My Orpheus

PART I. ORPHEUS AND RIDIKA

He was about fourteen years old when I first saw him, sullen and solitary, gangly and graceless. He was built like an awkward giraffe in those days – limbs too bony, hands too large, face too long, mouth too big, teeth too prominent when he smiled – so he rarely did. And yet, when I saw him for the first time, perched on a large, flat boulder near the river, a bit of wood in his hands and that intensely thoughtful look on his face that I would later come to know so well – at that moment, I thought him the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen.

In those days, I was often timid, but at that moment, finding myself alone on the strand with him, I felt unusually bold. Coming closer, I saw that he was working the bit of wood with a knife, coaxing it into a gracefully arching shape. He didn’t seem to take any notice of me, and I spoke up. “Hello. What’s your name?”

He looked up, a little surprised. For a moment, a look of hostility crossed his features, but then it softened. After all, I was only a child.

He didn’t make any movement toward me, but he did reply, and his voice, while not what one might call inviting, held no notes of impatience. “Orpheus.”

I plodded closer. He seemed a little amused by my unceremonious intrusion. I looked up into his face. His eyes were a most amazing blue-gray, like a raindrop just falling from the sky, and I found, to my surprise, that I liked looking at them even more than I liked the sound of lullabies, or the taste of honey, or the smell of the sea. “My name,” I told him solemnly, “is Ridika.”

I see your brow furrowing, reader, your lips pursing in recognition. Orpheus? That Orpheus? He of the lyre, of the underworld, of the maddened Maenads? And Ridika – rolled over a few times, it could sound almost like Evridike, almost like Eurydice.

Ah, history has not been kind to the truth, not when it comes to this tale. Then again, when has history ever concerned itself overmuch with truth? It is no coincidence that in so many of our languages, the words for “story” and “history” are one and the same.

It should be said that I was five at the time. And that my mother and I had just moved to this city, the name of which was still strange upon my tongue, after the death of my father – in battle, honorably, as befitted a soldier. My mother had people here, a family. More importantly, a share in a comfortable inheritance – much more comfortable than the tiny fortune my father had left us. My father had been a good man, a brave fighter and a bold adventurer, but he’d never had much business sense.

My mother’s people were Greeks. They had been some of the first Greeks to settle among the Thracian “barbarians,” and to take advantage of those lands’ rich supply of resources. My mother had grown up in Thrace, and had loved the wild beauty of the place, the lustiness and vibrancy of its culture, the roughness of its terrain and its celebrations. My father, a lieutenant from Sparta, had met her there while making a visit to recruit Thracian mercenaries, and had taken her away from it for nearly a decade. Though she had loved him, I don’t believe she’d ever been able to quite forgive him for that.

And so, there was no question – when the news came that my father had fallen on the battlefield, my mother quickly arranged the sale of our property in Sparta and our passage over the sea to Thrace, to a city where her uncles and cousins were well-regarded, where she would be among her own, and where I would grow up a Thracian girl, just as she did. For what mother does not love to see her younger self in her daughter’s face?

Immediately upon our arrival, I could see the change in my mother. She’d always seemed happy enough, quick to laugh, quick to offer a pat or a kiss. But here, surrounded by her family, having regained the status of a young niece, she became joy itself. Our house rang with the music of her singing and her laughter. She joked with her brothers, prepared elaborate feasts with her sister, busied herself with their homes and their babies; she leapt feet first into the wonderful madness of her large extended family, and in her euphoria at having regained the paradise of her youth, she forgot that the transition might not be equally easy for me.

I liked my cousins enough, but things were different here. They were accepting of me, but they had their own games, their own private gestures and secret languages. Probably, they would have taught them all to me, but it never occurred to me to ask. Even at five, I had inherited the slightly bullish pride of my father.

It would probably have been even worse for me had I not been used to solitude. To my parents’ – particularly my father’s – disappointment, I was their only surviving progeny, and in my earliest years, I had been frail and prone to every sickness a child might get. It was a marvel to everyone that I lived past my third year. It had made my mother fiercely protective of me. As a result, I had had almost no playmates and had learned to amuse myself on my own. I could spend hours combing the beach for curiously shaped shells, or watching the colors of the sky change at sunset, or humming songs of my own creation to myself. So, when we moved to Thrace, I was alone, but I seldom felt the sting of loneliness. And though it was hard to get used to the city, it was hard only because I did not yet know every tree and hillock around my house, as I had in the city where I was born. In fact, my solitude was the only familiar thing here.

So I took to wandering by the river in the afternoons, when my mother spent time with her family and planned the evening meal. I usually walked only a mile or so along the sandy shore, then back. On that day, I must have walked out farther. Or perhaps he’d chosen an unusual spot to rest. I never knew. But that was how I met Orpheus, though I’d never seen him before.

He did not invite me to join him, but did not protest when, upon making our introductions, I planted myself on the ground a few steps away. We sat in silence for a few minutes. I watched the river. Mixing with the lap of the water was the soft scratching sound of his knife on the piece of wood. I turned to watch him for a while. I liked the rapid, precise movements of his hands.

“What are you making?” I asked. He paused in his carving, a slightly impatient look crossing his face. It was a couple of seconds before he answered; he must have been deciding whether or not he should tell me to leave him alone. I wonder, sometimes, how my life might have been had he chosen the latter option.

“A lyre,” he finally replied, then fell silent again. The scratching resumed.

“What’s a lyre?” I asked. He stopped carving again, shot me a look of annoyance. I did not shy away. I liked being there, and I planned to stay put for as long as I could.

“It’s an instrument,” he said, “a musical instrument. You play it? It makes a sound? You’ve never seen one?”

I shrugged. Perhaps I had, but I did not yet know the name. I liked the sound of his voice, still high as a boy’s, but with a bit of huskiness beginning to emerge. I hoped he’d tell me more.

“My father makes them. He taught me how. He’s not really my father, but I live with his family. His name is Drenis. He’s the best lyre-maker in Thrace. I’m still learning.”

Something in his voice made me move a few inches closer. Softly, I said, “Someday, you’ll be better than him.” I wasn’t sure he’d heard me, but I saw a little smile flick across his mouth, even as he bent his head to hide it.

Without raising his head, he said, “If you wait around a little while, when I go home, I’ll take you to meet him. I can show you some finished lyres, if you want. I’ll even play one for you.”

Trying not to show my utter joy at that idea, I said, “Okay.” And then, I turned back to look at the water. He continued his carving. I beamed into the sunshine.

He did take me to meet his family that afternoon, as he promised. His father showed me his cache of instruments, equipped with various numbers of strings, in various states of completion. And Orpheus played a 7-string lyre for me, producing sounds that made me close my eyes and sway in a state of pure bliss.

“He’s quite good, isn’t he,” Drenis said, smiling approvingly. “These are good pieces, but it takes a special knack to do them justice. He takes to them so naturally, you’d think each one was made for his hands.” I watched Orpheus accept the praise, the slightest hint of red appearing at the tops of his cheekbones. I looked at his hands, surprised that, while he was still very much a boy, they were almost as big as his father’s.

Thereafter, I attached myself to him with all the tenacity of a child in the thrall of her very first infatuation. I had no name for what I felt, no explanation – I simply desired to be in his vicinity. I would find him by the river almost every day, taking my spot a few feet away from him. We didn’t talk very much, but he didn’t seem to mind my presence. I was quietly adoring and unobtrusive, and was careful to do nothing that would make him send me away. He seemed to get used to me. In fact, one week, after I’d been ill for a few days, he’d actually come by our house to ask about me.

My mother was glad I’d found a friend. Drenis was a respected tradesman and his family enjoyed a good reputation in town. I learned the story of Orpheus’ earliest history one afternoon, that week that I’d been sick. After he had come by, my mother and her sister talked about him, sure that I couldn’t or wouldn’t understand them. One of the small advantages of childhood is overhearing such conversations.

Nearly fourteen years ago, he’d been discovered at dawn in the temple of Sabazios, the Thracian father god. He’d been bundled into a basket, his name scrawled on a scrap tucked into his thin blanket. It had been supposed that he’d been the son of an unmarried young woman who had disappeared from town shortly before. Drenis, married for several years but still childless at that time, had taken him in and raised him. Later, he and his wife had several daughters and finally a son, but the foundling boy was industrious and talented, and he enjoyed the same status as Drenis’ other children. In fact, he was the one Drenis seemed to be grooming as his successor in the business. But he kept to himself – and then, my aunt lowered her voice, and I knew they were probably talking about me.

From my mother’s response, I gathered that my aunt must have wondered whether it was healthy for two maladjusted loners to latch on to one another. My mother didn’t seem to think so.

“If he is good to Ridika, if he looks after her and he makes her happy, they can spend as much time together as they like.”

And so, we became friends. From quietly following him around, I slowly, gingerly progressed to speaking with him. There was not very much I could tell him, and I learned to ask him questions, to keep him talking. I loved the sound of his voice, and I loved learning all he had to teach me – about music, carving, the river, the town. I loved hearing about his days, about the petty squabbles Drenis’ wife had with her children, about the troublesome new client who demanded a lyre “beautiful enough for the gods to play.”

He came to trust me. When I was older, looking back, I understood that it was the same kind of trust one puts in a faithful dog – a harmless, loyal creature with wordless adulation in its eyes. But, at the time, I thrilled in the luck of being his friend.

He played the lyre for me often, producing pure, lilting sounds that made me want to weep for no reason. He tried to teach me to play several times, but my hands were not nearly nimble enough. I sang, however, and he said I had a sweet voice. He sang too, but his voice was weak, unsteady and cracked often. He didn’t mind; he could make the lyre sing more beautifully than any voice.
Sometimes, he would play while I sang, softly, the two of us completely alone, the birds and the fish for our only audience.

The weeks passed, and the months, the seasons, and the years. He turned fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, and still, I stayed by his side as much as I could. He grew taller, broader. He filled out, matured. The girls and women in town took notice, even though I never did. He was becoming a man, and I was still a little girl; when he was seventeen, I was only eight.

He was beginning to notice the women as well, and he caught himself several times when, talking to me, he came close to mentioning something that children shouldn’t know about. Walking with him through the streets, I intercepted strange, tilt-eyed glances between him and various females. Some of them smiled at me, some winked and made jokes about his “little companion.”

When they laughed, I would get angry, but he never let them make fun of me too much. “My best friend,” he said once, gesturing at me, and, despite the wry tone of his voice, there was warmth in it. For days afterward, I glowed with the memory of that moment. I was his best friend. He said so.

Despite the persistence of our friendship, our hours together grew scarcer. He didn’t come to carve by the river every day anymore. Sometimes, he would disappear for a few days at a time. He would take trips with Drenis, or by himself. He would spend evenings with other young men, and tell me nothing about what they had done.

He had other friends now, his own age, or even older, and I was often jealous. Whenever I couldn’t contain an outburst, he would laugh, rumple my hair, throw an arm around my shoulders and pull me to him in a quick hug. Like a brother. And I would be content again.

One hot summer afternoon, when I was eleven, and he was twenty, I went looking for him. There was something I’d wanted to talk to him about; I don’t remember what it had been. I’d wanted to tell him something, and I’d hoped so much to see him by the river – but I’d waited there for an hour, and he didn’t show up. I went to his house and his sister told me he’d gone out. I made the rounds of the usual places he went to, and could not find him. Tired and defeated, I was heading home, when I heard strange noises coming from the open window of the local physician’s house. It sounded like a woman weeping. Eager for gossip – for a story I might regale my friend with – I crept to the open window and peeked in.

You’ve probably already guessed what I saw inside. You probably have a good mental image, in fact. But I was eleven, and I had never seen anything like it before – my Orpheus and the physician’s wife, wearing absolutely no clothing, the two of them shining with sweat, doing what I’d only ever seen dogs doing. It looked much more obscene with bodies that had no fur to cover the details of the act.

They had no idea I was there. I watched them, frozen, for what must have only been a second or two before I turned and ran all the way home. My mother took one look at my flushed cheeks and feverishly glittering eyes and ordered me to a cool bath, suspecting I’d had too much sun.

Only a second or two. But that was all it took. I knew I’d seen something I shouldn’t have seen. I knew I should forget all about it. But I couldn’t stop thinking of it. Without knowing why, I hated it; I hated the woman. I even hated Orpheus. I understood what I’d seen only dimly, but it was enough to make me hate them, to make me hate what I’d seen. But I couldn’t stop returning to it.

The image was branded in my head – Orpheus, his body, the body I’d never seen quite that way, not even when we’d bathed in the river together as kids. His body, curving around the woman’s body. His face – I’d never seen that expression on his face before, on anyone’s face. The memory of it made pinpricks of heat rise beneath my skin. And this was wrong, I knew it was wrong – the way it made me feel. But I could not help myself. I ran my own hands over my body, experimentally, mimicking what I’d seen him doing. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub.

We all make that first discovery somehow, don’t we?

I never told anyone what I’d seen. I knew it was meant to be a secret. And, though I knew that my friendship with Orpheus would never be the same, I was not going to betray him.

I didn’t see him for weeks after that. I avoided him. I was sure he’d know what I’d seen. I thought he might be angry with me for witnessing it. And I was ashamed of what I’d done afterward – what I’d kept doing, after that first time, every chance I got, unable to stop myself.

Somehow, I managed to avoid the usual trap of guilt that accompanies such preadolescent activities; perhaps it was because I’d never learned to be ashamed of my own body. But I still knew that it was a private thing. And I thought that, if I saw Orpheus, if he saw me, he’d know. He’d guess it, somehow. So I avoided him.

And then, one day, he was gone. I went out one afternoon. When I came back, my mother told me he had come by. He’d wanted to say goodbye. He was leaving – he was going to go on a great ship, with a group of gold-hunters. He was going to see the world, try to make his fortune. No one knew exactly when he’d return.

My mother told me all this. I worked hard to keep my face blank.

“You can probably hurry over to his house, say goodbye to your friend. Wouldn’t you like that?” She watched me closely. Mutely, I shook my head.

“Whatever you like.” She gave me a searching look. “But you’ll miss him, won’t you?” Still silent, I nodded.

“You miss him already, don’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, she pulled me close to her. I pressed my face to her belly, squeezing my eyes shut, refusing to let the tears fall. She sighed, ran a hand through my hair. “Maybe it’s time you found some friends your own age.”

And that was that. He left the next morning. I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t know how to.

There were tears, of course. Tears, and pain, and loneliness. But time worked its soothing magic. I found a few friends. I learned to dye cloth, sew garments, cook meals. Life went on.

But I never got over my dislike of the physician’s wife.

* * *

Five years passed. They passed neither slowly nor quickly. Gradual changes took place – changes that might have seemed notable to one who was away for a long time, but to us, they were merely the collected footprints of our days.

I was sixteen years old. I worked with my mother, I spent my spare time with my friends. I still went walking by the river frequently, sometimes alone, sometimes not. I attended parties, celebrations. I was not unhappy. In fact, I was quite content with my life.

I was a young woman. Now and then, my mother would make mention of some young man or another, but I waved the notion of marriage away. My mother, happy to have me with her, did not press me. And I was happy to remain, partly, a child.

Not that I didn’t like the attention of young men. Like other girls my age, I would plait flowers in my dark hair, borrow my mother’s necklaces and wristlets for special occasions. I never grew into a beauty, but I learned a hundred tricks to make people forget that fact. I learned to smile with the corners of my eyes. I learned how to move while I danced to make male eyes follow me. But I desired none of them.

I never did stop thinking of Orpheus. Some intuition told me not to speak of him to anyone; when I was asked, I would admit that I missed my friend, but that it had been a very long time and it was getting hard to remember him.

I told no one of how I sifted through every memory I had of him – a child’s memories, filtered through a young woman’s mind. I told no one of my dreams, of how I would sometimes awaken with the illusion of his touch on my skin. I told no one of my secret visits to the temple of Aphrodite, of my fervent prayers to the Greek goddess of love. I told no one – not even my friends, not even when we whispered secrets to one another, not even when we giggled about handsome young men and what we wanted to do with them.

He was my secret. My Orpheus.

I did not know what would happen when he would return. Of course, I ran over every possible reunion scene in my imagination. But I had no idea, really, what I would do. What I would say. I hoped I would please him. I hoped he would remember how close we had been, though I also hoped that he would see me as a woman, not a child. But, overall, my desires, though intense, were quite vague.

He had been gone so long, and so little news had been had of him. In my darkest, most honest moments, I wondered if he would ever come back. And who knew, he might come back with a wife. Or he might come back different, changed. Who knew?

But I chased these thoughts away and continued to cherish my fantasies, my imaginings, all the fairytales I spun for myself. My Orpheus. He would return, and he would be as beautiful as I remembered him. And he would look at me, he would smile, and he would take me in his arms and – here, I faltered. I didn’t want to put myself in the place of the physician’s wife. It would be different. How it would be different, I did not know. Not yet. But I was sure that, when the time came, he would show me.

And so, I worked to perfect my female charms; I learned to make men look at me. But I never looked at them. None of them. I was waiting. I was waiting for my love. I was waiting for my Orpheus.

* * *

PART II. ORPHEUS


A fine, sunny day had come. Soon, it would be time for the Dionysian festival, to celebrate the coming of spring. We would gather to honor Dionysus, the most powerful of our Thracian deities. He was the god of wine, revelry, and the life-death continuum. His power and benevolence were so great, the Greeks had elevated him to the same status of their own native gods. One of the ceremonies involved lighting a great bonfire and throwing armfuls of flowers into the flames. Then, the young women danced around the fire in a circle.

It was customary to wear bright clothing and decorate ourselves with whimsical ornaments – coins, shells, even small household objects. It was my favorite part of the festival. This was the girls’ chance to be spectacular, to catch every eye they dared to catch. That day, my friends and I were going to meet and plan our costumes.

I’d just completed my morning chores and came back to the house for a quick afternoon meal. When I came in, my spirits were high and my skin was still warm from the abundant sunshine. My mother put out a plate for me. I hummed happily as I ate, excited to see my friends and try on clothes, anticipating the fun of the festival. Just as I was finishing up, my mother spoke up.

“So, I saw the lyre-maker’s wife at the market today,” she said. “It seems your old friend has come home.”

I stopped, my mouth crammed full, trying not to choke on my food. My mother watched me, a sly look on her face. “You remember Orpheus, don’t you? You always liked him.”

I forced myself to chew and swallow. “Yes,” I replied, very casually. “I remember him. So, he’s home then?”

My mother grinned. I was never good at fooling her. “Yes,” she said, matching my artificially light tone. “So, will you be going over to say hello?”

“Maybe,” I replied. “I’m not sure. I had some plans for today. Perhaps I’ll try to find time tomorrow.” I reached for a grape, popped it into my mouth. I couldn’t even taste it.

My mother laughed. “All right. Well, give him my regards if I don’t see him before you manage to find the time.” She cleared my empty plane, swatted my shoulder. “Well, go on then. On with your busy day!”

I left the house in something of a daze, heading for the section of the marketplace where I was to meet my friends. So Orpheus was back. It was what I’d been hoping for all this time. But now what?

I was at a loss. What was I to do? Go to the house, throw my arms around him like he was an old friend? Or should I behave formally when I saw him, to show him that I was no longer an adoring little girl? Should I fix him with a bold stare, or should I simper and giggle like I’d seen girls do?

I needed time to think, to calm down and decide how I would go about this. So I headed to meet my friends as planned – but I took a route that went past Drenis’ house. Just in case I suddenly figured everything out.

As I came close to the house, I saw the doors were open and people were milling about outside. Drenis was well-respected in our city and Orpheus had been popular. There were plenty of people who wanted to welcome him back. The house looked full. For a few minutes, I stood there, watching, hoping for a chance glimpse of him, hoping he might chance to see me. Nothing happened. No one seemed to notice me. I went on my way.

I found my friends waiting for me and we began tearing through the merchants’ stalls, through the various fabrics, garments, brooches and bracelets. I did my best to feign the excitement that had been genuine just an hour before. My friends didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, giggling and chatting as we always did, trying on ribbons and garlands, joking about the boys and men they hoped to impress with their dancing and their finery.

“Say, what’s all that?” said one of my friends. She pointed to a group of young men who had appeared at the edge of the marketplace. They were laughing and talking loudly, slapping one another’s shoulders, jostling each other, behaving exactly like a group of stags who had just reached maturity. The girls automatically adjusted their postures, shifting into position, spines straightening, hips swiveling, heads tilting to one side like flowers on stems – the better to show off their flowing hair and curving necks.

I looked at the group. I recognized two of the young men. They had been friends of Orpheus’ when he had lived here. My stomach churned. I hid my face, pretending to be busy with some ribbons in a bin.

“Well, now . . .” said my friend Ophira. “Who is that?” She was the oldest of our group, already a widow at 19 and making the most of it whenever she could. She once told me that the best thing about marriage was the possibility of its untimely end, when you were free of the limitations of the unmarried girl and no longer held by the shackles of wifehood. I glanced at her – her lips were curved in a little grin, slightly parted. Her teeth were visible, her eyes slightly narrowed. She looked like a hungry cat. I followed her gaze.

He was as tall as I remembered, but much broader. His body resembled the statues I’d seen in the temple of Apollo. His face had matured – his jaw was heavier now, his cheeks fleshier, his bones more solid. He wore a light beard. His eyes were bright and full of mischief; a crooked smile danced over his wide mouth. He strode with an expansive confidence that bordered on arrogance, with the long-legged rolling gait of one who stoops to conquer. He was as attractive and irresistible as a mistletoe berry. He was trouble. He was –

“He’s GORGEOUS,” breathed one of my friends, Tassia. She was staring at him, wide-eyed, slack-jawed, not even trying to conceal her fascination. Well, what was the point of coyness? Men like him were out of most women’s leagues, I thought to myself, trying to control my own reaction.

“Yeah. Ridika used to play with him,” said Anika, who had known me the longest.

“What?! Is that true? You never told us!” They crowded around me, shocked, delighted, a little envious.

I shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I was a little kid.”

“Who is he, anyway?” asked Tassia, the one who’d been staring at him. Her family had only moved to our city about two years before.

“He’s one of Drenis the lyre-maker’s sons,” said Anika. “He’s been traveling for a long time. Five years or so, I think. Right, Ridika?”

“Right.” I kept rummaging through ribbons, trying to ignore the other girls’ fascinated stares.

“So,” said Ophira, “did you ever go swimming with him? That must be something, eh?”

They giggled. I felt a blush creeping up my neck. “I don’t remember,” I mumbled. “Maybe. It was a really long time ago. He was only a boy.”

“Well,” Ophira said, her voice dripping with unequivocal meaning, “he’s no boy now, that’s for sure.” I felt a stab of irritation and recalled what some unkind tongues had suggested about Ophira – that her husband’s death had not been entirely accidental. I was trying to think of something to say to her when Anika spoke up.

“Ridika, you may want to stop hiding.”

I looked up. Orpheus’ group was only about a dozen paces away from us. And he was looking straight at me. A smile of stunned recognition slowly blossomed on his face.

I stood very still. He turned to one of his friends, said something, then separated from the pack and stroke directly toward me. I could not speak. I could not even smile.

“Dika? Is that you?” I nodded. He looked delighted. But there was nothing in his eyes that answered the hopes I’d nursed for so long. He looked at me as one would look at a relative. Still . . .

“I can’t believe it’s you! You’re all grown up.”

I finally found my tongue. “So are you.”

He laughed. “Yes, I suppose so.” For another few seconds, he stared at me, seeming to be unsure of what to do next. Then, he reached out and hugged me, holding me close for what seemed like a very long time. Just as I felt my body begin to heat, he let me go.

“Well,” he said, “it’s wonderful to see you again.”

“Yes. I – my mother sends her regards,” I said. I wished I could sound less stilted. But he was too close, too real. I was at a loss.

“Thank you. Give her mine as well. Are you and your friends getting ready for the festival?” He glanced at the girls and I saw their immediate, almost frantic response. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so annoying.

“Yes. Are you going to be there?”

“Of course. I made sure to get home in time for it. I’m going to play, actually. Sing a few songs at the end of the celebration. Just after the maidens’ dance.” He winked. “Will I see you dancing?”

“Yes. All of us.” I indicated my friends. They preened like pigeons. He smiled at them, then leaned close to my ear.

“I’ll look for you, then.” It was a lovely thing to hear, but it seemed to somehow slide too easily off his tongue.

I managed a smile that looked almost nonchalant. “Likewise,” I tossed back.

He gave me another quick hug. “Well, I should let you do what you were doing. I will see you soon.”

“See you soon.” I waved as he rejoined his friends. One of them said something. Orpheus tossed his head back and laughed. My friends stared longingly as they moved away.

“You are SO lucky,” breathed Tassia.

“He still remembers you,” said Anika, jealousy plain in her voice.

“If you don’t do something about it,” drawled Ophira, “I will.”

I laughed self-consciously, staring down at my hands full of crumpled, snarled ribbons, wishing I knew what to do.

* * *

The festival had been glorious. The best in years, everyone said – though they said that every year. Dionysus must have been pleased; the sun had shone all day, not a cloud in the blazing blue sky. The crowns of trees glittered like emeralds, festooned with flower garlands that had been woven by all the children in the city. All day, there had been music, dancing, various shows of strength and agility by young men, displays of beauty and grace by young women. Every housewife in the city had brought the best food she could prepare. And all day, everyone – even the younger girls – had been drinking this year’s wine, in the Thracian way, not bothering to dilute the strong drink with water. Even the Greeks, normally snobbish about this particular custom, joined us today. Everyone was happy, laughing, flirting, rejoicing.

They began to construct the bonfire as the sun edged toward the western horizon. The men took the flower garlands off the trees and handed them to the young women who would be participating in the dance. When the fire had been made and crackled bright against the lavendering sky, we threw our armfuls of blossoms into the flames, sacrificing their still-fresh beauty to Dionysus. Then, we joined hands and danced around the fire, singing songs about youth, love and hopes for new beginnings.

Affected by the general merriment and by the wine I’d consumed, I let myself be swept up by the dance. I spun and leapt with the other girls, Tassia and Anika on either side of me; Ophira, having been married, did not take part. As we whirled, I could see the smiling faces watching us. My mother, my family, my friends’ families. And then, as we danced past a group of young men, I caught sight of Orpheus.

He was looking at me. I could swear, he was looking at me.

By the time the sun had set, the fire was burning low and the flowers were only fine, fragrant dust among the embers. The dancers were growing tired. The circle dispersed.

The city’s best musicians assembled beneath an oak tree, each holding his instrument – Greek Pan pipes and the other pipes called auloi, the small hand drums called toumbeleki, the simple Thracian bagpipes called gaidas. And lyres, of course, several kinds. Orpheus was among them, as was Drenis and Drenis’ younger son. We gathered around the group, and they began to play the ancient songs of our people – songs of heroes, gods and monsters; of sailors, fishermen and sirens; of soldiers, martyrs and well-meaning rogues; of explorers, treasure-hunters and thieves. These were the songs we sang at every celebration. They were familiar to all of us, and we all sang along, our uneven voices blending into a rich harmony, into perfect musical communion.

There was more wine. I sat beside my mother, my head on her shoulder, feeling very peaceful as I watched the musicians. Orpheus’ voice was indistinguishable in the many-layered chorus.

After a while, the celebration began to move toward the river. The stars were starting to appear in the sky; some of the revelers set out for their homes, my mother among them. All of the younger people remained, and we formed a slow, noisy procession, the musicians still playing as they walked, the singers still singing, their voices growing weaker but the melodies remaining true.

Finally, we ended up by the river, on a grassy stretch of shoreline where several tall trees grew. The players paused for a break. We drank more wine, passing around near-empty jugs.

A tall young man stood up. He was the son of one of the city’s elders. I remembered him as one of Orpheus’ close friends from the old days.

“And now, we are about to be treated to a special gift. One of us has recently returned from long travels. I remember well, as I am sure you do, his talent for the euphonious arts. He has promised me that, tonight, he would play for us some of the songs he learned in all the distant lands he has seen. Isn’t that so, Orpheus?”

Orpheus rose from where he’d been sitting, raised his hand in greeting. “That is so,” he confirmed, accepting the applause with that bold, confident smile of one for whom all victories are assured. I watched him, rising tall above the seated guests, backlit by the moon. He picked up his lyre, took a breath, and began.

You could feel the lust unfurling after the first few notes reached our ears, even before you saw people’s reactions. You could feel the heat of a hundred rising body temperatures, the faint movement of a hundred slow exhalations. You could feel bodies shifting to be closer to one another, hands drifting toward other people’s hands.

His voice, once merely pleasant, was like cracked marble – flawed but exquisite. And the music drifting up from his hands was unimaginable, otherworldly. It was like no other song we’d ever heard, and yet, it was every song that had ever been sung.

The words were simple; he sang of longing and love and desire, as everyone did. But, in a sense, the words were almost immaterial. It was the essence of the song that captured us – to hear this music was to transcend ordinary human experience. Joy, pain, hope, fear – all became intermingled and rose to reach their highest point of intensity. I could not move, could barely breathe. No one made a sound until he had finished.

Then, the crowd exploded. Everywhere I looked, people were applauding as hard as they could – unless they were still trying to come back to their senses, eyes gradually unglazing, fingers unfisting, limbs regaining feeling. Many were wiping tears from their eyes. Many more, I saw, were embracing.

A young woman approached Orpheus. I recognized her as one of the women who lived by the temple of Dionysus and took care of it. They were fanatical devotees of the god and their private rituals were unclear to most people. They were respected by the community, but they never really mixed with others. They were considered a little strange. Young unmarried girls, in particular, were discouraged from interacting with them – there was nothing good or useful, we were told, that we could learn from them.

Now, one of them came toward Orpheus. Very solemnly, she crowned him with a wreath of flowers and grape leaves. He smiled, thanked her. Something seemed to pass between them. I suddenly recalled the last time I’d seen Orpheus, shortly before he had left the city. Something inside my stomach twisted unpleasantly. I tried not to think about that.

He played again. And again, and again. Sometimes, he sang; sometimes, he let the lyre sing alone. And every song, though different from the first, evoked the same reaction. Whenever he began another song, it was as though we entered a trance. The only way out, it seemed, was with someone else. I could see couples forming, rising together and walking away. Some didn’t make it very far, disappearing behind trees and bushes.

The hours went by; Orpheus continued to play. Many of the people had left, gone home or elsewhere. He kept playing for the small audience sprawled in the grass before him, most half-asleep or simply lulled into a state of exquisite lassitude – apart from the silent, watchful Dionysian devotees, tightly clustered together a short distance away from the rest of us.

The first one to move toward him was the girl who had placed the wreath on his head. The others followed closely behind her. He kept playing as they formed a circle around him, as the circle narrowed. I watched as they reached out to him, touched him, as they gently plucked at his clothes, began to remove them. His shoulders gleamed white. He kept playing. Fumbled a few notes, but kept playing. I heard a couple of them laugh softly; him, too.

One of them bent toward him, took off his crown, placed it over her own hair. I watched as she danced for him, her body graceful as a spider web. She pulled off her shift and posed in the moonlight. He didn’t take his eyes off her. She took the flowered crown off her head and tossed it into the river. It flowed downstream. For that first second, it looked as though it was Orpheus himself, submerged to the top of his head, moving passively with the current – even as the music kept playing, flowing almost autonomously from his nimble fingers.

I caught a glimpse of his face. He was facing in my direction. He was smiling. I wanted to believe that he was looking at me. But I was in the shadows. There was no way he could see me.

I got up then, and walked away. I could still hear the music behind me. After a few minutes, it stopped. I told myself I must have walked out of earshot.

* * *

Several days passed. I avoided my friends. I avoided the riverbank. I avoided the marketplace, all public places in fact. I spent as much time indoors as I could without arousing my mother’s suspicions.

I was in a state of constant low-key torment. I tried not to allow myself to think of him, but I could think of nothing else. For me, there was nothing else. I spent the time that I wasn’t in the house at the temple of Aphrodite, sending up vague prayers that were almost wordless except for one all-encompassing, all-consuming syllable: “Please.”

Outside myself, the world went on. Overnight, Orpheus became a sought-after man in our city – a local celebrity, one might say. Everyone wanted to meet him, speak to him, learn from him. The other musicians, no matter how accomplished and lauded they had been, found themselves reduced to the status of childish amateurs, envious sycophants, all hoping for a few crumbs of his mastery.

All this I learned from my mother, who delivered the gossip cheerfully, chattily, seeming completely unaware of what each mention of his name did to me. Sometimes, I wondered whether she was doing it on purpose, hoping to drive me to do something – anything that would bring me out of my morose limbo.

About a week after the festival, I decided to go for a walk by the river again. I was hoping to clear my head, figure out what to do with myself. Almost without thinking about it, I walked toward the spot where I had first met Orpheus, the sand-covered strand that was located about a mile away from the town. As I came closer to the water, it seemed as though time had collapsed, the past and the present layering atop one another.

He was perched on the same boulder that he had been sitting on that long-ago day, when he had been a boy of fourteen. He had his back to me, looking down at something in his hands. For a few minutes, I took in the sight of him. The sun glinted off his hair, slid along his tanned neck, highlighted the suggestion of his spine above his collar. He was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.

In that moment, I thought: No matter what happens between us, no matter what, I will never feel this way about anyone else.

He looked up then, turned his head, as if he’d realized he was no longer alone. Then, he turned around and saw me. He looked surprised at first, then very pleased.

“Dika!” He got up and walked toward me, leaving a half-finished lyre in the sand by the rock. “I had a feeling I’d see you here.”

“Did you?” I wished I could speak longer sentences with him. I remembered how easy it had been when I was a child, when we were both children, how I could joke and giggle and even, sometimes, throw my arms around him without ever wondering how he would respond, not about how it would look. A part of me missed those days. Then again, there was a lot less potential back then.

“Yes, I did. I’ve hardly seen you at all since I’ve come back.”

“Except for that time at the market.”

“Yes. And the festival. You danced beautifully.” There was something in his look as he said it that made me very happy.

I smiled at him, feeling a little more relaxed. “Thank you. You played beautifully. I’m sure you know, but I had to tell you. Did you study with great masters when you were abroad?”

“Something like that. I’ll tell you about it someday. Come, let’s sit down. We should catch up.”

He took my arm lightly as we went to sit on the boulder together. There wasn’t very much room and we sat very close, pressed against one another, touching at the arms, hips and thighs. It was difficult to keep my breathing even and my thoughts straight, but I persevered. I talked about everything that had happened in my life since he’d left. I worried that it would all sound very boring to someone who had seen as much of the world as he had, but he listened attentively, asked questions, and turned the conversation back to me whenever I tried to get him to talk about his own experiences.

After a while, he put his arm around me. I faltered, gave him a questioning glance. His expression did not change; it could easily have been merely a friendly gesture or a simple posture adjustment. I went on with whatever I had been talking about.

It became easier to talk to him; our conversation seemed to hit its stride. I was able to joke and tease him. I began to think that perhaps we could become friends again. Yes, friends – and then, and then . . .

I noticed that he’d gone quiet, watching me with an unusual look on his face. It seemed to be something like tenderness, mixed with a touch of amusement. I stopped speaking. “What is it?” I asked, wondering if I’d said something foolish.

He shook his head. “Nothing.” He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear, his thumb brushing my cheek. “You’ve changed, Dika.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, relieved that my voice didn’t crack. His touch had affected me.

“You don’t adore me anymore.”

“What?! But, I – ” I cut myself off. Instead of saying what I’d almost said, I repeated, a little lamely, “What do you mean?”

He laughed sheepishly. “When you were a little girl, you always looked at me like everything I said or did was wonderful. Like I was some kind of hero.” There was a tinge to his smile that might have been sadness. I wasn’t sure.

“Did you like that?” I asked, trying to sound like I was teasing him.

“I suppose I liked it more than I admitted it to myself back then,” he replied with a self-deprecating chuckle. Then, more seriously, “But I like this, too. Very much. You’ve changed, Ridika.” He smoothed my hair again, examining my face. “You’ve grown up.” He looked into my eyes, then down at my mouth, then at my eyes again again. He hadn’t moved his hand from behind my ear.

“I’ve waited for you,” I confessed, the words suddenly bursting out like a breath held too long. “All the time you were gone, I thought of you.”

“Really?” He sounded surprised, a little amused. “But you were only a little girl when I left.”

I closed my eyes, shook my head silently. I could never tell him everything. Not yet, anyway. “I waited for you,” I repeated. “All this time.”

“I’m very flattered,” he said, tracing the oval of my face. He stroked my jaw, cupped my cheek in his hand, tipped my face up. I could hear my heart in my ears. “You’ve become very lovely, Dika,” he whispered. And then, he kissed me.

It was my first adult kiss and its undiluted physicality startled me. I must have been expecting some kind of spiritual awakening, some kind of godly ecstasy. Instead, there was only what there was – Orpheus’ lips pressed to mine, his teeth against my teeth, his tongue deep in my mouth, his alien male scent in my nostrils. It took me a second or two to get over the initial shock and begin to enjoy myself. And then, when he began to run his hands lightly over my body and my head began to spin, I decided that it might be a lot better than any spiritual ecstasy I had imagined.

We slid from the rock down to the sand. He removed my clothes, then his own. He showed me how to touch him, and I was amazed to see and feel the male transformation that I’d only heard about. For a long time, we kissed and caressed one another experimentally. Then, he rolled on top of me, raised himself above me, his arms on either side, his thighs over mine, poised to give me exactly what I’d been wanting, waiting for.

I was seized with a sudden fit of terror. “No! No!” I cried out, jerking away from him.

He stopped immediately. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

I felt like a fool. A very young fool. I turned my head away, unwilling to look at him. “I’m afraid,” I admitted in a small voice.

“Of what?”

I shrugged, a lump coming to my throat. Of what? That I was too awkward and inexperienced and would not be able to please him. That I was not as beautiful as the other women he had known. That this, the abrupt fulfillment of my most cherished, most enduring desire was nothing more to him than the casual satisfaction of a mild curiosity, a petty conquest in a long string of petty conquests. I was afraid of what would happen tomorrow. Of how he would look at me once he’d had me. Of how doing this would make me forever belong to him, whether he chose to claim me or not.

“What is it?” he asked again, sounding concerned. He turned my face to his, searching my eyes. “What is it you are afraid of?”

“I don’t know,” I lied. To my embarrassment, I felt my eyes welling up. A few tears spilled over.

He wiped them away gently with his fingertips, kissed where he’d touched. “Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “Don’t be afraid, love. I’d never hurt you. You know that, don’t you?”

I nodded silently. He placed his mouth over mine again, catching my uneven breaths between his lips. He kissed me for a long time, very very gently, until he felt my response intensify. Very slowly, he moved his hands and his mouth over every part of my body, until I could think of nothing but the drowning, devouring pleasure of his touch; until my limbs quivered and the sounds I made were no longer coherent; until it seemed to me that my heart was expanding to the size of the sea, the earth, the sky.

He moved over me again. Lightly, he tongued the corner of my swollen mouth. “Are you still afraid?” he asked.

Slowly, I shook my head. “No,” I replied. My voice was ragged, my throat raw from the sharp cries I’d uttered. “I am not afraid.”

Like an instrument, I arched perfectly under his fingers; I hummed and vibrated under his expert touch. I was the conduit for a melody composed by him alone and I found my purpose, my reason, my realization in his hands. And I could not help but sing with the pure, perfect euphoria of it, until the song had become mine as well as his, until its piercing conclusion shattered us both, echoing across our bodies and across that riverbank we had chosen for our stage.

You’re looking awfully skeptical there, my astute, experienced reader. A little too smooth for a virgin’s first time? Look at it this way – history has seen fit to distort my story and alter my name. Surely it wouldn’t mind conveniently overlooking a few brief moments of pain and some initial awkwardness. After all, I didn’t mind. And, anyway, the quintessence of love lies not in its making, but in its makers.

We spent the rest of the day on that sandy strand, discovering one another. We talked, joked, shared stories and anecdotes. We talked of travel and music and art and life, quickly regaining the familiarity we’d once had – only a deeper, more satisfying version of it.

And we made love, again and again – urgently, languidly, always passionately. I was pleased to find that, while my hands or lips would never bring a musical instrument to ecstasy, there were other miracles they could perform with surprising ease. I learned the hot female jubilation of coaxing involuntary pleasuresounds from a man’s lips. I learned of the sweet victory that may lie in capitulation and of the triumphant surrender known to all lovers who have known love.

As the day drew to a close, we sat on the sand, watching the sun slide toward the water. I was leaning against the large boulder; Orpheus was in my arms, half-across my lap, his head cradled against my breasts. His eyes were closed. His lips were relaxed, slightly parted, like a sleepy child’s. I could not stop looking at his face, drinking in the potent nectar of his beauty – the straight nose and cheekbones, the smooth forehead, the softly feathered crescents of his sun-burnished eyelashes curving against his flushed cheeks. I was gripped with a joy so fierce it bordered on pain. I thought, with an absolute, nearly irrational certainty: I will never love anyone else like this. Never. Whatever may happen, my entire existence will be forever changed by what’s happened today. He will forever be the love of my life.

I tightened my arms around him. He opened his eyes, smiled, raised his eyebrows inquisitively. I pressed my lips to his forehead. “If I died right now,” I whispered against his skin, “I would have no regrets at all. I am completely happy.”

He gave a short, surprised laugh, pulled back to look into my eyes. “If you died right now,” he said, lightly, jokingly but very sweetly, “I would follow you right down into the Underworld. I will never let you go, Dika,” he promised, raising his head to kiss me.

As our lips clung to one another’s, still tasting of one another’s sweat, I wondered how I could ever thank the goddess of love for the gift I received that day.

* * *

PART III. RIDIKA


I walked home in a state of divine intoxication, muscles aching, my body pleasurably heavy with its newly acquired knowledge. The house was asleep when I padded quietly to my bedroom and got into bed, the bed sheets feeling cool and luxuriant against my sensitized skin. I fell asleep almost immediately, and dreamt of a golden quince glowing inside my belly.

I woke to the sensation of cold marble against my cheek, my arm. I was lying on something hard. I opened my eyes and found myself curled up on the floor of an unfamiliar room.

It was the biggest and most beautiful room I had ever seen. The floor was made of a stone very like marble – but it wasn’t any kind of marble I’d ever seen. Impossibly bright shades of blue, pink, green and yellow swirled and looped around one another, like oils mixing in a bowl. The walls were some sort of polished dark gray stone thickly veined in dull gold. Apart from bright blue columns around the perimeter, the room was empty, as though to better showcase its splendor.

I got up, walked through an archway. A huge glittering pool of azure water took up most of the next room, bordered by tall columns of bright gold. I walked closer to the pool – its rim was encrusted with enormous blue gemstones.

I was still dreaming, I realized, but what a dream! It felt nearly real. I began to enjoy myself, walking through another archway, then another. I discovered another pool – this one had steam rising from its surface. And another one – also steaming, but scented with jasmine, vanilla and something else. It was something I could not identify, but it reminded me of what I had done with Orpheus.

The memory of it made me smile to myself. I walked on, admiring the improbable beauty all around me, the fantastic sumptuousness of everything I passed. It seemed to be a sort of bath house – but one, I imagined, that was fit only for the gods.

Suddenly, I heard voices. I froze for a moment, afraid. Then, I thought – it’s only a dream, after all. Might as well see what else there is to it. I turned a corner, then another, moving toward the faint sounds. And then, I came upon their source so unexpectedly, that I could think only to duck behind a thick red marble pillar.

I was inside what seemed to be a ladies’ dressing room. It was a little smaller and more intimate than the other rooms had been. An enormous mirror ran the length of one wall; beneath that was a ledge covered in gleaming bottles, vials and beauty instruments that were a richer and more varied version of the kind of collection that may be seen on any woman’s vanity table.

Two women sat in front of it. They didn’t seem to have noticed me; I must have been angled so that my reflection didn’t appear in the mirror. But from where I stood, I could see them both perfectly. They were as stunning and splendid as the rest of my dream.

The one seated on the left was slender, with long, straight black hair and the fragile, stilled air of a bird that has learned to love captivity. Her features were finely chiseled; her cheeks were just a shade too hollow. Her eyes were enormous and very dark in her thin, pale face.

The other was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen – the most beautiful woman anyone could imagine. Every detail of her lush, sensual face was perfect. Her eyes were like topazes, her lips like bitten berries, her cheeks like wine spilled over fresh butter. And her hair – it was like a mass of gold threads caught in a fire, crackling shades of amber, wheat, copper, bronze, gold.

They both wore long shifts of gauzy white material – almost like nightgowns, but ornately embroidered with gold and silver thread. They did not face each other directly, but looked into the mirror, speaking to one another’s reflection.

“ – is it really necessary?” asked the dark one, just as I ducked in. “I just don’t think you have to go that far.”

“Necessary?” The blond one arched her flawless eyebrows. “No, I suppose not. Why should it be necessary, after all, to avenge myself? Why should it be necessary to punish someone who stole from me?”

“Knowledge can’t be stolen. No more than love. It must be given freely, one way or another. Regretting a gift doesn’t make a thief of the recipient.”

“Oh, spare me. You know what he did. You know how he treated me. Seduced me, and – ”

“I thought you were the one who began it.”

“What does it matter? He treated me like – like – like I was a toy! Me! And then, he left! After all I did for him, after all I taught him, all the secrets – ”

“You would have tired of him anyway. You know that.”

“That’s not the point! No, he has to pay for what he did to me. Besides,” here, the petulance crept out of her voice, replaced by hard-edged, ruthless practicality, “I can’t have someone out there with that kind of ability, that kind of weapon. I know, it’s partly my fault. I showed him too much. I shouldn’t have done what I did. But it can be undone – and, believe me, I shall take great pleasure in this undoing.”

“Is he really any danger to you?”

“To me? No, of course not. But he has far too much power. He can make anyone fall in love. He can make any woman love him. And he has! And he will – and he will toy with them and leave them, as he left me.”

Unexpectedly, the dark-haired woman laughed. Her face came to life when she did, its beauty suddenly rivaling that of the tempestuous blonde. “Only don’t tell me, my darling cousin, that you are doing this to protect maidens from a scoundrel.”

“Oh, what does it matter, in the end?” The beauty tossed her luminous tresses impatiently. “Look, he slighted me, wronged me. Showed me no respect, put me from his mind. Forgot me! No one does that to me. Certainly, no mortal. He must be punished, that’s all.”

For a few minutes, they did not speak. The blonde picked a bottle from the array before her, uncapped it, sniffed, put it back, repeated the process with another bottle. Finally, the darker woman sighed.

“What about the girl?”

“What girl? Which girl?”

“There is a girl. She loves him.”

The blonde scoffed. “Of course she does.”

“No, it’s not like that. She’s loved him since she was a child. Since he was a boy. Few women love like that – fewer girls.” My skin prickled. I kept myself very still, trying not to shiver.

“So she loves him. So what?”

“You could make him fall in love with her. They could be happy together. He would stop using your – your gift – to seduce or hurt anyone, if he fell in love. And you could make him do that. You know you could. You see, there are other ways,” and here, she spoke her cousin’s name, and I swayed where I stood, for I recognized it immediately. I recognized it, for I had whispered that name countless times, praying for miracles and benedictions, praying for the very thing they were discussing so cavalierly. I recognized the name – and so would you, so would anyone, for it belonged to the goddess of love.

My mind raced, but there wasn’t very much time to process anything – Aphrodite was quiet for only a few heart-stopped seconds before she spoke again, her words falling like stones down a well.

“Yes, I could. But I won’t. No. I won’t. He doesn’t deserve happiness. He doesn’t deserve love. He did not choose love. He did not choose me. He chose my gift over my love. For years, he’s made good use of it – maybe better than even I ever have. He can’t complain I’ve been unfair to him. He’s had some very good fortune. But now, it’s time to pay.”

The darker woman had been turning a golden comb in her fingers. Now, she clacked it down, temper flaring slightly. “Enough of this talk of fairness and choices. You are not doing this for justice’s sake. It’s all because he’s wounded your pride and you can’t stand to see him – ”

“So what if it is? What’s it to you?”

“The girl. She – ”

“What is it about that mortal that you find so endearing?”

“You know what happened today. I’ve told you that she – ”

“So what? I’m not going to do anything to her. Who knows, maybe I’m even helping her. He’d only have done to her what he did to me, what he’s done to every woman he’s ever known – you know he would have. Don’t worry, I will do nothing to her, or even to their – ah, so that’s what it is.” Aphrodite paused, examined her cousin’s averted face. There were no secrets to be kept from her. “You’ve gone soft down there among the shades, Persephone. Like an apple, rotting in the cellar,” she added cruelly.

Anger flashed across Persephone’s pale features. But she kept it in check. Her voice was quiet, dignified. “Sometimes, I just want to see first love end happily. Don’t you? She’s just had her greatest wish come true. She is poised to live a happy life, can’t you see that? Why not let her, even help her? It would be nothing to you.”

“Because that would mean letting him, helping him, and I won’t. I won’t. Besides, what good to us is a happy mortal? Never has a sculpture, painting, legend or song come out of puffy, contented domestic bliss. Nothing of quality, anyway.” She laughed musically, a sound like cold silver bells, and leaned closer to the mirror to admire her flawless complexion. “Happy mortals are no amusement at all, Persephone. And they have to earn their keep somehow, don’t they?” She laughed again, amused at her own humor, then dipped a finger into a tiny pot. She spread a silver powder around her eyes, tilted her head, smiled at the effect.

The discussion was closed. Persephone watched in silence as Aphrodite preened. Then, “How will you do it?” she asked.

“The usual way,” she replied, applying a vivid pink unguent to her lips. “At least I’m letting him keep his looks.” She giggled lightly, pleased with herself, the girl who has everything. Persephone didn’t smile.

“When?”

“Tonight. Right now, in fact. It may already have happened.”

I’d been clinging to the red column, holding my breath. Suddenly, I could no longer stop myself – the substance of what I’d overheard sank in, and a deep, grating cry came from somewhere inside me, a sound I did not recognize as my own voice.

“No! No! No!”

They whipped around to look at me. Aphrodite’s face twisted so hatefully that it looked almost ugly. It felt as though a wave had detached from her and moved toward me, pushing me back like a strong gust of wind. She half-rose from her chair. I didn’t know what she wanted to do, but I didn’t want to find out.

It’s still a dream, I told myself frantically, though I was no longer sure. It’s a dream, only a dream. Wake up. Wake up!

The last thing I saw was Aphrodite’s malicious grimace, Persephone’s look of somber, helpless sympathy, and, behind them, in the mirror, my own reflection, wild-eyed, white-faced, terrified. I woke up in my own bed, as though I’d just been dropped into it.

I sprinted out of the house barefoot, wearing only my night clothes, running toward the beach. Where we’d first met. Where everything happened. I didn’t know how I knew where to go. There was no time to think.

It was dark, very dark. As I ran, I could smell the gathering storm in the air. The wind came up, howling, roaring, keening as violently and endlessly as a young widow on her first night alone. I ran faster. Faster. Faster.

I was coming closer. I could hear the water. I saw a silhouette walk across the sand. Orpheus! He raised his head to look at the sky. I opened my mouth to shout to him, but that was when the rain came down, abruptly as if a bucket had been overturned, filling my mouth with wind-driven water. I sputtered, coughed, spat, brushed it out of my eyes – and then, I watched as the silhouette turned, recoiled, stumbled and fell.

The storm was suddenly over. I didn’t even realize it. I ran faster, even faster. My chest was on fire. I reached him just in time to see the snake slithering away, back into the water. I fell to my knees beside him, sobbing, babbling nonsense. There was nothing more to do.

He was sprawled on the sand awkwardly, graceless as a wounded stag. His limbs twitched slightly. I rolled him onto his back and his eyes opened, uncomprehending. Still, I think he saw me, knew it was me. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out – and then, the white foam appeared. His face contorted horribly, his body convulsed – and then, it was over, he was limp, and his features smoothed and slackened, his beauty restored, just as Aphrodite had said.

I don’t remember very much of the moments immediately after that. I know I was screaming, over and over, syllables that meant almost nothing. I threw myself over him, shook him, his body terribly heavy in my arms.

He was dead. Dead. My beloved, my lover, my Orpheus, my only love. And I did not want to live without him. I could not. I would not.

I fumbled along his clothes. My hands shook very badly, but I found and removed the small, sharp knife that he, like many men, carried in a leather sheath on his hip. I looked at the flat, narrow blade. I would go with him. There was no other way.

I raised the knife to my throat, trying to steady my hands enough to complete my mission. But I couldn’t. They were still shaking too much. Moreover, I could hardly breathe. The run, the shock, the tears – I was hyperventilating, then struggling to take a breath. Black spots swam in my vision. My grip slackened. The knife tumbled into the sand. And then, I tumbled too, falling across Orpheus’ legs, no longer seeing anything.

* * *

“Open your eyes. Look at me. Look at me.” The voice was demanding, but gentle. And familiar. I opened my eyes – and nearly lost my balance. I was upright, but leaned against a wall. Someone’s hands were on my shoulders; someone’s head was close to mine. Persephone’s pale face came into focus.

“Let me go! Let me go!” I threw her hands off me, found my footing, looked around wildly, beside myself. “Where is he? WHERE IS HE? You know where he is, you must know. Where is he?” When she didn’t reply, I hurled myself at the Queen of the Underworld, completely uncaring what she might do to me. I could imagine nothing worse than what had already been done.

She gripped my shoulders again. She was much stronger than she looked and considerably taller than I. I struggled briefly, then gave up. She wasn’t angry. There was a world of compassion in her gaze.

I broke down. “Am I dreaming?” I sobbed. “Please, is this all a horrible dream? Everything, please, please – ”

“No.” The goddess’ voice was heavy, tight. “It’s not a dream. I’m very sorry. But you know it isn’t.”

“Why couldn’t I – did you stop me, was it you?”

“Yes. I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Why? I can’t, I can’t live without him. You don’t understand, don’t you see, I can’t, I can’t, let me go with him, let me – ”

“No. You can’t throw your life away. It’s not only you anymore, Ridika.”

“Wh – what?” Even as I asked, I understood. The first dream. The golden quince.

“You are going to have his child.”

I shook my head, shut my eyes. This was all too much. Even the tears stopped. “Where am I?” I whispered. I opened my eyes and looked around. Another huge, gleaming room. “Am I in the bath house again?”

“No. You’re with me now.”

I’d been perfectly ready to kill myself only minutes earlier, but now, cold fear streaked through me. “I’m in Hell?”

Persephone pursed her lips briefly. “It’s the Underworld. Not the same thing, whatever they tell you up there.”

“Am I dead, then? Did I die, after all? Did – ”

“No. I brought you here to speak with you.”

“Wait.” Something occurred to me – something so wonderful, I could hardly contain myself. “If I am in the Underworld . . . is Orpheus here?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“Then – then, you could let him go? Oh, please, I’d do anything, please let him go, please – ”

She shook her head. “I can’t. It’s already been too long.”

“What? But he just died. I saw it happen, it’s only been a few minutes, he was still warm when - ”

“Time is different here.” She spoke so gently, I understood there was truly nothing to be done.

I began to weep again. My knees gave and I slid down the wall. She sat beside me, put her arms around me. I don’t know how long we sat like that, Persephone rocking me as though I were a hurting child. Finally, I drew a shaky breath and pulled away. I knew none of this was her doing, but she’d sat by her cousin’s side as the scorned goddess planned my Orpheus’ murder. I could not forget that, no matter how kind she was to me.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“To speak with you.”

“About what?”

“About you. And what you will do now.”

I let out a harsh bark of sarcastic laughter. “Does it matter?”

“Yes. You are having a child. His child.”

“If that’s true, this child will be a bastard. And they will all say I’m nothing but a – ”

“Tell them who the child’s father is. Tell them you and Orpheus were to be married. They will understand. It was a terrible misfortune.”

“He was cavorting with a dozen women just the other night. Not the behavior of a man just betrothed,” I said bitterly, the lash of that memory stinging again.

Persephone gave me a small, wry smile. “Betrothed, married, single or double, every man in the world will behave the same way in such a situation.”

“No one will believe me anyway. A convenient story – an unmarried girl pregnant by a man who just returned to town, and then – ” I swallowed a fresh bout of tears. I couldn’t say “died.” “Anyway, it still isn’t as if I am his widow. I’m only – ”

She placed her hand firmly on mine to stop me. “They will believe you. And they will respect you and your child. Already, Orpheus is becoming a legend – tales of him are being told and told and exaggerated and carried from all the places he has ever visited. And you will be part of this story. Trust me. You have to believe me.”

“How do you know?”

She sighed, a little exasperated, then thought for a moment. Then, she put a finger under my chin, tipped up my face and looked directly into my eyes. I shivered. Her pupils were enormous. I felt a sudden sense of vertigo. I remembered that I was speaking to a goddess. I would believe anything she wanted me to believe. Anything.

She let me go, releasing me from my trance. “I know,” she said simply. “Trust me. In another year, no one will remember that you and Orpheus had not been betrothed when he died. In five, no one will remember you were not his wife. In a hundred . . .” She broke off, smiled. “You will see. It will be remembered as one of the greatest love stories ever told.”

I shook my head. I wasn’t sure why she was saying all this. “What is that to me now? What is it to me to be remembered for a great love that existed for only a day?”

She smoothed my hair in a maternal gesture. “Love – the sort of great love that stories are told about – seldom lasts much longer than that.” She smiled sadly, looked away for a moment. “Don’t think too much on it. It will be easier if you don’t. Besides, you have your baby to think about now. It will be a boy. A strong, beautiful boy.”

“Better that he should be ugly,” I bit off. “For all his father’s beauty did him. He was with Aphrodite, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. She noticed him soon after he left your city. She sank his ship, just to snatch him from the sea. He lived nearly a year with her.”

“The music. The way he played when he came back. Did he learn from her?”

“She likes to say so, but it isn’t quite true. She showed him the essence of love itself, in its purest, most potent form. Only she possessed this secret before; I never understood what made her reveal it to him. Maybe she didn’t think he would understand it. Maybe she didn’t realize how talented he was, that he could translate it to music. But she was delighted at first – I remember, she would tell me how he played for her, and – I’m sorry, this must be hard for you to hear.”

I shook my head. “No. I want to know. I want to know everything.” Five years of waiting and wondering where he was, while he lay with a goddess and played for her pleasure. I tried not to feel betrayed.

Persephone continued. “As I said, they were happy together for some time. But then, he left. Didn’t seem to give very much reason or warning. Just left, went on his way – he wanted to keep exploring the world. Aphrodite was disappointed, even a little sad. But she forgot him soon enough – though she never liked to be reminded of him. It always rankled her to be abandoned by a mortal.

“She didn’t get angry until she heard that he had begun to travel the world, playing the music that, before, had always been for her enjoyment alone. You see, he continued to perfect his craft – he no longer needed Aphrodite to teach him about the essence of love. He had turned it into music, and so, acquired an even deeper understanding of it. And he kept working on it, making it finer, purer, stronger. He revealed it to whoever heard his music. It was extraordinary. Well, you’ve witnessed it.

“This was what made her angry. To see people exult in his music the way they had previously only exulted in her gift – love itself. People would rather listen to his lyre than to the songs of her priestesses. They would rather listen to him than bring sacrifices to her.

“So she tracked him home. The last straw, I think, came when he performed at the festival of Dionysus. He had never played to honor her, you see, not since he played only for her. Not since they parted. And here, he laid his gift – her gift – at the feet of another god. That made her furious.

“You know the rest.”

“I do.” I closed my eyes. What Persephone had called “the rest” scrolled through my mind. Orpheus’ corpse. The race into the storm. Aphrodite’s cold laughter. The golden quince.

And Orpheus again. Alive, his face alight, his flesh warm with love and life. His hands, firm, agile, splayed against my skin. His mobile mouth on mine. Soft sand beneath our plaited limbs. His whispered words of love in my ear, like a wish suddenly coming true, a blessing taking effect, a fantasy becoming flesh.

Now, fantasies were all I’d ever have. Never again would I hold him, touch him. I could not even dream of doing so anymore. Maybe it would have been better had it not happened at all.

Tears came to my throat again. I choked them back. “Is there nothing you can do?” I begged Persephone. My voice was hoarse, desperate. “Please. You are the Queen of the Dead. Surely, you – ”

“No. My husband rules here. And he has taken a liking to Orpheus’ music. He will not release him.”

“Never?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps one day, he can be convinced. But not soon.”

A small spark of hope flared at that. “When?”

She smiled apologetically, the smile of someone whose idea of time was nothing like a mortal’s. “Hundreds of years, Ridika. Thousands, perhaps.”

I shuddered. “Then, that’s all. I will never see him again.”

She looked at me thoughtfully. “Not necessarily. They say, if you stay around long enough, eventually, you will see everything.”

“But I will die.” I felt like a fool for pointing this out. “I will die. Do you mean – will we be reunited some day?” Not the most comforting idea, but it was something.

She dashed my hopes yet again. “No. Orpheus is no longer wholly mortal. He has tangled with a goddess, received a gift from her, and died by her hand. In the Underworld, such individuals are kept separate from other mortals.”

“Then, what did you mean?”

Her eyes sharpened. She seemed to be considering something. “I will speak to my husband. When the time comes, I will ask him to allow Orpheus to re-enter the world.”


“He will be immortal?”

“No. But he will be reborn, elsewhere. He will live as a man, never knowing anything of his past – of Thrace or you or anything that happened here. He will live as a man – and then, he will die as a man. But he will return to the world, again and again.” She smiled. “In a way, yes – he will be immortal.”

“What will Aphrodite say about that?”

“He is no longer her concern,” Persephone replied tartly. “She has no power over the dead. When he is back in the world – that is a different story. But she will not hold on to her anger forever. I know my cousin. She will never help him, but she will, eventually stop caring enough to work against him.”

“You know,” I confessed, “I used to pray to her. To bring him to me. To let him see me, love me. I prayed to her, every night, every morning. I brought sacrifices to her temple. I had such faith in her.” A sob burst out of me. I was flooded with the profound impotence of one who has been betrayed by her gods. “She never heard me. Or she never listened. Why?”

“She is like that. Moody, capricious. She is hard to understand sometimes. She’s sweetness itself one moment, a livid demon the next. My husband can hardly stand her, to tell you the truth.”

“Let me ask you something.” It had been in the back of my mind since it happened. “This afternoon – Orpheus and I – it wasn’t her doing?”

Persephone almost chuckled. “I should say not.”

“But it was so sudden, so perfect. It felt like a gift. It felt like the gift of love. I thought it was her. I thought only she could give us something like that.”

Persephone shook her head. “It wasn’t her. And a good thing it wasn’t. When Aphrodite gifts too generously, she often has a change of heart – and extracts whatever return she feels is due.” She gave me a loaded look; it wasn’t hard to understand. “It wasn’t a gift, Ridika. When you hope so much and so long for something, and work for it, live for it – it is not a gift. Maybe it’s a gift you make to yourself.”

I nodded, feeling satisfied. It was a relief to know I hadn’t just been manipulated as a pawn – and that I owed nothing to the beautiful golden-haired sociopath. But there was something else. “You said that I would see him again?”

“Yes. I will speak to my husband. When your time comes, Ridika – not for many years yet – you can choose to stay in the world. In a way, I mean. But that means you will not enter the Underworld. You will not reunite with your people here. You will stay up there, as a wandering shade – it can be very lonely, an existence like that. Do you understand? And there are no guarantees. When he does re-enter the world, you will have to search for him yourself. Granted, as a shade, you will have superior intuition, you will see and hear much more than the living can ever hope to – but still, it will not be easy. And it will be a long, long time before you can even hope to see him. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do. It’s fine. I am no stranger to waiting.”

There was a strange, sad look on her face. “No, you aren’t.”

“So. You will speak to your husband? You will arrange it?”

“I will do my best. No guarantees.”

“I understand.” I drew myself up, squaring my shoulders. “Like I said. I’ve waited for him before. I can do it again.”

Again, that look crossed her face. This time, I understood its meaning. This would not be like the last wait. Many a mortal has tossed around terms like “lifetimes” and “eternity” with no real comprehension of these words. I felt a little afraid.

“How will I know it’s him?” I asked her. “If he is reborn as a different man. How will I know it’s him?”

Persephone smiled. “His music, of course. I suspect you will hear of him before you see him. A gift like his does not remain confined to one place.” She patted my arm. “Do not worry. You will know. For now, you must think of the life ahead of you. You have many happy years yet, my dear. You must enjoy them. And don’t forget – you will have your son. The joy of motherhood will erase much of this grief. There may even come a time when you regret the decision you’ve just made. You will love again, you will love many people in your life – you will not want to give up the chance to be reunited with them. But don’t worry. You will have an opportunity to change your mind.”

“I won’t change my mind.”

She moved her hand through the air vaguely. “It does not matter now. Now, you must go back up. There is no knowing what remaining here for too long may do to you – or your baby.”

I nodded, acquiescing. There was not much more to be done, anyway. I got up, and allowed her to guide me through great rooms and wide corridors. It was very different from the bath house I’d seen before, though no less grand. This time, however, I was not thinking about my surroundings.

We walked, my mind churning with everything I had just heard. It was difficult to believe any of what she had told me, but I had no choice but to trust Persephone. “I have a question,” I said slowly. “How did I come to overhear the conversation between you and Aphrodite? Was it you who caused me to be there?”

She shook her head. “No. But I thought of you when she began to speak of what she planned to do. Perhaps, somehow, it allowed you to enter our world as you slept.”

“I am grateful to you. But I have to ask – why are you doing all this for me?” I’d wanted to ask this question from the beginning – in fact, since I heard Aphrodite ask it.

Persephone stopped walking, turned to look at me. “Because,” she said, “I, too, am no stranger to waiting.” She paused meaningfully, slanted a puckish smile at me, then resumed walking.

“Then you do love your husband.” I’d heard contradictory stories from various elders and priests.

“Very much.”

“Do you have any children?”

“No,” she said flatly. “No. No child of the Underworld can survive or be carried above. And vice versa.” She sighed. There was a barely audible catch in her breath. “I love my husband very much. We are very happy together, when we are together. But we cannot have children.”

For a few minutes, we walked in silence. Then, I had another question. “Persephone,” I said softly, “do you know why he was on the beach this night, after I’d gone home? I don’t know how I knew to look for him there – but it’s a little strange, isn’t it? He walked me home – why did he go back?”

She stopped, turned to face me. She looked at me directly – again, I felt the power of her divine gaze. This time, it was not reassurance – there was a warning in her eyes, and it was so intense that I backed away. I didn’t want to know the answer, after all. “Never mind,” I said quickly. “It doesn’t matter.”

She withdrew. “No,” she agreed. “It doesn’t. Now, I must let you go. Thus far, you’ve needed me to guide you through; you will be safe now. Just keep going along this hallway – walk straight, do not turn anywhere – and you will not get lost. Feel free to look around, but remain very quiet, and do nothing that will make yourself noticed.” She pointed me down a passageway.

“Thank you.” I looked at her, unsure of what I owed her, unsure of what I should say, afraid of what I would find when I made my way back to the world.

She put her arms around me, lightly kissed my cheek. “Take care of yourself, my dear. And of your baby.”

“You too,” I said, “take care of yourself.” I wondered if that sounded foolish, a mortal saying that to a goddess.

She didn’t seem to think so. “Thank you. I will.” As I walked away, I heard her voice again. “Live your life well, Ridika. Remember, nothing is ever as terrible or wonderful as it seems at first. Live your life well.”

I turned to look back at her. She waved, smiled. A glow seemed to emanate from her lovely pale face. I waved back and kept going.

The Underworld – at least, the portion of it that I was seeing – was not frightening. It was not even especially unwelcoming. Just very quiet and a little too formal for comfort. The long rooms I passed through had wonderfully executed drawings and paintings on the walls, depicting scenes from stories that were familiar to me. Here and there were statues not unlike the statues I was used to seeing in our city, if perhaps more finely made.

There were irregularly spaced archways cut into the walls on either side of me. I could see more rooms through them; they seemed interesting, but I heeded Persephone’s advice and did not go inside them. I kept walking. Then, ahead of me, I saw the beginning of an archway cut much, much wider than ones I had seen before. I walked closer to take a look.

The room was like the inside of a wealthy woman’s jewel box. The walls were covered in heavy brocades of deepest blues and greens. The floors were dark green marble, with glistening silk coverings strewn around it. The lamps and furnishings were all crafted in precious metals, decorated with gemstones.

Dominating the room, its back facing me, was a giant black throne. Every inch of it was carved in tiny figures, depicting various states and stages of humanity. From where I was standing, I could not see much of the man who sat upon the throne – I only saw his forearm and his beringed hand on the armrest, his shoulder, his cheekbone and the tip of his nose. But I had a perfect view of the figure seated upon a cushion at the foot of the throne, looking very small in its oversized surroundings, its simple wooden lyre looking very poor in comparison to all the glitter in the room – even as its glorious music rendered all of that glitter irrelevant.

It was Orpheus. It was him – alive, doing what he did best. He was looking down at the instrument in his hands; he didn’t see me at all. I didn’t mind – I could watch him to my heart’s content. I could listen to him. A new painful thought occurred to me – I would never again hear him play.

Well, I could hear him now. And so, I listened, for the very last time. I listened as he produced those sounds of incomparable beauty. There was something different about this; in some ways, it was even better than his explosive performance at the feast of Dionysus. But it was simpler, too. And, as I listened, I realized that the song he was playing was the same melody that he had played for me when we were children. Only now, he was playing it with a skill he had built over a lifetime. With a mastery no one could ever achieve, unless they found some way to combine mortal passion with godly knowledge.

The last note dissolved in the air, like a golden molecule splitting into its components. Upon his throne, Hades raised a hand in a benevolent acknowledgement of his enjoyment. Orpheus looked up at his new master, a humble yet confident smile playing about his mouth. And then, as he cast his eyes back down, he seemed to notice something behind the throne.

He was looking at me. I could swear he was looking at me.

Before I had a chance to raise my hand in greeting, even to smile, I felt a shift in the air. Hades’ face seemed to turn a fraction of an inch toward me. And I heard Persephone’s voice in my ears, urgent and clear as if she were next to me, “Go! Be on your way!”

For a very brief moment, I considered defying her. Defying everything. Running toward my love, throwing my arms around him, knowing the scent of his skin one last time. But I remembered what she had told me – we could not be together in the Underworld. And if I stayed here, I would give up my chance to find him when he re-entered the world.

I obeyed. I walked on. I didn’t look back. Behind me, I could hear the lyre begin a new song. I shut my eyes, held back a cry, and walked on.

Very soon, I came to stone stairs leading up. I climbed up, up, and then, I put my foot down, and there was absolutely nothing beneath it. I plummeted into empty space. It was so surprising, I didn’t even have time to cry out. As I fell, I thought I could hear Persephone’s voice again. “Live your life well, Ridika.”

* * *

I landed where I first fell, across Orpheus’ legs, gasping. Breathing came easier this time. I inhaled deeply, looked around. It seemed as though no time had passed at all. Overhead, the black storm clouds were quickly giving way to a sky of deepest blue, crowned with a bright moon. It was no longer raining, but my skin and nightshift still dripped water.

I propped myself up, my hands digging into the wet, crumbling sand. The sand which had cradled us so tenderly, so warmly, was now cold. And the breeze coming off the water felt like ice against my soaked gown.

I crawled closer to his face. It was hard to reconcile this corpse with the Orpheus I had just seen in the Underworld. So, somewhere, he still existed, still played, still smiled. Somewhere. But it was a very small comfort to me now, as I brushed the wet strands of hair off his clammy eyelids, as I kissed his damp face and finally wept without being observed or interrupted.

By the time dawn came, everything was dry, as though the storm had never happened. The sand was soft beneath me. The sun rose in the east, blazing hot, warming everything it touched.

Everything but Orpheus, whose body had already turned chillingly rigid. He was gone. Nothing of him remained here. I brushed my fingers over his cold lips, brushed my lips over his silky eyelashes, got up, and went to deliver the news.

The next few days were very difficult. But everyone, it seemed, wanted to make them easier for me. Persephone had told the truth – from the very beginning, everyone believed everything I said. I was treated as his widow. Most especially by Drenis and his wife, who would have had me move into their home, if not for my mother’s tactful objection. I told no one of my dreams, my visions; I thought no one would ever believe me.

My story checked out – I told everyone that I’d found him early that morning, on the beach. The twin puncture wounds in his foot left little doubt that snakebite had caused his death; the bearded old physician confirmed it. His wife was inconsolable.

Orpheus was buried with the honors usually accorded only to great men or town elders. Our city was proud of its talented prodigal son; that much was clear. Every poet, every troubadour contributed to the lavish funeral procession. The women of the Dionysian temple wept as they performed their strange dances and floated dozens of wreaths down the river.

Some weeks later, I broke the news of my pregnancy. Again, Persephone’s prediction had been accurate; far from being looked at askance, the news was celebrated. Drenis, who had barely left his house since Orpheus’ death, finally seemed to cast off some of his despondency. He immediately began to work on a lyre for his grandson – “the most perfect instrument to ever be played.”

As time went by, I began to realize just how accurate Persephone’s other predictions had been – at least, as far as Orpheus’ renown was concerned. Travelers began coming to our city, seeking the master musician they had seen – or only heard of – abroad. In fact, many of them seemed to have only heard of him second- or third-hand, for each story they recited seemed more outlandish than the last. He had charmed birds from trees; fish had come to the surface of rivers; trees had danced for him; sorrowful would-be mothers suddenly conceived when they had been unable to do so before. He could do anything, they were all convinced, with the power of his music.

Upon learning of his death – so sudden, so senseless – they were distraught. Then, they transferred their burgeoning fascination to his family. To their delight, they discovered his father was a lyre-maker.

Drenis quickly found himself very busy; within a few months, he had taken a dozen new apprentices; still, he could not keep up with the demand. Many of the lyres he sold were of inferior quality; but his customers never dared to attribute the mediocre sound of their instruments to slipshod workmanship. They blamed their own dearth of talent. Truth be told, they were usually right about that.

Deprived of the chance to seek Orpheus, they sought souvenirs and stories. As the woman known to everyone as his betrothed, I was approached frequently. At first, I told them the simple truth, leaving out the details about the gods. He’d been walking on the beach, and he was stricken by a snake and died.

Talking about this always pained me terribly, but I felt that if these people had traveled all this way only for their admiration of my beloved, they deserved to hear about him. Then, when I began to notice the disappointment in their eyes – merely a singer at a festival? A relatively plain childhood friend as his lover? Death by a random snakebite? – I let slip a few more details. The Underworld; Hades’ appreciation for his music. I never mentioned Aphrodite; I wanted nothing to do with her.

But even that wasn’t exciting enough. I saw it in their faces – the lust for sensation, the hunger for a story worth retelling. I was not surprised when they didn’t stop with the facts they learned from me. There were so many other potential sources.

Every man and woman in town who had ever known Orpheus was glad to add to the dossier. Whether these stories were true or not, they spread, mutating rapidly along the way, as stories always do. His foundling origins were soon discovered, and all sorts of theories came up about his bloodline – that he was the son of the gods, or the product of a union between a god and a mortal, the son of Apollo himself.

Soon, I began to hear completely fictional random facts about him - he rescued so-and-so from Hades. Yes, he’d been down to the Underworld and returned once. And did you know that the ship he had sailed on had been the famous Argo? And he’d even died heroically – that snake had leapt for me, he’d only stepped in front of it.

I never knew if Persephone had placed some kind of credibility charm on whatever might be said of Orpheus, or if they were all just so eager to believe these fantastic tales. But they ate it all up. They had come seeking a great lyre, and had found great liars. But they didn’t seem terribly disappointed.

Fascination with Orpheus was at its peak when my son decided it was time to come into the world. A crowd of gawkers had gathered outside my house; I think they half-expected me to give divine birth to a golden harp. But it was all nothing to me, as I suffered the ordinary agonies of mortal child birth.

It was a difficult process – probably no worse than it was for most women, but that isn’t saying much. I was attended by my mother, my married cousin and my old friend Ophira. I’d asked her to be there mostly because I hoped her ribald jokes and wicked gossip would provide a little distraction.

After my son had been born, and was taken away to let me rest, when I woke up from my exhausted sleep, Ophira was there. She stroked my hair, inquired about how I felt, fetched me a cup of water.

As I drank, I saw that she was watching me very closely. There was a strange look on her face. I couldn’t take it anymore. “What?” I asked. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Everything is fine. It’s just – well, maybe this isn’t a good time to bring this up, but I just have to. When you were having the baby . . . there were a few bad moments. No, don’t worry, nothing terrible, but you had a hard time. You weren’t yourself for a bit. I think you might have had some fever. You said some strange things.”

“What?” My scalp prickled. I didn’t remember a thing about this. “What did I say?”

“It was hard to understand very much. But you kept bringing up Orpheus. And the Underworld. And Hades. Something about Orpheus seeing you, Hades, and turning away, and then he was gone.”

“I see.”

“You kept saying you should have turned around one last time.”

“I see.” I concentrated on breathing normally. I’d wanted to keep this a secret. Suddenly, I felt very tired again. “Ophira – please, let’s not talk about this now.” I closed my eyes. “It’s to do with the night he died – and it’s a very long story. It’s very hard for me to talk about it. Especially now. Someday, I will tell you everything. But not today. Please?”

She nodded slowly. “All right. Is there anything you’d like me to do for you? Shall I call your mother?”

“No. Thank you. I think I’ll sleep again.”

To my surprise, she never brought the matter up again. And, as far I knew, that was that.

I named my son Musaeus. He was, as promised, a strong, beautiful boy. He was healthy, quick, a happy, smiling child. A perfect baby. Again, I acknowledged Persephone’s wisdom. She had been right; the joy of motherhood took the edge off my grief.

He grew up surrounded by love, untouched by the odd but harmless cult that was starting to form around the memory of his father. By the time Musaeus was a toddler, the fact of Orpheus’ death had become widespread; and the stories of his life had taken on a life of their own. Poets and storytellers concocted lovely, tragic, symmetrical versions of what happened to Orpheus. It was great material. They soon realized they did not need to visit our city at all; they could just as well spin their tales from home.

Drenis, old, wealthier than he ever planned to be, and wanting only to spend his last days with his children and grandchildren, finally closed his shop. Then, there were even fewer reasons for curiosity-seekers to visit our city and bother us. We were too ordinary to interest them very much. They mostly left us alone. And anyway, we did not live in Thrace much longer.

A few years after the birth of my son, a traveler appeared in our city. He was from the Levant, where he was a prosperous merchant by trade. He saw me in the marketplace the first week he was in our city and approached me immediately. When I was cool toward him, he befriended my mother, who graciously invited him to dinner.

He brought her a gift of very rare and very expensive spices. He praised her cooking with just the right mix of sincerity and hyperbole. He spoke with great respect and love of his family, particularly of his mother. He did not fail to mention the success of his business back in his homeland, nor his unmarried status. When he left, it was late in the evening, and he had made a powerful ally.

From the first day he and I had met, I never saw him look at another woman with anything approaching desire, and I never saw him look at me with anything but complete adoration in his eyes. He pursued me carefully but single-mindedly, never pushing too hard but never letting a day go by without finding an excuse to speak to me. Sometimes, I caught him watching me with wide eyes and loose mouth, and the look on his face was familiar to me – this was how I had watched my Orpheus.

He could not sing to me, he could not play an instrument for me, but he was the first person, save for my son, who could make me laugh whenever he wanted. He was funny, he was clever, and he was gentle. He was endlessly devoted and endlessly kind. He loved me patiently and absolutely – the way a wounded woman needs to be loved, if she is to ever be whole again.

When he left, nearly a year after coming to our city, I went with him. We returned to his homeland. We were happy. He accepted my son as his own, and we raised him together, as well as several other strong, healthy children. We saw our children grow, marry, and prosper. We knew the joy of grandchildren. We gave thanks for a thousand small, daily miracles, and took a thousand more for granted. This last is what makes me certain that ours was a well-lived life.

* * *

PART IV. ORPHEUS


So now, you know the truth behind the legend of Orpheus. The hero, the sage, the greatest singer the world has ever known. The all-too-clever flirt, the handsome rogue, the unforgettable lover. The craftsman, the explorer, the unrivalled master of his art. My darling, my beloved, my sweetest victory, my most grievous loss. The cause of my greatest, most painful sacrifice. My Orpheus.

Persephone had made good on her cautious promise to me. After I died, I was able to remain on earth, in a fashion, watching as the flow of time slowly altered the face of the world – much as a river slowly erodes its bed, the changes only becoming visible when the water runs dry. I watched, and I learned. I searched for Orpheus from the very beginning, but, as Persephone had warned me, it was a very long time before he re-entered the world.

Meanwhile, his legend spread, told and retold in various countries, acquiring new aspects upon each retelling, gradually shedding many of the older – and more genuine – details. The poets, the singers, the troubadours who had been displaced by Orpheus’s celebrity and skill, had retaken their positions by singing his story. As poets, singers and troubadours are wont to do, they embellished some details, invented others, ignored others still entirely, and generally, were far more concerned with garnering accolades than with preserving accuracy. The legend of Orpheus grew to mythological proportions in a relatively short time.

I sometimes wondered if I shouldn’t have kept the truth a secret, however unbelievable it may have seemed at the time. Keeping an incredible truth concealed is a good way to give life to an even less credible lie. By the time Orpheus was reborn, even if he had retained any recollection of his past life, he would hardly have recognized himself, let alone me, in his own mythology.

As tales of Orpheus’ life traveled through the world, so did his songs. These, of course, underwent even more modifications – and came out far worse for it. However, as travel became easier and more commonplace, making the world far less vast than it had before, the songs reached more and more people. Some of them had a native talent and intuition that almost measured up to Orpheus’. They heard past the flattened notes of the once-divine compositions that had been mangled and mediocritized past all recognition. They heard the heart of the song, found the thread of the songs’ essence that still remained. And, from this thread, they managed to weave their own interpretations of the stolen secret that, though fragmented, had managed to be preserved in Orpheus’ songs. Then, they taught their songs to others, the best of whom were able to bear them forward through time, evolving, yet retaining the key aspects. These, in turn, found pupils of their own, and so on.

Over the centuries, I have watched as the musical translation of Aphrodite’s powerful secret was used to seduce, manipulate, swindle and steal. I watched it being sold as a commodity and given away as casually as a spare button. I’ve watched it being emulated and counterfeited until most of the world forgot how to recognize the genuine article, even when placed side-by-side with a fake.

For a long time, I expected her to exact some sort of revenge on those who had demystified her art, parodied her creation. But she never seemed to seek punishment. Perhaps she was satisfied with what she’d done to Orpheus; perhaps it was all as simple as appeasing the fury of a scorned woman with the blood of her offender. Perhaps she realized that the musical translation of her secret had become so imperfect that it was really no threat to her at all. In any event, she never seemed to have any interest in hurting those who followed Orpheus – although she never seemed to trouble to help them, either. Rarely does a crafter of powerful love songs find lasting happiness in love.

The full power of Orpheus’ songs was hugely diluted, of course. The originals were lost forever, resurfacing only occasionally, by some strange whim of the shadowy laws of reincarnation. I remember very well how, one evening, I watched a very young street urchin entertain a well-dressed family on a Salzburg street with a song he made up on the spot – a melody I had not heard in centuries. He sang in the clear voice of an angel, accompanying himself on a cheap mandolin. He died of a lung infection later that winter. (The family’s youngest son would spend a lifetime trying to recreate the magic of that melody. He would die trying.)

The street urchin was Orpheus, as you may have guessed. A version of Orpheus who had nothing in common with the man I had loved a millennium long before Salzburg ever existed; the boy had probably never even heard of Thrace. I recognized him only because of the song he sang, and the way he sang it.

As Persephone had told me, even after I knew that Orpheus had re-entered the world, finding him was no easy task. It took me a long time – a very long time – but, eventually, I learned to find him the way one learns to read or jump rope. What is difficult at first becomes, with sufficient repetition, almost second nature. I learned to easily discern the subtle differences between Orpheus and other, similar musicians. He always had an unfailing sort of blithe confidence. A special flair with his instrument, the ability to make it seem as though the music came of its own volition. A telltale degree of honesty in his performance – he knew, somewhere in his metaphysical DNA, exactly what he was singing about.

And, of course, I cannot underestimate my ordinary gut feeling, my female intuition. You develop quite the instincts when you’ve been around for a couple thousand years.

And what of it, what of the wandering? What is it like to be a willingly lost soul, a homeless ghost? Ah, let us not speak of that – there is nothing I can tell you that you haven’t already imagined. I can tell you, however, that, each life, each incarnation is far more affected by the choices made in the present than by the echoes of the past. And I can also tell you that I got to see the fulfillment of Persephone’s promise.

I have seen my love carrying his gift to the world through centuries of war interrupted by blessed stretches of peace. I have seen him bring it to countless countries, in countless different languages – in Hindi, Catalan and Arabic; at Jewish weddings, Irish wakes and Mexican quinceañeras. I have seen him sing to the glory of Jesus and I have seen him sing to honor the ancient, pagan gods who fell out of favor so comparatively recently.

I’ve seen him venerated as an elderly sage, and I’ve seen him come to an early, inglorious end, overglutted with sensual satisfaction. I’ve seen him explore and develop his gifts fully, and I’ve seen him paralyzed, poisoned by bitterness, plagued by self-doubt, frozen by fear or complacency. I’ve seen him soar to the apex of a fabulous career, and I’ve seen him spend his entire life middling in a job he didn’t care very much about, spending his spare time writing songs of amazing beauty and unparalleled insight – songs that were never heard.

I have seen him sing for kings and emperors, and I have seen him wandering with a band of persecuted gypsies. I have heard him pronounced the voice of a generation, and I have heard his songs denounced as the music of the devil. I have seen him proudly accepting awards and medals, and I have seen him with his tongue ripped out, burning as a witch.

But whenever he sings, wherever he sings, it is always the same. Always, always, it is like the first time. Always the men stopping what they are doing to listen. Always the other singers wondering what they are doing wrong. And always, the women, remembering they are women. Remembering what makes them women. Remembering, through the agonies of childbirth, through the centuries of inconsequence, through the millennia of blame, the joy of womanhood. Remembering the joy of the dream of love.

This is a good time for singers, your time of mass media, of perfectly reproduced sound on a small, silver disc. And it has been a good time for me to see my love take on a new guise, and be pronounced a heartthrob, a rock star, whom a million women would give anything to touch. It has been a good time for me to see him on a flood-lit stage, keeping thousands of people entranced with his voice and his woman-shaped instrument. It has been a good time for me to see him smile on a million television screens, seducing everyone within range of that smile, as he always has.

You have your name for him now, as you have had so many names before, as you will have so many names again. But to me, no matter what language he sings in, no matter what the world calls him, he will always be, quite simply, my first lover and my greatest love.

My Orpheus.

* * *

PART V. HANNAH

“Are you certain about this?”
“I am certain.”
“You know, you won’t be able to go back.”
“I know. I am ready.” A pause. Then, slowly, quietly – “Over and over, I watch him die. Sometimes violently, sometimes foolishly, sometimes by his own hand. And almost always, senselessly. Just like the first time.”
“It isn’t – ”
“I know. I know it isn’t her doing anymore. It’s his own choices. He is only ever a man, he does not know what I know. He couldn’t possibly. But to watch it, over and over, and be unable to help him, to show him – I know. It is what it is. It is how it must be. I always knew. But I am tired. I will always love him. But I miss my family, and I am tired. It is time for peace.”
“All right. But remember – this will be your last chance.”
“Yes. You could say, this will be my only chance. But I must say – ” a brief chuckle – “if there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that there are very few last chances. There is little that cannot be attained when one refuses to put a deadline on desire.”
“You may be right. There is no way of knowing yet. But, in any case – you are sure about this?”
“I am sure.”
“Very well, then.”

She woke with a start, elbowing her husband by accident. He woke up as well. “What is it?” he slurred, trying to blink his eyes open. “Is the baby all right?”

“I think so.” She ran a hand over the steep swell of her belly in a habitual gesture. “I’m sorry. I think I had a dream.” What a strange one, too. A room straight out of a Kubrick movie, and two women – a pale, slender, long-haired brunette and a teenaged girl with a round face, slightly overstated features, and the oldest eyes she’d ever seen – sitting in front of a mirror, having a conversation that made absolutely no sense. She shook her head, trying to get rid of it.

“I’m fine,” she assured her husband. “And so is the baby. It’s just kicked me.”

He smiled, patted her belly affectionately. “Our little golden apple. Stop waking Mommy up, you in there,” he admonished the belly.

She giggled and turned over onto her side, spooning against him. “You know,” she murmured sleepily, “I read somewhere that when they say “golden apple” in the old Greek myths, it’s actually a mistranslation of the word for quince.”

“Is that so?” he mumbled into her hair. “Well, I sure hope you’re not having quints. We can’t afford the diapers.”

She laughed into her pillow and snuggled closer to him. It was only a silly dream. Everything was just fine.

* * *

25 years later.

Hannah woke up at three in the morning with a bone-dry mouth, a splitting headache and absolutely no idea where the fuck she was.

She turned her head with difficulty, trying not to loosen her brain from its precarious moorings. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. Her latest amuse-bouche was lying beside her, snoring softly. Just another guy who’d mopped her up off some bar last night and then wrung her out into his bed. What the fuck was his name, anyway? Luke? Lake? Leak? Speaking of which, she needed one.

She crawled out of bed, swore softly as she stumbled over a pile of clothes – God, she hoped they were hers, that would make life easier – and looked for the bathroom. On her second try – nice, a walk-in closet – she found it.

She peed, flushed, remembered to wash her hands. She stared at the mirror, wondering how desperate the guy had been to take home something like that. Bloodshot eyes. Smeared makeup. Blotchy skin. Purple-streaked brown hair sticking out in all directions, like an angry porcupine from the Lower East Side.

I gotta give this shit up, she thought. I’m only hurting myself, like Dad says. But Dad hadn’t said anything in a long time, not since she’d screamed “Fuck you!” into the phone at him, then changed her number.

How long has it been like this? Probably since Mom died, Hannah thought to herself. She’d gone over it a million times – with shrinks, with friends, with her father, with the voices in her own goddamn head – but it never helped. Yes, it must have begun when her mother died.

Actually, it began just before that, when Hannah had sat with her mother in the cancer wing of St. Vincent’s Hospital. Driven demented by her agony and by the drugs they used to “keep her comfortable” – “What the fuck does uncomfortable look like, then?!” Hannah had screamed at them – her mother had been delirious, making no sense, weeping inconsolably, and crying out – “Don’t do it, Hannah, don’t do it, don’t look for him,” and “It’s not worth it, you have to think of your own life first,” and finally, rocking back and forth, racked by sobs, too dehydrated to produce tears, “Oh Hannah, oh my Hannah, oh my Hannah.” And Hannah, 19, Mommy’s baby, Daddy’s little girl; Hannah, stunned, shell-shocked and totally helpless; Hannah could only hug her mother’s terrifyingly bony body, hold her hands – they were cold and brittle as dead sparrows – and repeat, over and over, a futile incantation, “It’s all right, Mom, it’s all right.” It had almost been a mercy when she’d finally died.

Hannah shuddered, turned away from her reflection. She wanted a drink. She wanted a cigarette. She wanted to get the fuck out of here before what’s-his-face woke up and asked for seconds.

Somehow, she managed to get dressed and gather up her stuff without turning on the lights or waking him. She got out of the house – a doorman building near Wall Street, better than she usually did – and lucked out by managing to catch a cab right away.

As they began the trek to Brooklyn – shit, she hoped he’d take a credit card – she dug her iPod out of her purse. As always, seeing the iPod made her feel bad; it had been a present from her father on her last birthday. She forced herself not to think about it and popped the earphones into her ears.

She chose the music that she always listened to when she wanted to calm down. As soon as she pressed “play” and heard the first vibrating steel-filigree notes of the flamenco guitar, she entered a different mental state. All became balanced, everything made sense, and good things amounted to more than wasted ink on a printed Hallmark card.

She’d met him in Barcelona, the summer after she graduated from college. She’d been 23; she’d taken a year off from college after her mother had died. Her father had sent her to Spain on a three-month trip. It was ostensibly so she would learn Spanish; really, he was trying to prevent the rapid downward spiral that had already become obvious to everyone but Hannah.

She’d met him in a little basement bar on one of the side streets off La Rambla. He was an American expat, from California. He’d moved to Spain to learn everything there was to know about flamenco. It seemed to her that he already had.

When he sang, his voice was like unpolished malachite, rough, textured, rich, complex, gorgeously imperfect. And the music that he slid, plucked and flicked off his guitar was like nothing she’d ever heard. It was like swimming through wine, like eating starlight.

She fell in love with the music. And then, she fell in love with him. It had been perfect; it was the last time anything in her life had been perfect. Oh, there had been occasional domestic squabbles, there had been petty jealousies – what Hannah lacked in linguistic skills she made up for in temperamento ibérico – but they had been happy. They had fit well. Being with him, from the start, had been remarkably easy, as though they had known each other for a long time.

She had attributed it to the rosy, idyllic circumstances of the relationship. It was a summer fling. In Europe. With a beautiful musician. Of course it was easy – it was easy because there were no expectations, no consequences. No future. At the end of the summer, he remained in Spain. She flew home to New York, as scheduled, with three burned CDs of his music and a sheet of paper with his address in Barcelona and his parents’ address in California, just in case. He didn’t believe in e-mail and he hated cell phones. And that was all.

The cab driver was tapping her knee impatiently. She pulled one of her earbuds out of her ear. “OK,” he was saying, sounding very tired and very irritated, “OK.” He must have been repeating it for a while. She apologized. Showed him her credit card. He muttered something in a language she didn’t understand, but he allowed her to swipe it. $40. Jesus.

She took the elevator up. It swayed and creaked ominously, as it always did. She was too fatigued to even send out the customary silent curse at the super’s useless head. She just wanted to get home.

She unlocked the door, stepped into the tiny, messy apartment. She made it over to the bed and collapsed, not bothering to take off her clothes or even her shoes. She’d do it when she woke up.

She awoke to the sensation of cold marble against her cheek, her arm. She was lying on something hard. She opened her eyes and found herself curled up on the floor of what appeared to be a ballroom or possibly an empty museum.

She realized immediately that she was dreaming. Tequila wishes and amphetamine dreams, how nice. Well, might as well see what my subconscious has come up with. She walked through the room, went into the next one. She passed through an archway and found a huge swimming pool with a gaudily bedazzled blue border and gold columns all around it. It looked about as tasteful as a Vegas hotel lobby. But the water looked tempting, clear and blue as the Mediterranean Sea off the coast of Malaga.

Without thinking too much about it, she pulled off her nightgown – her dream self, she noted, had taken the time to change for bed – and dove in. The water felt even better than it had looked. It was like bathing in cool blue silk. She closed her eyes and let herself go under.

It seemed to her that she sank forever. The deeper she went, the clearer her head became. There was really no need for what she’d been doing to herself – the anger, the excess, the self-loathing. She only had one life, why work so hard on ruining it? She should call her father. She should forgive her mother. She should forgive herself. She should – what else?

As she came closer to the bottom of the pool – she could see it, murky jade-green – she thought she could hear music. The loveliest music she had ever heard – like the flamenco guitar, but brighter, lighter, purer. A harp? She thought, I must be dying. And then, just before she touched the bottom, she thought, I don’t think I want to die.

She hit the bottom. The music stopped. It was cold, painfully cold. She recoiled, thrashed. Woke up, fully dressed, on her bed.

The phone was ringing obnoxiously. The sun was breaking through the cracks in the bent plastic Venetian blinds. The phone was still ringing. She picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Hannah? It’s Dad. I hope you don’t mind, I got your new number from a friend of yours at work. I think we should talk again.”

The sun was shining through the cracks in the plastic blinds. She was awake. It was a new day.

* * *

EPILOGUE. RIDIKA

I remember my last night alive on earth. The night before the morning I did not wake up to see.

Like a flawed memory of that night so many years before, I dreamt of golden fruit. This time, it was a whole tree of golden quinces, shining and heavy on the thick branches, glowing bright among the bright green leaves.

I woke to the sensation of cold marble against my cheek, my arm. I was lying on something hard. I opened my eyes and found myself curled up on the floor of a room that I recognized immediately.

Quickly, I got up. I remembered exactly where to go. I walked briskly through the familiar rooms, and I was not at all surprised when I heard Persephone’s voice calling out, “Over here!”

I stepped into the dressing room. It looked exactly the same. Persephone sat on one of the chairs in front of the vanity, alone. She smiled warmly at me. She was still as young and lovely as she had ever been.

“Please.” She gestured to the chair beside her. I sat down. We regarded one another with the dusty but curiously undimmed affection of old friends who had not seen each other in many years, and who had forgotten everything about their friendship apart from its existence. “Well. You must know why you are here.”

I nodded. “Yes. I know.”

“Any regrets?”

I shook my head. “Not a one.” It was true.

“Good,” she said cheerfully. “Do you remember what we spoke about the last time we saw each other?”

“Yes.”

“And you have not changed your mind?” She looked at me inquisitively, her eyebrows rising slightly.

For a moment, I was uncertain. I thought about my husband, my mother, everyone I had loved in Thrace. I thought of my children, who would never join me. My heart cramped. But I’d waited for this chance all my life. The chance to find my first and greatest love again. And also, the chance to exist as few ever did, to see more of the world than any mortal had ever hoped to.

“No. I have not changed my mind.”

“Good. Then you know that, after we do what we are about to do, you will awaken in your bedroom, inside your body, but no longer bound to it. From then on, the world is yours. You may travel where you wish. You will be able to move in the blink of an eye. You will be completely impervious to physical pain or damage. You will be invisible to humans, so you can see or hear whatever you like. Learn as much or as little as you like, use your powers of observation – use them well, for, I must tell you, you will receive no further guidance from me or anyone else. Do what you like, only please, do not attempt to meddle in the affairs of humans. Do not attempt to be present in the world. If you do, it will not reflect favorably on either of us.”

I nodded again, trying not to give away my growing anxiety. “All right.”

She seemed to sense that I was uneasy. “Ridika, there is one other thing.” She placed her hand on mine. It seemed very warm – or maybe mine was cold. “If you tire of this – if you feel too lonely or too lost – there will be one more chance. You can choose to re-enter the world. Simply consent to it. You will be reborn as a mortal woman, with no memory of any of this. And, at the end of that lifetime, you will rejoin your people in the Underworld. You always have that choice.”

I exhaled noisily with relief. I hadn’t realized how nervous I’d felt about the decision I’d made. This made everything much easier. “Thank you, Persephone,” I said gratefully. “Thank you so much. For everything.”

Her sweet smile seemed to illuminate everything around her. “You’re welcome.”

In the brief silence that followed, I looked around the room; I was sure it was the last time I would be invited in. I recalled someone who had been here the last time I’d seen it. “Does Aphrodite know about any of this?”

“She does, actually.”

“Isn’t she angry?”

“No. She really isn’t. She never had any grudge against you, you see. I think she’s actually developed a good deal of respect for you. She said you are the only woman she has ever seen who managed to create great love in her life without asking her for any help. And she said that, for a man like Orpheus, to be forever paired in legend with a wife to whom he is faithful – well, that, she says, is a better punishment than anything she could have come up with.”

I laughed at that. I couldn’t help it. Persephone laughed too. Then, she put her arm around my shoulders and gently turned me toward the mirror.

“Look, Ridika,” she said softly. “Look.”

I looked. Reflected in the mirror was my face as it had been when I was young. My hair was black again, thick and shiny around my rounded, unwrinkled cheeks. I remembered that face – lively, animated, the eyes shining, the eyebrows a little too thick, the nose a bit too long, the lips red and full. It was the face of an unassumingly pretty girl, whose youthful glow made her seem beautiful.

I looked. And then, I looked away, for I was old enough to know that youth is not something to be cherished or mourned, any more than old age is to be avoided or feared.

Persephone was watching me. “It is time,” she told me, and took my arm.

We left the dressing room, walked through a hall, and came to a room I recognized instantly.

It was the room with the scented pool. The steam rising off the water contained a stronger, more complex perfume than anything I remembered. It smelled of flowers, and of the sea, and of the spices in my husband’s storerooms. It smelled of babies, and bed sheets, and kitchens. It smelled of sex, and wine, and tears, and medicine. It smelled of wood fires, and cut grass, and old dogs, and fresh milk. It smelled of life itself – an aroma that was strong, and sweet, and very, very complicated.

I took a steadying breath, and turned to face Persephone. “I’m ready,” I said.

She placed her hands on my shoulders, and drew me close. Her eyes were glistening. “There is something I never told you, Ridika,” she whispered. She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “You asked me, once, if I had any children. I once had a child. A little girl. A miracle I fought for and won from the other gods – against all the rules. It was a very long winter . . . She was a wonderful little girl, beautiful, loving, clever. But then, she – she was taken from me.” A tear slid from one of Persephone’s eyes. She brushed it away and took a long, steadying breath. She went on.

“She looked a little bit like you. She had dark hair and a bright smile. She was stubborn when she wanted to be, sometimes. I suppose that is how you first caught my attention – you reminded me of my daughter.” Another tear came, and another, but she did not stop speaking. “And now, looking at you again – it is almost like looking at her. And I am proud of you. You’ve lived your life well, Ridika. Just as I’d hoped you would.”

We embraced tightly, then moved apart, wiping our eyes, a little self-conscious. She took my arm, guided me to the edge of the pool. “Now, my dear. It is time.”

I did not think too much. I did not take a deep breath – what would have been the point? I closed my eyes, felt Persephone’s hand slip from my arm, and stepped forward.

The pool had looked shallow – barely waist-deep – but it seemed to me that I sank forever. Soon, I realized that I was in no pain. I didn’t need to breathe. I opened my eyes.

I saw all my life sliding past me – the house where I grew old, my husband, my children, my grandchildren. The ship that had carried me to the land where I had lived most of my life. Then, like mountains rising through the clouds of my memory, there was Thrace – my mother, my family, Drenis and his family, my eldest son as a baby, my friends. Further back, my cousins as children, the river, the house I grew up in. And then, a house that was only vaguely familiar and a man whom I did not recognize, but knew was my father.

I wondered why I did not see Orpheus, but then, it was all fading, fading, fading to bright white. Though I could see nothing, I could suddenly hear – and what I heard, louder and louder, till it seemed to sing through my blood, was the unmistakable sound of the purest love song there had ever been. And it occurred to me that it was only right to hear such music at the very bottom of the deep, deep pool of life.







For LC, NC and all my Orphei.