Nightsong (5 page)

Pale and unmoving, Eurydice lay sprawling among the tall grasses.

“She was about to conclude the wedding procession, Prince Orpheus,” Lachesis explained, with a broken voice. “She was leading the singing, impatient to reach you.”

Two bleeding holes in her ankle showed where the viper had buried its fangs.

Orpheus knelt beside her, too shocked to trust his senses.

He spoke her name.

He called to her again, but still she did not respond.

The son of Calliope, grandson of Jupiter, knew well that his beloved was already gone, but he summoned all of his powers as he put his hands on her, feeling for a pulse and at the same time murmuring a prayer.

Then the grieving poet gathered her into his arms and sang, a full-voiced, sorrow-broken cry, calling to the immortals to return Eurydice to life.

THIRTEEN

Not a single smith worked metal throughout the far-flung towns and villages, and in the fields no plowman parted soil.

Lamplight in every dwelling was smoky and thin, the wicks left untrimmed, and no one spoke above a whisper.

The kingdom mourned.

No one, however, grieved more deeply than Orpheus.

He did not speak, except to comfort the king, who sat in the broad oak chair, his royal throne. The bereaved father did not respond to any human voice except that of the poet. And the only sign he gave of hearing Orpheus's condolences was to reach out and take the poet's hand each time he entered the room.

The muse's son did not touch his lyre. He did not even want to set eyes on the silver instrument, and draped it with a cloth. He did not sing a syllable, day after day, and even the prettiest of birdsong in the eaves gave him no pleasure.

Orpheus fasted – as was proper – while the funeral pyre, cords of laurel wood, was prepared in the main courtyard. A palace that had been flush with flowers and wine was now colorless and silent, ashes scattered over the courtyards. Grief singers – women well rehearsed at dirges – keened hourly beside the lifeless body of Eurydice.

The princess was cremated. Her ashes were secured in an urn, and buried in a place sacred to her family, not far from the temple of Juno.

After the rites were completed, Orpheus did not take in more than a swallow or two of watered wine. He touched no food.

“Please try a bite of this bread, master,” said Biton one evening as Orpheus fastened his mantle, preparing to pay his respects once more to the king.

Orpheus turned back from the doorway, saying nothing.

“Rich-crusted bread, good master,” said Biton encouragingly, holding up a plate. “The bakers have fired up their ovens for the first time in many days.”

Orpheus lifted a gentle hand, declining the nourishment.

“I shall grow feeble,” said Biton, as though to himself. “I shall waste to a bundle of sticks out of worry for my royal prince.”

Lachesis paced slowly before the king's chamber.

He embraced the poet lovingly when he arrived and said, “I am worried, dear Orpheus. The king is far weaker today. He will not open his eyes or give any sign of hearing what I say.”

A bearded man in a long blue tunic, the garb of learned men in this kingdom, approached the two of them.

“Doctor, how is your patient?” asked Orpheus.

The physician hesitated.

“Be truthful with us,” urged the poet.

“The king cannot live for long as he is, good gentlemen,” said the physician. “I am being truthful when I say that unless he stirs himself and begins to eat and drink, before long he will join his daughter in the underworld.”

FOURTEEN

Biton leaped up when Orpheus returned to his chamber.

Something had changed in his master's stride, some new determination, that gave the servant hope.

The poet approached the lyre of Apollo, hidden under a length of fine wool. He did not remove the cloth at once, but took a long moment to prepare himself for the sight of the silver frame – sometimes, in the midst of sorrow, it is hard to look upon a thing of beauty.

He ran his hands over the warmth of the lyre, and when he touched a string with a fingertip, the single note – insistent but so nearly silent – quickened his heart.

“We have to help our friends, Biton,” explained Orpheus to his companion's questioning glance, “when their sorrow is so great.”

Orpheus played for King Lycomede and Prince Lachesis.

The music was soul-quieting, notes that hung in the silence long after he had plucked them.

But still the poet did not sing.

He did not lift his voice – no power could move him to poetry.

And for a long hour that afternoon no song was needed. The chords Orpheus plucked were enough to cause the king to turn, and look out for the first time in days, gazing toward the honey-colored light of late day. The king watched the gray doves in the courtyard fluttering upward, uttering their low courting songs.

The king spoke at last.

After a week of silence, his voice was little more than a whisper.

“Orpheus,” said the king, with an effort to make himself understood, “please sing of Persephone and Pluto in the world of night.”

Orpheus was slightly surprised that the grieving, skeptical king might seek solace in a somber – and religious – poem.

The poet obliged, however, with the hymn about the lord of the underworld and his stolen bride, who became the queen of that lightless place. Orpheus was pleased to see that the song caused the bereaved father to nod slowly in rhythm, and the sight of the king's lips moving silently to the time-honored verses touched the poet deeply.

Orpheus ceased to play, and stilled the vibrant strings with the flat of his hand. The song echoed, as did the last music from the lyre, and the young man waited for silence to gather before he stood and exclaimed, “Now I know what I must do!”

“Play another song, dear boy,” said the king. “That is all I require of your sweet nature.”

“I shall journey,” said Orpheus, “to that unknown place.”

“Where?” asked the king, in the first stirrings of alarm. But when King Lycomede saw the resolve in the poet's eyes, he burst out, “Surely you won't risk traveling there, my dear Orpheus!”

The land of the dead was shunned, as the king well knew – no living traveler went there by choice, or even considered doing such a thing.

“I shall go into the kingdom of the dead,” said Orpheus simply, “and, with the permission of the gods, I will bring Eurydice home with me.”

“Orpheus, you may find yourself able to travel into the lightless kingdom,” said the king, his voice ragged with dread. “But I fear that even the son of a muse will be unable to journey home again.”

FIFTEEN

Master and servant stood beside the sea, seeking the sea captain's help. The salt breeze stirred their hair, and the sunlight danced on the wide, blue water.

Orpheus looked on patiently as Biton asserted, “If my master wishes to sing for the queen of darkness and her lord, who am I to question him?”

“Forgive me,” said the red-haired captain, “but I cannot accept this great honor.”

“Please, captain – this day is the single most fortunate of your life,” said Biton, using his best and most persuasive manners. Biton's voice was hoarse with the dread he felt contemplating their destination. But he would not have it said that Biton was an incapable servant, unable to bargain for a dish of figs – or a ship's berth – as duty required.

“Net menders all over the world will forever assert that Idas, son of Aphareus,” continued the captain, laying a broad, freckled hand on his own chest, “took the famous poet to his life's end.”

“My master,” continued Biton, as though he had not been interrupted, “has a purse of fresh-minted gold to make the voyage all the sweeter for you.”

“I will not let it be said,” said Idas, with a stubborn but fading intensity, “that the fair ship
Actis
took the son of a divine muse to – that dark place I will not name.”

Orpheus looked on, an appreciative smile on his lips as Biton took a step closer to the captain. “Look at the ropes, Captain Idas,” said Biton, “how tattered they are; the sail, how weather-stained. Now you can make this ship look proud again, as I am sure she once was.” Biton thrust a heavy purse into the captain's hands. “And win a name in one of my master's songs.”

The captain stirred at the sound of this.

“Think of how round and satisfying the verses will be,” added Biton, “when my master sings of Captain Idas and his brave ship.”

The captain sighed – and at last gave a bow.

“And my men,” called Captain Idas, his crew stirring to watch the famous poet step on board the ship, each seaman too awestruck to make a sound. “You'll sing of my crew – how able they were and eager to lend a hand.”

Orpheus gave a sad but willing smile.

“And with the help of divine Mercury, worthy prince,” added the captain, “we'll see about changing your mind about your destination.”

At this Biton could only murmur to himself, or to whatever divine power might overhear, “May it be so!”

SIXTEEN

The rowers plied their oars, their labor made lighter by Orpheus, strumming on his lyre.

“Tarry with us, noble poet!” a mariner begged, as he rested on his oar, the wind bellying the stained, oft-mended sail. “Prince Orpheus, don't go down into that unnamed place.”

Among sailors it was considered bad luck to refer to the realm of the dead. Indeed, people rarely spoke of the underworld at all, but folk had a general idea what sort of kingdom it was. The spirits of the dead were known as shades, and the most fortunate of those slept in honorable peace in that domain. Unhappy shades, however, were said to wander certain regions of that unknown landscape, harried by winged Furies – the tireless spirits of revenge.

Orpheus knew how to be a welcome shipmate. He gave a smile – tinged with his deep sadness – and began to pluck chords again, leaning back against the mast.

He sang of the ship
Actis
, whose name meant “beam of light.” No ship was as sturdy-beamed as that spirited vessel, he sang, and no ship's wake was as silver-bright under the stars.

Wet from their brief wade through the surf toward land, Biton and Orpheus waved at their seafaring companions as the ship turned about.

The vessel worked her way from the black rocks of the shore, oars stirring the sea. Cries of farewell reached them through the fresh morning wind, and Biton secretly prayed once more that his noble master might change his mind.

“Sail away with us, Prince Orpheus,” called the red-haired captain, but the poet gave a decisive gesture of farewell.

Soon the ship had cocked her sail into the wind and swept away from the broad coast – even the hardiest mariners wanted to avoid the legendary entryway into the dark world.

Orpheus wasted little time, taking long strides away from the sea, and expecting Biton to keep the pace.

As the two travelers approached the rocky slope, birdsong faded and grew silent. The wind died, too, as they made their way toward a tall grove of black trees, like a forest carbonized by flash fire and left standing.

Soon the legendary grove of black poplars, the outer limits to the entryway into Hades' domain, stood tall around them.

“If we see a ghost, master,” quavered Biton, “how should we greet it?”

SEVENTEEN

“We will be as polite to the dead,” suggested the poet, “as we try to be to the living.”

“I was hoping we still had many hours,” said Biton, “or even a few more days to journey on some friendly, sunny road.”

Orpheus laughed thoughtfully. “I would not mind a few more minutes of sunlight myself, Biton,” he admitted. “But every moment I spend breathing morning air is another without Eurydice.”

The leaves hung shiny and motionless in the sunlight, stems that never, year after year, released from their ebony branches. This was not a recently scorched grove, torched by a fiery calamity, but a woodland turned to eternal stone. With the passage of the two travelers, branches stirred and the trees gave off a glassy music.

The gates could not be said to be barriers at all – they were stone slabs on iron hinges left ajar by some unknown power long ago. There was no need to warn any seeker to shrink back from the dark chasm, the entrance into the stone. No bird called, even from the distant world of morning.

Orpheus made his way into the gateway, with every show of confidence, as though resolve required a degree of speed. But the poet shrank back as the first deep shadow of the entryway fell over him.

He retreated a few strides, back into the muted twilight of the grove.

Orpheus spoke thoughtfully, like a man realizing for the first time the scope of his pilgrimage. “There's no need for you to follow, dear Biton.”

“Master, I am yours,” said Biton, his voice shaking, “to command.”

“Here, Biton, take most of the gold from my purse. Nearby villages will honor a traveler from the wide world, and you deserve a feast.”

“Master, can it be that you yourself do not want to set eyes on Persephone and her lord?”

Orpheus did not address the question directly. “I cannot ask anyone else,” answered the poet, “to brave that dark place.”

“So let us both go to a village where the lambs are plump, and the coals hot,” suggested Biton, “and dine on honeycomb.”

“I will see Eurydice again,” said Orpheus simply.

Biton smiled ruefully. He understood well that Eurydice had been a rare woman. Nevertheless Biton was not ashamed to point out – silently, to himself – that sorrow had its dignity, and that mourning was both proper and necessary. No other human traveled into the underworld after a lost bride.

“I do not have faith in my courage, good Biton,” continued Orpheus. “I don't even have faith in the strength of my love. Loving men have mourned before, and the world of darkness showed no effort to repay their loss.”