Mythopoeia: Pragmatos & Psyche

Waking Point

By Helen Noakes

“There’s no coming to consciousness without pain.”―C. G. Jung

SAN FRANCISCO California—(Weekly Hubris)—1/13/2014—On the high plateaus of Epirus, where mountains rise above a river valley, lived a young man and a young woman who had known each other as children. The young woman, Psyche, was fair and fragile, like the first blooms that rise out of early Spring snows. The young man, Pragmatos, was tall and sturdy as an ancient oak.

Since first they learned the use of words, Psyche would point out to Pragmatos those things in nature that surrounded them. She noticed butterflies rising out of cocoons, the first burst of blossoms from the tight fists of green pods, the clouds scuttling before high winds. And she did so with such wide-eyed wonder that Pragmatos could not help but see the magic that Psyche saw in all things.

One Spring day, in the deep wood, when Gaia had shed her blanket of snow and bared her verdant breast to the warm breeze of summer’s promise, Psyche dashed out from behind a green oleander and stayed Pragmatos’ hand as he was about to shoot a boar. “Can you not see that she’s a mother and that, with her death, her sucklings too will die?” cried Psyche.

Enraged, Pragmatos pushed Psyche’s hand away from the taut arch of his bow, saying, “I see only that we shall not sup on meat for many days! Sometimes, you go too far!”

“Must you kill to eat? Must we take lives to live? All creatures have a right to life. By what right do you deprive them of it?”

“You’re a fool, Psyche! A dreamer! And dreams don’t feed a family.”

“They feed their spirits, their imaginations. Next time you train your arrow on a woodland creature, ask yourself if it, too, has a family to feed.”

“Stupid girl!”

Psyche wept as Pragmatos strode away.

For days, he would not speak to her until, at last, he asked her to join him for a walk on the wide meadow behind their stone-clad village. The sun shone warm. The scent of new-grown grass was pungent and sweet. And Psyche danced through a field of bright poppies as she pointed: “Look! A cloud shaped like a ship! Oh! And the almond tree over there is in full bloom. How its blossoms tremble—happy to be alive!”

They reached the edge of the cliff and looked down its jagged face to the gleaming waters of the river.

“Can you hear it?” Psyche asked. “It’s roaring awake, breaking free of its ice-bound winter sleep.”

“I am unable to hunt,” muttered Pragmatos.

“Did you notice how these cliffs look? It’s as though the Titans tore a great mountain in two. One half here, on which we stand, and the other there, far across the river.” Psyche pointed to the scarred face of the distant cliff.

“Far apart—so far apart!” Pragmatos’ voice caught.

Psyche turned at the sound. “Oh, Pragmatos! Forgive me for not seeing. Your heart is burdened.” She stretched out a hand to stroke his face, but he caught it before she could touch him.

“Did you not hear?” he cried. “I cannot hunt! Your words, that day in the deep wood, haunt me. Each creature I hunt is rife with life and I think of what you said and cannot . . .” He broke off, shuddering.

“Pragmatos! Oh, Dear One! I am so glad, and so deeply sorry at the same time.”

“Glad!” he spat out.

“. . . that you understand. About killing,” she added, when she saw that he did not understand after all.

Pragmatos grimaced.

“And I’m sorry for the pain . . .”

Before she could finish, Pragmatos grasped her throat. She stared at him in anguish and in horror. Although his large hands were light around her fragile neck, she knew what he intended. Eyes brimming, she asked, “Why? What have I ever done to harm you?”

“What have you done!” Pragmatos sobbed. “You made me see their souls.”

Psyche felt his hands trembling but, still, he held her lightly. “I meant only to share with you the magic of this world,” she whispered.

“You’ve made me useless! What good am I if I cannot hunt?” His eyes glazed over with fear and fury as he tightened his grip.

At that instant, the earth quaked. Pragmatos released his grip, stood unsteadily and, with great effort, kept his balance as Gaia shuddered and shook. He cared nothing for the earthquake. All he could feel was his own torment and grief. As a great jolt threw Psyche down on the grass, she tried to reach up and soothe Pragmatos in his confusion and distress, but the earth’s juddering kept her pinned to Gaia’s breast. When the tremors stopped, a hawk flew out of the highest tree in the surrounding wood and cried out, whether in triumph or in pain it was unclear.

Psyche rose and pointed to the sky, “Look, Pragmatos. The hawk flies free of tremors and of fear. He sees us down here, faraway creatures, and understands nothing of us.”

Pragmatos uttered a cry and ran blindly into the deep wood. Psyche watched, willing him to turn and look at her. Just before he plunged into the forest, he did so, then quickly turned away and disappeared into the shadows.

 Note: The sculpture “Psyche Abandoned” was created by Augustin Pajou.