She holds the scorpion by its tail, dull black shape of fear, and walks among them with its body hanging, pincers and flat plates, headless and ancient, brings it close to each face, sees their mouths twist in horror. The scorpion still alive for them. All night they will be chased by shapes in the air, living shapes, the gates opened.

She lets those legs touch a shoulder, the back of a knee, a face, and the men scream. She climbs on top of Jason, presses down against him, sets the scorpion on his bare chest. He doesn’t dare move. Trembling. Then she moves on, straddles another man, and another. Let them think of her now and remember her always with this scorpion. She takes each man in her hand so he’ll feel his desire. All ritual is desire. There can be no god without desire.

Medea stands, the only one standing, and returns to her altar, calls to the men. Give your blood now to Hekate. She curses them in their own language. If you ever betray me, let your sons be slaughtered and no seed fall from you again. Let your land die and your people be forgotten and no sign remain and no gods.

They crawl forward. She drops to her knees on the higher platform. The slick smooth head of the infant on her tongue.

Jason is first, struggling onto the lower platform, falling sideways and righting himself. She can tell when he sees the insect on her tongue, sees him jerk. But she takes his wrist and slashes her knife across his forearm. Skin yellow in firelight, then the blood wells red, deepest of hues in darkness. She rolls her eyes back and sways before him with knife and scorpion. Let him never forget.

10

10

In the morning, the wind has died down, Hekate appeased. The men return to the ship, each lost in memory of visions that are not possible and cannot be reconciled to the day-lit world. Darkness remaining.

Each man fearing the air itself, and his own flesh and what might be harbored there. No talking among them. None dare look at Medea.

Sagging Argo, built by weak men and a weak goddess. Heavy and blunt bowed compared to her father’s ship. Darkened wood eaten by sea worms and slathered in pine pitch, gaps in every seam, wood forced together without skill. Laden now with fresh water but no meat. They will have to fish.

The men tired and looking toward waves no longer white but still strong, blown from the far end of the sea. They don’t raise the anchor yet. All are aboard, all is ready, but they sit and wait and bake in the sun.