Jason and Medeia by John Gardner Read Free Book Online

of the terrified deer. They can never be rid
    of it.
    Some, desiring in a state where nothing is left to desire, sink to the sickness of ennui and wallow in vast self-pity like hogs in mire. Some puff up their power, and delight in smashing the will of the weak. A few, like Zeus, grow
    wise.
    But very few. Observe how the rest crawl through their
    days.
    At times, to break the tedium, the gods feast.
    At times, to break the tedium, the gods fast.
    At times they quarrel like dogs. At times they smile and
    kiss.
    At times they sue to the king with cantankerous
    demands. Watch.”
    The goddess in scarlet approached the throne of Zeus
    and, descending
    from her litter, kneeled before him. “O mighty Lord,”
    she said,
    â€œhear the prayer of your sorrowful Aphrodite! Cruelly the Queen of Olympos mocks me and makes me a
    laughingstock!
    I’m ashamed to be seen among gods. They smirk and
    ogle, point at me,
    whisper behind my back. I filled Medeia’s heart with love, stirred Jason to manly desire, arranged a
    pairing
    fit to be remembered through endless time and to the
    farthest poles
    of space. But Hera has overwhelmed me with her
    treachery,
    cluttering his heart with desires more base, so that all
    I’ve done
    is nothing, a cloud dispersed! O Great God, Lord of
    Thunder,
    make him shake off this wickedness!” Her cheeks were
    bright
    with anger, her dark eyes flashed; her flowing black
    hair gleamed
    as if even that were in a rage. Yet out of respect for
    Hera,
    or remembering that Hera was Zeus’s wife, she
    controlled herself.
    She stretched out her white left arm, her right hand
    daintily pressed
    to her breast, just over the roseate nipple, as if to quell the terrible quopping of her heart. “Have I ever denied
    her power—
    her supreme rule over all things physical: ships, rivers, forests, banquets, marriage beds? She fills the world with beauty, goodness, the excitements of danger. At
    her command
    Ares stirs up the terrors and joys of war. At a word from her, the gods lure men to the highest pinnacles
    of feeling—
    treasure-hunting, kingdom-snatching. By her pale light alchemists pawn away all they own to untomb the gold in lead, the wolf hunts the lamb, the shepherd attacks
    the wolf,
    the adder joyfully strikes at the shepherd’s heel. But
    Lord,
    O holy father of gods and men, I’ve earned some place in all that hungry rush! Imagine her kingdom with all my power shut down—no joy in the world but the
    shoddy glint
    of wealth, stern labor, knowledge-grubbing—no gentle
    eyes
    to drip their sweetness on rich men’s rings, no loving
    hands
    to smooth the pain from the farmer’s back when his
    long day ends,
    no dazzled maiden to flood the alchemist’s sulphurous
    rooms
    with the light of her music, her rainsoft fingers on his
    arm! If my work
    is meaningless, say so. I’ll trouble your halls no morel”
    Bright tears
    welled in her eyes and her bosom heaved. Her lips were
    taut.
    The ghastly creatures attending her gave out goatish
    wails.
    Hera’s face turned slowly to the king’s. “Beautiful
    performance,”
    she said, and smiled. The king said nothing. Dark
    Aphrodite
    glared, her glance like a dart of fire, and the muscles of
    her face
    trembled like the face of the plains when earthquakes
    crack their beams.
    A gentler goddess came forward then, a gray-eyed
    goddess
    with a crown like a city on a shining silver hill. At her
    side
    philosophers stood, their lean backs bent under thick,
    smudged scrolls,
    their eyes rolled up out of sight; behind her, nervous
    kings,
    each with his own set of tics (quick lip-jerks, twists,
    winks, nods,
    features overcome from time to time by a sudden
    widening
    of the eyes, like shocked recognition); then fat
    merchants, wiping
    their foreheads, clucking, wincing with distaste, their
    tongues in motion
    ceaseless as the sea, wetting their thick, chapped lips;
    behind
    the merchants, poets