Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (61 page)

Born in Thrace, Orpheus roamed the land, never staying long in one place. He reached the coast, and wandered the length of it, but then, instead of striking inland, turned, and began to drift down again, still following the shoreline but now stopping at each village.

The fishermen welcomed him very warmly and fought for the privilege of taking him on board their boats. Not that they were such ardent music lovers, but they knew that when he stood on their decks, plucking his lyre and singing, fish would rise from the depths and balance themselves on their tails, listening. And such fish were easy to catch. But often, as it happened, the fishermen themselves fell into a trance and forgot to cast their nets.

It was at this time that Orpheus began to attack the practice of human sacrifice. During a visit to one village, he had seen a shouting mob escort a fisherlad to the edge of a cliff. The tall, fresh-faced boy held himself erect, gazing out to sea, as the villagers chanted prayers to Earth-Shaking Poseidon, Sender of Fish. Holding his head high, the boy stood there, outfacing death, wincing only when he heard his mother sob.

Then, without waiting to be pushed, he shouted, “Accept me, O sea!” and leaped off the cliff into the swirling water below. Jumping into water from that height is like falling onto rock, and the broken body spun a few times in the riptide, then sank. The boy's mother tried to leap off after him, but was caught by her husband and led gently downhill.

Orpheus, watching, was riven to the heart. More than anything else, he was moved by the gallantry of the doomed youth who had tried so hard to welcome death, knowing that the gods preferred an offering untainted by grief or fear. Then and there, Orpheus vowed never to sail on any ship belonging to a village that sacrificed its sons and daughters.

The practical fisherfolk, faced with a choice between the immediate results of the poet's deck music and some future prospect of Poseidon's favor, chose Orpheus. So the ivory knives tasted no more innocent blood, nor were any more youths forced to leap off cliffs—at least not while the poet lingered on the coast.

3

The Cannibal Gods

Orpheus traveled up and down the shore, hurling verse against the cannibal gods, and where he passed, lives were saved. After some months, however, he decided to leave the fishing villages and strike inland.

Any journey was perilous in those days. To go among strangers was to invite robbery and death. And of all places in the world, none were more murderously inhospitable than the slopes and passes of the Thracian mountains. There were bandits who routinely preyed on travelers; savage mountain clansmen who viewed everyone born outside their village as an enemy. And most dangerous of all were neither bandits nor clansmen, but the dour hardworking vine tenders whose grapes yielded a sweet potent wine.

These growers believed that the Mistress of the Crops became a ravening white sow in the summer, whose hunger could be glutted only by human flesh and whose thirst could be quenched only by blood. The Midsummer Sow had to be pleased or she would blight the grapes. Given her fill of meat and drink, however, she would load the vine with heavy purple fruit, and its juice thereof would be sweet and strong.

At midsummer, then, the vine tenders put on green clothing so they might not be seen among the leaves, and lay in wait for strangers passing by. They preferred to sacrifice at noon. They bound their victim with vines, and offered his best parts to the goddess. The head would be buried near a tumbling stream, the hands under a myrtle, and the rest of the body put into a shallow hole among the vine roots.

Orpheus, new to these slopes and a stranger to local custom, was pacing gaily down the trail, admiring the steep, terraced fields that seemed to be tilted toward the rich sunlight. He was hot and thirsty. Perching on a low stone wall, he plucked some grapes. They were sour but eased his thirst. He was cramming a handful into his mouth when the green-clad men leaped out of the brush.

They seized him. They were big, and there were three of them. He was helpless in their grip. One man held him from behind as a second stripped off his tunic. The third man stood by, holding a curved knife. They bound him to a tree, wrapping him with vines.

His lyre had dropped to the ground. The men did not know what the strange object was; they thought it some kind of weapon. One man kicked it away and was startled when the thing uttered a musical complaint. They were more startled when the trussed man uttered the same sound. They were used to their captive screaming when he saw the knife, but this one did not scream; he sang.

Birds were calling all the while. The bound man's voice threaded among them. The man with the knife tried to come closer, close enough to cut. But he could not move. His feet were rooted to the ground. The song was casting silver loops about him. He just stood there, listening. The two other men stood rooted also, listening.

Orpheus sang. His song told them that they were offering to the wrong god, that they should be worshipping no ugly, greedy midsummer sow, but
Dionysius
, Lord of the Vine, Master of Revels, Bestower of Ecstasy.

He sang of the birth of Dionysius—how his mother, a Phrygian princess named Semele, Priestess of the New Moon, was courted by Zeus, disguised as the night wind. But Semele was very proud of being loved by a god and wanted everyone to know. She coaxed Zeus into dropping his disguise. He appeared to her in his own form; she was consumed by the divine fire upon which no mortal can look, and live.… Dying, she gave birth to Dionysius, who was born among the flames. Ever afterward, fire ran in his veins, giving him his matchless radiance.

In his youth, Dionysius was tutored by satyrs and learned the secret of the grape and the terrible enchantment cast by its fermented juice.

“Yes!” sang Orpheus, “It is this radiant youth who empowers the vine. It is he who bestows the grape, and sweetens its juice, and lays magic upon it as it ages in the cask. It is he, Dionysius, not the Midsummer Sow.”

The green-clad men knew they were listening to sacrilege and would pay with their lives when the white sow came, claiming vengeance. They knew they should move upon the singer and dismember him—offer him, piece by piece, to the raging sow, begging her forgiveness all the while. They tried to break the spell, tried to rush at Orpheus. But the song noosed them in its silver coils and they could not move.

Now, animals had slid out of the forest and stood with them, listening. Wolves and deer, and a single bear. The birds had fallen still, for they too wanted to hear, and the voice of the singer was the only sound in the hot silence of the afternoon.

Orpheus kept chanting. His song told how the youngest god Dionysius wandered far, visiting all the kingdoms that border the Inner Sea, introducing men to the culture of the vine. He was followed by a troupe of laughing worshipers, men and women, who reveled nightly under the moon.

And now the rooted men shuddered and the animals bristled as they heard his voice take on a new tone. Trumpets rang in it—spear shock, and battle cry.

“Beware! Beware!” sang Orpheus, “One day, the vine god was captured by pirates who took him aboard their ship, thinking he was a prince they could hold for ransom. Then the ship stopped, though it was in deep water and sailing before the wind. Vines sprouted out of the sea, climbing the hull, twining around the mast. The oars of the galley slaves turned into sea serpents; they wrenched themselves free and swam away. Where Dionysius had been standing at the bow, a lion appeared. The wind in the rigging became the sound of flutes. The golden lion stood on his hind legs and danced. The terrified pirates jumped overboard and drowned. Beware! Beware!”

At this point in the song, a wild boar wandered out of the copse and stood among the other animals, listening. And the green-clad men, seeing the beast, thought that the sow had sent her consort to kill them. Now terror broke the spell of the music. The animals, smelling fear, began to growl. The man with the knife dropped his blade and ran. The others scurried after him, whimpering with fear. The wolves would have followed the men and torn them to pieces, but Orpheus began to sing again, for he did not wish them to be killed. He wanted no death in the grove that afternoon.

The wolves turned again, and listened to the song. And, Orpheus, escorted by wolves and the single bear, wandered the mountain villages, singing against the white sow and human sacrifice, hymning the vine god and the life-giving power of the Sun, who is the daily risen god, and can alone decree abundance.

By now, rumor of Orpheus and his band of enchanted listeners had reached the gods—those who dwelt upon Olympus, and those who prowled the depths of Tartarus. And demonish powers he hardly even knew existed began to make decisions about him.

4

His Song Is a Mischief

The roots of mountains are the roof beams of hell. Thick shafts of rock grip the floor of Hades' realm and soar upward out of sight—up through bottomless lakes and nameless caverns, lifting themselves up past the clouds into a great drench of sunlight, becoming the mountains of earth whose snowdrifts are the source of rivers, whose crags are a nest for eagles, and upon whose slopes wild horses graze.

But seen from the floor of Tartarus, they are huge pillars of rock thrusting straight up and losing themselves in darkness. Hades leaned now against one of these pillars, awaiting Hecate, whom he had summoned. He heard the chiming of brass wings before he saw the hags. He looked up. Wings and claws gleamed in the perpetual dusk. Hecate glided down, motioning for the Harpies to fly on. She coasted to the ground and alighted near Hades.

“You summoned me, my lord, and I am here.”

“We have heavy matters to consider,” said Hades. “Does the name Orpheus mean anything to you?”

“Is he down here?”

“No. He still lives.”

“I have been so busy carrying out your instructions, O Master, that I have quite lost track of what is happening on earth.”

“Well, good Hecate, I may have to enlarge your field of operations. You are the only one of my staff who has the wit to do my business on alien soil.”

“I am highly gratified by your confidence in me, my lord.”

“This Orpheus is a young poet,” said Hades. “A Thracian.”

“A poet? How does a poet come to occupy your majestic attention? I have always considered them the lightest of lightweights.”

“Not this one,” said Hades. “He doesn't twitter mindlessly like a bird. His song is a mischief. He wanders the land, persuading people to stop killing each other on our altars. Human sacrifice, he tells them, is a fancy name for murder. And murder, despite all natural instincts, is wrong, wrong, wrong.”

“The man's a lunatic!” cried Hecate. “Why do people believe him?”

“It's because he doesn't preach,” said Hades. “He's never boring. He doesn't moralize about killing, but praises life in terms so compelling that people quell their own murderous instincts. His message is gilded by such beautiful sound that it pierces the hearts of his listeners, and they refuse to do what he disapproves of. And so, he has reduced our quota of corpses.”

“Truly,” muttered Hecate. “The antics of this madman demand drastic action. Shall I go up there and kill him and drag his shade down here for appropriate torment?”

“No,” said Hades. “I want him, but I want him alive.”

“I don't understand.”

“There's something I haven't discussed with you,” said Hades. “It is the opinion of Zeus, which I am beginning to share, that for once we must violate our own rule. A living mortal will be permitted to visit us, and depart, alive.”

“Whatever for?”

“We need a witness—one who will observe what happens down here, and return to the upper world. His testimony, it is hoped, will frighten those restless herds into the kind of docility we have never been able to impose.”

“I see,” said Hecate. “And you think that this Orpheus will make a good witness?”

“He is a poet. His perceptions are keen, and his testimony eloquent.”

“But he's a troublemaker, you say. A very active one. Shall we not be presenting him with more opportunity for mischief?”

“I am hoping that what he sees here will frighten the mischief out of him. Besides, you, my dear Hecate, will be watching everything he does, and will be ready to pounce, should he get out of line.”

“How shall we get him down here?”

“The same way we tempted the three-headed dog to these regions. We shall contrive the death of someone Orpheus loves. His passionate nature should lead him to follow her shade down to Tartarus.”

“You say ‘she,'” said Hecate. “Does he have a wife?”

“He does not.”

“Does he love anyone?”

“I am told he does not.”

“Then whom can be used as a hostage?”

“I leave the details to you, O Hag. You must arrange for him to fall in love. Poets are supposed to be inflammable, after all. And you have proved yourself a creature of infinite resource.”

“Not so infinite as you suppose, my king. But I have never yet shirked a difficult assignment.”

“Consequently,” said Hades, “I shall expect to see this damned versifier down here as soon as our torments are in full swing.”

5

The Hag Hovers

Hecate went to work immediately. She contrived matters so that nymphs thronged the path of the poet wherever he went. Orpheus was delighted by the beautiful sleek creatures, who seemed to crystallize themselves out of his song. He sported in the sea with nereids, frolicked with meadow nymphs, danced in the grove with dryads, and went bounding from rock to rock with the lithe mountain nymphs called oreads.

He welcomed them all, reveled in their company, wrapped himself in their mixed fragrances, flowered under their touch—but fixed his affections on no one. He never stayed anywhere for more than a day and a night, but kept following his restless spirit to places he had not yet seen.