Sleep after a long night, a heaviness she falls into, gentle rocking of the ship. When she wakes, the anchor line is running over the side, a sound like some great snake thrashing, pinned by its head, chaotic and wild. She can see it black and thick, the snake she feared as a child and fears still, not slack and flat like others but solid, a rough sound through grass, a low growl she heard once when she almost stepped on one. Voice of a god.

Medea rises from the hatch into the last light of day, sun burning down into water. Extinguished in the sea, another sign that the sea is Nute, or a part of Nute. Flattened and darker yellow, almost orange, distorted, compressed, as if Helios is resisting, trying to remain in the sky, pulled down against his will.

The men busy in this last light, taking wine and meat to shore. Some celebration on the island they call Lemnos. Her father lost far behind, and they’re free now, in no rush to return home.

24

24

No one lives on Lemnos. No goats, even. No shepherd’s hut. Strange that it has a name and that anyone would know it. Not far from the Thracian shore, but they haven’t bothered to settle here. Steep island, barren and dry. Rocks sharp enough to cut your feet. Very few trees, hidden away in canyons and smaller folds.

The Argonauts build a great bonfire on the shore using every spare bit of wood. Open to the sunset but hidden from her father by a small point that forms this cove.

Water shallow and a startling bright blue even as the light fades. Milky white rock cut into a thousand sharp pieces. The men bathe and heckle, splash each other and laugh. They say outrageous things about parts of their bodies.

The evening warm, a pleasant breeze, no need for a fire, but the fire is lit anyway, and large hunks of meat hung, meat turning dark, beginning to rot. Then they oil each other, great slicks in firelight, broad backs and thighs. They’ve already begun on the wine.

Medea sits apart along the shore, forgotten by Jason. He’s swaying already from the drink, spreading oil and shouting over all the other voices shouting. Like a flock of seabirds, some rookery distorted, grown large and held to the ground.

They’ve made a sort of throne for Jason, a shelf cut naturally into the rock and lined now with hides. And they’ve brought a red mantle from the stores below deck, thick linen dyed somehow this bright shade beyond blood, edged with purple, richer and befitting a king among kings.