Free Nightsong by Michael Cadnum Page B

celebration of a recent birth, or to sing a song of blessing for a departing fishing fleet, the answer was the same.
    Every day Biton made sure that his master’s tunic was fresh, and his hair groomed. As the weeks passed, however, the servant was increasingly lonely for stories or poems – for any sort of conversation at all. And Biton felt curious, too – altogether too curious to keep silent much longer.
    What had happened across the black river Styx, he wondered, in the palace of Hades?
    One evening Biton cut a finger on the scales of a large red fish, a gift from the villagers. The scaly prize was nearly as big as Biton himself, and the servant had been cleaning the giant, when blood welled on his finger.
    To his surprise, Orpheus was at his side in an instant, after a month of stony torpor, dabbing at the injury with a bit of linen.
    â€œBe careful, Biton,” said Orpheus, wrapping the finger with a bandage, the first words he had uttered in an age.
    The poet dressed Biton’s cut with care the next morning, talking haltingly all the while, telling of his journey to Hades’ palace.
    â€œTwo times, Biton,” he said, anguish in his voice, “my beautiful Eurydice was taken from me.”
    The poet would say nothing more.
    â€œSing me a song about her,” suggested Biton, tears in his own eyes. “Make up a poem about lovely Eurydice, master. Please, to ease our sorrow – both yours and mine.”
    But Orpheus turned away from the sight of his lyre.
    The thought of poetry was so much long-cold ash to him, and the memory of song was bitter. Orpheus did not foresee his hands ever plucking music again, and could not imagine spinning a verse as long as he might live.
    Immortal Hades knew that I would turn back, thought Orpheus bitterly. And so did the lovely Queen Persephone.
    The condition set forth by her enigmatic husband was little more than a snare, sure to trap Eurydice, and send me into daylight alone.

TWENTY-NINE
    When the sun was high one late-summer day, a visitor arrived.
    He was a priest from the temple of Apollo, a now familiar, ruddy-featured man. He was in a hurry, sweating and breathing hard, and this time brought a goatskin of berry wine and a woven sack of fresh, sun-bright apples.
    He ducked into the shadowy entryway of Orpheus’s dwelling, and explained to Biton. “The villagers have a heartfelt request,” said the priest, “for your master’s aid.”
    Biton sighed. “He never departs these walls.”
    â€œIf you could bring yourself to ask, most earnestly, dear Biton,” said the good-natured priest, concern in his eyes. “There has been a fearsome accident, and we need the prince’s help.”
    Orpheus was sitting indoors, listening to the energetic bickering of the birds in the eaves over his head. It had been a long time since he had taken any pleasure in the sound, and just now, for the first time in months, he had to admit that the feathered creatures made a pretty chatter.
    â€œYoung Norax, son of a tinsmith, fell off a roof, master,” Biton said, repeating the priest’s tidings to Orpheus. “He was trying to retrieve a ball from a courtyard game, and he slipped off and struck his head.” The servant did not know how else to put it. “The temple prayers have not been heeded by the gods, and now the village hopes your songs might awaken the boy to life.”
    â€œIt troubles me to hear this news,” said Orpheus.
    But of course I can do nothing, he nearly added.
    The poet listened to the sparrows and the doves that nested in the roof. He thought, how much like human speech – the warmhearted chatter of wharf and market – their sounds were.
    I’m here , the birds said to each other.
    I live, I live , they announced with mindless energy, little feathered knots of vitality while the lovely Eurydice slept.
    But was that all they said?
    Perhaps you should, perhaps you should