Just one more to go! It’s about time, too. See how low the sun is? If I don’t tell you another story you haven’t heard in the next few minutes, I’ll lose all chance of seeing Eurydice again. I’ll be stuck here, just another rock in another forest somewhere in the world, and the water running down my front really will be my tears.
Okay, honestly? They’ve been tears the whole time. I just said they were condensation because nowadays some people think it’s a sign of weakness for a man to cry. I prefer my own time, when manly tears were nothing to be ashamed of.
Anyway, if I fail, at least I won’t need to tell stories anymore, which I guess will be a relief. Maybe I’ll wait until people come by and yell “Boo!” just to see them jump. But I’d rather be released from this rock and go back to the realm of the dead, for good this time, and be with my dear Eurydice forever.
Let’s see, one more. What shall I tell you about? I’m all talked out. This is really the end.
What do you mean, I should tell you about that? About what? Oh, about the end! I see—I started off by telling you how the world and everything else came into being. So you think I should finish by telling you how humans will come to an end, according to the Greeks? Have you heard that one?
Notice I didn’t say “how the world will come to an end” but “how humans will come to an end.” That’s because we Greeks thought that the world itself is eternal. Humanity is another matter. The poet Hesiod, the first person anyone knows of who wrote down the myths in Greece, talked about the “progression” of mankind in his book Works and Days.
According to Hesiod, the gods created the first humans, the “golden race,” with their own hands. The gods loved their creation, and the first people loved the gods. This golden-age generation lived surrounded by fruits and vegetables, and the people watched over plentiful flocks. They never suffered from illness, and death came to them peacefully at the end of a long, happy life. Eventually, all the golden-age people died, but their spirits remain on earth to watch over humanity.
But the gods were unhappy, since no one was left alive to worship them. So they tried creating humans again. The resulting “silver race” wasn’t quite as successful as their first attempt. Each of its members spent one hundred years as a foolish child and died soon after reaching adulthood. Worst of all, the silver-age people neglected the gods, so Zeus destroyed them. They became the gloomy spirits of the underworld.
The next try was an utter disaster. Zeus worked alone this time, but he didn’t do very well. The new people, the “bronze race,” were arrogant, hard-hearted, and violent. The gods didn’t have to bother to destroy them, because they killed one another. Their spirits went to the deepest part of the underworld. I think I saw some of them there, but they weren’t the kind of people I felt like hanging around with, so I didn’t stay long enough to make sure.
Race number four worked out better. The people that Zeus created in his second solo attempt were the ones we know from mythology: the heroes and demi-gods who did magnificent deeds and founded great cities. Unfortunately, they also tended to kill one another in dreadful wars. The members of the heroic race who survived are still alive today, Hesiod says, but they live far away from us, at the ends of the earth. They dwell on the shore of Okeanos, the eternal ocean that existed even before the gods came into being, where the fields and trees bear fruit in three separate springs every year. Remember Okeanos, from the first story I told you?
When the heroic race turned out to be a bust, Zeus ordered a fifth generation to be made, and that’s us. We, according to Hesiod, are the “race of iron.” We work hard, and many of us suffer. Still, we have some good things in our lives to keep us happy. But, Hesiod warns, things will get really bad. Babies will already be old when they’re born. Parents and children will fight with one another, the laws of hospitality will be forgotten, evildoers will be praised, and envy, “with a scowling face,” will go among humans.
At that point, the spirits who make up human conscience, Aidos (“shame over bad behavior”) and Nemesis (“righteous indignation”), will give up on mankind and depart from the earth to join the gods. Society will fall apart, and all that will remain to people is sorrow.
Hesiod doesn’t say how—or even if—our generation of iron will end or whether another one will come after us. Instead, he follows his chapter on the ages of man with a short fable. It’s about a hawk that has seized a nightingale in its talons and scolds it when it cries out. The hawk says, “It’s up to me whether to eat you or to let you go. It’s stupid to try to fight against someone stronger than you, because you’re not going to win. You’ll just get hurt worse and will make a fool of yourself. So you might as well shut up and at least keep your dignity, and maybe I’ll take pity on you and let you go.” Perhaps the poet is telling us there’s a glimmer of hope that the iron race won’t be destroyed, as long as we don’t complain and carry on as best we can.
Did I do it? Did I miscount? Was that seventeen?
I think I did it! Or we did it. You and me. I can’t wait to tell everyone how a human kid happened to wander through the woods at just the right time. You saved my life, you know that? Well, not really my life. Rocks aren’t alive. Listen to me—I’m so nervous, I’m babbling!
There goes the sun. There’s just a tiny little sliver of red left! Surely the gods wouldn’t be so cruel as to make me tell all those stories and then not reward me. Oh, no! It’s almost gone!
Wait—who is that coming toward me? Do you see her? She looks the way I remember her, but I haven’t seen her for three thousand years, so I can’t be sure. Ah! The light of the setting sun is shining on her face! She’s smiling and waving, and it looks like—is it—could it be—Eury—
The talking rock falls silent, and as the last rays of the sun strike it, you see that it is now just an ordinary stone, lying quietly next to a stream, with nothing special to set it apart from any other stone. Somehow you know that you won’t hear any more stories from this gray lump, down the front of which run two deep clefts where moss has gathered. The moss is still damp, but water no longer runs through the channels.
Stand near the rock, though, and wait until the birds and squirrels have fallen silent and the night creatures have not yet begun to stir. In those few moments of stillness, listen closely. If you’re lucky, you’ll hear the merry sounds of a lyre and flute playing a wedding song, and you’ll hear the laughter of the newlyweds and the cheers and congratulations of the guests.
If you’re fortunate enough to hear the party for the wedding of Orpheus and Eurydice, walk away quietly and don’t disturb them. They’ve waited three thousand years to be together, after all, and they deserve their celebration.