Nightsong (7 page)

“How am I like you, friend Sisyphus?”

The condemned mortal strained against the great, uneven stone, compelling it upward. “Prince Orpheus,” added Sisyphus, through gritted teeth, “someday you may find Apollo's lyre to be heavier than any boulder.”

The poet brooded over Sisyphus's remark as he hurried toward his destination.

Another winged shape sliced the air, fluttering phantoms, Furies gathering at the unaccustomed scent of living flesh.

“What breathing wayfarer is that?” came the echoing question from above in a primordial tongue, the Furies questioning and commenting with each other.

“Oh, let him be a wight who murdered his mother,” said one, “or did sunder his father's throat.”

Added another, in a tone like rapt anticipation, “So we can tear out his belly and make him writhe.”

But another Fury broke off from the rest, and winged her way hard toward the palace.

TWENTY-ONE

Orpheus traveled on, toward the still-distant walls.

Feeling hope ebb within his heart, he passed the dimly illuminated shapes of beings in torment.

Tityus, a hoary giant, who long ago tried to violate one of Jupiter's lovers, stretched over several acres of dark ground while vultures plucked at his liver. Tantalus, who once in ages past stole food from Olympus and offered it to mortal men, stood bound forever starving and parched, in a bubbling pool of water.

Orpheus stopped and nearly called out in anguish at the sight of this creature's torture. When the prisoner struggled to take a sip of the water all around, the spring receded, and when he craned his neck to take a bite of the ripe fruit suspended over his head, the nourishment shrank back, just out of reach.

Orpheus hurried on, tears of compassion in his eyes.

Ixion, the first human being to murder another, Orpheus recognized by his particularly agonizing punishment – bound to a wheel that rolled around and around, crushing him but never extinguishing his life.

The poet closed his eyes against the sight, stirred to helpless anger that the powers of this place could be so cruel.

Orpheus's optimism had become increasingly thin, and now as he approached the looming walls of Pluto's palace, he wondered if his quest would, indeed, prove entirely futile. He was unable to keep from hunching his shoulders as yet more Furies swooped down.

The air was even colder now, and its smell was like the wet earth after a heavy paving stone has been lifted – all around, the permeating moisture of minerals and decay.

Beyond the walls and towers lay the plain where the once living slept. A few shades lifted from the expanse and lofted, fragile as breath, above the mute resting place. Never had Orpheus felt so in need of warm-blooded companionship.

As the gates before him opened silently, Orpheus wondered once more if he had been wise in coming here.

He entered the palace, a quaking trespasser in a huge, echoing fortress.

TWENTY-TWO

One of the Furies trailed behind him, joined by one or two others, not attending him so much as spying over him, a slim, winged form, drifting near and circling the poet wonderingly.

“Don't stay out there in the entryway, Orpheus, son of the immortal muse,” intoned a woman's voice from an unseen interior. “Come in here – and quickly.”

Nonetheless Orpheus hesitated, tiptoeing forward, across the chilly, polished slabs of the stone floor.

“In here, dear poet,” insisted the pleasing voice, which seemed to come from all directions at once.

An inner door fell open with a sound like a sigh, and two figures on thrones sat half shrouded in the lamplight.

Orpheus recognized Persephone from the many poems celebrating her.

She was robed in a green fabric so dark it was nearly black, and her head was encircled with a leafless wreath of ebony stems. She was pale, her lips without color, but her smile and her warm and curious eyes were very much those of a tenderhearted woman as she said, “We welcome you, Prince Orpheus.”

A presence sat beside her on a separate throne, a broad-shouldered figure, taller than any human the poet had ever encountered. Only his hands were exposed, large and colorless, adorned with rings of gleaming jet and transparent diamond. This being could only be the lord of the underworld. He was mantled and hooded, his features hidden, and he looked away, pointedly refusing to offer his youthful, mortal visitor so much as a glance.

Orpheus fell to his knees. Even in this citadel, the faraway rumble of Sisyphus's stone could be heard, and the bickering of the distant, hungry vultures.

Being so close to the most profound god touched Orpheus deeply. While uneasy to the point of breathlessness, the poet was filled with reverence. Often known by the more ancient name Hades, Pluto was brother to Neptune and Jupiter, and like them he had lived since the beginning of mortal time.

The uselessness of the poet's pilgrimage here began to dawn all the more deeply upon the bereft traveler.

“How is it, Queen Persephone,” he asked in quaking tones, “that you know who I am?”

“My lord and I both extend our greetings to you, Orpheus,” replied the queen, with every show of kindness – even as the divinity beside her made neither sound nor gesture. “And we can easily guess the reason you have paid a visit to our realm.” She answered his query only then by adding, “Do you think that at least one of the timeless Furies could not recognize the grandson of Jupiter?”

Orpheus had all but lost the gift of speech, his last hope vanishing. It was with effort that he recalled his habitual good manners. He climbed to his feet as he found the power to say, “All the creatures of daylight, Queen Persephone, honor you.” He hastened to add, “And we honor your lord, too.”

This last remark was little more than a weak courtesy – and a vain attempt to flatter. In truth, men and women never did raise a temple to Hades, or hold even the briefest festival in his name. Of all the gods he was the one thought to be the least concerned with human beings and their pleasures, not evil in character so much as abysmally indifferent. Within his peaked hood his features were veiled, and this figure turned resolutely away from his visitor.

“I don't forget what it was like to be a mortal woman,” Persephone was saying, her voice gentle and low, but carrying into the recesses of this palace, and softly echoing. “I remember the sun on my shoulders, and how it warmed my hair.” She laughed at this memory, as though surprised at it, and touched the naked wreath around her head.

The queen straightened on her throne, like a woman stirring herself to more serious and present matters. She leveled her gaze at the young poet. “But we anticipate your reason for journeying so far into our world, and we must warn you, good Orpheus – what you want is impossible.”

TWENTY-THREE

“How can you steal the request from my lips?” Orpheus found the power to protest.

“We respect your steadfast love, Prince Orpheus,” she responded, “but no human soul can be returned to life once it sleeps in our kingdom. Not even someone as noble-natured and beloved as your Eurydice.”

Hearing the name of his bride spoken in this cold palace gave Orpheus such pain, and filled him with such longing, that he struggled to keep from groaning aloud.

“Queen Persephone,” said the poet, his voice hoarse with feeling, “I have come to sing for you.” Orpheus despaired now that any poetry could stir compassion from such a place, but he would not depart without lifting his voice.

“Will you play us a tune,” asked Persephone, with something very much like hope, “on that gift from Apollo?”

Orpheus cradled the lyre. Even here in this chill, the silver frame was warm beneath his touch.

“I pray that I may,” Orpheus managed to respond.

Persephone clasped her hands thoughtfully, as though weighing the consequences of music in such a place. She turned to look at her husband, but Lord Hades continued to give no sign that he was aware of their guest.

“You may sing for us, Orpheus,” said Queen Persephone at last, “and play Apollo's lyre – but only with my lord's permission.”

She turned her head and waited for the grand, hooded figure beside her to make a sound. The god showed no sign of having heard – except to turn, almost imperceptibly, even farther away.

Persephone waited for the immortal husband to show some sign of permission, but at last she turned to Orpheus and parted her hands.

There is nothing I can do
.

Orpheus touched the strings, accidentally, as he turned away from the king and queen, ready to set down the silver instrument. This grazing touch, a chance chord, made such a sweet stir in this shadowy chamber that he could not keep his hand from plucking the chord again – a beautiful sound.

The shadow of your hand
,

Eurydice
,

among the shadows of the birds

on a summer morning
.

Orpheus lifted this quiet verse to the murmur of the lyre.

He had not intended to sing at all, and indeed his voice was barely above a whisper. But this soft fragment of song, created in the moment, was enough to cause a drifting shape to scurry toward him, eyes sharp, joined at once by another, the Furies gathering, so fierce with curiosity that Orpheus nearly dropped his lyre.

He touched the strings again.

I stir
,

Eurydice
,

thinking you have touched me –

forgetting
.

The Furies hurried into a circle around him, winged apparitions like winged women, now that the poet beheld them clearly. In an uncanny way, they possessed a stark beauty. Their black eyes were hungry, silently insisting to Orpheus,
Sing, sing
.

Their fierce attention prompted the poet to raise his voice, as his fingers remembered the chords he had learned from the lord of daylight.

The poet sang of Eurydice, and of his love. He offered verses that he would later find lost to memory.

When he was done, he stood with the lyre still vibrating from the last chord, and became aware again of the Furies around him, and the now-tearful eyes of Queen Persephone.

I came to sing poetry, thought Orpheus, and so I have.

He was resigned, in his sadness, to whatever requirements the powers of this kingdom might command. But Orpheus realized then what a deep silence now surrounded the palace.

The rumble of Sisyphus's boulder, the snapping squabble of the vultures had ceased. In the corridors, the shade of a human ghost, joined by several others, stood rapt to catch the last echoes of music that even then reverberated through the underworld.

At last the silence was complete, and Persephone turned and put a slender hand on the forearm of her husband – just once, a single touch.

For a long while nothing moved. No Fury made an utterance, and no shade drifted back to its resting place. The impassive Hades remained as he had been, and made no sound.

But then he moved, very slowly.

The veiled shape of Hades shifted on his throne, just slightly, turning back toward Persephone. The great figure lifted a single, blackly jeweled finger, and like a monarch that did nothing in haste, he leaned heavily toward the queen.

The veil fluttered softly before his lips.

The whisper he gave was wordless to Orpheus's ears, but Persephone caught its meaning.

She put her hands together, a gesture of relief and quiet thanksgiving.

“You may take Eurydice back into the daylight,” said Persephone, a thrill in her voice.

Orpheus was unable to respond at first – hopeful anticipation was equally mingled with disbelief in the poet's heart.

“You may return her to life,” said Persephone with a smile. But then she lifted a hand, a warning gesture. “But there is one condition you must observe without fail, Prince Orpheus.”

“I will do anything,” responded Orpheus. “What task must I perform to bring Eurydice to the world of the living?”

TWENTY-FOUR

“My lord and husband decrees that you may return Eurydice to the living, Prince Orpheus,” said Persephone with a pensive smile, “but on one very firm and unwavering condition.”

“I will pay any price,” said Orpheus excitedly.

She silenced him, lifting a hand. “On the journey,” she continued, “you must not turn back to look at her – not even once.”

The poet considered. This would certainly be a relatively easy restriction to fulfill, he thought. “There is no additional condition?”

“You must not look upon her for a single moment, Orpheus,” Persephone insisted earnestly, “once you have departed from this palace. Do you understand?”

“Indeed I do,” responded the poet with increasing enthusiasm.

“There will be no second opportunity,” said Persephone. “If you lose her again, Prince Orpheus, she will be lost forever.”

Orpheus gave an excited laugh, his pulse racing.

“I promise,” the poet said, “that I will lead the way – and not look back until we emerge from this domain.” The young mortal could not add another word, so great was his excitement – and his growing faith that he was close to seeing Eurydice again.

“I shall call for her, then,” said Persephone in a low voice, half question, half promise.

“Please, great queen,” Orpheus managed to say, “send for my beloved.”

Persephone smiled, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Eurydice!”

A soft wind took up the syllables, the name cascading through the corridors of the palace, out into the muted plain beyond. The gathered Furies joined in, a chorus of half-voiced calls.

Eurydice!

TWENTY-FIVE

Nothing happened.

For a long, seemingly endless moment there was no running figure, no breathless laugh, no longed-for voice calling his name. Orpheus began to dread that the promise would be mocked with failure – or, even worse, that some dim, tattered shade would appear, not at all like a living woman.