by Lon Williams
O Winters, you have come to set my dear one free,
Sweet beauty, caged by wicked trees to mourn in tears
Forever. Beyond those writing limbs Eurydice
Abides her savior, a gallant warrior without fears.
“If you’re trying to tell me something,” said Winters, “you’d better use horse talk. I could catch on heaps quicker that way.” Orpheus continued to play. Meanwhile he looked at Winters, in his face such yearning as Winters had never before seen anywhere. When he spoke again, his voice in quality bore ages of accumulated longing and defeat:
Captive to cruel Maenad trees, she lonely waits
For one whose slow, avenging footsteps hither bend,
While I with song keep hope alive that someday gates
Will open, and this long, long loneliness will end.
“Well, Orph,” Winters commented impatiently, “it sounds like you might be trying to tell me something; but unless you can put it in plain talk, I reckon I’ll ride along home.”
Orpheus looked hurt and panicky.
“Forgive me, O Winters,” he pleaded. “So long have I voiced my thoughts in music that I fear I have no talent for what you call plain talk.”
“It might come handier than you figure,” said Winters. He glanced about to see what had become of Post Poner and his fellow-rascals. Mysteriously they had disappeared—gone into hiding, he discovered, when a pair of eyes stared fiercely at him for a moment then disappeared behind a stone. Curious as well as angry, he said to Orpheus. “Who are these sneaking monkeys hiding around here?”
Orpheus, still playing, gave Winters a puzzled look. “Monkeys?” he asked.
“Well, cuckoos then,” said Winters. Orpheus glanced about curiously. “I see no cuckoos.”
“Men, perhaps,” said Winters.
Orpheus’ lips parted in understanding. “Ah, Maenads, no doubt.”
“Maenads?”
“My perpetual and relentless enemies,” said Orpheus.
Now Winters remembered something else his wife Myra had read to him. According to books, Orpheus had been murdered by wicked people called Maenads, only Winters himself had called them Mean Edds.
“Something’s wrong here, Orpheus. You’d better watch out for them Mean Edds; according to history, they won’t be doing you no good.”
“How well I know them,” said Orpheus. “If you will dismount from your gallant steed, you will see how very wicked they are, indeed.”
“Oh, no, Orpheus. I ain’t asking for trouble from nobody.”
“Your danger will be no greater, nor will it be less. Demeter herself, goddess of marriage and fruitfulness, has promised that a mighty warrior will someday come to free Eurydice from her cruel prison. I suspect that you, O Winters, are that warrior.”
Winters swallowed in alarm. “Oh, no, mister, that wouldn’t be me.”
“What gods will for us, we are not given to know,” said Orpheus.
“Anyhow,” said Winters, “I don’t see no prison.”
“To you, O Winters, a prison means walls of stone and gates of iron. To a jealous god like Jupiter, a prison more cruel than stone is one that seems no prison at all, one that forever offers freedom and yet forever denies it. Winters, do you see those aspen trees just there?”
Winters looked. He recalled having seen them before. “Yeah,” he said. Then his mouth opened in astonishment. “What’s happening to them? At first I thought it was only wind that moved them.”
“They are dancing to my music,” said Orpheus.
Winters stared in awe. Truly they were dancing. Their roots had become twisting, writhing feet. As Orpheus played a more lively tune, they waved their branches, also, and began to go around in a great circle.
At length as spaces opened and closed between tree branches, Winters understood what Orpheus had meant by prison. Before a vine-covered shelter within that circle of dancing trees stood a young woman of exquisite charm. Glimpses revealed by degrees that her hair, adorned with a blue or purple flower, was fastened around her head in silvery braids; that her garments were white and flimsy; that her figure had fawn-like grace and shapeliness; that she was looking in his direction and with a countenance filled with excitement and expectancy.
“Humph!” Winters grunted. “Something’s wrong here, Orpheus. My wife’s books never said nothing about no prison made of trees.”
Orpheus, playing gently, said, “Do not be surprised at that. Books often err. Should you live to relate what you witness here, your version of it will vary from what your eyes have seen. Truth is one thing. What is accepted as truth is quite another. As light often is too bright to be seen except by shaded eyes, so is truth sometimes too poignant for acceptance except as myth or legend. What you see, O Winters, is truth as it is lived and suffered. Those trees are Eurydice’s prison. I cannot make them set her free; I can only make them dance, which they sometimes do until they are weary almost unto death. Even so, they do not yield.”
“Beats me,” said Winters. “What did you mean by calling them Mean Edd trees?”
“Maenad trees, O Winters. They are Maenad trees because Maenads live in them; Maenads are wicked nymphs who live in trees and stones and other likely places where they can do great harm.”
Winters took a quick look around. Poner, Fugit, Hokey Pokey, Doshey, and Regretful Shade had formed a semi-circle and were watching evilly. Instantly they dropped out of sight. Winters was uncertain whether they had dropped behind stones or into them. It could have been either. He had never cared much for their looks. He liked them now even less.
Suddenly he heard a mournful cry, “O Winters, why do you delay? Orpheus, do you not see him? My deliverer, he has come at last.”
Winters turned in his saddle. Eurydice within her prison was holding out her hands. “Oh, no,” said Winters. “You don’t get me into this mix-up.”
A voice which sounded like that of Regretful Shade said tauntingly, “Go ahead, Winters; save her. Haven’t you been cowardly long enough?”
Post Poner’s voice added insultingly, “Winters reputedly is a great fighter. It is an unearned reputation, however. He has only fought to save his own life; he has never risked that life to save another’s.”
“A lovely woman means nothing to him,” sneered Hokey Pokey.
“Heed them not, O Winters,” said Orpheus. “Whatever their motive, it is evil.”
“That’s what I figured,” said Winters. “They’re trying to dare me into a trap.”
“O Winters,” cried Eurydice, “they, indeed, will do you harm, if they can. But so long as Orpheus plays his lyre, they can do to you nothing of which you need fear. This is an hour set apart by destiny for you, to test you and to make for you a lasting place in legend. Be brave and chivalrous, and all your after-years will be filled with pleasant memories. Refuse to save me, and remorse and shame will haunt you always.”
Orpheus took up her theme and set it to mournful music:
Turn not your heart and hand away, O warrior brave,
And always after mourn for that which might have been
Solace to your weary soul as you approach your grave—
But know, when justice called, that you were valiant then.
Winters swung off his horse. “Now just a minute, Orphie. I don’t get much from that poetry. Tell me—why don’t Eurydice crawl out of there?”
“Alas, it is fear that binds her to captivity,” replied Orpheus. “Those trees and these frightful Maenads have been placed about her to see that she does not escape. They tell her that limbs of Maenad trees will become as mighty arms to seize and tear her into shreds; and well she may believe it. Behold how fierce they can be.” Orpheus played stirring, martial music. There was immediate response. Tree limbs whirled and lashed one another until leaves and twigs were whipped into fragments. When Orpheus suddenly stopped his music, those limbs stilled and formed an impenetrable hedge, rigid, gnarled, forbidding.
“I guess she’s got it figured right,�
�� said Winters. “Now let me ask another question, Orpheus. Why don’t you go in after her?”
“Winters, do you not see what happens when my music stops?”
“That’s plain enough,” said Winters. “Did you not see what could happen while my lyre is playing?”
“Couldn’t have missed it,” said Winters.
“There’s still more to be considered,” said Orpheus. “I am a lyricist, not a warrior like yourself. Should my harp be snatched from me by those wicked trees, hope would be gone forever. Yet more important than all else, there has been a prophecy to keep away despair. Long ago fair Demeter promised to send a deliverer.”
“And he has come,” cried Eurydice. “He has come at last.”
“I reckon she means me,” said Winters. He studied his situation nervously. “All right, Orphie,” he concluded. “You do as I say and I’ll make a go at it. Play slow and easy. When those tree limbs are up, I’ll make a dash under them. We’ll see how it goes.”
* * * *
Orpheus played sweetly and gently, and to Winters it looked easy. He walked slowly forward. When near, he observed a space which seemed large and high enough for him to get through untouched. Accordingly, he tensed and made a run for it.
But something unexpected happened. Orpheus’ music jarred, lost key, rasped discordantly. Tree limbs lowered swiftly, caught Winters by his arms and legs. Instantly he was lifted high, flung down, lifted again, whirled, whipped and pulled.
“Oh, Winters! Winters!” Eurydice wept frantically. “You are lost—lost, and my wondrous hope is betrayed.”
Winters was too scared for speech. He was angry, convinced that Orpheus had played this dirty trick on him.
Luckily another change took place that prevented his being pulled apart. Orpheus stopped playing. At that same instant branches that held Winters were at their lowest point. Though twigs had become rigid, he managed to free both of his legs, which had been lightly held.
He was not so fortunate with his wrists. They were encircled by stout twigs which refused to yield, twist and jerk as he might. He was facing inward, toward Eurydice. Finding his struggles vain, he rested and gazed wretchedly at his fellow-captive. Failure was bitter. One so beautiful and gentle as she, deserved better luck.
“O Winters, do not despair,” Eurydice sobbed. “Even though you failed, you bravely tried. For that, you deserve immortality.”
“That’s not what I’m looking for,” said Winters grimly. “All I want right now is a chance to square things with your friend Orph. Way I figure, he tricked both of us.”
“Do not be unjust, O Winters,” begged Eurydice. “Orpheus was assailed by those dreadful Maenads; they tried to take his lyre away. He still would help you, if he could. His danger now is even greater than your own.”
Winters looked over his shoulder. Her words, he found, were true. Orpheus was being beaten by Maenads. They had knocked him from his chair. He lay below it, face downward, his precious harp clutched in his arms. For a moment it seemed to Winters that all was lost. He and Eurydice were captives, and Orpheus was about to be killed. With Orpheus dead, who would make music? By whom would these Maenad trees be made to dance?
Suddenly Winters broke out in a sweat. Realization glowed that hope was not completely extinguished. For an instant those twigs which squeezed his wrists relaxed their intensity. Music from Orpheus’ lyre had come back as an echo. In that brief respite, though it had passed unexploited, Winters could have snatched himself free.
He waited now with but one thought— to be ready when opportunity again presented itself. He closed his mind against Eurydice’s tears, against Orpheus and his enemies. Seconds passed. Then an echo came. With that same cat-like quickness with which he acted in gunfights, Winters twisted his arms and leaped forward to freedom.
This freedom he knew, however, was only an exchange of one form of captivity for another. He was now surrounded by trees, as was Eurydice. But he had room for action. He wasted no time either, but flung himself down and drew his sixgun. Through a low open space, he could see Orpheus, as well as his brutal attackers. Regretful Shade had just picked up a large stone and was advancing with it, his evident purpose murder. Immediately Winters beaded on him and fired. Regretful Shade collapsed and lay beneath his own rock.
Consternation seized Regretful’s confederates; they stared uncertainly at their fallen comrade. Before action could be decided upon, Braggy Doshey, Post Poner and Tempus Fugit were likewise dead. Hokey Pokey alone remained. Just in time, he retreated into a stone.
Orpheus lay still, as if dead. Winters called, “Orph, get up.”
Orpheus did not stir.
Beside Winters rose a gentle whisper of movement. Eurydice stood near. “Is he dead, O Winters?”
“Sure looks like it,” Winters replied. “Oh, no,” she sobbed. “It must not be. Orpheus!” she cried. “Oh, Orpheus, do not die. Awake while there is time.”
Winters watched. “Talk to him some more. I thought I saw him move.”
While Eurydice called and pleaded Orpheus did, indeed, move. He rolled onto his side, sat up and shook his beautiful head. “Eurydice! Where are you?”
“Here, O Beloved, in my prison, as before.”
“Where is he who was sent to save you?”
“I’m right here, Orph,” Winters answered. “Get busy on that harp. I got an idea, too; play something slow and waltzy.”
“O Winters, have I not often tried to do that very thing? But each time these wicked Maenads have seized my lyre and stopped my music.”
“They won’t this time,” said Winters. Orpheus was puzzled, but when he cast about to see what had become of his enemies he saw only dead bodies. His face brightened. “Ah, indeed.”
Winters reloaded his sixgun and afterwards kept an eye out for Hokey Pokey. “Play, Orph.”
Orpheus set his harp on one knee and began to play softly. Maenad trees began at once to sway and wave their branches, slowly, gently. Winters saw Hokey Pokey’s head rise from its hiding place. A sixgun bullet made it to lower out of sight.
Then Orpheus measured his music into a lively, irresistible waltz. Response was a fierce struggle of resistance at first, with trees twisting and turning individually. But soon their resistance ended; they paired off and began to waltz, with resultant great gaps in their circle.
Winters turned to Eurydice. “Now’s your chance, lady. Better take it.”
Eurydice trembled. “I can’t. I can’t. I’m afraid, O Winters.”
“In that case, there’s only one thing to do. I’ll carry you.” Without leave or objection from her, he flung his left arm around her legs and laid her like a sack of feed over his left shoulder. Hokey Pokey lifted his head again, again withdrew it as a bullet hissed close.
When Winters had reached safety, Orpheus stopped his playing. In an instant Eurydice was in his arms. Winters waited, at first in sympathy, finally in boredom.
“That ought to do for a spell,” he told them.
They drew apart and favored him with looks of gratitude. “O Winters, most valiant of mortals—”
“Don’t get sentimental,” said Winters. “There’s still a job to do.”
They looked puzzled. Orpheus said, “What else could there be?”
Winters pointed at Hokey Pokey’s hiding place. “There’s a Mean Edd left in that rock. We’re going to flush him. You two come with me.”
They obeyed readily. “No request of yours could we deny,” said Orpheus.
“Nor command disobey,” said Eurydice.
They took positions back of Pokey’s rock. “Now, Orph,” said Winters, “I want you to play a tune that will fetch him out of there. When he’s out, he’d better run toward them trees or I’ll shoot him. Just as he gets there, I want you to change your tune to one as fierce as ever you played in your life. We’ll see what happens to Pokey.”
* * * *
Orpheus played a tune so shrill that Pokey’s rock shivered and splintered. Pokey leaped out
and ran streaming, reckless of his course. As Winters had intended, he ran straight to Eurydice’s recent prison. Trees caught him. When Orpheus changed his tune, those trees pulled Pokey’s head off and tore his body into pieces.
“There,” said Winters. “According to my wife’s books, that was supposed to be you, Orpheus.”
Orpheus looked at him gravely and sighed. “Except for you, O Winters, it might have been as your loved one’s books have said.”
Eurydice lowered her pretty head in wistful thought. “In token of our gratitude, you deserve a gift at our hands, O Winters. But we have so little.” She looked at her fingers, felt at her throat and shook her head sadly in realization that she had neither gold nor precious stones.
Then she remembered and removed that flower which adorned her braids. “This, O Winters, I give to you, because it is all I have. It is a crocus. Plant it somewhere, and I shall bless it with my love. It shall ever after be sacred to Eurydice. In centuries yet unborn, hearts will be gladdened by it, because it will bloom even before winter’s chill breath is hardly stilled.”
Winters took her gift, held it clumsily. “You sure don’t owe me nothing, but I reckon you wouldn’t give me this if you didn’t mean me to take it.” He studied a while, could think of nothing more to say.
“Well, I better get along home.” He swung onto Cannon Ball and headed east.
“From Elysian shores we shall remember you forever,” Orpheus called. “Farewell, O Winters.”
A night breeze filled with music lightened his journey. Presently he thought that wonders would never end. Eurydice’s gift, he discovered, was growing roots. They crawled along his fingers, probed eagerly between them. Well, wasn’t that something!
