Chapter 32
Medea
“I do not think I am as good at this as you are,” Atalanta said uncertainly.
I reached up to touch the tangled bird’s nest of my hair, then sighed. Really, I should have known better than to accept Atalanta’s
offer to style my hair in turn.
Fortunately, there was plenty of time to fix it. We were still on the beach where we’d made camp the night before, though
by now it was nearly afternoon. That morning, Jason had announced our detour to the island of Circe, which sent the crew into
an uproar. I remembered Ancaeus shouting at Jason, veins standing out in his neck. I was grateful Jason hadn’t mentioned the
reason for our visit to Circe, lest the crew turn their irritation on me. To ameliorate the Argonauts’ disappointment at their
delayed homecoming, Jason elected to give us a leisurely start to the day.
“Are you angry we won’t be back to Iolcus sooner?” I asked Atalanta as she watched me untangle my hair.
She shrugged. “I am in no hurry. What do I have to get back to? You will help me find the trail of the one I am seeking, and
for that we must go to Circe.”
Yes—the name of the woman she wanted to find rose up in my memory. Procris. Who was she to Atalanta? A sister, mother, relative,
friend? I was about to ask her, when a strange man came striding up the beach.
“I am Amycus!” the man called. He was nearly hairless on head and chest, so that he looked a bit like a swollen thumb. “King of the Bebrycians! By the law of this land, no travelers may leave until one among you presents himself to me for fisticuffs.”
This seemed to me an unbelievably stupid law, but Amycus lifted his hands to show they were wrapped in strips of cloth like
a boxer’s. “Unless, of course, you are pirates or cowards,” he added. A group of men walked behind him: his personal guard,
ready to enforce the royal will. Clearly this island was not so uninhabited as we first thought.
My gaze swung to Jason, who was loading amphorae of fresh water onto the Argo with a few others. He looked startled, like a deer caught in the open. Don’t allow this, I thought, urging him silently. Let us be on our way. We have far enough to travel as it is.
“Hail, King Amycus,” my betrothed replied. “We would never dream of violating your laws, for we are no pirates. Someone will
be over to fistfight you shortly.”
Atalanta clicked her tongue and muttered disapprovingly under her breath. The other Argonauts drew together, discussing who
best to select as their champion, and eventually Polydeuces stepped forward. He was stout and thick with muscle, and he loped
toward Amycus across the sand. The competitors acknowledged each other with a nod, and the match began.
Polydeuces rushed forward, swinging his fists, rapid-fire. For him, this was no sparring match but a real fight. Amycus responded
to Polydeuces’s advance with a roar of laughter, his bulk easily absorbing whatever Polydeuces threw at him until the Argonaut
was winded. Then Amycus seized the chance to press his attack. Polydeuces was forced backward, his heels throwing up a spray
of sand.
Feeling more than a little trepidation, I realized that Amycus had never plainly stated what would happen if our champion lost.
Next to me, Atalanta hissed through her teeth. Polydeuces continued to fall back, using his forearms to shield his face from
the mighty blows delivered by Amycus. Secure in his victory, Amycus paused to wipe the sweat from his brow.
A fatal error. Polydeuces took the opportunity to surge forward and, in a flash, locked his leg behind his opponent’s, tilting
Amycus off-balance and striking him hard in the temple.
A sickening crack echoed through the air. Amycus fell hard on the sand and did not stir.
The Bebrycian guard ran toward their fallen king and Polydeuces, but a cry rose up from the Argonauts. An ugly sound, like
a cry of war. All their anger and discontent from the morning had finally found a target. Weapons were never far from the
hands of the men who rode with the Argo, and they seized them now, running forward to meet the Bebrycians.
The royal guard wore armor, but it was more ceremonial than practical. The Argonauts cut them down like deer. Within moments
the beach was a charnel house, bodies strewn all around and blood seeping into the sand.
Atalanta moved to shield me from the carnage, spear in hand, but I had already seen everything. No Bebrycian would go running
for reinforcements, because not one of King Amycus’s party was left alive.
At the center of it all was Jason, looking around in horror. He ordered the Argo set sail not long after, eager to leave this place behind. Atalanta was silent and pale, but the rest of the Argonauts seemed
almost boisterous, as if a bit of slaughter left them in a good mood.
Jason insisted on burying the bodies. Later, though, we learned that the shifty Autolycus had stripped armor and valuables from the dead Bebrycians.
So much for not being pirates.
When Atalanta went down to serve her shift at the oars that afternoon, I went to find Jason. I discovered him tucked into
a tiny corner of the ship, head in his hands.
He looked like a lost child, and my heart ached. He was grieving, I knew, for the atrocity with the Bebrycians. I squatted
down and laid a hand on his shoulder, ready to speak words of comfort. It wasn’t your fault. I know you didn’t mean for this to happen.
Jason’s head jerked up, and emotions flitted across his face. Surprise, fear, and finally a false calm, the mask of the competent
captain he turned so often to his crew.
“Hello, Medea,” he said with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “I trust you are well. Yes? Ah, that is good. I must
return to my duties now, farewell.”
He stood and slipped away, never looking back. Helplessly, I watched him go, feeling as though I stood on a distant shore
as he drifted further and further away.
Jason had spoken to me so tenderly after Lemnos, but now he was a locked door. Without conversation there could be no connection,
no more than a tree could take root in sandy soil. Jason was kind and good, a man of his word, someone who had tragically
lost control of a delicate situation. But if he could not talk to me, how could there be anything true between us?
A new possibility occurred to me, a great and terrible fear: that Jason had worn the mask of the competent captain for so
long he had forgotten who he was without it.
By dusk, it became obvious that the Argo would not come ashore that night, presumably to avoid risking another incident like the one with the Bebrycians. By now I
knew the deprivation that came with spending the night on the ship: no fires, no hot food, and sleeping on a wooden deck that
was much less comfortable than the soft earth. I was glad when Atalanta came up from the oars and joined me beneath the blankets
as she had the night before.
I rolled over to face her, our noses only a few finger widths apart. “What happened earlier today,” I began, speaking softly
so that the others could not hear, “on the island of the Bebrycians, it—”
“Was a travesty,” Atalanta finished, hot breath misting my face. “We could easily have told Amycus to shove it and set sail.
But no, Jason had to prove his respect for foolish laws and the others wanted to vent their spleen. Now a dozen men are dead
because of us. Senseless waste.”
I lifted my head, looking out at the Argonauts curled up to sleep on the deck—those who weren’t serving their shift at the
oars, which churned day and night to bring us to Circe.
“It makes me angry,” I said, half surprised at my own reaction. “None of the men will ever pay for their actions, for killing
in cold blood. Not like me, who killed only once and was cursed with miasma for it.”
“To be fair, none of them killed their own brother. And none is a witch.”
“Are you defending them, or criticizing me?” I replied hotly.
“Neither, merely describing the distinction. If they were witches, perhaps they would suffer as you do.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I replied morosely. “I am not a witch anymore.”
“On the contrary. I think you are more of a witch than ever. What is a witch but someone who wields power she isn’t allowed to have?”
Her answer startled me; I’d never thought of myself as particularly powerful. Yet hadn’t I defied Aeetes and held back the
Colchian fleet? Even now the Argo sailed toward an island in the western sea at my urging. If that wasn’t power, what was?
Atalanta was still speaking. “The men on the Calydonian boar hunt called me a witch, and I’ve never had magic like yours.
You are a witch with or without it.”
Her observation warmed me, bringing a smile to my lips. It soon faded as something else occurred to me. “Am I . . . am I like
her?” I asked, my voice small. “Hypsipyle, I mean.” After all, I’d killed my brother, just as she had killed her father.
Atalanta pondered this silently for a long time, long enough that I began to worry she’d fallen asleep. “No,” she said finally.
“What you did, you did to save us all. What Hypsipyle did benefits no one in the long run except herself. Besides, that boy
was already dying. You merely cut short his suffering.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Atalanta’s words echoed my thoughts: that what I had done to Absyrtos was horrible and ugly . . .
and something I would do all over again, if it would save Jason’s life and Atalanta’s and the rest of the Argonauts. In a
world where violence was common currency, sometimes such things were necessary.
I rolled over to sleep. Just as I was drifting off, Atalanta’s voice startled me awake.
“You saved us all from the Colchian fleet,” she said. “But you did it for him, really, didn’t you?”
For Jason, she did not say. Wordlessly, I nodded.
“Be careful how much you sacrifice for him,” Atalanta murmured. Her back was to mine, and I could not see her face. “He will take endlessly without giving anything in return. He is an abyss in which you might lose yourself.”
Her words roused my anger at first. But then I recalled the flat, masklike expression Jason’s face had taken on when I went
to comfort him. How could one love a mask?
I recalled my long-ago spell in the moonlit garden to draw unconditional love, a foolish endeavor but a testament to the desperate
hunger I’d felt all my life. And I knew with cold certainty that if I’d finally found that love, there was nothing I would
not be willing to sacrifice for it, no part of myself I would not lose.