Can you remember the shape of things that night? Can you remember the world bending? Can you say that you know what happened to you or to your men?

Jason clearly afraid now, the anger gone.

That scorpion is still inside you. Inside your chest. If you disobey me, it will awake.

Jason puts a hand to his chest, and she smiles. You are here to obey me, she tells him quietly, so the other men won’t hear. That is your role.

His hand gripping at skin under the mantle, as if he might find a claw protruding.

I won’t tell you what is inside your men, she whispers.

Please, Jason says.

You can’t beg the gods, she says. And you can’t beg me. You do what’s required. You honor the gods. And you will always be bound. You are never free.

Medea rolls her eyes back and chants to Hekate in her own tongue, sees nothing but hears Jason command his men to the oars, hears their complaints and his urgency and wood on wood, the first splashes, creaking of rope and hide in the oar loops.

She remains at the bow, guiding them, lifting her arms high and chanting. She will shorten this sea and bring Iolcus near, and whoever awaits in Iolcus she will master too. All these men at the oars, rushing though no one chases. Panic on a calm sea.

They row through the rest of that day, anchor in the lee of an island without going ashore. No bonfire on the beach.

The fisherman casts his net from the stern. Last light on smooth remnants of waves, every facet become a soft round momentary eye, blue with an orange center and then gone. Thousands of eyes appearing and vanishing, all held on the surface, nothing below, yet he pulls fish from nothing, guts them and throws back this offering.

The fish different here in this sea, longer and smaller mouthed, slim fins and tails. Oily tasting. Cooked directly over a small fire on deck, no talking among the men.

The sun and fire gone, night passing quickly from exhaustion. They raise the anchor stone early, at first light, and row again. Medea remaining on the bow, Jason back now with the helmsmen.

This sea with endless islands. She didn’t know there could be so many in the world, each individual in shape and presence, waiting. You would have to visit each one. There wouldn’t be any choice. If you look at something in the distance long enough, you eventually have to go there.

The mood of each island changing through the day, flattened at first, erased in white, not set in the water or air but consumed by both. Settling later, gaining shape and weight, shadow, then reflecting last light on ridgelines.