Jason and Medeia Read Free Page B

sirens, centaurs, ghosts, past angry seas … a slippery devil, honest, not overly scrupulous, flexible, supple, cautious without being cowardly, a proven leader of men … ‘the man who brought
    help,’ as they call him,
    for such is the meaning of his name.” The slave at his
    elbow nodded,
    smiling. His eyes were caves. King Kreon wrinkled
    his forehead
    and picked at his silvery beard like a man aware, dimly, of danger crouching at his back.
    Just then, from an upper room,
    a girlish voice came down—Pyripta, daughter of the
    king,
    singing, not guessing that anyone heard. Wan, giant
    Kreon
    raised one finger to his lips, tipped up his head. His
    servant
    leered, nodding, wringing his fingers as if the voice were sunlight falling on his ears. She sang an ancient
    song,
    the song Persephone sang before her ravishment.
    Artemis, Artemis, hear my prayer, grant my spirit the path of the eagle; in high rocks where only the stars sing, there let me keep my residence.
    When the song ended, tears had gathered in the old
    king’s eyes.
    He said, “Ah, yes”—rubbing his cheeks with the back
    of his hand.
    â€œSuch beauty, the innocent voice of a child! Such
    radiance!
    â€”Forgive me. Sentimental old fool.” He tried to laugh,
    embarrassed.
    The god feigned mournful sympathy, touching an ash-gray cheek with fingers gnarled like
    roots.
    Kreon patted his servant’s arm, still rubbing his
    streaming
    eyes and struggling for control. He smiled, a soft
    grimace.
    â€œSuch beauty! You’d think it would last forever, a
    thing like that!
    She thinks it will, poor innocent! So do they all, children blind to the ravaging forces so commonplace to us. They live in a world of summer sunlight, showers, squirrels at play on the lawn. They know of nothing
    worse,
    and innocently they think the gods must cherish them exactly as they do themselves. And so they should!
    you’d say.
    But they don’t. No no.” He rolled up his eyes.
    â€œWe’re dust, Ipnolebes. Withering leaves. It’s not a thing to break too soon to the young, but facts are facts.
    Depend
    on nothing, ask for nothing; do your best with the time you’ve got, whatever small gifts you’ve got, and leave
    the world
    a better place than you found it. Pass to the next
    generation
    a city fit for learning, loving, dying in.
    It’s the world that lasts—a glorious green mosaic built of tiles that one by one must be replaced. It’s that— the world, their holy art—that the gods love. Not us. We who are old, beyond the innocent pride of youth, must bend to that, and gradually bend our offspring
    to it.”
    He sighed, head tipped. “She asks for freedom, lordless, childless, playing out life like a fawn in the
    groves.
    A dream, I’m sorry to say. This humble world below demands the return of the seed. Such is our duty to it. The oldest oak on the hillside, even the towering plane
    tree,
    shatters, sooner or later, hammered by thunderbolts or torn-up roots and all by a wind from Zeus. On the
    shore,
    we see how the very rocks are honed away, in time. Accept the inevitable, then. Accept your place in the
    march
    of seasons, blood’s successions. —In the end she’ll find,
    I hope,
    that marriage too, for all its pangs, has benefits.”
    He smiled, turned sadly to his slave. “It’s true, you
    know. The song
    that moved us, there—bubbled up feelings we’d half
    forgotten—
    I wouldn’t trade it for a hundred years of childhood play. The gods are kinder than we think!” The servant nodded,
    solemn.
    Kreon turned away, still sniffling, clearing his throat.
    â€œCarry a message for me, good Ipnolebes. Seek out Jason—somewhere off by himself, if that proves feasible—and ask him, with all your skill and
    tact
    â€”with no unwarranted flattery, you understand (he’s nobody’s fool, that Jason)—ask, with