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THE BOOK OF ORPHEUS

In the Garden
Eurydice went up the great tree with the reckless grace of a monkey girl, certain in the knowledge that her hands and feet would always find purchase on the slippery vine, that her strength would never fail her, and that it would be as easy to come down as it had been to go up. Orpheus followed with equal assurance, even though he had not been a dryad like her. But he had played in this grove of giant trees for centuries, and its vertiginous pathways had become like sidewalks to him. The grove was her favorite place in Hades; not surprising since it had been created from her fondest memories. Orpheus liked it as well. Sometimes, while she merged with the trunk of her favorite giant and swayed to the rhythms of imaginary breezes, he would lie on the forest floor, gazing upwards forever at the treetops and dreaming new music. The grove was a refuge from the interminable concerts in the great hall of the Necrodome, where Orpheus played to the changeless taste of Pluto; the same songs, the same lyrics, over and over again for time everlasting.

Orpheus and Eurydice Leave Hades for the Second Time
1927
The sun rose for the first time over Hades, throwing the Necrodome and all the enormity of the City of the Dead into sharp relief. Orpheus and Eurydice stood together under the stern canopy of their yacht, contemplating a spectacle that they had never before seen, nor thought to see. It was awe inspiring, that City of the Dead, spread up and down the bank of the Styx, fantastic in the complexity of dreams and half-forgotten memories that had brought it into being over the better part of five millennia. It shifted and changed as they watched, as it always had--towers rising here and falling there, gardens flowering into glory or withering away in neglect, theaters, palaces, forums, racetracks, marketplaces, playing fields, houses, bungalows, cottages, shops, studios, galleries, and museums, all coming into being or dissolving away as the city conformed itself to the desires of the souls who dwelt within it. Only the Necrodome stood solid and unchanging, the black granite centerpiece of the writhing city. But this first dawn signaled the end of it all, for the god of the dead no longer reigned in the Necrodome. He had been reassigned by mortals to a small niche in the heavens, and he and his dog had already left the underworld to prepare their new home.

The last time Orpheus and Eurydice had left Hades she hadn't made it. She had been confused, as the newly dead are, and frightened of life. She had implored Orpheus for comfort, wailed at him, tugged and pulled at him, and finally he had relented. Moved by his love for her and torn by her suffering, he did what he had been forbidden to do. He turned and spoke to her, and the current, which was against them then, swept her away, back to the land of the dead. They had been so close that last time. She had seen the light of the living.

This morning she was basking in the sun unafraid, enjoying it for the first time in four thousand years. This time the light was a part of the way things were; part of the current that pushed them towards life, part of the end of Hades.

She had never blamed him for that ancient failure, nor reproached herself. It had been necessary and inevitable. He had blamed himself, and lived the rest of his life in a torment of grief and guilt. But when he reunited with her in Hades he too had come to see the necessity of the failure. Success and failure are human words that have no greater meaning.

They pulled farther out into the leaden waters of the Styx and headed towards the opposite bank. They were traveling in style and leading the way, which was fitting considering who Orpheus was--the only mortal to enter Hades and return to the land of the living. A multitude of souls were following them into rebirth, released at last as the great Platonic wheel of time brought the Christian era to a close. For thousands of years the unsaved and undamned had languished in the limbo of Hades, waiting for the drama of Judgment Day, waiting for the separation of the saved and the damned, waiting for room in the land of the living.

In 1930, just a few years later, one of the living, Clyde Tombaugh, would compare two photographic plates taken on different nights with the Lowell Observatory's new 33 cm. refractor telescope. He would notice that a small, faint point of light had moved. The ninth planet of the solar system would thus be discovered, and mortals would name it Pluto, thinking the name of the god of the underworld and darkness appropriate. Mortals seldom know what they are doing. Gods are gods, after all, whether they rule the forgotten realm of the undamned or the farthest frozen iceball in the Solar System. It doesn't matter to the gods, who go where they can be seen, no matter how faintly.

And so Pluto had left Hades for the heavens, the sun rose over the City of the Dead for the first time, and the current of light pushed Orpheus and Eurydice into rebirth. As they began to have the visions that foretold the nature of their next incarnation, the brass and teak of the yacht faded away and Erydice saw a large white house having a curious turret and verandahs on three sides, set above a sloping lawn and surrounded by willows. Orpheus saw a bustling city, crowded with men and women moving like ants in streets filled with honking noisy machines. Their new lives were calling to them, and they had little of eternity left. They could see their parents making love, two couples coiled in passionate embrace, and Hades, the yacht, and the bright dawn all fled before their desire to follow their father's sperm into the womb. Their last thoughts were for each other, the habit of millennia.

Progress in Aviation

When he was a little boy, he had loved to play with his toy airplane. He would run through the fields holding his plane high in the air, banking and turning as he flew imaginary missions over the Front, or carried the mail through high mountain passes, risking his life so that Johnny would get Grandma's birthday greeting. He would imagine flying over the Great Mountain, not to get to the other side, but just for the fun of it. For much of his childhood, imaginary flying was his favorite thing.

He didn't become a pilot though. In fact, real flying was uncomfortable for him in some deeply disturbing way. He liked to have his feet firmly on the ground. What it
was, he figured out later, was he liked to let his mind cruise; just soar along following its own path, going where it would. Catching a groove on the sax did the same thing for him, and he could fly for hours.

Orpheus in the Tunnel of Love
The note laid into his body. It pushed into him, pushed into his heart and made it ache for every pretty girl and beautiful woman he'd ever loved and lost, made him feel sad and bad about being such a sap, passed through him and left him behind like a bad memory of a bad night in a bus station in Detroit, rolled down the tunnel like a knife on wheels looking for another damned fool and sure to find one.

And that was it. The lady walked away, and he played no more. His body still ringing from the tunnel's vibrations, he cased and slung the sax and rode away. The spirit had moved him to play, the playing had moved him, and he moved on. He probably never even saw the image of Kokopeli on the wall above him.

By the Campfire
At dinner by the campfire that night Ben told Orpheus the entire future history of his life. It was quite a performance and it held him mesmerized. Tarot cards were the meat in the soup and there were five of them; the ace of Disks, the Seven of Cups, Lust, Love, and the Star. That was the hand Ben dealt him, and this is what Ben said it meant:

The ace of Disks was for the mother whose child he was; that old mother earth whose power and wisdom and terrible economy were the source of his soul and his music. "Never take the source of the music lightly," Ben told him.

About the Seven of Cups, also called Debauch, Ben said there were three things that could keep Orpheus from becoming fully himself, and they were women, drugs, and not knowing what to do with his talent. He had a lot to say about these, but it boiled down to following your heart, practicing moderation in all things, and having respect for your incarnation.

The card called Lust was a humdinger, said Ben. It was the mainspring that would drive Orpheus' life. It was the joy and rapture of his strength. It was the engine that stirs the hearts of men with drunkenness and delight. It was that same old voodoo that Orpheus had always had, and had again this lifetime. "You'll set the trees to dancing," said Ben, "and the very stones will rock and roll."

The Two of Cups, also called Love, was the next card. "You'd think that you might have had enough of that the last time," said Ben, "maybe this time you'll get it right." Ben also told him to remember that there was more than one fish in the sea.

The last card was the Star, which Ben said was the very essence of the new age of Aquarius. "The last time you were here it was the age of Aries. You missed the whole Piscean thing, so when I see this card in your spread, I'm thinking the valve's open again and the good stuff is going to flow through you like a water main."

So there it was; the modern myth of Orpheus. All he had to do was play the hand he'd been dealt.