Enchanted Fire

by Roberta Gellis

  “And we were coming east across open water,” Ankaios said. “It is hard to keep a direction over open water. If we went only a little north…”

  “We would have come upon, or at least sighted, Imbros,” Tiphys pointed out.

  “You were even farther north than you thought,” Eurydice put in eagerly. “If you sail southwest, as I said, and the weather is clear, you should see Imbros off to the north around midday,” Then she turned her head toward Jason. “I beg your pardon, Lord Jason, for sounding as if you were foolish to think of pirates. I had forgotten Imbros. There is no danger on the Chersonesus, at least not to the southwest, but there may be on Imbros.”

  “We are strong enough not to fear pirates,” Jason said. “What do you say, Tiphys?”

  Tiphys looked at Eurydice. “When you traveled southwest, you are sure you saw land to the north out in the ocean?” he asked her, and when she nodded, he said to Jason, “The wind was from the west when we lost sight of Lemnos—and perhaps a little from the south also, perhaps more from the south than I thought. In any case, I do not think we could have been blown so far south in our course as to reach the part of Troas from which Tenedos can be seen. Perhaps, woman or not, she knows where she is.”

  Jason looked around the fire. “Are we agreed, then? We will sail southwest along the coast of this land for a full day and see if we come to the end of the land.”

  There were murmurs of agreement, a few grumbling doubts about taking directions from a woman, but no more serious protests. Eurydice made no response to the complaints, giving her attention to finishing her meal without speaking again. Someone called for a song, and Orpheus threw the leaves on which his portion had rested into the fire and uncased the cithara. He gave them a common sea song, one that Eurydice knew, but she was enthralled all over again, as were most of the crew. Jason, however, shook his head when the last notes died away and voices were raised for another song. Jason was resistant to Orpheus’ charms, Eurydice thought, as he chose the members of the crew who would stand watch and suggested that, when the fire died, the others would do well to seek their blankets.

  Orpheus did not wait for that. He promptly slipped the cithara back into its case, rose to his feet, and said brusquely to Eurydice, “Come with me.”

  Somewhat resentful of the enchantment that had enfolded her while he sang—even though she longed for it to be renewed—she reminded herself of how he had failed her. She looked up at him, lips parted to voice a curt refusal, then thought better of it and also got to her feet. She would be a fool to allow resentment to make her forget she would be far safer if she let the other men think she belonged to Orpheus. She would not have minded being his woman; there was something extraordinarily charming about him—a kind of innocence—but she had no intention of granting any favor to a man who would not speak up for her. Orpheus led her back to the boat, and Eurydice nearly balked. Then she realized that the privacy he sought to make use of her would serve equally well for her to tell him what she thought of him without making the whole crew aware of her feelings.

  Chapter Three

  Eurydice had lagged somewhat behind Orpheus as he climbed the ladder to board the ship, considering which defensive spell she should use and before she decided realizing she dared use none. Mopsus would sense the spell at once; he was already suspicious of her strength, and she knew it would be foolish to expose it over so small a thing as a single unwelcome coupling. And it might not come to that. She knew a few tricks to discourage a man that did not involve magic.

  She hesitated again when she saw Orpheus going forward toward the prow of the ship where there was a platform that sheltered stores from the rain. Then she decided that she need not follow him into the dark under the decking. It would be better to have the matter out with him once and for all. When she caught up with him, he was bending over several blankets, which he had spread on the deck. Eurydice stiffened with outrage. How dare he! Without even saying a word.

  “For what do you think those are necessary?” she hissed.

  “For sleeping,” Orpheus responded, his attention still on the blankets, which he seemed to be feeling. “I—”

  “Not you with me,” Eurydice snarled. “A man who will not stand up and say I am right when he knows I am right will share no blanket with me.”

  Orpheus jerked upright and around to face her. His face looked dark in the waning light. Eurydice thought he might be flushed with anger, but perhaps it was only from stooping. His voice was flat and contemptuous when he said, “Who would want to share a blanket with you? You are bold beyond bearing. No decent woman would rise up in a council of men and speak without invitation.”

  Eurydice had been shocked, even a little hurt, by the insult in Orpheus’ first sentence, but that hurt was swallowed up by the idiocy of the last. Her eyes wide, her brows raised, she cried, “You mean for the sake of modesty—your modesty, not mine, for Thracian women are not downtrodden worms—I should have let you all waste several days sailing in the wrong direction?”

  There was a heartbeat’s hesitation, which showed Eurydice that her shaft had gone home, before Orpheus snarled, “It would not have come to that. Jason knows you are a native here. He would have asked you. Then you could have replied with decency.”

  “Would he have asked me?” Eurydice whooped with laughter. “After all, what can a house-bound woman know? By Greek reckoning, not even the name of the country in which she lives.”

  “Well, the villagers did not know the name of the country,” Orpheus countered smugly.

  Eurydice laughed again. “You fool! I was the one who called them ignorant, but I did not mean about such things. I doubt any one of them told you his right name, and that was not for lack of knowing it. They were afraid! They expected you to steal from them and then tell your fellows where they were so that others would come and steal, too. They hoped by misnaming the place they might not be found.”

  “Steal from them?” Orpheus echoed in surprise, completely distracted from the original subject. “What had they for us to steal?”

  “I doubt they had anything, except maybe fish, which you scorn, but is their livelihood. But there may have been a few silver spoons, or a good knife or two, or even a sword.”

  “So they were lying? Do you mean they might have lied about knowing something of Colchis, too?”

  “I cannot answer that,” Eurydice said, smiling. She was ready to set aside her original resentment. If Orpheus was willing to accept her rejection and wished to drop that subject, she would be glad to help. “I would not think so,” she continued thoughtfully, and then smiled again. “But for me to say that they know nothing when I am, so far, your only source of information might seem a little suspicious. However, I do not see how they could know, unless Colchis was close by. I doubt most of them have traveled as far as Thrace on land or to Imbros by boat.”

  Orpheus recalled the wretched hovels, the incredible stink; the people were wretchedly poor and would not have the money or time to spare for traveling. He also remembered the utter blankness they displayed when questioned about Colchis compared with the shrinking and shifting eyes that accompanied answers to other questions and decided that Eurydice might be right about this, as she had been about the village itself. He knew, too, that the people of his own village, which was larger and richer than this one, would gladly tell tales about places beyond their reach while keeping a tight-lipped silence about village affairs. So if the villagers had heard tales of magic Colchis, they probably would have been glad to retell them, hoping to distract their unwelcome visitors with wonders far away.

  In any case, he thought, picking up the two blankets he considered the least thin and ragged, it was too dark to do anything about Eurydice’s revelation tonight. He could mention it to Jason in the morning and let him decide whether to send another party to the village.

  When he turned, Eurydice was already making her way back toward the ladder that would take her to the ground. The sight of her retreatin
g back struck him with a sense of loss for something he had not even thought of before she put the idea into his head. The blankets in his arms reminded him of her unjust accusation and Orpheus was suddenly furious.

  “Woman,” he bellowed, and threw the blankets at her. “If you reject the modesty of a Greek woman, you cannot expect the courtesy such a woman deserves. Carry your own blankets!”

  Eurydice had swung back toward him just as the blankets struck her. Tight-lipped fury was replaced by surprise at his words. “My own blankets?” This time it was Eurydice’s turn to echo what she had heard. She could think of nothing else to say. If Orpheus had just been choosing the best of the leftovers for her, she thought, all at once feeling very happy, she had done him a grave injustice.

  “Well, they are mine,” Orpheus said, rather gruffly, now ashamed of himself, “but you must have something for sleeping.”

  He felt terribly guilty as he spoke. He had better blankets and his village upbringing told him he should have shared, one good and one ragged one, with her. But his purpose had not been selfish, he reminded himself. He had not offered that sharing because he did not want the men to think he was claiming her—and for fear she would believe exactly what she had believed without cause, that he wanted payment of the only kind she had to give. Yet despite her unjust suspicions of him—and she might have cause for that, he knew—she seemed so delighted, clutching to her the shabby cloth she had picked up, he felt mean for not offering better.

  Now she came closer. “If I misread what you were doing, I am very sorry,” she said softly. “But there is no need for you to give up your blankets. I am accustomed to making do with dry grass and leaves, and with the cloak you have already given me, I will be warm enough.” She held the blankets out to him. “Take them back, please.”

  “I have others,” he said. “I keep the castoffs for wrapping my instrument in bad weather. Wait.” He went back under the decking, coming out with two folded parcels. He held one out to Eurydice, who had followed him. “Here, take this. It is thicker and warmer. I should have offered it to you, but…”

  She shook her head and laughed. “But I have been very busy offending you and making you angry—”

  “No, that was not the reason,” he interrupted indignantly. “I did not want you to think…just what you thought!”

  Eurydice laughed again. “Then you are all the kinder to forgive me, but I am more than content with what I have. So long as you are sure your instrument will not suffer. For the pleasure it gave me and will give me in the future, I would gladly forgo any minor comfort.”

  Now Orpheus urged her more strongly to take the good blanket, but she resisted, laughing, and started toward the ladder again. Others had come aboard, some to take sleeping gear ashore and some to unroll pallets on the deck. Eurydice was relieved when Orpheus followed her. She still thought safety lay in being “Orpheus’ woman” but believed it even more dangerous to share the cramped space aboard with the men.

  In fact, Orpheus also avoided the crowded conditions on the ship’s deck whenever he could. For some reason he could not understand, his singing raised the notion in his companions that he was in the market for a lover, and such close contiguity often brought proposals. Although he explained that his rejection was not personal and he was one of those who found only women to his taste, there was some awkwardness in a situation where neither he nor the suitor he had rejected could get away from each other. He was glad that Eurydice wanted to sleep on the beach.

  Once ashore, she dropped behind and waited for him to choose a spot. He felt a little surprised—he had expected her to find her own sleeping place and argue when he stayed near, so he was very pleased when she followed him and dropped one blanket near his. For all her bold talk, Orpheus thought, apparently she did desire his protection. He was too wise to mention it and felt indulgent enough to smother his grin and ask courteously if he could help her spread her blankets.

  “Not yet,” she said. “When I come back you can help me, and we will both be more comfortable.”

  Orpheus blinked and frowned at her retreating back. “We will both be more comfortable” seemed to imply doubling the blankets and sharing, but she had made it plain enough on the ship that she would not… Oh, what a fool he was. She doubtless wanted to relieve herself; it was more difficult for a woman than for a man who needed only to step behind a tree. When he remembered she had taken one blanket with her, he felt pleased at that sign of modesty. She had seemed completely indifferent to the way her body was exposed by her ragged clothes; he would not have been surprised if she was as indifferent as a man who saw her clear her bladder and bowels. The idea was contagious. When she had disappeared under the trees, Orpheus followed her example, taking care to seek shelter well apart from the direction she had taken.

  Returning, he sat down and lifted the cithara from his shoulder. He was so used to the weight, that he did not feel it until he laid the instrument aside. But freed from it, he stretched luxuriously and rubbed the place where the strap had hollowed his flesh a little. He moved the cithara clear of his feet and it twanged softly; the note from the loosened string brought to mind a chord from “The Women of Lemnos,” and he hummed the line, recast it in his mind, moving his head a little to the music he was imagining. That line of the song led to another, and another. He reached for the cithara case to get out his writing tablet, and realized it was completely dark. On the beach that did not matter much; the stars were so bright that one could still see. In the woods, however, it must be black as pitch. Orpheus stood up, suddenly alarmed. Where was Eurydice?

  First he was frightened for her, little frail bird that she was, alone in the woods. Then he reminded himself that they had only her word that she was alone. True, they had found no one, but she had hidden successfully from Jason and the men—from him also, until she had voluntarily come forward. Could not others hide as well? Now he became alarmed for his companions. Could she have left to summon those who would attack them? He gazed anxiously around and listened until his ears ached, and when he heard a crackling in the brush, he whirled to face the sound, ready to call an alarm.

  Only one small figure came out of the shadows under the trees, but Orpheus remained tense, his eyes scanning the edge of the beach even after Eurydice reached him. It was only when she dropped a huge bundle from her back that he looked down and realized she had brought a pile of bracken, dead leaves, and dry grass out of the forest. It had been comfort for sleeping she had been seeking among the trees, not enemies to kill them.

  “You can have half,” she said, “if you will help me roll the other half into the blanket. “I can pile the stuff into a cloth and tie the edges, but I never seem able to wrap it into a long pad.”

  “Thank you,” Orpheus said, smiling. “Would you believe I have never had sense enough—in all the long years I have been traveling—to think of wrapping leaves and grass in my blanket. I have pushed them together and laid the blanket atop them, which as you know is useless because they flatten and scatter as soon as one lies down on them, but I never thought to make a pallet out of them.”

  While he spoke, he had pulled a second blanket alongside the pile of leafy debris. By feel, it was the other one he had given her, thin and scratchy. Once she had wrapped the leaves in it, she would have to accept the softer, warmer blanket as a cover, and that was only fair, since she had provided more comfort than that softer blanket would.

  Eurydice laughed lightly at his confession. “I am sure that was because you spent few enough nights out in the open,” she said. “Much as you travel, it was mostly from town to town, inn to inn, or great house to great house.” As she spoke, she began to divide the mass of leaves and push half of it onto the second blanket.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “but sometimes I got caught between guestings and had to sleep in the open.”

  Orpheus helped from the other side, moving the material she had offered into the center of the second cloth, then moving around opposite Eurydice a
nd asking how he could help.

  “Just pick up your end, lift it over the packing, and tuck it under.”

  “But if I do that, all the leaves will fall out,” Orpheus pointed out. “Better push the stuff back into the middle and wrap first one end and then the other around it.”

  “But it will be a lump right in the middle,” Eurydice protested.

  “No more than it would be at the end if you spread it out in a line.”

  Eurydice burst into a trill of laughter. “You are not the only idiot in the world,” she said through her chuckles, and set about following his instructions.

  With one of them at each end, it was easy to fold the blankets and roll them over. Eurydice pretended to be cross when Orpheus handed her the thick, soft cover.

  “You are a very stubborn man,” she said, “and will get your own way by hook or by crook.”

  “No,” he protested, his voice redolent of innocence. “I am a practical man. I did not want my good blanket full of sticks and dead leaves.” Then he: laughed. “Every man likes to have his own way.”

  “Every woman, also,” Eurydice remarked.

  Orpheus wondered if that was a warning, but he only asked, “You are not going to insist that we undo the pallets, are you?”

  She laughed softly and settled into her bed, slipping off her sandals, shaking out the warm blanket, and drawing it over her. “No. I am fair enough to acknowledge when I am beaten…and not so stupid as to cut off my nose to spite my face.”

  The moon had not yet risen, but there was light enough for Eurydice to see Orpheus repeat her actions, except that he drew the cithara onto the pallet with him. She remembered then that the only time he had parted with the instrument was when he went back to join the men who were going to hunt. Probably that was to protect it in case of any violent action, but it also meant that he did not use it to charm the wild creatures into quiescence with his music.

  She was glad he did not use the Power he wielded for drawing innocents to their deaths. In fact, it made her glance toward him again with more respect than she had felt for any of these men until this moment. Eurydice knew how very few of the Gifted would practice the same restraint as Orpheus. Of all of those she knew, only the old wisewoman, who had first trained her when she was a child, and the High Priestess of the temple, who had taken over her training when the aging village wisewoman felt she was not strong enough to control her pupil’s Power if it ran amok.