Olympus ssc, p.23
Olympus (SSC), page 23
Orpheus smiled. “If my song gave you pleasure, I will the more gladly sing again without need of further reward.”
He lifted the kithara to playing position, but a pale hand slipped out of the folds of the cloak and showed a flat palm to stop him. “Not yet, I pray you. I need time to relish what I have heard. I do not wish that song to be overlaid by any other, even one more wonderful. And you must be hungry and thirsty, too.” Now the voice was hardly above a whisper, and Orpheus could tell himself he had imagined the full-throated tones he had heard earlier. He smiled more broadly. “Well, I am, but I am also what you said—an honest man—and my bargain was to share your fire.” The woman laughed aloud, tipping her head back to expand her throat. The fold of cloak slipped back onto her shoulders, and the smile froze on Orpheus’ lips. The laugh was no aged cackle but a young woman’s mellow gurgle of delight, and the cheek and chin off which the dim firelight glanced were soft, round, and smooth and shadowed by a wealth of dark hair. “An honest man, indeed,” she said. “But as host here, it is my right freely to offer more. Come closer, and I will give you some bread and wine.”
Because his heart was beating so hard in his throat that he could not answer, and also because he had to see, had to know, despite his fear, Orpheus rose and approached the woman on the stool. As if she understood without words what drew him, she again cast several sticks on the fire and light flooded the area. The woman turned her face toward him. Now there could be no doubt. The beautiful, smiling countenance was that of a woman in the prime of her life, mature enough to be knowing and young enough to be mischievous. Only her eyes, those blue eyes younger even than her new face, were the same. Orpheus went down on one knee, clutching the kithara for comfort.
The woman laughed. “Why do you stare so?” she asked. “Did I not ask for life? Why should you be so surprised when the magic of your music gave it to me?”
“Music, yes, but no magic,” Orpheus whispered, shivering. “Beauty is not magic, lady. May all the good gods forbid. If my songs were magic, I would be trussed like a goat and sacrificed to Hades. The magic is in you.”
“Perhaps.” She was still smiling as she turned away and reached into the dark. When she turned back, she held a flagon and cup in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other. “Will you not come closer and take what I offer?” she asked.
She lifted the wine and bread slightly, but the offer in her voice and eyes had nothing at all to do with food or drink. Orpheus swallowed hard as a fire rose in his loins. However, he was almost as frightened as he was aroused—oddly, not because of the incredible change from age to youth but because he was unsure of his ability to satisfy such a woman. Barely a man, his experience was small—one of the bold girls of the village on his last trip home and a hetaera a patron had hired for him.
“You said you were too old for love songs,” Orpheus said desperately, playing for time and also hoping that if he chose his song right and sang well enough, she would be too eager for a man, any man, to notice any deficiency in what he offered. “You are not too old now—not now.”
“Oh, no.” Another gurgle of laughter, so warm, so inviting, that Orpheus almost forgot his fear. “I am not too old now.” She put the bread down in her lap, took the cup and filled it from the flagon, and held it out to him. “At least take some wine to soothe your throat.”
When he touched her hand, heat again surged through him. He clutched at her fingers, but it was too late; all he gripped was the smooth goblet. He thought of putting down the wine, seizing her, but she was looking at him, her head tilted, smiling slightly. Had she looked away, like a modest Greek woman, he would have taken her in his arms. Flushing with shame and desire, he lifted the goblet and drank, hoping and fearing he did not know what, but he felt nothing strange or wonderful nor anything dreadful either. It was just good wine. Only, when he lowered the cup, which she took from him, the woman had pulled her cloak over her head again and the light from the fire was dying.
That made it easier. A singer must feel if emotion is to touch the listener, but too much feeling changed the voice and made the fingers less agile. Orpheus sang of love, a paean of praise of woman, of her body and its rich secrets, of the soft, smooth flesh of her breasts, the sinuous curve of her hips, the full thighs with between them the hungry, toothless, nether mouth, eager to engulph its willing sacrifice. His voice was warm and liquid; it touched and probed with immaterial caresses.
Even in the dim glow from the dying coals, Orpheus could see the darkness that was the cloak leaning toward him. He bent and laid the kithara down softly and stretched out his hand to the woman. A hand came out, paler, thinner than the strong hand with which the woman had handed him a cup of wine, but it did not meet his. It lifted, palm out, bidding him stay.
“Sing again, sweet singer.” The voice was higher, lighter, a voice to match those young, young eyes. “Give me a third song.”
“Indeed I will—a third song and as many more as you care to hear, but now I would only sing of you, and to sing of you I must know you.”
In a single, fluid motion Orpheus rose, stepped forward, bent, and caught the robed figure in his arms. The hood fell back completely, showing the startled face of a scarcely nubile girl. There was nothing inviting in her expression. She looked angry and frightened and strained backward, crying, “Mother!”
Caught in the momentum of his action, Orpheus held her for a moment longer, then cried out himself and staggered back. Before his eyes the thick, black hair paled and thinned into scanty, straggling white, the flesh of the face writhed, lost substance, the cheeks falling in, the full lips flattening, nose and chin hooking forward. Only the eyes were the same, blue as a bright winter sky, young as morning.
Then the cold that had threaded along Orpheus’ back when he first saw the old woman perched in the crossroad spread over his body and pierced inward, striking ice even into his heart. This was no children’s tale.
“Hecate,” he whispered.
Hecate of the three faces and three souls; Hecate who always came upon one at life’s crossroads; Hecate to whom no one prayed because too often she gave—not what you wanted but exactly what you asked for; Hecate the mad, with whom, it was said, no one meddled, not even the king of the gods.
“Hecate,” the old woman agreed with a cackle. “You should have sung the third song. Now you owe it to me.”
Then it was all gone, the crossroads, the fire, the old woman, everything—except that his kithara was naked in his hands as if he had been playing. Orpheus found himself walking down the last hill with his shadow stretched long ahead of him in the light of the westering sun. Ahead of him also were the walls of Heraclea, gilded by the same light, and the sea sparkling beyond. Orpheus stopped, his heart pounding in his throat, but he did not look back.
Slowly, with shaking hands, he loosened the strings of his instrument, slipped the kithara into the case still hanging from his shoulder. His back was cold. If he turned, would he see night and a crossroad with a barely flickering fire? The cold slid up his back and tickled his ear.
“Because you did not ask,” the dulcet, mocking voice of the lady murmured, “because you would not take even what was freely offered, because you deny magic—” a soft, inviting chuckle, “—you will have it. Your hands and voice will have the power to chain hearts and melt them.”
“No!” Orpheus cried and spun around. But there was no valley full of night behind him. There was only the road, pale in the last of the light, going up the hill he had just descended.
He shuddered and a string of the kithara he clutched sounded, recalling to him the cascade of notes that he had sung and the melody he had begun to form before he saw Hecate’s fire. Complete now, it poured from his lips, and within him silver cords formed and coiled, cords with which he could bind men and women and even beasts to his will. Orpheus choked down the song.
“You owe me.” The old woman’s cackle whispered away on the wind. “All your songs are the third song now.”
FOR A TRANSCRIPT, SEND FIVE DOLLARS
by Anne Braude
Anne Braude was one of the founding members of the Society of Creative Anachronism, is a longtime student of medieval literature, and is an editor for and frequent contributor to the Hugo-winning fanzine, Niekas. She lives in a book-crowded home with her collection of moles and dragons.
MOLLIE: Hello, everyone! Welcome to “Focus on the Family Week” on THE MOLLIE! SHOW. I’m Mollie Drake. We conclude this series of programs with the most dysfunctional family who ever lived. You’ve all read about our guests in Bulfinch’s Mythology, the Oresteia of Aeschylus, and of course the National Inquirer; now give a big MOLLIE! SHOW welcome to the House of Atreus!
(APPLAUSE)
MOLLIE: The crimes and sufferings of this family have inspired some of the greatest literature of the western world, as well as psychoanalysts, myth critics, anthropologists, and a couple of unsuccessful slasher movies. Fortunately, most of them are able to be with us today, despite having all died, mainly in creatively horrible ways, because they are all mythological characters. But let poets and dramatists contemplate their terrible fates with pity and horror; we’re a talk show, and we say—these people need help! And today on 264
THE MOLLIE! SHOW, we are going to get them that help.
NIOBE: Actually, Mollie, a number of us are in therapy already.
MOLLIE: This is Niobe, who turned into a perpetually weeping stone statue after her children were slain by Apollo and Artemis because she boasted her superiority over their mother Leto. Just how do you fit into the family, Niobe?
NIOBE: I’m the daughter of Tantalus, and Atreus’ aunt. And I’ve been seeing this grief counselor…MOLLIE: We’ll get to you later, Niobe. I want to take the family in order. Although it’s called the House of Atreus, the founder—and the subject of the original curse—is Tantalus, the son of Zeus himself, who angered the gods by inviting them to a feast at which, as a test of their omniscience, he served up the boiled flesh of his son Pelops. Why did you do this, Tantalus? TANTALUS: Oh, I just got tired of Dad always carrying on about proper nutrition, like he was the Ralph Nader of the nectar-and-ambrosia set. And Pelops was a real whiny kid.
MOLLIE: But you lived to regret it, right? Zeus placed you in Tartarus, up to the chin in water, with trees laden with luscious fruit overhanging you—but every time you try to take a drink or a bite, they recede.
ESME: Mollie, may I put in a word here?
MOLLIE: People, let me introduce our guest therapist, Dr. Esme Timberlake, the New Age therapist you probably already know from her popular Los Angeles radio show and her hot new bestseller, Incest and Cannibalism as Alternative Family-Bonding Strategies. Esme, was this good parenting on the part of Zeus? ESME: No, Mollie, I must say that this is no way to deal with a child who is acting out. It’s too destructive to the child’s self-esteem. I mean, look at poor Tantalus; I’ve never seen a worse case of anorexia. PELOPS: What about what he did to me? Are you saying that that’s okay? If the gods hadn’t been omniscient, I’d have wound up as everybody’s inner child—garnished with parsley!
MOLLIE: But fortunately for you, Pelops, they didn’t eat you, except for Demeter, who was so preoccupied with the loss of Persephone that she devoured a shoulder.
NIOBE: If she had only talked to my grief counselor…
MOLLIE: Later, Niobe. Pelops, the gods restored you to life, with all your original parts except the shoulder, which was replaced by an ivory one supplied by Demeter. Is there a question from the audience? AUDIENCE MEMBER: Why aren’t the gods here to tell their side? Could there be some kind of a frame-up by the authorities? Like with O.J.?
MOLLIE: We asked the Olympians to join us, but they refused. Hermes sent a written statement saying that they won’t comment publicly until after Pelops’ product-liability suit against Demeter has been heard. TANTALUS: I told you he was a whiny kid. CASSANDRA: Hermes is the god of lawyers, you know.
MOLLIE: Actually, he’s the god of thieves and liars. CASSANDRA: That’s what I said.
MOLLIE: Later, Cassandra. We’re a long way from your part in the story. Pelops, you did a bit of acting out yourself. You won a bride and a kingdom by cheating in a chariot race, and you murdered the charioteer when he demanded that you make good on the promised bribe. He was the son of Hermes, who invoked the curse upon your house all over again.
SAME AUDIENCE MEMBER (muttering): I knew there was a conspiracy.
MOLLIE: Your sons were Atreus and Thyestes, who did their own share of acting out.
NIOBE: What about me? I come in here.
MOLLIE: Yes, Niobe. Your story we know already. You say you’re seeing a grief counselor?
NIOBE: Yes, she’s wonderful. She’s helped me so much. I’m feeling so much better that I’m thinking of turning back into flesh. And’s she’s gotten me a deal for a miniseries.
SECOND AUDIENCE MEMBER: According to the myth, your kids got killed because of your boasting. Don’t you feel guilty about this?
ESME: Let me handle this one, Niobe. Guilt is such a self-destructive emotion that the only way to deal with it is to learn to leave it behind. Niobe was only giving her children positive reinforcement. It shouldn’t have been an issue for Leto.
SAME AUDIENCE MEMBER: Are you saying that we shouldn’t feel guilty even when we have really done something wrong? Isn’t that why the gods punished these people? Isn’t it sometimes right to feel bad about what you’ve done?
ESME: Oh, my dear! This is the nineties. CASSANDRA (to AUDIENCE MEMBER): Right on!
MOLLIE: Later, Cassandra. We were about to talk with Atreus and Thyestes. There are multiple issues here. You got together to murder your half-brother Chrysippus. You fought over the throne, taking turns exiling each other, until the gods had to intervene. You, Thyestes, seduced your brother’s wife, and later sent a son of his, whom you had raised as your own, to murder him. Atreus killed him, not knowing who he was, and later in revenge murdered your sons and served them up to you at a feast. And there’s much more. We’ll be right back after these messages.
(COMMERCIAL BREAK)
MOLLIE: We’re back, with Thyestes and Atreus. To make a long story short, we’ll skip to Pelopea, Thyestes’ daughter, whom Atreus married. She had a son Aegisthus, whom we’ll meet later, whom Atreus raised as his own. Pelopea, who was Aegisthus’ father? PELOPEA: (Uncontrollable sobbing)
MOLLIE: Would you like a tissue, dear? (More sobbing) Esme, would you take her backstage and talk to her, please?
PELOPEA: I…I…I didn’t know he was my father when I slept with him!
ESME: It’s perfectly okay, Pelopea. Come on back with me. We’ll talk. I’ll give you a copy of my book. Everything will be just fine. (ESME and PELOPEA leave the stage.)
CASSANDRA: “Everything will be just fine”? She had a child by her father. She married her uncle. She killed herself. And Aegisthus wiped out all the rest of the family he could get his hands on!
MOLLIE: Later, Cassandra. Thyestes, you and Aegisthus later slew Atreus. How are you dealing with your guilt?
THYESTES: Atreus had it coming; I don’t care what the gods say. As for Pelopea, she knew what she was doing. I’m not responsible for her guilt trip. CASSANDRA: Bastard!
THYESTES: Bitch! What do you think you can do about it, anyway?
CASSANDRA: I gave her Gloria Allred’s phone number during the break.
MOLLIE: Later, Cassandra. And speaking of breaks, it’s time for another one. We’ll be right back after this.
(COMMERCIAL BREAK)
MOLLIE: We’re back, talking to Atreus’ brother Thyestes. Thy, you say you feel no guilt over your murders, incest, and adultery. What about eating your sons?
THYESTES: That was a real bummer, Mollie. But I went to this great workshop last summer, on “Cannibalism and Co-Dependency,” and it’s really helped me a lot.
MOLLIE: I believe I’ve heard of it. Isn’t it taught by John Bradshaw?
THYESTES: Yes, jointly with Wolfgang Puck. ATREUS: You and your (bleep)ing workshop! You wiped out most of my (bleep)ing family, you and your (bleep)ing incestuous bastard! (Lunges at THYESTES.)
MOLLIE: People! People! Calm down, people! We’ll take another break here. Go to commercial! Go to commercial! Security!
(COMMERCIAL BREAK)
MOLLIE: Sorry about that. During the break, the whole family started getting physical, so we’ve cleared the stage for the next generation. And Esme Timberlake is back with us. How is Pelopea doing, Esme? ESME: She’s still pretty upset, Mollie. Not only won’t she stop crying, she won’t even agree to be a guest on my radio show.
MOLLIE: She’s obviously in really bad shape. But let’s move on to our next group of guests, Atreus’ son Agamemnon, his wife Clytemnestra, and Aegisthus—Thyestes’ son, Clytemnestra’s lover, and Agamemnon’s murderer. We invited Agamemnon’s brother Menelaus, king of Sparta, and his wife, Helen of Troy, but they couldn’t be with us because of a scheduling conflict; their couples’ group is having a marathon session. Clytemnestra, what happened between you and your husband? Was it the lack of quality time together that caused you to drift apart? Was he overly committed to his career as king of Mycenae and commander of the Argive expedition against Troy? CLYTEMNESTRA: It was a little more direct than that, Mollie. He murdered our daughter. AGAMEMNON: It wasn’t a murder. It was a sacrifice to the gods.
CLYTEMNESTRA: So you could get a favorable wind to take your (bleep)ing fleet to Troy!
MOLLIE: Clytemnestra, watch your language, please; remember that this is daytime television. Besides, Agamemnon, hadn’t you made an old promise to Artemis to sacrifice your daughter to atone for slaying her favorite stag?
AGAMEMNON: Yes, but my wife talked me out of it. That’s why Artemis sent the winds against us. I was just doing my civic duty. Anyway, it was Menelaus who talked me into it. He wanted Helen back. CLYTEMNESTRA: So for that blonde tramp and the chance to get famous and to plunder the richest city in the known world, you killed your own daughter! Who loved you! And you told her you were making a splendid marriage for her!
