If she could go back, she would. She would make her brother whole again, breathe life into him, and obey her father. But she knows if they escape, this regret will be erased. No thought reliable, only a sign of the moment. And somewhere beneath, some churning thing that is Medea, something as unseen as what lies below these waves, and without limit or any floor that can be found.

Small bay opening to their left, and the breeze can reach their sail. Feel of that power, the hull leaning, digging in and accelerating. Jason with feet braced, lying back on deck holding that line, keeping the lower yard in place as the upper yard twists and curls.

The Argonauts on the upwind side are standing to dig their oars lower to find water. Each oar held only by a small loop of rope shielded in hide, loose and sliding, and one man after another has to stop rowing to bend and pull more oar through the loop.

The boats of the Thracians closer now. The water unnatural, this bright blue, as if lit from below, and entirely opaque. Another headland to the left, the wind more shielded again, so the Argo wallows level. The men sit and pull for their lives.

Spearmen at the bows of the Thracian boats, braced and ready to throw. Holding round shields of hide, gray brown, in pairs like the dull eyes of oxen, without their own light. The sky a wilderness of cloud in ridges and folds heavy and shifting, coming closer, bearing down. Men as mimics only, controlled by cloud, enacting the same pressure, no different from waves on water, as relentless and inevitable and unthinking.

Gibbering among them, shouts and calls over the water, whoops, excitement of killing. Medea stays low to the deck, not wanting to offer rape as well. Shore flying by but water passing too slowly, the Argo mired again, and the Thracians gaining. Medea’s life decided by something as simple as a few puffs of wind. More breeze and she lives. Less and she dies, and the Argonauts with her.

Ahead the water seems to flow to nowhere, no outlet. A long bay with walls in front and along both sides, an impossibility. River rushing into a closed canyon.

The horde coming closer, low bows slapping at the water. Oars fashioned from small trees and no more than bark removed, almost no shaping. No wide blades at the end, yet there are so many they surge forward. Undisciplined rowers looking over their shoulders at their prey.