The Song of Orpheus (5 page)

“I don’t believe you,” Prokris said, but she felt uneasy, just as Kephalos had when Eos had told him his wife would be unfaithful.
Was
her husband really hunting each morning? Why did he leave the house in time to greet the dawn? Why not wait until daylight?

The goddess laughed. “See for yourself,” she said.

When Prokris awoke, her heart was pounding. As she lay still, worrying about what the goddess had said and wondering if it was true, she felt Kephalos rise. She couldn’t stand not knowing where he was going, so once he was out the door, she got up, too. She put on a dark cloak so she’d be hard to see in the dim early-morning light, and followed him.

Kephalos had no idea that Prokris was even awake, much less trailing him through the woods. He moved quietly in the semi-darkness, the magic spear in his hand, the magic hound by his side. He hoped to spot one of the animals that are active at dawn—a deer, perhaps.

Suddenly, something brushed against a branch. Lailaps whipped his head around and growled, and Kephalos, thinking the hound had spotted prey, flung his spear into the woods. He heard a moan and ran to where his target had fallen. He gasped in horror at the sight of his beloved wife, who lay on the ground with his spear in her chest. He cradled her in his arms, calling her name, but there was nothing he could do. She gave him one last, loving look, took one last breath, and died.

Kephalos was so distraught that he didn’t even care when he was ordered to leave his homeland and never return for the crime of murdering his wife. He wandered through many countries, eventually settling on an island that was renamed Kephalonia in his honor. Memories of Prokris haunted him, as did her ghost, who came to him in the semi-darkness of dawn and looked at him reproachfully.

Finally, Kephalos could no longer stand the terrible guilt he felt—for testing Prokris with the golden crown, for going off with Eos, and especially for throwing his spear without seeing what he was aiming at, thereby killing his beloved hunting companion and wife. He climbed up onto a cliff and flung himself into the sea. With his last breath, he called out, “Pterelas!” for that was the name Prokris had been using when he found her again.

Oh, dear. That myth is even sadder than I’d remembered.

And it reminds me of my own problems. I didn’t trust the gods of the underworld, and look what happened to me. Kephalos didn’t trust Prokris, and Prokris didn’t trust Kephalos, and they both wound up dead. Kephalos couldn’t live with his mistake, and he jumped off a cliff. I couldn’t forgive myself, so I lost my mind and wandered into mortal danger—a kind of death by nymph.

For story seven, let’s have something a bit more cheery. All right?

Apples play a big role in the love stories of my people, the ancient Greeks. I have no idea why. Maybe it’s because they’re sweet. Oh, I know, other fruits are sweet, but we didn’t have many back then. Some people had a picnic here once, about a hundred years ago, I think, and they were eating this big green thing that was red inside, with black seeds—you know what I’m talking about? A watermelon? I guess you’re right. Whatever it was, a lot of the juice dripped on me, and it was amazing. The ants and bees that got stuck on my face weren’t so amazing, but it was worth it.

Where was I? Oh, right. The apple tree is special to Aphrodite, the goddess of love. Maybe that’s why people think of apples when they tell stories about love. Prince Paris gave an apple to Aphrodite in order to win Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world, and that’s what started the Trojan War. In another myth, a young man threw golden apples in front of a fleet-footed princess named Atalanta during a footrace, so that she would lose the race and have to marry him.

The apple that you’re going to hear about, which a young man named Akontios used to trick a beautiful girl named Kydippe, was just an ordinary apple. It wasn’t made of gold and it wasn’t the prize in a goddess beauty contest, but it had its own kind of magic.

Akontios was a handsome young farmer from the small island of Keos, near the even smaller island of Delos. Delos was the birthplace of Artemis, goddess of the moon and of the hunt, and her twin brother, the sun god Apollo, so it was a sacred place. Every four years, people from all over the ancient Greek world came to the festival of Artemis to worship her and marvel at her temple.

Young men and women were usually kept apart, and such festivals were a popular way to meet. Artemis, who had sworn never to marry, was the guardian of unmarried women. Many marriages were arranged at her temple, where girls would feel they were under the protection of a goddess who would look out for them.

One year, Akontios decided to go to the festival. Maybe he would meet a nice girl to marry, and even if he didn’t, he’d be sure to have a good time. So he borrowed a boat from a fisherman and rowed the short distance to Delos.

When Akontios climbed out of the boat, he was astonished at what he saw. People from all over Greece and beyond were filling tiny Delos, which is only a bit larger than a square mile in your modern measurements. Countless wares were for sale, from food and drink to trinkets and clothing. From the stadium came the roar of people watching footraces, wrestling matches, and other games held in honor of the goddess. And still more boats arrived and unloaded more and more people onto the island, until it seemed like it was going to sink.

A simple country boy, Akontios was overwhelmed, wandering and staring at all the wonders, clutching his small wallet of coins. He bought three apples from a vendor, though their price made him gasp. He ate two, and tucked the third into the folds of his tunic for later.

He found a crowd of people exclaiming at the sight of the huge, intricate altar in front of the temple of Artemis. Some of the worshippers were making sacrifices and asking the goddess for a favor. Others were swearing solemn oaths—some to marry a certain person, others to call an end to a feud, still others to live a more honorable life. The Greeks took very seriously any promise made at a temple, especially one as holy as that of Artemis at Delos.

“Really something, isn’t it?” asked a friendly voice behind him. Akontios turned and saw a prosperous-looking young man of about his own age.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Akontios said.

“There isn’t anything like it in the whole world.” The young man spoke with an Athenian accent. “Apollo, god of the arts, made the altar himself from the antlers and horns of animals killed by his sister Artemis.”

Akontios approached the altar and put out a reverent hand to touch one of the antlers. As he did so, he saw a beautiful girl standing on the steps of the temple, making a sacrifice. The girl was even more spectacular than the altar. Her large eyes shone with intelligence, and her hair, tied back in a simple knot, was thick and wavy. Her face was as lovely as that of the statue of the goddess herself.

The Athenian noticed where Akontios was looking and laughed. “No point in losing your heart over that one, my friend. That’s Kydippe. Her father is a nobleman of Athens, and he won’t give her in marriage to any suitor who isn’t well born and rich. I’m afraid a man with no money from—where did you say? Keos?—wouldn’t be good enough.” The Athenian’s eye swept over Akontios’s simple tunic, his plain sandals, his work-roughened hands.

Akontios hardly heard him as he stared at the lovely girl. How to meet her? It would be highly improper for him to approach her. High-born Greek women were kept so strictly secluded, many of them left home only to attend festivals like this one.

On an impulse, Akontios pulled his last apple out of his tunic. With the knife he always carried, he carved some words into its skin and tossed it at the girl’s feet.

Kydippe’s maid picked it up, glancing around to see where it had come from. Akontios kept himself hidden behind the intertwined horns of the altar, and after a while, the woman gave up looking and handed the apple to her mistress. Kydippe was about to take a bite out of it when she saw the words that Akontios had carved.

Idly, she read aloud: “I swear by the temple of Artemis that I will marry Akontios.” She glanced at her maid. “Who’s this Akontios?” The woman shrugged, and Kydippe ate the apple without trying any harder to find out who he was. Akontios’s heart sank.

“Nice try,” the Athenian said sympathetically.

“Move on, boy,” a rough voice said, and Akontios, after one more glance over his shoulder at the beautiful girl, allowed the next group to come and marvel at the temple and its altar. He didn’t manage to see Kydippe again, and when the festival was over, he returned to Keos and tried to forget her.

Kydippe went home, too, and her father soon found an eligible young man for her to marry. Most marriages in those days were arranged by the parents of the bride and groom. Hardly anyone expected to be in love with the person they married, so it didn’t strike Kydippe as unfair that she had no say in the matter. She prepared for the wedding, but the day before the ceremony was to take place, she fell ill. Not wanting a sickly wife, the prospective groom married someone else. This happened not once but twice more, until three weddings had been called off.

Kydippe’s father was worried. His daughter
had
to get married; there were no other options in those days. Girls couldn’t get jobs, and a girl of Kydippe’s background wouldn’t know how to farm or fish or do anything else to earn a living. If she never married, she’d have no one to support her once her parents died.

It was strange, though. When a wedding wasn’t being planned, Kydippe was as healthy as any other girl. Could she be pretending to be sick? Her father told his wife to question their daughter closely, but Kydippe denied that she was faking.

“Then what could it be, my darling?” her mother asked. “Are you afraid of getting married?”

“Oh, no,” Kydippe said. “I’d have been happy with any of those men that Father chose.”

“When you went to the festival on Delos, you didn’t make any silly promises to the goddess, did you? You know, Artemis vowed never to marry, and sometimes girls at her festivals get carried away and make the same oath.” She noticed her daughter staring at her in shock, and she turned pale. “You did, didn’t you?” she exclaimed. “Oh, Kydippe, how could you?”

“No, Mother, no, I didn’t swear never to marry. But—” And she recounted the story of the apple carved with the oath to marry someone named Akontios.

Her mother realized that Kydippe had made a solemn promise at the altar, even if she hadn’t intended to, and she told her husband what their daughter had done. He was furious, but he knew he didn’t have any choice. He had to allow Kydippe to marry this unknown man. He asked far and wide if anyone knew how to find him.

One of his friends had a son who had gone to the festival and remembered meeting a man named Akontios, from an island called Keos. They had chatted by the altar, the young man recalled, and he’d seen Akontios toss an apple to Kydippe. Maybe this was the man she had sworn to marry.

It didn’t sound likely, but Kydippe’s father was desperate. He sent messengers to Keos, where they found that the only young man named Akontios who fit the description was a simple farmer. He seemed pleasant enough, but the thought of marrying his beloved daughter to someone he didn’t know and who wasn’t of the social class she’d been born into, was distasteful to her father. He tried once more to marry her to a young man of Athens, one who came with a noble pedigree and a good treasury.

But the day before the wedding, Kydippe fell ill again. She fainted in her mother’s arms and remained unconscious as physicians bustled in and out of the house, applying every remedy they could think of. Nothing did any good.

Kydippe’s father gave up. He told his daughter’s most recent fiancé that the wedding was off and sent for Akontios.

Akontios couldn’t believe his good fortune. He put on his best tunic, borrowed new sandals from a neighbor, and set sail for Athens. He and Kydippe were married the next day, and Akontios made sure that apples were served at the wedding feast.

So Akontios was a little sneaky, but some people in the myths did really bad things to get the one they loved—sometimes even murder. There’s a myth about a king’s daughter that I don’t think gets told much today.

Stop me if you’ve heard this.

In my day, the most important job qualification for being king was to be the best soldier around. I’ve learned from what I’ve overheard lately—oh, say, in the last five hundred years or so—that it’s different now. I hear that the rulers of most countries have more to do with things like laws and taxes than with combat, and that even when there’s a war, they hardly ever fight. Is this true? It’s hard to wrap my mind around.