So she climbs toward the sea. Steep and the sky rolling away, the mountain growing. Sound of wind, in the distance at first and then all around her, and she crests, every tree surging, and falls again into another canyon.

She rises and falls without thought, her mind going flat on every journey, return to the earliest form, before language. Only listening, aware of scent and movement. Same as any beast.

9

9

She returns in darkness along the shore. Two great fires, flames taller than the men. An altar between. High platform for the priestess, poles reaching above, and a lower platform where the men will kneel. The Argo spun and lit, waves undiminished, the sea covered in windblown white, Hekate untiring.

Smell of cooking. They’ve found some meat, and instead of sacrificing to Hekate they’re keeping it for themselves.

Medea moves in close, hidden by trees, and screams, sees them twist and yank, searching for the source. She steps forward into firelight, raises her arms, chants.

Song of Hekate, song of fear. Song of all that waits. Edges of the world approaching, low moan building. The men fall away from their cooking and the fire. Each of them muscled and far larger than she. The one in bearskin holding an enormous ax. But they cower.

Medea rolls her eyes back, twists her mouth and moans and screams. She shakes, calls for Hekate, and falls to the ground.

No human sound, the men still. Sound only of the fire and shrieking wind.

Fear builds with time. Fear is made of waiting, so Medea doesn’t move. Let them wonder whether she’s dead. And when she rises, let them wonder who she is, Medea or Hekate.

Waves breaking then blown, flashing in darkness, decapitated and scattered. Medea curls her back, a jolt of movement as if she were being ripped inside. Then she rises, hunched, faced away toward the sea. Her fingers are held wide like claws and she turns slowly, keeps her chin pinned against her chest, face hidden by her hair, takes one step and another and knocks their spit of meat into the fire and screams.

Hissing of fat and the fire darkened, a deep red down low. Smell of flesh charring. They have several bronze cauldrons boiling, one with fish for soup, another with bark for tea. She takes a branch and tips the soup onto the ground at their feet. Flesh opaque white and torn, thrown on this shore as if the sea itself had boiled, scattered and left to rot. There will be no food.

She takes the salamander from her goatskin, holds it high by its tail, thick curved fin like a fish, a half creature monstrous, unbelonging, and bites off the head, spits it into their tea, then lets the body join.