The DesertLight Journal |
This is a continuing series by David Reiser. |
MEDEA I. Your son kneels And bows to you. That is when you notice The streak of shampoo Not quite yet dry, Behind his ear. You're tempted to scold him, But you resist. Destiny has a greater plan For both of you today. Today, you will impose A justice so profound That history will never forget. You will overlook small matters On this occasion. The ceremonial tunic the boy wears Glows with the purity of light. He will wear it Only once. The muslin cloth Is exceedingly rare. It must be imported All the way from Persia. You worry from time-to-time What will you do When the old woman who makes it is gone? Perhaps there is a daughter. The raiments are so gauzy That when a breeze stirs, The fabric seems to lift And come alive, Like some great bird taking wing. You look down at your son Jason. Jason, Jr. At thirteen, he is all knob-knees and elbows, Scrapes and scabs, Pimples and angularities. The gown softens him. Yet, He seems so small in it, Somehow. When you were thirteen You summered every year on Rhodes, At first there was always A sense of timelessness, As though summer would never Come to an end. But of course It always did. The servants would drape Huge white sheets Over the furniture On August thirty-first. August thirty-first, Every season, Without fail, They would board up That great rambling house. Once, a great storm Came in from sea. A sheet in the servants' hands Billowed aloft. For a terrifying instant You actually feared That both would be swept Over the cliffs and Out to sea. Every year. It seemed to rain That day. Now, A small gust comes up And it startles you. You see that Jason is still on his knees. The gown sways Like a lampshade, Or perhaps a curtain, One through which someone has just passed. You do sense a presence. It has just flowed through him. Your son is a conduit Into all of time. "Father? Father?" you whisper. "Is that you?" Jason whines about its being lunchtime. He can be so damned compulsive sometimes. Right now he's fussing with the edges of his gown. He's like a fretful old woman Fingering her worry-beads. You can tell what he's up to He's trying to keep the hem up Out of the dirt. He glances up at you And quickly Turns away. He's afraid of you. Everyone is. II. They say you are Heartless and icy. And they're right To a degree. That's why you are Who you are (And they are who they are.) Would they really Not trade places With you, Given the chance? The heart has its function, But so does ice. One uses whatever is necessary. It is this philosophy That has guided you And ensured That you have never lost a battle, Not one. Today should be proof Of that. And then, you know something That others will never understand. Everyone believes In history And awaits its dictates. You know there Is such no thing. There is only time And opportunity. Those who seize opportunity Create history. It has always been so. When the time came With the boy's father, You were ready. Meanwhile, Junior, here, is really starting to lose it. He squirms and he fidgets. He complains about the heat. He keeps scratching his damned scalp, Does he have head-lice? "Stop fussing like that!" III. All of this Was his father's doing. How readily people forget that, Especially men. And how typical! Jason fucks up, You have to tidy Up the mess. And, then, people Have the nerve to say, "She's cold!" Who fucked the bitch? You or Jason? Who just walked away from his family? In the first place? It most certainly wasn't you. Everyone seems to forget that. All you're doing Is shortening the couple's honeymoon. IV. Another thing. The tailor has really gone And botched the job this time. His work has become a disgrace. This gown is a disgrace. They eyelets are crooked. They pucker like the mouths of sea bass. And where did he find those buttons? The sleeves are too short. They don't line up. The old man is obviously feeble. V. But the tailor is not. He is cursed, in truth, With an excellent memory. For too long, He's fashioned Too many tunics like these. Never one for a child, It is true. Most who die In this arena Are common riff-raff, Some hapless soldier who fell asleep at his post, A petty official caught taking a bribe. One thing or another. But does anyone deserve this fate? That's the sort of thing The old tailor has been wondering About lately. Naturally, He keeps such thoughts to himself. That is how you get to be An old tailor. VI. The tailor has watched Hundreds of condemned men die. He has simply watched. He does know That something happens To a man at the end. It is always the same. He will hear the clatter of boot-steps. Soldiers arriving. Their laughter ricochets off the stone walls. For some reason There is always laughter. They curse. They banter. Some tell jokes. He can never quite make out What they are saying. But the men always roar With laughter. The tailor watches. Now, The condemned man Tries to pray. And he discovers He cannot. This is not a matter Of devotion. The tailor has seen it In all men. It just seems That In those final moments, All men lose their belief in God. The ending is also Always the same. In the end, The man weeps. "Mama!" he whispers, Softly at first, then louder. "Mama!" he says. "Mama!" Finally, he screams it. "Maaammmmaaaa! Make the bad men go away!" Snot runs down his chin. Puke surges from his nostrils. The mother does not come. But the soldiers do. The one who is in charge Says, "Yackety-yak" and "blah-blah-blah." He considers that he has now read the sentence. The condemned man's body wilts. He defecates. He looses his water. The stench is horrific. The commander orders A soldier to grab each arm. They yank him to his feet, And drag him off, Bawling and blubbering. His toes dig furrows in the dirt. That is what happens. The tailor has been there many times, As an observer. And, Ah, yes! There is one final utterance. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." VII. During the Jason's fitting, The tailor kept thinking, "He does not understand, He does not comprehend." And the longer he worked, The more his hands trembled. He started dropping buttons. He fumbled with his needle and thread. "What's the matter?" The boy chirped. When the tailor was finally done, He led the child to a mirror. "Well," Jason said. "I'll be! How do you think I look?" "You look fine," the tailor said. "You're a very handsome young man." The boy bit his lip then And was silent. He traced an arc with his toe. "My father will be there. My mother is going to make him watch. She says this will be His 'just deserts.'" Jason pulled a strand of thread From one sleeve, And watched it float silently to the ground. "She hates him! Are you sure these sleeves are long enough? I hate him, too! Maybe even more!" "There must be A good reason," the tailor said, "For why your father is being punished In this manner." But the tailor knew That there was not. Jason tried buttoning the tunic To the top. But then shook his head, And loosened the collar again. "I like this better," he said. "The casual look. I think I look very handsome." "Indeed." Jason paused. "Can I ask you a question? How do you think I'll do today? Do you think I'll do all right?" The tailor dropped his measuring tape. "I think you'll do just fine." "I want my mother To be very proud of me." The tailor crouched down on His hands and knees and began Picking up pins and other scraps. He kept his back turned to the boy. "I'm sure you'll do just fine." "I don't care about my father! Not after what he did to my mother! And to me. I don't believe a single thing That comes out of his filthy lying mouth! I hope today Just kills him!" The tailor crawled Under a table. VIII. CHORUS: Look at this child, Medea. And behold what hatred Has done. Look at his vestments. Look closer. Do you see The gray dots? Those are the traces of The tailor's tears. IX. Medea looks up toward the stands. The stadium is filling nicely, she thinks. But the boy is proving to be a nuisance. He fidgets and squirms. Constantly. He tugs at those damned sleeves. Finally, she's out of patience. "Jason! Stop it!" His face turns crimson, And his arms drop, As though severed from the puppeteer. She smiles to several Of the Senators Who are making their way just now to their seats. Why have so few brought their wives? "How thoughtful of you to come," Medea says. X. CHORUS: Do you know why the boy pulls At his sleeves? Do you? Because he's what, Medea? We cannot hear. Please speak up. He's nervous, you say. He's nervous. Why is that? Speak up, Medea, We cannot hear you. Please speak up. All right then, We'll tell you why: He wants to be perfect For you today. He wants to be everything To you today. He wants to be Everything you have always Told him he is not. He wants you to see Today. What a very brave little boy he is. What is it that you say now? Please, Medea, We cannot hear. Please speak up! Oh! Yes, That's right. He wants to show you That He is not His father. That's Very perceptive of you. XI. Medea flares for an instant. She could kill them if she chose, And get away with it. She is a sorcerer, Her mother was a sorcerer, Her mother's mother But nothing good Is ever consummated in anger. It may be borne there, But, in darker places, it must long fester. She will bide her time. She curtsies and says To the men and women Whose heads she will someday sever, "Thank you." The Chorus is silent. XII. And she does wonder What is Jason's problem? Something's been bothering him all day. He's always been a demanding child, Cloying, smarmy, Ravenous for attention. But today? Today is the worst she's seen it. Just look at him now! Fingering at the hem of her dress Like a two year old. "This," you whisper, "Is very expensive. It's not your blankie, Jason, For God's sakes. Stop acting like An infant." He lets go. He mutters something. "You're what?" He mutters. "You're scared? Is that what you're saying? Don't you think I know you're scared?" She smiles up at one of the Senators and waves. "Just, please, don't freeze on me, Jason! Please! Not today! And remember why You're doing this. We need to pay Daddy back. Please, Jason, just this once, Think of Mommy. Remember How much You hate your Daddy For what he has done to me." Jason nods And says his father Is a filthy, lying SOB, But you sense that This won't be the last of it. It started at breakfast. Finally, You put had to put your newspaper down. You sighed. "OK, Jason, you win. What is it?" Silence. "What is it? What's on your mind?" Jason wriggles out of his chair And runs to you. He rises up on his tiptoes and Whispers in your ear. The words sting. God, children can be so cruel. "Jason! I can't believe I'm hearing this!" You grab his mousy little face then And pinch. "Did you ever, even once, think How this might be For me?" "Why don't you, Just this once, Think of someone Beside yourself." "I'm sorry." "Do you think I'm Going to enjoy this? Do you? Jason, look at me. Do you, Jason, Do you?" You release him then And bury your face In your hands. You heave great, sonorous sobs. "Why, Jason? Ask yourself. Why? Why must Mommy do this? Why?" Jason kneels and clasps her knees, "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry." You feel the trickle Of his tears Running down your shins. But you wait. You want the trickle to become a torrent. You clasp him tightly then. You squeeze him to your breast. You whisper: "Remember what he did to me. Remember what he did to me. Remember what he did to me." She watches him rise then And leave the room. His face is now leaden and hard. "Father will be punished," he says. "He will be punished!" But you wonder. How much strength is there in this lad? He is, In so many ways, Just like his father. XIII. CHORUS (turning and facing the audience): Those of you Who gather here To witness this boy's Death, Will witness history. You must bear the Full weight Of your responsibility. What happens here, Must never be forgotten. Study Medea's face. Learn it well. You behold not insanity, But certainty, Righteousness, Stalwart rectitude, Dead calm. This is the face of woman, Who kills. Over there, Fifteen feet away, Behold the object of this fury Jason Who will now pay for his crime. If you feel pity, Remember it. Remember it. Because few others will. XIV. Medea scowls, But holds her silence. She faces the audience. "Few understand The importance of Justice. I am fated to be Ahead of my time. Moral certainty Is always lonely. The matter is really very simple: Justice requires vengeance. Therefore, the boy must die. History will vindicate me. Someday women will celebrate. For it will be know by then That all men Are Jason. All are beasts. The earth Will rise up And slaughter them. The world will be ruled by women. Daughters, rejoice! Hold forth for the day When all men Will suffer And Die." XV. She turns toward Jason, Who is lashed To the bars Of a donkey cart "Behold How pitiful He looks Now! "I assure you, He was not So pitiful Back when he took That harlot into his bed! "But pitiful he is now. Jason slumps in his chains And appears dazed. Medea addresses him. "You there, slave! Do I know thee?" Jason stares off, Distracted. "No, I suppose not Unless I once consorted with garbage! "Just look at you now, Oh, my Lord and Master. Doth thee feel powerful Now?" Medea addresses the spectators. "Look at this! Isn't it dear? The garbage is weeping. Shhhh! Attend clearly, Or you'll miss it. Hear? The garbage is whispering His son's name. How touching! "He says it Over and over." "Over and over. Is this not dear?" Continuing to address the spectators in the stadium. "Today, You will see a man Broken But how? How more, When I have already broken him In so many ways? "Yet His arrogance requires more. "I have fractured Every bone. I have burned him. "But still he dares To believe he is human. He dares To utter his son's name. No, not his son! My son! "For this, I will break him And then break him more!" A heckler in the stadium calls out. "Light him up!" The slurred voice cries. "Burn the bastard! That'll teach him!" Medea turns and addresses the man. "And be sure, Good sir, I have considered it well. It would delight, I know, To watch him Do a fire-jig Around the arena. I could trot, just ahead, Running backwards, Sloshing a pail of water In my hand. It would be precious!" Some in the stadium begin chanting: "Fire! Fire! Fire!" "But it shall not be. It shall not be. Jason must not miss The final act Of this The drama of his life!" XVI. The inspiration comes to you then. Yes, you think, It is the boy. It was always the boy. "Jason," you say. "Come." You kneel in the sand next to him. You put your hand on his shoulder. He shivers to the thrill Of your touch. He is intoxicated By the heat of your breath. He is hungry for you. He always has been hungry for you. In the heart of each little boy, A monster already grows A man. You take your time, You are careful to explain every detail. You are infinitely patient. Jason is silent. When you whisper in his ear, You can just catch the sight Of his eyes as they narrow. Finally he nods. You release him. He does not pause. He strides toward his father. And look! It's working! The bastard's chest is starting to heave! His lungs flare Like bellows. What scalding water And flames Failed to accomplish, A little boy can do. Jason groans as his son draws nearer. To shut him up, The soldiers have stuffed a rag in his throat. Now, it blushes and turns to strawberry. Crimson is the color Of his pent up Longing and despair. Now, The boy stops short. Good boy! His arms dangle At his sides. He does not reach out. Good boy! He is doing exactly as instructed. Jason strains Against his chains. You half expect his bones to splinter. The boy shakes his head. "No." Jason shrieks. Then, Suddenly, The arena falls silent. In one incredible, Impossible, Moment, Jason Hoists the cart Onto his shoulders And stumbles toward the boy. Jason, Jr. yelps And flees, Directly into Your waiting arms. The moment is perfect. "Come, my sweetness," You say to your son. "Let that show you What happens When you try to be kind To a monster!" You turn away now And lead your prize away by the hand. From Behind you There comes The roar Of total collapse. The cart has crashed Once more to the ground. You turn and behold Jason Upended, Legs bobbing helplessly In the air. It's over. Jason's eyes are The color of clay. He lies sprawled atop the cart, Like some great tormented bug. His chest still heaves, But you know that he is already dead. "How could you!" You shout to him. "How could you Frighten your own son That way? Coward!" XVII. CHORUS: You will stop at nothing! Medea: I play to win. CHORUS: Behold the heavens, Medea! The gods are outraged! XVIII. You look up and see That the sky has indeed darkened. Cold drops of rain Begin to pelt Onto the sand. Lightening slashes the fabric of the sky. Thunder rumbles like a cannonade. You know that The gods are speaking directly to you now, And you smile. The rain Plashes down upon Your upturned face And refreshes. "The ritual shall now proceed!" Lightening rampages across the sky then In stroboscopic bursts. Electrical skeletons bound overhead, Enraged at you, Distraught. But you are not frightened. Nothing frightens the just. You bow to the stands And the spectators screech Their approval. Nothing frightens One who knows That her cause Is just. The heavens lunge back at you. They smash the sky Like great heaving colonnades. If this is the gods, you think, Then they live now In a dying temple. They are helpless To stop you. In a crack of lightening You behold the boy. He is illuminated like a ghost. And yes! You can see Even from here The boy, too, now is laughing. He has fallen to his knees He's laughing so hard. He clutches his ribs. Tears of hilarity Stream down his cheeks. You are very pleased. There is a silence now. Some enormous energy begins to thrum In the stadium. The gods hesitate. Then, They rip The day in two. This is the Electricity Of Murder -- Dreadful, Cruel, Magnificent, And perfect! XIX. You nod now to the soldiers. Two of them trot out And take their place On either side of you. Each grabs one Of Jason's ears. Together, they lurch his head back And offer up his neck. Another nod. The surgeon emerges from a side door, Joined by eight soldiers And a nurse. Together. They all make their way toward The slumped figure Atop the donkey cart. When the soldiers reach cart, They begin to chant, "Heave ho! Heave ho!" They set the cart upright In the lashing rain. The surgeon gloves himself, gowns. Sixteen now hands Clamp Jason fast. Fastidiously, The surgeon does his precise work. He dissects Jason's eyelids Meticulously, And plunks them Into a jar of formalin Held out by the nurse. "No, Jason," you shout to him. There will be no blinking, No turning away. You will behold Everything!" The stadium rocks and groans, Collapsing on its pilings. Now, It is the gods turn to speak. And they answer With silence. For an instant Time completely ceases. The color of timelessness Turns out to be alabaster, Brighter than daylight, Paler than the moon. No thunder follows. In the dazzling silence That precedes his death, You behold your son This one final time. He writhes against the soldiers. But he is so small, So pale, So white. So very white. He cries out to you. You do not care. The old tailor watches this From a smudged casement window Hidden under the stands. Yes, He thinks, The boy is finally Comprehending. The Captain comes forward now. In the pouring rain, He offers you the scimitar, And joyously you take it. XX. You close your eyes. You open them. Slowly, You take your bead. Your cry is a warble As you lope Toward your son. You hurl yourself At him, A savage, And drive the blade Into the suppleness Of his neck. The sword hacks downward. It cracks Your child's Spine. His chalk white neck Has turned to scarlet. XXI. "And all because of you, Jason," You think. "All because of you." XXII. Body goes limp. Head slumps forward. Slack tongue Dangles From loose mouth. They form the letter, "Q." XXIII. From the window The tailor watches. He watches His handiwork Turn to crimson. The boy's blood Paints a dripping hyacinth Onto the sand. You raise your sword And shout, Hurrah for Justice!" The stadium booms back, "Hurrah!" Demurely then, You take your bow, Thanking the crowd for Its furious approval. But what of Jason, Who still breathes shallowly Atop the cart? Turning, you see That he now stares Only into nothingness. He is a waxen imbecile, With ghoulish lidless eyes. Of course, What would you expect? You have driven him mad. Still, Somehow, You wish There could have been More. The Captain is saying something to you. "No, no," you answer. "Leave the body here." Leave it here, Just where it is, Until the arena has emptied And the two of them Are finally together, Father and son, Just as they always wanted. XXIV. Anyway, Your work is through here. You turn and leave. Alone you walk, Chilled by the drenching rain. Still, You begin to laugh. You're still laughing When you get home, To your shadow-filled Vacant Marble Mansion, Built once For Jason, In the shape of a heart. _____________ David E. Reiser July, 2002 |
