Nightsong by Michael Cadnum

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    He rose to his feet, tentatively, and found his way out of the cool interior, standing under the bright sun.
    He had been indoors too long, he thought. The songbirds were beginning to speak Greek.
    â€œThe day is warm,” said Orpheus, taking a few experimental steps across the stone-strewn ground, taking pleasure in the sound of the pebbles under his sandals. “And the sky is –”
    What word could describe such a sky. Empty? Blue? Full of promise? Words were not equal to such an expanse of heaven.
    Or were they?
    â€œIs it true, Prince Orpheus,” the suntanned priest was asking excitedly, “that divine Apollo once spoke with you?”
    â€œThe blessings of the gods on you, good priest,” said Orpheus, remembering his customary, if long-neglected, courtesy.
    The poet took a deep breath, not wanting to speak further of divine things just now. He felt unsteady from his long inactivity, and amazed at the heady perfume of sea air.
    Orpheus glanced upward once more, at the dazzling source of daylight high above. Sometimes it was said that Apollo mourned with mortals when they were sad, and did what he could to lessen human grief.
    If this happened to be true, thought Orpheus, I have seen no recent sign of it. The god of daylight, who had once allowed his mortal son to scorch the world with his wayward chariot, remained largely remote and heedless. At least, that was how it seemed to the poet now.
    â€œThe lord of daylight walked with me, that’s a fact,” he told the eager priest. “One timeless, wonderful day – long ago.”
    â€œAnd is it true what they say, Prince?” persisted the priest, almost too excited to complete his question. “That the divine Apollo endowed you with a finely wrought silver lyre?”
    Biton’s cry stopped Orpheus, and he turned back.
    The young servant ran, carrying the silver instrument, the frame and strings bright in the sunlight. “Master, I expected the metal to be tarnished, after all these months,” exclaimed Biton. “But look – how beautiful it is, after all this time!”
    Orpheus took the instrument reluctantly into his grasp. But then he cradled it with less hesitation, surprised at how comfortably it settled into his arms.
    â€œThe legends,” said the priest, rapture in his eyes, “report that your lyre never tarnishes, and never needs to be tuned.”
    â€œThat’s all true,” the poet heard himself say. He returned the lyre to his servant’s arms. “But my fingers will have grown clumsy – I have not plucked a single chord for many months.”
    But the priest did not hear this – he hurried on ahead, into the village.

THIRTY
    The grateful and excited crowd parted as Orpheus and Biton hastened toward the dwelling place of the injured child.
    The young boy lay senseless, his mother gently soothing his forehead with a soft cloth, his father stirring a brazier of healing herbs.
    The poet knelt beside the sickbed without speaking. Young Norax was much closer to death than Orpheus had expected, his breath slow and shallow, eyelids parted but his eyes unseeing.
    This troubled the poet very much.
    Orpheus had thought that one of the jolly old verses, unaccompanied by the lyre – perhaps one of the many stories of goat-footed Pan and his adventures – would cheer an injured boy. However, this patient was beyond such childish ditties. The physician in the corner gave Orpheus a shrug: What more can I do?
    The poet could not bear to see the child so close to death, or the parents so cruelly caught between hope and anguish. Remembering all the other times the lyre and fervent poetry had shown power, Orpheus turned solemnly to Biton.
    The poet did not have to speak.
    Biton presented the bright-framed lyre.
    And the servant was not alone in holding his breath, leaning forward to catch the first sound.
    It has been long, thought Orpheus, since I have tried to