Free Nightsong by Michael Cadnum Page A

not. I’ll take one quick glance, nothing more.
    He got ready to take just one peek Just one, to prevent her from drowning.
    Eurydice screamed.
    She had been balancing, step by step, across the uneven streambed, and making good progress – but slow. Her injury no longer hurt at all, and she was filled with ever-increasing hope. Wasn’t that vague glow from far above the promise of daylight?
    She was more than halfway across the rushing water when Orpheus turned back and met her eyes.
    Her lungs shrank again, and her blood ceased to pulse.
    Her heart contracted to a cold fist in her breast and her cry became a rattle. All the life that had returned to her body, giving it weight and color, ebbed away in moments, sinews dissolving, bone turning to smoke, a living woman becoming a shade again, and dissolving as she silently shrilled his name.

6

TWENTY-EIGHT
    Biton found Orpheus in the sunlight the next day, sitting on the shore.
    The youth led a sure-footed donkey burdened with ripe dates and sesame cakes, red wine and fresh-baked loaves – the makings of a welcome feast for Orpheus and his rescued bride.
    The poet spoke no word, and gave no sign of hearing Biton’s questions. The youthful servant could only spread a blanket, prepare a meal, and taste some of it encouragingly. And then, when his master made no move to eat, Biton packed the rest of it away.
    The young servant could not imagine what his master had seen or suffered. Biton knew it was a selfish, small thing to take delight in, but he was glad to have his master back safe.
    That was enough to make Biton thankful, but as the days went on, the servant grew increasingly concerned for the princely poet.
    Biton had observed his master’s deep mourning before, but nothing like this. The poet was not bereaved so much as void, lost to nearly every sound and sight around him. For days Orpheus did not eat, and he said nothing, watching the waves break and the foam sink into the rocky shore.
    Biton held a cup of weak wine to his master’s lips, and the poet – his face a silent mask of sorrow – took in just enough to stay alive. His lyre rested against a stone untouched as Orpheus watched the round sun set and the stars rise. How many days were spent like this Biton would never be able to guess, but it was at dawn when at last he saw his master standing, letting the salt water lap at his ankles.
    Orpheus gestured out to sea, indicating a vessel beyond the waves, drawing in its sail.
    Biton recognized the Actis even though her canvas was new and dazzling white. Red-haired Captain Idas waved from the bow.
    â€œWe were worried about you,” called the seaman. “How are you faring?”
    The poet waded toward the ship, out into the easy surf, leaving the lyre of Apollo on the shore.
    Biton gave a cry of alarm. He hurried to rescue the instrument from the sand. It remained heavy and silent in the youth’s grasp as he carried it out to the newly painted vessel and her friendly crew.
    Days later the Actis delivered the poet and his servant to the island of Delos, a wooded, prosperous island with a wide, shallow harbor of industrious net weavers and sturdy fishing vessels.
    Biton and the captain selected the destination. Orpheus had said nothing regarding where he wished to journey, neither to the captain nor to any of the crew, and Biton could offer little to enlighten them.
    â€œThe little isle is a sunny place, with a balmy wind,” Captain Idas suggested. “And the priests of the famous temple of Apollo there will be sure to honor your master.”
    The poet took no interest in the smiles of the fisherfolk, however, nor the delegation of white-haired temple priests bringing fig cakes and berry wine – a specialty of the island – to express their welcome to the poet.
    â€œMy master is bereaved,” explained Biton simply.
    Every time a request arrived for the renowned singer to join the villagers in a