Other misshapen lumps adhered to the wood, and Medea works at each of them, delivers this meal to the depths. Who knows what feeds below, some scent in darkness and the will to devour. She scrapes and pries until every last piece of her brother is gone, then she dips a length of linen into the sea and uses it to scrub at the deck, dips it again and again until the wood is almost smooth, wrings out the last of him and stands breathing hard in the night.

No movement, no sound, as if nothing lives beneath the surface and even the winds will never return. Still air, warm and without shape, her torch long since died out, gone mute. Only the smell of it and the smell of rot and the smell of the sea. The Argo as unmoving as land.

Medea goes forward and lies on deck just ahead of the mast, curls on her side to wait. Womb inside womb, the Argo, the sea, this night, and whatever encloses the night.

She wants to sleep, but too much is uncertain. Where her father is now, whether he will find them, where they will sail, what Iolcus will be, what Jason will be, what she will be. Pelias and the long succession of kings in every land. Her home that she’ll never see again, the mountains and rivers and temple to Hekate left empty.

The golden fleece stretched directly above her along the lower yard, shedding its gold onto her now, sifting through darkness like a sky fallen and falling still. Fleece that is nothing. Her father would have let them go if not for his son.

She did not need to kill her brother, perhaps. Difficult to know. We can never see the other path.

She’s awakened by shouts from shore, Jason and his drunkards. They want the small boat to ferry. She sits up and sees flame, all their torches lighting the trees above like a low sky that follows, pulsing. They stand at the edge of reflection in this narrow band between water and heavens, giants seen from far away but behaving like children, petulant cries. Smooth mirror and they could be caught here forever, but then Jason wades in, disrupting the surface, creating a wake and sinking until he’s only dark movement without feature.

Medea lies back down, last moments of rest before she’ll be trapped again on the stern. Sound of the small boat knocking against the side as Jason climbs in. Splashing and struggle, then calm sound of oars, regular and fading. The Argo rocking gently.

The men come aboard stinking of sweat and smoke, animal fat and wine. Stumbling and slow, lying in heaps on the deck, useless crew. She retreats behind the rudder posts to avoid being stepped on.