Nightsong (9 page)

“It troubles me to hear this news,” said Orpheus.

But of course I can do nothing, he nearly added.

The poet listened to the sparrows and the doves that nested in the roof. He thought, how much like human speech – the warmhearted chatter of wharf and market – their sounds were.

I'm here
, the birds said to each other.

I live, I live
, they announced with mindless energy, little feathered knots of vitality while the lovely Eurydice slept.

But was that all they said?

Perhaps you should, perhaps you should
.

He rose to his feet, tentatively, and found his way out of the cool interior, standing under the bright sun.

He had been indoors too long, he thought. The songbirds were beginning to speak Greek.

“The day is warm,” said Orpheus, taking a few experimental steps across the stone-strewn ground, taking pleasure in the sound of the pebbles under his sandals. “And the sky is –”

What word could describe such a sky.
Empty? Blue? Full of promise?
Words were not equal to such an expanse of heaven.

Or were they?

“Is it true, Prince Orpheus,” the suntanned priest was asking excitedly, “that divine Apollo once spoke with you?”

“The blessings of the gods on you, good priest,” said Orpheus, remembering his customary, if long-neglected, courtesy.

The poet took a deep breath, not wanting to speak further of divine things just now. He felt unsteady from his long inactivity, and amazed at the heady perfume of sea air.

Orpheus glanced upward once more, at the dazzling source of daylight high above. Sometimes it was said that Apollo mourned with mortals when they were sad, and did what he could to lessen human grief.

If this happened to be true, thought Orpheus, I have seen no recent sign of it. The god of daylight, who had once allowed his mortal son to scorch the world with his wayward chariot, remained largely remote and heedless. At least, that was how it seemed to the poet now.

“The lord of daylight walked with me, that's a fact,” he told the eager priest. “One timeless, wonderful day – long ago.”

“And is it true what they say, Prince?” persisted the priest, almost too excited to complete his question. “That the divine Apollo endowed you with a finely wrought silver lyre?”

Biton's cry stopped Orpheus, and he turned back.

The young servant ran, carrying the silver instrument, the frame and strings bright in the sunlight. “Master, I expected the metal to be tarnished, after all these months,” exclaimed Biton. “But look – how beautiful it is, after all this time!”

Orpheus took the instrument reluctantly into his grasp. But then he cradled it with less hesitation, surprised at how comfortably it settled into his arms.

“The legends,” said the priest, rapture in his eyes, “report that your lyre never tarnishes, and never needs to be tuned.”

“That's all true,” the poet heard himself say. He returned the lyre to his servant's arms. “But my fingers will have grown clumsy – I have not plucked a single chord for many months.”

But the priest did not hear this – he hurried on ahead, into the village.

THIRTY

The grateful and excited crowd parted as Orpheus and Biton hastened toward the dwelling place of the injured child.

The young boy lay senseless, his mother gently soothing his forehead with a soft cloth, his father stirring a brazier of healing herbs.

The poet knelt beside the sickbed without speaking. Young Norax was much closer to death than Orpheus had expected, his breath slow and shallow, eyelids parted but his eyes unseeing.

This troubled the poet very much.

Orpheus had thought that one of the jolly old verses, unaccompanied by the lyre – perhaps one of the many stories of goat-footed Pan and his adventures – would cheer an injured boy. However, this patient was beyond such childish ditties. The physician in the corner gave Orpheus a shrug:
What more can I do?

The poet could not bear to see the child so close to death, or the parents so cruelly caught between hope and anguish. Remembering all the other times the lyre and fervent poetry had shown power, Orpheus turned solemnly to Biton.

The poet did not have to speak.

Biton presented the bright-framed lyre.

And the servant was not alone in holding his breath, leaning forward to catch the first sound.

It has been long, thought Orpheus, since I have tried to play.

Too long, and my heart is far too heavy, and surely the skill has faded from my fingers.

He touched the instrument gently, nonetheless, feeling the familiar strings vibrant and supple beneath his trembling fingers.

He nearly dropped the lyre, shocked at what he heard.

7

THIRTY-ONE

The sound that lifted upward from the lyre was not a mere musical note, soft but sustained.

It was the unmistakable whisper,
“Orpheus!”

There could be no doubt.

It was the voice of Eurydice.

Orpheus did not dare to touch the strings again, certain, despite the evidence of his own hearing, that he was being tricked by some hard-hearted prankster. He glanced around at the expectant faces of parents and friends, ready to burst out accusingly,
Which of you is cruel and spiteful enough to taunt me?

Biton's innocently wondering smile, and the rapt, eager features of the assembled family, answered Orpheus's silent question.

I'll try that note again, he thought.

In a moment – when I've recovered my senses.

When he could not hesitate any longer, he stretched his fingers again, and it seemed that the strings moved, seeking his hand more eagerly than ever before.

The poet plucked a new chord, and he heard her again:
“Orpheus, sing with me!”

He nearly stood upright, and almost let the lyre fall once more – but he remained seated, stunned into new silence.

The others in the room waited, anticipation in their eyes, unaware of the presence that resounded in the sickroom only in the poet's ears.

Only Orpheus could hear her voice, it seemed. He ran his finger along a string, and there she was again, singing the syllables of his name.

Orpheus found new music, plucking tenderly, listening with increasing joy to the sound of Eurydice the way he had first heard her, bathing in the woods, lifting her voice in praise of the divine Juno.

As he played, her voice surrounded him, a living presence.

And, breathlessly at first, so Orpheus lifted his voice with hers.

What is day
,

what is night
,

your footstep so close
.

Young Norax stirred on his sickbed, blinking. He rose to one elbow, his lips parted, caught by the poem.

The injured boy sat up, gazing at the source of the music, Orpheus and the shining lyre. Norax smiled, happy but confused at the cries of gratitude as his parents knelt beside his sickbed, and gathered him into their arms.

From that day, and throughout the era of Orpheus's journeys that followed, into distant lands, each time he placed his hand on the lyre, he heard the voice of Eurydice.

And every day of the poet's life he sang with her.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

While I create my own stories based on the myths portrayed by the Latin poet Ovid, his magnificent poem
The Metamorphoses
remains one of the inspirations for my own writings about the classical era.

For this reason, I use the Roman names for the gods and goddesses. Minerva is not entirely the same goddess as Athena, and Jupiter is not exactly the same as Zeus. However, I have decided to continue to follow Ovid's names for the divinities in the interest of consistency, and out of respect for that great poet and the world he brought to life.

About the Author

Michael Cadnum is the author of thirty-five books for adults and young adults. His work—which includes thrillers, suspense novels, historical fiction, and books about myths and legends—has been nominated for the National Book Award (
The Book of the Lion
), the Edgar Award (
Calling Home
and
Breaking the Fall
), and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize (
In a Dark Wood
). A former National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellow, he is also the author of award-winning poetry.
Seize the Storm
(2012) is his most recent novel.

Michael Cadnum lives in Albany, California, with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2006 by Michael Cadnum

Cover design by Drew Padrutt

ISBN: 978-1-5040-1967-5

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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New York, NY 10014

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