‘Because he loved me the moment he saw me,’ Andromeda said.
‘He’d already abandoned his mother before he’d seen you,’ said Cassiope.
Andromeda stared at her in furious silence. Her father looked at the floor.
‘I hope I’m not late,’ said Perseus, as he stepped into the dining room.
Gorgoneion
I don’t know where it is that he stops after he leaves Ethiopia. It’s a coastline unlike any I have ever known. An island, then? Or the other side of the sea that lapped up against the Gorgons’ shore? I don’t know. I don’t see the land, because he takes me from the kibisis and puts me on the ground, facing the sea. He is still afraid of me, which is something, I suppose.
He doesn’t put me down carefully enough: he can tolerate gripping my snakes but only for a short time before he is repulsed by the sensation of warm reptile bodies writhing in his hands. The sand is as hard as the rocks in Medusa’s cave. The pain shoots up through my neck and I set my teeth. And the man who has not responded to anything I have said notices my discomfort. He walks away.
I wonder if he will leave me here. There are worse places to be, apart from the hardness of the ground, and I could get used to that. I have grown used to everything else, after all. I would stay here for ever, then, looking out over the waves and thinking about all I have lost: my sisters, my mother, my once self.
But then I hear his footsteps returning. He lifts me from the sand, and there is a rustling noise beneath me. When he puts me back down, the spot is softer. He has piled up leaves or seaweed fronds and made a cushion for my raw neck.
No.
You cannot be feeling affection for him at this point. You cannot. Can I remind you that my neck wouldn’t be raw if it weren’t for him? Gratitude is not something I can or will ever feel towards Perseus. But still, I rest on the seaweed mat and I look at the water and he also rests, because travelling with divine help is exhausting work, apparently. And when he decides it is time to travel to Seriphos at last, he opens the bag and lifts me into it. The seaweed cushion has hardened to a delicate sculpture of rock: I catch a glimpse of it before I am in darkness once again.
Dana?
Dana? had counted off the days her son was gone. She tried not to feel anxious because Zeus had always looked after her before. But she was not as young as she had been when she first caught his eye, and （unworthily, she said to herself, trying not to offend him even in her mind） she worried that she was now too old to have his attention and thus his help. He would be eyeing new girls now; how would he remember the mother of Perseus, whom he had saved from a prison and from a box and from the sea? But even if he didn’t remember Dana?, he would remember Perseus, she hoped. Zeus was generally proud of his sons, and defended them staunchly. And yet, why did they always need his defence? Because Hera was set against them and her fury was as uncontrollable as a raging ocean.
But, the hopeful side of her nature reasserted itself: Hera had not punished Dana? before. It had been her own father, Acrisius, who’d locked her up and then left her to drown. So if Hera was not angry with her, perhaps Perseus was safe and she was safe. And her son would come home and she would not have to marry a pompous old king who smelled of stale wine and self-regard.
But another day passed and she watched for the boats to return. Every time she hoped that Dictys would somehow have found Perseus sailing alongside him, heading for home. But each day, she watched his boat bobbing back towards the shore alone. And she knew that wherever Perseus was, he was not about to run up the hill to their house, desperate to tell his mother about whatever huge creatures they had seen in the ocean （Dictys had always been looking the wrong way at the crucial moment so missed the great monsters of the deep）。 And she smiled and shook her head: she was remembering a far younger Perseus than the one who had set out on his quest almost two months ago.
The planned wedding was now imminent, and the hated king sent messengers each day with one thing or another: a dress she must wear, a bracelet she would like. Dictys flinched with every new arrival. Dana? piled them up in a corner and put an old fishing net over them so they didn’t have to see his brother’s influence as they went about their day. She supposed the dress would smell of fish now, but she was used to that, living in a fisherman’s home. And she still hoped not to wear it, though her hope was wearing thinner with every hour that passed.
And now so many hours had passed that the wedding was due to take place tomorrow. Polydectes would present himself to his bride in person, the pompous messenger told her on her final day of freedom. She must ensure she had packed any possessions she wanted to take with her （at this point, the messenger could not prevent a sneer as he looked at the humble cottage）。 Because she would not be returning here and Dictys would not be welcome at the palace. So – he explained slowly, as though she might not understand him – anything she left behind would be lost to her for good.
She nodded wearily and turned to look again at the distant sea, but after the messenger left, she found she could not endure watching for the boats to come in and one man to climb the hill to their home alone. She waited inside to greet Dictys – as she had in old times – willing herself to hide her sadness when she saw his brown, lined face break into a tired smile.
The boats were back later today, she thought, eyeing the shadows as they moved across the floor. She would never see these shadows, this light, again. She picked up a broom irritably. She was not going to cry about the floor. Zeus would save her or he wouldn’t and that was all there was to it.
Eventually, she heard his slow footsteps as he approached the house. He was carrying a heavy catch today, she thought, or his stride would be quicker and lighter. She turned to the doorway and beheld the face of a young man who looked as familiar as her reflection and as unknown as a stranger. But she had no time to consider this paradox because he was already in her arms, sobbing with relief.
Gorgoneion
The day of the wedding has arrived but Dana? will not have to marry the king. The light is sharp and ruthless. The king—
Do you even need me to tell you all this? You already know what happens. The king arrives to claim his unwilling bride. His corpulent face is disappointed and astonished in equal measure when he sees Perseus has returned to defend her. He makes snide remarks, but you can hear the unease in his voice. He sent a boy away on a hero’s quest, and the fool claims he has come back with the prize.
That would be me, in case you have forgotten.
The king is all bluster and feigned disbelief. Perseus is full of anger. His mother is quiet; Dictys lays a protective hand on her arm.
The king – who is even more stupid than Perseus, or at least equally ignorant – asks to see his prize. Perseus milks this moment, building the tension by taking his time to find the kibisis, to loosen the tassels that hold it closed, to reach inside. He tells his mother and Dictys to turn away. They don’t ask questions, just do as he says. There is a perceptible sense of triumph and relief about him since he returned home. This is what he has been missing, then: the simple experience of being heard and heeded. I wonder if he has chosen a wife who will provide him with that, in Andromeda.
The king scoffs at the precautions taken by his brother and his intended. What are they afraid of? Perseus must have really fulfilled his promise, and so on.