TWO

The pack closed in.

The lead dog drew so near that Orpheus could feel the warmth from the feral body and smell his rank, hot breath.

He was a thickset brute, larger and less famished in appearance than the rest, with a square snout and fine golden fangs. An old, white scar along his spine showed where a shepherd’s barbed arrow had broken off some summers ago. The dog had intent, silver-colored eyes, and uttered a rumbling growl.

The poet was afraid. Not so much for himself, but for the infant. And there was plenty of unease left over for him to consider his own flesh and bone, too. The wet, gaunt animals had spent a bleak winter, by the looks of them, and the poet felt a twinge of compassion for their empty bellies.

But he was not so frightened that he failed to remember the power of song.

“The divine Apollo’s golden blessing on all of you,” sang Orpheus, a friendly verse of greeting.

White Scar answered with a deeper growl.

“This baby is safe with me, my dear friend,” sang Orpheus, an improvised air with a sweet melody that disguised the poet’s growing anxiety.

The throng of hungry animals urged White Scar from behind, shouldering and slavering, but the big animal resisted, suspicion and wonder, perhaps, keeping him where he was for a few moments more.

Orpheus reached up, and placed the infant in a fork of the ancient ash tree, its branches leafless this chilly day. Some people believed that Diana, the goddess of the hunt, favored such venerable trees, and the poet was thankful for the old tree’s sheltering limbs.

Then the young man hefted the shining lyre from the ground, and settled the gleaming musical instrument into the crook of his arm. His fingers were stiff and cold from the river crossing. Nevertheless, he began to play well, lifting his voice in a poem about Persephone.

It was the story of the graceful mortal woman kidnapped by the lord of the underworld. Some people believed that the arrival of spring flowers was a sign that Persephone was returning to the land of the daylight, bringing new life. Others held that enigmatic Pluto was a jealous lord, and released his wife into the upper world but rarely. Orpheus sang of how Persephone, exiled among the colorless shades of once living people, fondly remembered the creatures of daylight.

She was fond of the hunting animals, too, the poet sang – like the wild dog White Scar, with his fine teeth. The verses told of Persephone’s regret that she could not enjoy the company of such hardy animals, imprisoned as she was in the dark-steeped realm of the dead.

Orpheus closed his eyes, and sang of Persephone’s passion for all living things.

When his poem was done, Orpheus opened his eyes – and beheld only empty hillside where the dogs had been.

“They left!” panted Biton, hurrying up and brandishing his staff. “And it’s a good thing for them, too,” he added. “By Hercules, master, I’ll kill any dog that so much as snaps at you!”