What surprises Medea is how much it hurts to watch Jason with another. This terrible void inside her, a coldness and desolation, more than she would have guessed.

She can watch no longer, walks away along the shore into darkness with all this moaning and laughing at her back and keeps walking until she hears only the sea, small waves, reassuring, finds trees with pine straw beneath and lies down, curls on her side to sleep and forget and feel nothing.

25

25

They sail on, and Medea worries they will never reach Iolcus. She sees now that these men have no desire to return to their lives. They would take rivers into colder lands, find the far edge, circle back and visit Egypt, then continue along that desert shore. They would claim the founding of every land and people, make the world small and attach it to themselves. Tell stories of giants felled and mountains formed, rivers and springs, the shape of the land itself recording where they’ve been. Denying all who came before, the long dark past, and claiming origin. The end become the beginning. This voyage setting the limits of the world.

What she fears is that there’s nothing for them after this. The gathering of the kings, and what will be left to do next? Only the recounting, the memory of each of these maidens detailed, sound of her voice, scent of her neck, her eyes in late sun, depth without end. Some longing for more.

As long as they voyage, they can delay desire and also death, and who they are remains. They won’t see themselves shrunken. So why would they ever return?

The Argo a kind of slug, oozing along in movement so slow you wouldn’t notice. The far shores of other islands not shifting perceptibly. Only if you look away and wait long enough can you glance again and notice a change. The thought of doing this for years unbearable.

Jason hiding at the bow, as far away from her as possible, but she goes to him now, demands to know where Iolcus is.

He points straight ahead. Sleepy, exhausted from his night, still wearing this ridiculous red-and-purple mantle. Oil no longer bright on his thighs but slack looking, like the side of a fish that’s been in the sun, flattening, drawn inward.

How far?

Three days.

You could use the oars.

Jason looks at his men, all lying on deck, spent. The sail barely holding its shape. These men are not slaves, he finally says.

Close enough, Medea says.

No, Jason says, angry now. You don’t understand anything. And I don’t have to talk with you. You are a woman.

Medea laughs.

Women don’t decide what we do.

Remember the scorpion? she asks. Remember our fire on the shore under the Hieros mountains?

He doesn’t respond.