Orpheus Ascending
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 2000

Author’s Note: Except for the TG element near the end, this is a straightforward retelling of the Greek myth.

* * * * *

Now would I tell the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, a sad tale of death and longing and of a fate most strange and yet most fitting.

Orpheus was a bard, a singer of songs and teller of legends. He was the most handsome of men, tall and well formed. It was said by many of those who saw him that his beauty was beyond the mere human, and that Orpheus was surely the son of Apollo himself. Yet, in all the years that this tale of his birth was told; Orpheus was never known to confirm -- or to deny it.

If the form of Orpheus suggested that he might be a son of a Godling, then his voice was the proof of this claim. There was no man nor woman, no matter how base, who would not stop to listen when Orpheus sang; who could not fail to be moved by its sound. Orpheus carried no weapons in his travels for his voice was enough to stop the wild beast from attack. Even the birds came to listen to his golden voice; to listen, aye, and to learn what a song could be.

There was but what thing that Orpheus held as dear as the music he played and sang. His wife, Eurydice, did he prize even over his songs. Beautiful was she with long plaits of golden hair, skin the shade of fresh cream, and a form most fair and supple. She was the child and the grandchild of singers, but she was wise enough to know that her husband’s talents were far above her own.

She held her husband’s greater skill as her own treasure. “Orpheus is the greatest bard in all Hellas,” she boasted. “And when he weaves his words of love, it is always me that he is singing to. And too, when we join in together, his manly form, his wondrous voice, and his supple fingers upon the proper instrument -- and here she made a blush as pretty as any innocent maiden -- ‘tis then that I do sing my best...and my loudest.”

Alas, for there is little that the gods hate more than to hear a mortal boast. The boasts of Orpheus and Eurydice were heard, and a punishment, a most tragic punishment, was ordained. In the space of but a few days, Eurydice grew sick, her body weakened beyond recovery, and she died.

The grief of Orpheus could not be contained. It flowed forth in his every song. Songs of triumph and life became dirges and cries of woe, and no man nor any king could force him to sing otherwise. Neither pleadings, nor words of comfort, not even the commands or the threats of a mighty lord made any difference. There was -- there could be -- no other songs on Orpheus’ lips but songs of the loss of his one true love.

Orpheus wandered the land singing his sad songs until both man and the gods shared his grief. The very Godling who had caused Eurydice to die guided his steps to the mouth of Tartaris, to the very Gates of the Netherrealm.

Now Hades, the Lord of the Netherrealm had set Cerebrus to guard these gates. Cerebrus was a fierce three-headed being, a monster in the shape of a dog. He breathed fire and his teeth and claws were as long as a man’s arm and as sharp as any warrior’s sword. Cerebrus heard footsteps as Orpheus approached and rushed to defend its master’s realm. But Orpheus stood unafraid. He sang as the great breast rushed towards him; sang a song of gentleness and beauty. And Cerebrus slowed; he lay down to better listen; and he whimpered and let Orpheus pass unharmed.

The next defense that Hades had set was Cheron, the boatman who ferried dead souls across the River Styx. “You are alive,” Cheron said. “I cannot carry you. Your living body is too much weight for my boat of souls.”

Then Orpheus said, “You must be tired to have spent so many, many years taking the dead across this river. Rest a moment, and I will sing a song to refresh you.” And Orpheus sang of the beauty of the World Above, the world that Cheron had not seen in many years, and that the souls he carried should never see again.

Cheron sat and listened. The many souls who were already in his boat climbed out that they might better hear the song. Orpheus saw this, and he said to Cheron, “your boat is empty now and so much lighter, and I have paid for a passage with my song just as I did trade songs for passage with ferrymen in the World Above.”

Cheron nodded; for what Orpheus said was true. Then Orpheus climbed into the boat. He sang a work song for Cheron to speed him in his task, and Cheron soon had Orpheus on the far side of the river.

Hades saw all that happened within his realm. Orpheus was coming, coming to take back the soul of Eurydice. This could not be permitted, and Hades rushed to the River Styx. He was waiting when Cheron’s boat landing. “This is not proper cargo for you, Cheron,” he said, his eyes burning with anger. Cheron bowed his head and fled in fear. Orpheus was left alone to face an angry God.

Hades looked down upon Orpheus. “You are here before your time, Orpheus, but I do not think that I shall let you go.”

“Oh, great and mighty Hades, I know that only a fool challenges the gods. But I know, too, that a man in love is the greatest of fools. I do not ask mercy, or even justice. I ask only a chance.”

“A chance? Do you presume to wager with a god?”

“As I said, great Hades, I am a fool. I wager myself against Eurydice.”

“An interesting wager, since I already have you. What are the terms?”

“You have my body. If you take me now, I will be but another soul in your realm. But if we bet -- and I lose -- I shall pledge myself to you as your bard, to serve in your court. For as long as you would have me.”

“An interesting prize. And if you win?”

“Then you shall take me to the soul of Eurydice, and you shall allow the both of us to return to the world above.”

“I will accept this challenge. You shall sing three songs. At the end, I will decide if you have won or lost.”

“You will decide? How can this be fair?”

“There is no peer to me within this realm, and any you would choose would not have the will to go against me. I, at least, may be persuaded. This is your only choice. do you agree?”

“I do, for I have no other choice.” Orpheus took out his harp, his best harp, made from the laurel of Apollo’s own grove and fit with strings of finest silver. It was polished so finely that, even in the dim, cold light of Tartaris, it glowed and gave out a warmth of its own. Orpheus sat upon a rock. He lifted his harp to his shoulders, and he began to sing.

He sang of the beauty of the world above, the beauties of nature and the beauty that man had created. One could almost feel the warmth of the sun and hear the whisper of the wind in his words; one could see the cities of man, alive with the bustle of a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand souls working and striving to make something of their lives.

Orpheus’s voice was strong and clear. It reached to every part of Hades’ realm. Men, women, even children woke from the half slumbering that is death. They listened, and the words touched them. “This is what we were,” many of them said. “This is what we have lost.” And not a few began to weep. But Hades was unmoved.

Then Orpheus sang of the glories of man, the glories of war and the greater glories of peace. He sang of the triumphs of the spirit, of those who strove against great odds to win an even greater victory; of those who won, even if it meant dying, because of what they won.

And the souls in the Netherrealm heard this song, too. “This is what we tried to be,” they said, and more yet began to weep. But Hades was unmoved.

Then Orpheus sang of love. He sang of the love between a parent and child; of the love of one man for his brother. But most of all, he sang of the love, the glorious love that had driven him to the very center of Hades. Orpheus sang of the love that might flower between a man and a woman. He sang of his own love for Eurydice, but Hades was still unmoved.

Then Orpheus took a breath. Did he stop? Had Hades won?

No, for Orpheus now sang of the love of Persephone, the daughter of the goddess Ceres; Persephone who had given up her right to live in the world above because of her love for Hades, the Lord of the Netherworld.

And Hades wept.

Then Orpheus knew that he had won. “The wager is mine, Hades. My singing has defeated a god. Bring me my Eurydice that I may take her home.”

“You have won, but you have not learned how to win,” Hades said. He gestured, and a figure stepped forward. It seemed to be Eurydice, but it was wrapped within a burial shroud. Orpheus could not see the face nor hear the voice of the being within.

“Here is Eurydice but know that you have not won until you have returned her to the World Above. You may lead her to the surface, but you must not look upon her until you both step through the Gates to my realm. If you do, then she shall return at once to this place. And you shall not follow her, for it is my Will that you are banished from the Netherrealm until the time chosen for you by the Fates.”

“Harsh words from a harsh god,” Orpheus said. “But I agree to them. I will have no need to return to your realm, for Eurydice will be in the World Above with me.”

The silent figure raised its ghastly arm. Orpheus took its hand, its cold, cold hand, and turned and led it away from Hades. He longed to turn, to tear off that all-covering shroud and look again upon his lover’s face, yet he did not. For he remembered the warning of Hades and was most loathe to defy that Godling within his own realm.

“Eurydice, I cannot look upon you till we be gone from this realm, but let me, at least, hear your gentle voice. Speak to me, Eurydice, for it has been too long since I have heard your voice.”

The figure spoke or seemed to speak. It’s voice was more a whisper than a voice; more a croak than the sound a human throat might make. And yet, the sound that came forth did sound to Orpheus’ desperate ear as if it had said his name. As if it had said, “Or...Oorphee-us.”

And was there not a hint to it of Eurydice’s own sweet voice?

But as they walked, no other sound did the being behind him make. Orpheus remembered Hades’ warning, but, too, he remembered Hades’ anger. A thought, a simple thought grew in his mind. “Was this being he lead his own Eurydice?”

The thought gnawed at him as a worm gnaws at an apple. It grew as they crossed the Plain of Tartaris. It festered as they sat in Cheron’s boat. And as they passed the place where Cerebrus sat and watched, it burst out into his mind.

“Was this being Eurydice?”

“Was he taking his love back to the World Above, or was he leading a demon to that unsuspecting land?”

He trembled. The Gate lay but a few paces further. He stopped at its edge. “So close,” he thought. “If it is Eurydice, we can be through before Hades even knows, and it is a demon, I can race free, close the Gate, and leave it behind.”

He stopped. He turned. He saw.

He saw the shroud fade away as mist fades before the morning sun. He saw Eurydice, his beautiful Eurydice, her face full of love and longing form him. And he saw Hades appear and snatch her away within a half a heartbeat.

Cruel rough hands of some thing he could not see grabbed him and held him and flung him outside the Gate. He lay on the ground, staring up at the sun and the clouds. A voice came within the Gate. “It would seem, Orpheus, that you truly do not know how to win.”

And now, Orpheus wept.

Then he stood and marched back to the Gate. It was locked, and he knew that he could not force it open. “You are not an honorable Godling, Hades. It is said that no man can cheat death, but I see that Death can cheat me. Oh, what a song I shall sing of it, Hades, a song that shall make you a Godling mocked across the length of Hellas. It will be the only song that I sing, and I will sing it so often and so well that even the gods shall take it up. Even your own kind shall mock you.”

And then the voice of Hades echoed from beyond the Gate. “What would you have me do, Orpheus? You were fairly warned. There are some things that even I cannot do or undo.”

“What do I care of rules? I want to see Eurydice again. Here, in the World Above. I want to touch her skin, to smell the honey of her hair, to hear her sweet voice once more. I won our wager, Hades. Give me what I ask as my prize.”

“Is that what you truly wish?”

“It is. Do you grant it, or do I teach the world to laugh at you?”

“You have asked what you have asked, and I shall grant it. Your prize is your punishment, your words are ruin.” The voice laughed from deep within the Gate, then it faded to echo and was gone.

A strange weakness came over Orpheus. He sank to the ground. He felt his body moving beneath his tunic. He was smaller, thinner. His shoulders narrowed and his skin grew soft and pale. The fingers of his hands grew thinner and longer yet lost none of their suppleness. His feet were smaller, too, he saw, and there seemed to be a new smooth curve to his legs.

Beneath his tunic, he felt a pounding in his chest. He touched it, and his eyes opened in wonder at how sensitive it felt. Then, while all else seemed to be growing smaller, his chest grew. Something, two somethings moved, grew outward from his chest. A fear then grew in the pit of his stomach as he watched the rounded breasts of a woman coming forth on his own body.

His body? Orpheus reached down beneath his tunic. That which had made Orpheus a man was truly gone. In its place was the very essence of a woman, the soft yielding flesh that he had delighted in when he had been with Eurydice.

“Eurydice,” he moaned her name aloud. Then stopped in greatest surprise. It was not his voice that spoke. It was...could it be...but it was! His voice was now altered to the sweet tones of his Eurydice.

The very air shimmered before him. Orpheus stood and watched as it seemed to harden into the like of a mirror. And in that mirror, dwarfed in the clothes of a man, stood Eurydice. Her form, her face, her long golden hair, Orpheus was truly transformed into the likeness of his lost love.

“Hades,” Orpheus shouted, straining Eurydice’s voice. “What have you done to me?”

There was a laugh from within the Gate. “You wanted to be able to see Eurydice, to hear her, to touch her.” The voice laughed again. “Perhaps even to taste her. You asked for Eurydice’s body, not for her soul. And I have given you what you asked.”

Then a great wind came forth from the Gate, a foul wind that smelled of death. It lifted Orpheus into the air and carried her for many miles, across the sea to an island far away. She landed gently, as gently as a mother sets down a child to play.

Orpheus looked down at hers new body and saw Hades’ final gift -- or curse. Her man’s tunic was now the long skirt of a woman, the very skirt that Eurydice had worn the day that she had died.

Orpheus sat and gave in to the weakness of her beloved’s body. Three days, she neither moved nor slept nor ate. He sat, rocking softly back and forth, watering the green earth with her tears.

At long, long last, those eyes grew dry. She knew a hunger in her belly, and she set forth to find some manner of food.

Orpheus found that food. She found a settlement of men and earned her meals and a small place to sleep as she always had, by song. Her voice was Eurydice’s voice only, yet it was a trained and pleasing voice. It suited her new form, and she came, in a way, to accept what Hades had ordained for her.

Orpheus traveled after a time, moving from place to place. She stayed a while to trade songs for comforts, then moved on before her hosts grew tired of her. A full year did Orpheus travel until she came to the lands of the Bacchae.

The Bacchae were worshippers of Dioneseus the Winegiver. Most of the time, they were as other women. But there came times in the year when their worships led to a fierce madness that made any sane man travel days to avoid the dangers they became.

Orpheus reached their land at the full of the Harvest Moon. It was a time of their greatest madness. Even before Orpheus knew of the danger, they were upon her. They had the forms of women, but their minds, their very souls were as the ravening beast.

The voice of Orpheus, the Orpheus he had been, had the power to stop, to sooth such madness. The voice of Orpheus, the Orpheus that she was now, was but the voice of a female bard. The song on her lips gave way to screams and then to silence. The Bacchae tore her body to pieces and threw it into the river.

But the soul, the soul of Orpheus came back to Tartaris. It -- he found that he had regained his own form in death. His head was bowed as he stepped before Hades in judgment. “You tried to cheat me, Orpheus,” Hades said. “I punished you in life, and you know that you should expect an even harsher punishment now that you are forever in this realm.”

“But husband,” another voice said. It was a soft voice that dripped of honey yet was somehow as firm as settled stone. “Remember why you gave him that chance.”

Orpheus dared to look up. Hades sat upon his dark red throne, but there was a woman beside him, a woman whose face spoke of spring and of hope, Persephone.

“Orpheus,” her voice spoke again. “You have dared what no man has ever dared, to challenge Hades twice. Twice were you punished for what you did. You died because of what you have done. And now you shall be rewarded.”

Then a figure moved out from behind the throne and into Orpheus’ sight, a figure wrapped in a burial shroud. “Or..oor-phee-us,” came the whisper of a voice. Then the shroud melted away. It vanished not from the heat of the sun, but from the warmth of Eurydice’s smile.

Orpheus ran to Eurydice’s side. They touched, carefully as if fearing that what they touched would vanish for the act of touching. Yet it did not vanish. The touch became an embrace. Orpheus took his beloved Eurydice’s hand, and they walked slowly and happily forever into the land of the dead.