True believer, innocent, terrible to ruin. If only Medea had known Asteropeia in Colchis or anywhere else. Medea says nothing, and Asteropeia breaks free of her guard, grabs an ax and hacks at a shoulder. Dull slap of metal into meat and hollow sound of bone. Peisidike! she screams.

  Her sister unable to move, only watching, so Asteropeia is alone. All Pelias’ men pressed back against the walls. Acastus the runt-king afraid. Rising laments outside, some great crowd just beyond the door. Asteropeia swings her ax and brings it down each time with a low grunt, tearing through all that would age her father, releasing death’s hold.

  She opens his rib cage and falls to her knees to reach in through lung to tear out his heart. A knife, she yells. Bring me a knife.

  Medea only watches, does nothing. No one helps Asteropeia. So she rises and takes her brother’s knife and drops again onto what remains of her father, reaches in and is his blood still hot? Her fingers around slick muscle of his heart and the knife cuts all that would bind, frees it to the air. Our father will be made young again, she tells her brother as she throws new meat into the cauldron.

  What is this, Medea? Acastus asks. What have you done?

  Your sisters brought me an old ram and cut him into thirteen pieces. Peisidike bit into what had made him old, and I stirred as she and Asteropeia called to Hekate, outside with the moon. I saw a shape forming and called for them as a new lamb sprang from the cauldron, the old ram made young.

  You have made my sisters butcher my father. You have bent the world again and distorted all.

  Asteropeia wants to make her father young again, a gift, and she is led by Peisidike, who is favored by Hekate or some other dark god more powerful than I have known myself. Bringing a body back to life goes beyond what I can do. I have only stirred, as Evadne has had me do for years now. Everyone is witness that I have not killed the king. I have not brought him here or chopped at him with an ax or ripped out his heart.

  Asteropeia cleaves a shoulder, white bone and joint with pale membrane that catches the light of flame, some new life in Pelias, reborn of fire, no son of Poseidon at all. Tended still by a sea nymph exiled to a grim world of blood and ash. She works alone, hacking and grunting in shadow light, flinging one arm into the cauldron and then the other.

  Medea stirs, dark stew that will fuse old ram and old king. Let muscle and vein connect, she chants in her tongue. Let the head of Pelias live within the stomach of the ram, let him scream and scream and never be heard, encased in flesh.

  Arc of the ax flung over and over, wet slap into thick hams, severing a leg, torso turned downward into whatever might lie below and be seen without eyes. One legged, armless, headless, basted in ash, and his daughter works to free him. Peisidike! she yells again.

  Acastus, Medea says. Peisidike must do what she did before. Why won’t she bring your father back to life?

  Peisidike broken, held up by a guard, unable even to look toward the body, but her brother slaps her, grabs her arm and forces her to her knees. He shakes their father’s face in hers. Bring him back, he roars. Some blood of Pelias in him after all.

  Peisidike given an ax, and she turns her head as she chops.

  Hurry! Asteropeia yells at her. His blood is going cold.

  Limbless torso turned on its side, and the sisters hack through flesh until they reach spine. A popping sound. Peisidike can tear through the last ropes of entrails now, last thin strands of muscle connecting his hips and groin to his back. Awaking to her task. She kneels close to slip the blade of a knife under his balls. Shriveled and coated in blood and ash, hidden, but she rips them free as Asteropeia crushes through ribs and folds his back in two.

  Segmented king, faceless and neutered, returning to some earlier form. Summoned by his daughters. Slack scrotum searched for its two eggs, Peisidike’s tongue and teeth finding other wet flesh until she sucks in the first small orb and bites down, gagging, spitting into the cauldron.

  Seed into the stew, Medea says in Colchian, barbarian. Fed to his daughters, and everyone will have a taste of this king, even the dogs. Demigod meat.

  Scrotum a loose second chin for Peisidike as she searches with her tongue. Held in both hands, eyes closing, at the edge of the cauldron. Something Medea wishes Pelias could have seen. Peisidike grown from his seed and returning to the source. Plump young flesh wet in firelight, believing herself a priestess, favored, biting down a second time to crush what remains of kingdom, spitting and tossing this flap of skin to join the other parts.

  Medea stirs.

  Asteropeia is quartering the back. Two arms, two legs, head, heart, hams, groin, guts, and quartered back, ribs protruding. Thirteen pieces. The daughters heave together for the larger chunks, heavy plunge into the stew, spilling over the sides to hiss in the fire. A few remains must be searched for in the ash, the last of the entrails, daughters on their hands and knees, and then they are ready.

  Throw in his head, Asteropeia yells. Quickly.

  Acastus hesitates. He warned his father about Medea. He would have kept her from the earth and air and fire and blood and sea, all that she might travel through or summon, and he must wonder now where she might take his father once he gives over the head. Medea smiles. Acastus will be next in the stew, and then his sisters, all but Asteropeia. All who were close to Pelias, all but her, will be going into the pot.

  Our father must emerge whole, Acastus tells Medea. Young and in one piece.

  Peisidike is the favored one. She is the one who brought the old ram back.

  Do not make a monster. You have sons, Medea.

  I will do nothing for your father unless you agree that I am no longer a slave, and my sons, and Jason. We are all free now or you can stir this mess yourself and invoke whatever god you please. But I am only helping Peisidike. She is the one who must make your father young. She came from his seed and has released his seed.

  Acastus raises his father’s head, looks on that terrible face one last time, and flings him into the cauldron. You have your freedom, he says. Make my father whole.

  Hekate, Medea chants in barbarian tongue. Hekate, first among gods, let all remain separate, let no pieces join unless his shattered balls become his eyes and he wears his skeleton on the outside, encased in bone. No legs and no arms. Let his throat be lined with the old ram’s hide, and his mouth be the ram’s anus. Let him hear only his inner workings, ears buried deep inside. And let him live a thousand years, slowly growing, filling with blood. Let him make new blood and never release it.

  4

  The daughters of Pelias worship Hekate and the moon, hold their firebrands to the sky. All people of Iolcus on their knees before that bright falling orb, begging the god of Medea. Terrible waste of years, but all is coming to pass.

  In her room alone with fire and steam, stirring the pieces of Pelias and the ram, making stew and nothing more, old meat cooking through. Poseidon quiet. All the world quiet, the great peace of a king slaughtered. What would the world be like if men never ruled again?

  She has let the fire fall and will never stoke it, simmering the king and ram. Heavy sop of his head and hair, pushed down to the bottom, held in place with the padd
le, as if he might come up for breath and must be prevented.

  Voices outside, some new disturbance, and Jason appears. White ghost come from some other realm, from the mountains of her home, peaks of snow. Cold breath of him, stone heart.

  I have made you king, Medea says. Take what is yours from Acastus.

  Where is Pelias?

  In the stew, chopped into pieces by his daughters, trying to make him young.

  What have you done, Medea?

  Are you Acastus? Those were his words. Take your throne. Wait until the sun is coming, so they know Pelias has not returned, then claim what was taken from your father.

  Jason steps closer, looks down to see his feet in ash and blood, thick red paste turning black, steps away again. You risked our sons, he says.

  Yes. I risked everything. Don’t waste it.

  We could have been slaughtered in our sleep.

  He turns away, as he always does, leaves her. Cost of years separated, without rest, Jason and Medea foreign to each other now, and Medea can no longer remember. It may always have been this way. He joins the supplicants outside, entreating an empty moon as it falls beyond the mountains.

  Last dark of Nute, only stars and cries of grief from daughters. Long night seemingly without end but then the sky has already lightened, a deep blue, and Medea waits for Jason to rise but hears nothing. She stirs the remains, fire gone but cauldron still hot. The sky pales, Jason as weak as his father, not claiming his birthright, so Medea throws the paddle to the ground, steps outside, leaves this room forever.

  Iolcans, she yells. Pelias the thief, untrue king, without birthright, has been hacked into pieces by his daughters. Peisidike said she would make him young, as she did for the old ram, but apparently she wanted her father dead. Tyrant king, loved by no one, not even his daughters. So now you have a true king restored, Jason, son of Aeson, whose throne was stolen.