FOURTEEN

Biton leaped up when Orpheus returned to his chamber.

Something had changed in his master’s stride, some new determination, that gave the servant hope.

The poet approached the lyre of Apollo, hidden under a length of fine wool. He did not remove the cloth at once, but took a long moment to prepare himself for the sight of the silver frame – sometimes, in the midst of sorrow, it is hard to look upon a thing of beauty.

He ran his hands over the warmth of the lyre, and when he touched a string with a fingertip, the single note – insistent but so nearly silent – quickened his heart.

“We have to help our friends, Biton,” explained Orpheus to his companion’s questioning glance, “when their sorrow is so great.”

Orpheus played for King Lycomede and Prince Lachesis.

The music was soul-quieting, notes that hung in the silence long after he had plucked them.

But still the poet did not sing.

He did not lift his voice – no power could move him to poetry.

And for a long hour that afternoon no song was needed. The chords Orpheus plucked were enough to cause the king to turn, and look out for the first time in days, gazing toward the honey-colored light of late day. The king watched the gray doves in the courtyard fluttering upward, uttering their low courting songs.

The king spoke at last.

After a week of silence, his voice was little more than a whisper.

“Orpheus,” said the king, with an effort to make himself understood, “please sing of Persephone and Pluto in the world of night.”

Orpheus was slightly surprised that the grieving, skeptical king might seek solace in a somber – and religious – poem.

The poet obliged, however, with the hymn about the lord of the underworld and his stolen bride, who became the queen of that lightless place. Orpheus was pleased to see that the song caused the bereaved father to nod slowly in rhythm, and the sight of the king’s lips moving silently to the time-honored verses touched the poet deeply.

Orpheus ceased to play, and stilled the vibrant strings with the flat of his hand. The song echoed, as did the last music from the lyre, and the young man waited for silence to gather before he stood and exclaimed, “Now I know what I must do!”

“Play another song, dear boy,” said the king. “That is all I require of your sweet nature.”

“I shall journey,” said Orpheus, “to that unknown place.”

“Where?” asked the king, in the first stirrings of alarm. But when King Lycomede saw the resolve in the poet’s eyes, he burst out, “Surely you won’t risk traveling there, my dear Orpheus!”

The land of the dead was shunned, as the king well knew – no living traveler went there by choice, or even considered doing such a thing.

“I shall go into the kingdom of the dead,” said Orpheus simply, “and, with the permission of the gods, I will bring Eurydice home with me.”

“Orpheus, you may find yourself able to travel into the lightless kingdom,” said the king, his voice ragged with dread. “But I fear that even the son of a muse will be unable to journey home again.”