The Song of Eleusis

by Phil Swann

“Yes, the lyre,” Timon repeated. “My dear, I never expected you to be hurled into the middle of this—had I known, I never would have done what I did.”

  “And what did you do?” Ellie asked.

  “When prominent members of both families began dying under suspicious circumstances, I realized I needed to cleverly get the lyre away from me and out of Greece. I had friends in Nigeria who agreed to bury the lyre on the savanna you were about to excavate.”

  “How did you know I was going to be excavating there?”

  Timon looked at Beatrice Whitt.

  “Oh no,” Ellie exclaimed, her face getting wide. “You? You’re Eumolpidae too?”

  “No,” Beatrice responded calmly. “I am Kerykes.”

  Ellie fell back on the sofa and put her hand to her forehead.

  Ben said, “So you’re a dadouchos also?”

  “The actual title is dadouchousa, the female assistant to the dadouchos. I’m sorry, dear. But yes, I’ve known your grandfather for over forty years.”

  Stewart, who had remained silent, finally spoke up. “Sir, just a couple of things. I’m not a member of either family, by blood, marriage or otherwise. So my question is, me knowing what I now know, is someone going to kill me?”

  Timon looked at Beatrice, who swallowed a laugh. “No, son, you are not in danger. Besides, I’m sure if we look hard enough, we can find some DNA proof somewhere you have the blood of one of the families rushing through your veins.”

  Stewart smiled. “Sweet! But one other thing, if I may? The lyre had markings on it. It looked like ancient music, but it was carved by a modern tool.”

  “Yes,” Timon answered. “The music of the daughter, and I carved it. Years ago Papadakis found a vase at the ruins of the temple of Demeter. I knew what it was, but he did not. When he died, I destroyed the vase and transcribed the symbols onto the lyre for safe keeping.”

  “That’s why the carvings looked so familiar!” Ellie exclaimed.

  Stewart said, “One last thing, sir. The lyre showed evidence of soil from here in America. How did it get there?”

  “Because that’s where the lyre has been for over half a century.” Timon stood and shuffled back toward Sarah’s door. He picked up a bag and returned to the circle. “Benjamin, when your brother and I realized there was a spy in our midst, security of the lyre became paramount. Once he was elected president, he decided it was too precarious for the instrument to remain with him. So, he sent it to me for safe keeping.” Timon opened the bag and lifted out the ancient instrument. “This belongs to you, son. It’s been in your family for literally thousands of years. I trust you will take good care of it.”

  Ben took the lyre from Timon and stared at it. “I…don’t know what…?”

  “It belongs with you, that’s all you need to know. Perhaps you could learn to play it. Your mother did so beautifully.”

  Ben could only muster a nod.

  Ellie put her hand on Ben’s back. “You know what you can do though, Ben? Explain how you were able to play the song with Papau.”

  Timon said, “You found the music in the safe, didn’t you, Benjamin?”

  “No, like Sarah said, there was nothing in the safe.”

  “Then where did you find it?”

  “I didn’t find it—because it was never hidden.”

  Timon looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “Tom didn’t tell me the location of the song, he literally told me the song. I was just too stupid to see it.” Ben looked at Sarah. “Tom must have used the same numbers for the safe to make it easier for him to remember the combination—his memory was always crap, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh my God,” Sarah muttered, shaking her head.

  Timon said, “I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand.”

  Ellie added, “I’m lost too.”

  Ben said, “It was the Nashville number system. A quick shorthand we use around here to express musical changes. It’s easy if you know your scales. Mom taught Tom and me how it worked when we were kids. That’s what those numbers were, music expressed in numbers.”

  “Show us,” Ellie said, taking the lyre from Ben and handing him a napkin.

  “May I?” he asked Sarah, taking a pen from his jacket pocket.

  “Of course,” Sarah answered.

  Ben wrote out a line of numbers on the napkin from one to seven. “The beauty of the system is everything’s always in the key of one. If the key you’re playing in is G, then G is one, ergo, the four is four steps up from G, which is a C. The five is five steps up from G, which is a D. You do the same thing if you’re in the key of C. The C is one, the four is four steps up, which is an F, and the five is five steps up from C, which is a G. You apply the same thing in any key. The six in the key of F is D, the three is an A, and et cetera.”

  “Would you look at that?” Timon said.

  “We sometimes group them for speed, especially in a recording session. That’s what Tom did. Fifteen, forty-five, fifty-five, eleven; he was really saying, one, five, four, five, five, five, one, one. The number system is generally used to express chord changes, but I knew from what you were playing, Timon, I couldn’t just strum a chord. So I arpeggiated the chord changes, playing them as separate notes. It took me a couple of passes to figure out the pattern and correct voicings, but eventually I made it work…at least, close enough, I suppose.”

  “Brilliant, Benjamin,” Timon exclaimed. “Absolutely brilliant. You’re a genius.”

  “No, Tom’s the genius. He took an ancient piece of music Ellie and Stewart claim isn’t even supposed to exist and saved it via hillbilly music theory. He was quite a man, my brother.”

  “But that wasn’t his greatest accomplishment,” Sarah said, wiping away tears.

  “No? What was?” Ben replied.

  “He made Ben Lambros humble.”

  Ben smiled. “Let’s not get ridiculous, sis. He wasn’t that good.”

  Everybody laughed.

  Epilogue

  One month later

  Grey put the last file into the box and closed it. A man in white overalls lifted it from Grey’s desk and set it atop the other boxes stacked on a dolly.

  “Is that it, sir?”

  “Yes, that’s it. Thank you.”

  The man nodded, and Grey watched as the last files on the assassination of President Thomas Lambros were rolled out of his office.

  “Hi, there. You ready?” Jennifer Pryce asked, sticking her head in the door.

  Grey walked around the desk and kissed his ex-wife. “Bermuda, here we come,” he said, throwing a small backpack over his shoulder.

  “I should tell you every friend I’ve got is telling me this is a bad idea.”

  “Now, why would they say such a thing?” Grey replied, turning off the light in his office and heading toward the elevator.

  “Romantic getaways with your ex-husband aren’t exactly in the rule book.”

  “Screw the rule book,” Grey replied.

  “Seriously?” Jennifer said. “Special Agent Grey Pryce just said, ‘Screw the rule book’? Have you had your yearly physical?”

  “Ha-ha. Very funny.”

  “Grey, a moment,” Bob Greenfield said, appearing in the hallway.

  “Hold the elevator, Shecky. I’ll be right back.”

  Grey went over to the assistant director. “What’s wrong, Bob, miss me already?”

  “I just got a call from the warden at Allenwood. Paul Welker is dead.”

  “What? How?”

  “Looks like suicide—both wrists were slashed.”

  “Damn it to hell, Bob,” Grey said, dropping his backpack.

  “I know,” Greenfield replied.

  “He was supposed to be on suicide watch. Where’d he get the blade?”

  “Nobody knows. I thought since it was your collar, you might want to go out there and look into it. The media is going to have a field day with this.”

  Grey let out a long breath. He looked over at the el
evator. Jennifer was holding the door open while checking messages on her phone. She looked up, saw Grey, and smiled. Grey smiled back and then turned to Greenfield. “You know what, Bob? Put Bullard on it, he’s a good man.”

  “You sure?” Greenfield replied.

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Grey said, picking up his backpack. “I’m on vacation.”

  »»•««

  Timon and Beatrice sat alone in the office. It was late, and the house was still. And except for the occasional man in a suit walking past the window, it also felt empty. They knew, of course, the house wasn’t empty. This house was never empty.

  “Have you ever been in here before?” Beatrice asked.

  Timon gave Beatrice a look.

  “Sorry, I forgot.”

  “That’s quite all right, my dear,” Timon replied.

  Both went quiet again.

  “When are you going to tell them?” Beatrice asked.

  “We’re witness to a budding romance, Beatrice. They both deserve some time to see what develops, don’t you think? They’ll learn the rest soon enough. There’s time.”

  “The problem with you, you old coot, is you still think you’re young. Time is not a friend to either one of us, Timon.”

  Timon looked at Beatrice and smiled.

  “Seriously, luv, they need to know the truth, and sooner is better than later. Benjamin Lambros is the new hierophant and Ellie Scotes is the high priestess of Demeter; it’s their birthright. Both will need your guidance.”

  “And they shall have it when the time comes, but not now. They need time to digest what they’ve only recently learned before they hear the rest. When they do, they’ll be ready.”

  A door in the curved wall behind them opened, and President Bing Stone walked in. He was dressed casually in dark slacks, a button-down shirt, and a green sweater. Neither Timon nor Beatrice stood, which actually caused Stone to momentarily pause.

  “I’m not accustomed to being ordered to my own office. What’s this about?”

  “The Council has come to a decision. Please sit down,” Timon said.

  “No, I don’t think I will,” Stone replied. “Deliver your message and leave.”

  “As you wish,” Timon said. “For the greater good, you will be allowed to serve out the remainder of the Lambros presidency. However, you will not initiate any new foreign policy or domestic agendas. Furthermore, you will limit your engagement with world leaders to phone calls and state dinners, and under no circumstances are you to mobilize the US military unless prior approval has been given to you by the Council.”

  “How am I supposed to govern under those conditions?” Stone replied.

  “That’s the point, you’re not,” Beatrice Whitt said.

  Stone’s face turned red. “I’m the president of the United States. How dare you—”

  “I’m not done!” Timon Baros barked, his eyes hard as steel.

  Stone swallowed and sat down behind the desk.

  Timon continued, “You will not run for reelection—or should I say election, since you were never elected to this office to begin with. At the end of your presidency you will retire from public life and move back to your ranch with your family. You can write a book, but of course, it will be vetted by the Council before publication.”

  “Anything else?” Stone asked.

  “Yes. The Council is aware of the relationship you enjoyed with the Lord Vardis Papadakis. But in their wisdom, they still chose mercy. Had it been up to me—”

  Beatrice put her hand on Timon’s leg.

  Timon stopped and took a deep breath. “Let me be clear: should you not heed this directive, you will not make it out of the New Hampshire primary. Let me rephrase, you will not make it out of the state of New Hampshire. Period. Do you understand?”

  Stone answered with a nod.

  “Then I believe our business here is completed. Have a nice evening, Mr. President.”

  Timon and Beatrice stood and walked out of the Oval Office.

  »»•««

  Ben stepped off the train and began searching the sea of faces. Ellie said she’d be waiting for him by the newsstand, but he didn’t see a newsstand anywhere. He took out his phone and checked to see if she’d maybe sent him a text. She hadn’t. He moved with the throng toward the escalator exiting the station when he noticed someone pushing through the crowd. Then he heard the voice. “Ben, I’m here! I’m here!” Ben waved his arm above everyone’s head and moved next to the wall and waited.

  “I’m so sorry,” Ellie said, catching her breath. “I got hung up at the museum.”

  “I just got off the train, no worries.”

  “Come on, let’s get out of this circus.”

  The evening air was crisp. Ben tightened the scarf around his neck as he and Ellie exited the train station in search of a less hectic London side street. Once they’d cleared the crowd, Ben put his hands in the pockets of his sport coat, and Ellie wrapped her arm through his.

  “So, how did it go?” Ellie asked.

  “They want me to teach a class on contemporary songwriting. Can you imagine me teaching a class on songwriting? At Oxford of all places?”

  “I think you’d be brilliant. What did you say?”

  “I said I needed to talk to you about it.”

  Ellie smiled. “Really? You said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you feel you need to talk to me about it?”

  “Well…you know…it’s one thing to have me here in Merry Old England for a couple of weeks but…”

  “Oh, yes, I see what you mean,” Ellie replied, making a face. “Ben Lambros on a semi-regular basis…hmm? You can be a bit of a pillock at times. Of course, you would be in Oxford, so it’s not like you’d be on my doorstep every night like a lost kitten.”

  Ben smiled.

  “How did it feel being back there?”

  “Weird,” Ben answered. “Nice, but weird. It seems like a lifetime ago I was a student.”

  “Did they mention anything about—”

  “No, they didn’t.”

  “I thought the news conference Agent Pryce gave was excellent. He said some very nice things about you.”

  “There will always be those who believe I had something to do with it, though.”

  “Yes, but there’s nothing you can do about what people believe or don’t believe.”

  Ben stopped and pulled Ellie close. “You haven’t answered my question, Dr. Scotes.”

  “What question was that, Mr. Lambros?” Ellie replied.

  “How would you feel about having me around on a…semi-regular basis?”

  Ellie smiled and straightened Ben’s scarf. “It depends on how you answer this question. Would you be here because you wanted to be here? Or would you be here because you don’t want to be in Nashville?”

  Ben held Ellie’s face in his hands and kissed her.

  “That was nice,” she whispered. “But it wasn’t an answer to the question.”

  Ben gave Ellie his arm and began walking again. “London’s a nice city.”

  “I like it,” Ellie said.

  “It’s not New York, mind you. Now that’s a city. But it’s not too bad.”

  “Glad you approve.”

  “Loads of history.”

  “Loads.”

  “People seem nice enough.”

  “Eh, for the most part.”

  “And you’re not bad company, either.”

  “I try,” Ellie said, nodding her head.

  “I guess that’s why, then.”

  “That’s why what?

  Ben stopped and looked into Ellie’s eyes. “That’s why this might be the first time in my life I’ve actually ever wanted to be anywhere. And I want to be here with you very, very much.”

  They kissed.

  Ben suddenly pulled back.

  “What’s wrong?” Ellie asked.

  “Listen.”

  “What?”

  “I think it’s coming from t
hat pastry shop over there.”

  Ellie turned her head to listen. “What is it?”

  “I wrote that song!”

  Ellie rolled her eyes. “Seriously? Is this the way it’s going to be?”

  Ben took Ellie’s hand, and they ran across the street.

  “Okay, okay,” Ellie yelled, trying to keep up. “I guess we can get a cup of tea.”

  “I hate tea,” Ben said, opening the door to the shop.

  “Oh no, no, no. That’s a deal breaker, Mr. Lambros.”

  About the Author

  Phillip Swann's first novel, The Mozart Conspiracy, achieved international success and is published in Italian under the title, Il Codice Amadeus. As a songwriter and record producer, Swann's songs have been heard in television and film and have been recorded by hundreds of recording artists. For the stage, Swann is the composer of nine musicals, including the Off-Broadway hit Play It Cool and The People Vs Friar Laurence. Phillip Swann resides in Los Angeles, where he writes, and teaches songwriting at UCLA.

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