Free The Last Song of Orpheus by Robert Silverberg Page A

so it came to pass. We traveled up the swift Bosphorus, fighting against the eddies and counter-currents as the strait narrowed, and narrowed and narrowed again. More than once we felt sure we would be swept against the treacherous rocks that lined its shore, but the skill of Tiphys took us past every peril, with, I must say, some aid from me, for I beat the time in an ever-increasing pace to push our oarsmen to the greatest effort. And then at last we were beyond the worst of the currents and nothing more remained between us and the Euxine except the Clashing Rocks themselves, which we knew, from the way the dark water was surging and hissing and boiling before us, lay just ahead. 
    They were two craggy menacing fangs, towering high above the ship. But we tried to look upon them as no more than a pair of ordinary rocky masses, one to our left, the other to our right, with a clear space between them for our passage. We did not make the mistake of underestimating the danger that they posed, however, and we followed the advice of Phineus in every degree. We had with us aboard the Argo some caged doves trained to aid us in our navigation, and skillful Euphemus of Tainaron, our birdmaster, selected one and set it free. Up it soared, and went straightaway toward the opening between the two rocks. 
    At once there was a groaning sound as one sometimes hears at the outset of an earthquake, and the rocks began to move toward each other with frightening speed. It was a horrific thing to behold. Onward sped the dove, undaunted. Then, from nowhere, a hawk dropped down out of the sky and lunged toward it in an attempt to seize it in midair, but in that same moment quick-witted Phalerus the archer, of the royal house of Attica, seized his bow and put a shaft through the hawk’s heart. The hawk fell to our deck; the dove continued on; the rocks crashed together with a deafening sound like that of ten thunderbolts at once, throwing up a great surge of spray and rocking our ship to one side and the other until we thought she would capsize; and as the rocks parted again and the agitated sea grew calmer, we caught sight of our dove winging onward toward the Euxine, while a single tail feather came drifting down and was lost in the sea. 
    We wasted no time. The rocks had moved back, but who knew for how long? I took up my lyre and began a hearty song that set the strongest of rhythms, Tiphys clung to his steering-oar with all his might, our oarsmen rowed so hard their oars were nearly bending in the water, and sturdy Argo went pressing forward. As we passed between the rocks we heard the groaning sound again, and the beginning of the thunder, and when I made so bold as to look behind me I saw the two great cliffs starting to move inward a second time. But the men rowed like demons and we went plunging forward and came safely through, though the rocks came clashing together just behind us with a sound like that of a herald announcing the end of the world. Just as our dove had lost one of her feathers, we lost a piece of our stern ornament when the rocks clashed for that second time, but we sustained no other harm.

    So we left the Bosphorus and its Clashing Rocks behind, and entered onto the bosom of that great sea at whose farther end lay Colchis and the Fleece. And the tale is told among men that the Clashing Rocks, now that they had been outwitted by the Argo , grew roots in the sea and never again moved from their places.

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    The story of our voyage up the Euxine Sea to Colchis is something everyone knows, for the tale has been told again and again by the poets. But the daily toil, the pain, the struggle—ah, who can know of that who was not there? For me the suffering was a required ordeal, part of the education that the gods had designed for me; what it signified for the others, I cannot say. But though we suffered greatly, we none of us uttered a word of complaint. Through suffering comes purification. 
    Day after day we followed