Bright Air Black

by David Vann

  Nothing at first. She waited and became sleepy, thought it must have been the wrong flower, then woke with her mouth and throat burning. Dry flame. Water had no hold, passed her throat without effect. Then the burning moved lower, deep in her bowels, and everything fell from her, all liquid, more than seemed possible. She threw up until she could offer only a thin red drool, lay curled on stone in her foul mess fevered and sweating, even her eyes leaking, as all turned to mush inside her, even her lungs, unable to breathe, and all felt not like water but like flame melting.

  She could not straighten, could not stand. Deep cramp and pain in pattern like the serpent skin of these petals, always moving, impossible to locate, exquisite and beautiful pain unlike any she’d felt before or since, an excess beyond what she could recognize, and her only wish was for death.

  But the poison lasted. Agony without end. When daylight came, she crawled away from stone across fallen leaves gold and red and yellow, mosaic of the forest floor. Veins of each leaf raised and pulsing, slack mottled skin sagging, rough hide, fevered visions as she crawled across the back of some great beast. Feeling the heat of it below cold air. A breeze and shadow, her body shivering and still leaking, draining away behind her, and she began to think the air was the poison, because her lungs were rotting. She tried not to breathe.

  Platelets of skin as large as her hand. She worried what might emerge at the edges, from the cracks, between the yellow and red, wanted to stand and run. She would have died, easily, of thirst as all water left her, or of chill as night came, drenched in sweat, but she was found somehow, rescued, carried to the citadel where water was poured inside and she was like a river, passing liquid in torrents and sudden gushes. Four days of fever and burning, and on the fifth, when it subsided, when she was able, finally, to hold water and even small bits of food, she was still too weak to stand, but in another two days she was walking.

  She never told the cause. All believed her consumed by a malign god, price of worshipping Hekate, and this suited her power. Feared by all, because was this god still in her? Was she Medea or something else? But here in Korinth, all think she is nothing more than a spurned wife, unhappy woman. They believe she can be ignored. They think her pain will have no consequence. They think they are safe.

  10

  In her room, Medea arranges these flowers on the long table, curling nest of snakes in the air, pure white encased in light purple as if the tint were netting, as if these petals were the capture of something. Black seeds a hundred small eyes, unnoticed at first, but so dark they refuse place, hang separate from the soft flesh of the flower.

  When her sons rush in, she tells them not to touch. They lean as close as they can, their faces near, grubby hands on the table twisting toward bulb and stem.

  Get out, she says. Stay away from those. She pushes them out the door and they run off shouting in some new game. Jason’s arm around her, that’s what she would like, the two of them watching their sons play, then going inside. This beautiful room, beautiful city, no longer slaves. If Jason were true, this would be the good time of their lives, the easy time. Simple.

  Medea lies down to rest, exhausted somehow, and when she wakes, it’s almost dark, the sun fallen. She’s alone and caged here, not allowed to walk at night. She’s missed the rest of her day. And where are her children?

  The moment she rises, slaves bring in food. They’ve been waiting, watching, everyone always watching her. Where are my sons? she asks.

  We’ll bring them, she’s told.

  A small table for the food, the larger one given over to the crocus. Medea sits and waits. Some stew of lamb, prepared by a slave standing at a cauldron, same as Medea only days ago. Change so abrupt. All gained and lost in a blink.

  Stew of king and ram. Acastus waiting for it to cool, then pulling pieces of his father free, washing for burial. Clear enough the hair and head of a king, the curled horns of a ram, but what of the rest? Whose entrails, whose splintered ribs, whose chewed balls? On that floor of ash and blood, trying to decide which parts are a man.

  Pelias. The king whose power was without limit. Now Kreon.

  Aeson charging through the door, almost knocking her over in her chair. Slick arms, smell of sweat, hot breath, and she can feel his pulse, feel his heart beating against her. Then Promachus worming his way in, grubby and snot nosed and whining. She pulls and he burrows. Animal. Everything in human life that matters is animal and nothing more. Jason no different from any bull. Medea rutted against the same as any cow or ewe or sow, first by the male, then by the litter. This is how Medea is erased and does not become a king, no Hatshepsut.

  They leave her for the food, forcing too much into their mouths, greed of children. Every child born in the nature of a king, believing itself at the center, taking all, brutal and thoughtless. Stew dripping from their mouths, loud smack of meat. Always in movement. Twisting in their chairs, heads swinging, hands grabbing and grabbing. No stillness possible. But by some cruel trick she would sacrifice all for them, would stay here in Korinth and try to forget betrayal, would live as an outcast and become nothing.

  Medea forces herself to eat. Flesh of bread and lamb the same. She drinks wine to drown the taste and keeps drinking, feels her head lighten and spin and the back of her neck become so heavy she lies down, listens to the music that begins late, another feast, Jason falling into those eyes and breasts as his sons sleep. Does he think of them? Does he think of Medea? Is there anything inside him at all, or only empty space moving under momentum begun long ago, men as fate? What is Jason? What could be called Jason? How could she spend this many years with him and not know? All she knows is Medea. All others, even her sons, are voids.

  Held back from the sea. She would walk to the edge and immerse, true temple of Hekate, sink down in darkness and try to understand what to do now, but the sea is farther away than before, and she’s not allowed to walk in the night. Guards waiting outside her door. Another king who thinks she can be bound.

  Medea doesn’t sleep. Longest of nights, listening for any sound of Glauce and Jason, feeling the spin of wine slow and fade, leaving a terrible clarity. The air coldest just before Helios appears, thin light of an unforgiving day, still no husband returning, and so he is never going to return.

  Early morning, waiting for the air to warm and bodies to rise. Finally Aeson and Promachus are stretching and pushing then famished and the slaves bring in food again, endless food. The sounds of Korinth restart and Medea still waits.

  A messenger. Jason too cowardly to come himself. A man in her door chewing something, between smacking and swallows telling her that Jason is to marry Glauce.

  But Jason is my husband, she says.

  He keeps chewing, turns and walks out.

  Medea is unable to move. She only stands in place before the empty door. So soon? she asks. But she’s speaking to no one. Her sons behind her eating, unbothered.

  All in Korinth have decided Medea is nothing.

  Come with me, she tells her sons, and grabs their wrists over protests and thrown food, drags them into the narrow twisting street of stone. I don’t care whether you walk or not, she says. I’ll drag you. Promachus twisting and yanking, legs kicking, howl of that open mouth. Aeson older, smart enough to know nothing will stop her.

  Somewhere in the citadel, Jason lying in Glauce’s bed, and Medea will find this place.

  Blind streets, pathways turning and leading nowhere, ending in walls. Room and wall the same, no entrances from outside, guarded somewhere from within. Jason! she screams. Promachus no longer dragging. Both sons stay close to save their arms.

  City with no relation to ground, held somewhere in the sky suspended, and the sun spinning, rising in every direction. All meant to confuse so the king can hide, so his daughter can spread her legs and none will know. Spear points forcing her into alleys and finally trapped. She and her sons against a shaded wall too high to climb.

  Jason! she screams again. I have your sons!

  A
dozen guards with their spears lowered. They don’t move, waiting for command.

  Cowards, Medea says. Dumb as brick. If Kreon told you to kill each other, you would.

  Mute brick with dark blank eyes and no blood, guards made of clay and painted, line for a mouth. Power of a king, that men are no longer men. She would walk forward and shatter them against granite, but she holds a son in each hand.

  Promachus afraid, starting a thin whining cry. She shakes his arm hard. No, she says. So he only cries harder, until his father appears.

  Chest bare, just risen from his new bed. Sun slicing him at an angle, shoulder to hip, and he holds up a hand to shield his eyes. You, Medea, he says, then he yawns, covers his mouth, eyes closed.

  You remember.

  Why not rest? Why cause problems? Why scream and wake everyone?

  Don’t hide behind the guards. Come here.

  I’m not afraid of you.

  Medea smiles. You think you can marry Glauce, have new sons, replace all that came before, erase years? You forget who I am.

  I know who you are, bitter woman, butcher, barbarian. I’ve brought you to this civilized place. I’ll marry Kreon’s daughter, and our sons will have royal brothers. You should thank me.

  Medea cannot speak. The monstrosity too great.

  Anyway, Jason says. Leave me alone. He turns to walk away.

  Do you really think I’m so stupid? Medea asks. Do you think woman is made out of dust, without blood, without thought? That you can say anything, and that will be true?

  Rage, Jason says. All you are is rage. You would cut every person into pieces, some practice of your brutal backward people. But not here.

  Do you think a spear won’t go through Kreon? Kings are the same as any other meat.

  Enough.

  No. Not enough at all. I am owed.

  I owe you nothing.

  Medea raises the hands of Aeson and Promachus. Do you see these, your sons?

  Yes. Gifts I gave to you. Fortunate woman, risen above her kind. And now they will have royal brothers.

  Medea would laugh if she didn’t know this was the end. Consequence, she says. There is always consequence. You won’t spurn me and see nothing happen. You know that’s true. Search somewhere in that tiny heart of yours and remember. You’ve known me for long enough. Did Pelias escape consequence? I don’t want what will happen next, and neither do you. Stop it here. Come back to me and to these sons named after your father and brother. Leave Glauce.

  Be grateful, Jason says. A woman is never grateful but always wants more.

  He leaves her trapped at spear point against a wall with their sons. She would scream, but there’s no one to hear. An entire city deaf to her.

  The guards back away slowly, leave a thin corridor for her to pass. She is to return to her cage.

  Dark bronze tied to sticks. Don’t sleep, she says. Hekate in your dreams. You’ll grab your own spear and impale yourself. And his new wife. If Glauce gives birth to a son, it will have two heads, reminder from Hekate that this is a second marriage.

  11

  Kreon at her door almost immediately. Surrounded by guards. Coward-king.

  Medea, he says. You are banished. You and your sons. Leave now and never return.

  His voice too high, strained. He’s afraid of her. No Pelias. No belief in his power, no will to torture and break and rule. Graybeard lamb put on a throne long ago by a father. But she must play her part.

  Please, she says, and drops to her knees. What have I done? Jason leaves me for your daughter, and now you banish me and my children, send us away into nothing?

  You’ve made threats. Against me, against my daughter, against Jason. I know the monster you are, someone who would cut up her own brother. You will leave now or be killed.

  Do you care so little for the gods? What of Jason’s vows?

  Yours was no marriage. Glauce will be his first wife.

  First wife, Medea says. She falls forward in prostration, her hands and forehead to stone. This is the only way she can keep from grabbing a spear. She must control herself. She needs time.

  Stone that smells of salt. Dank dust and all that is hidden in every place, dried water of every birth given in this room, shadow and scent of all who came before. Kreon and Jason forget. They think they are the first to live. They think the world is not old. Glauce, too, must think hers is the first soft flesh to rise.

  Please, Medea says. You know it’s not in my nature to beg. But let me have some time to arrange for my children. Banishment to me is nothing, but I must take care of my children. You are a father. You know that children must come first.

  She waits, and she does not rise. Cool stone, tilt of it, Kreon standing in the air above her, unreachable. She would peel away his ribs and have him walk opened, for all to see that a king is the same inside as any other man, have him walk until so much dust clings to every organ he simply stops and is not able to take another step. So many ways to kill a king, and each must be tried.

  Well, Kreon says finally. Soft words. It’s not in my nature to be a tyrant. We do have to think of your children. You may have until tomorrow. I shouldn’t do this. I’m afraid of you, as everyone should be. But you can’t do anything in one day. You leave in the morning.

  Medea hides her smile against stone. Stupid king. Leftovers of too many generations. Thank you, she says, in what she hopes sounds like gratitude rather than triumph.

  She remains face hidden until their footsteps have gone, then she rises and calls in her slaves, three women. None dare look at her.

  A dress and diadem, she says. For the princess. Gifts she can wear to bed with my husband. We have to go quickly and find the very best. And then we will make sweets for her to nibble on between rutting. If only I could be there to hand them to her and smooth the sheets and make all comfortable. One of you, bring honey and flour and water, and stones to grind the bulbs of those flowers. Bring cinnamon. Bring something to strain the liquid.

  Her sons are watching her. Jason’s eyes. You will meet the princess today, she says. You will bring her sweets and gifts. Stay close to me now.

  She leaves with her children and two of the slaves. Gold, she says. Bring me to the finest worker of gold.

  The morning sun itself is golden, white dust of the market come alive in warmth and color. Sky brilliant blue. Clear fall day, cool and bright, last gift of Helios, as if to make amends. She may die today and never have to watch his transit again. A relief to that.

  Wealthy women of Korinth not yet risen. Only slaves at this hour, and the house of the gold worker closed. We’ll have to come back, Medea’s slaves tell her.

  No. Go inside and wake him.

  Low door of stone, lintel crooked, dark cave, but her slave returns with a white-haired man who complains.

  This is for the princess Glauce. A diadem of gold. You can name any price. But I need it now. I can’t wait.

  I don’t have something like that, he says. Pinched face from peering too closely, fingers burned from metal. I have only funeral diadems.

  That will work, Medea says and smiles. Let me see.

  He’s gone too long, but when he emerges, he holds a hundred suns, small beaten orbs wreathed in flame, Glauce’s mouth and throat as she burns from inside, immolation. Strips of suns in dagger points like the petals of the crocus, slender and beautiful and deadly. Perfect for the new bride, Medea says.

  Who will pay? he asks.

  Jason. Jason will pay.

  Dresses, then, smoothest and softest for that wanted skin, something to caress and encase as she burns. The slaves have to wake dressmakers. Too many in Korinth sleeping, no one aware of what today will be. Then Medea sees a man in the open-air market, an Egyptian with his bundles.

  He watches her approach, seems to know to fear, says nothing.

  For the princess, Medea says. Finest from Egypt. Gold in it. Let her be a pharaoh’s daughter, not the daughter of a lowly weak king.

  The man unties a bundle, s
mooth fingers, quick, sorts through half his pile and pulls free a gown of pure white with a collar and sash of gold. Feel, he says. With your fingers and with your cheek.

  Medea holds the fabric in her hand, brings it to her face. I remember this, she says. From Iolcus. Alcestis had a dress as soft as this. What is it?

  Linen.

  Linen is not this soft.

  Linen from very young flax, and treated like a princess. Woven very fine. It weighs half what these other dresses weigh, and costs four times as much. Collar and sash are a separate price.

  Cloth as soft as Glauce, thin enough her breasts will be just visible beneath, shadow and desire. Over her arms, the material even thinner, in bands that will move like waves. And the collar, wide hemisphere of woven gold, sun god worshipped in every land with different names. Glauce will feel its heat. Heavy as her lungs melt. The sash binding her below, rope of gold. Glauce will not understand. The world given to her always, loved by all, belonging, poison not possible, pain not possible. She will be admiring herself right up until she feels the flames.

  Jason will pay, Medea says. You may collect this evening after the gift is given.

  The man only nods. Something in him understands, perhaps, that he will never be paid, but what can he say? He is an exile, same as Medea, on borrowed ground.

  12

  Lavender flesh so soft and impossible, no surface to it, no underside, patterned through. True flower. She would have this flesh herself, no inside and outside, no heart, no lungs, no womb, no blood, no history or home but only pattern of color and light unending and still.

  She unsheathes her knife, bronze face of a grandfather, throat of a brother, cuts flower from source, opens a grove of poison. She expects the blade to melt or hiss, but of course this poison is without sign, without scent, fire in purest, quietest form.