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Orpheus was the son of a Muse. He was aware it made him very different from any other man he knew – the few men he has met here in the end of the world as far as he knew –, as his lineage gave him his vigor and his voice.
But he loved his mom, more than anything else in the world.
He was aware others might have seen her as a weird, quirky bohemian lady with a strict lactovegetarian diet and eccentric fashion tastes, living in an old mill turned cottage somewhere in the end of the world. But she was a Muse of many hymns, the plants swaying and stones rocking in her trail as she danced. To the whole world around her she sang her praises, to the birds singing in the trees and the laughter of rivers on the wind, to the sunshine and the fruit of the vine blooming each Spring. She had a bright, wide smile on her face every day, and she taught him to love the world, and to love himself, as well.
He has never met his father. He died before he was even born, Mom has told. Died in a dust storm, suffocated and lost.
But Mom still tried to take it all in stride. She taught Orpheus how to see the bright side in everything. Dad’s dead, but at least they were both still alive. They didn’t have much, but at least they could live from the fruits of their own earthworks, singing and dancing on the beauty and comfort of their cottage garden every day, bringing their own gifts to the Harvest festival each year as the Seasons turned, sharing and caring and having a really good time with their brothers and sisters in the end of the world.
She raised him as the man he is, now. His beliefs, his vegetarianism, his love for Nature and working with the Earth, feeling the soft soil on his hands as he tended plants and watched them grow every day, giving thanks to each tree and bush and vine for their fruits and each cow and goat for their sweet, nourishing milk – all of these he owed to his mom, the most wonderful woman he has ever met, though he didn’t inherit her eccentric fashion tastes.
And then, one day, she was gone.
A dust storm ravaged the end of the world.
Dust storms are awfully common here, but few were as strong and harsh as this one. Rivers overflew, trees bent helplessly, all the birds disappeared in any shelter they could find. Orpheus, who has just grown into a young man, crouched in fear inside his house as the wind kept slamming windows and doors of worn wood, the dust barely kept out.
His mom was there somewhere. In the storm, against the wind. It caught her by surprise as she went to check their little garden outside.
She will come back. She will come back. Right?
He tried to soothe himself, uttering the melody – a lullaby – she sang to him to put him to sleep. “La la la la la la la…”
It was not working at all. His heart pumped desperately, as if trying to jump out of his chest.
When the storm finally seemed to calm down, a hand knocked on his door – three times, with precision. Orpheus immediately jumped out, running to open the door, hoping it was his mom. Though his mom had never knocked his door like that.
It was not his mom.
It was a man, a strange man with an earthly brown suit and stone-grey dark hat, feathers down his back like wings. His deep dark eyes wells of knowledge, as if he has already seen everything from the beginning to the end of the world.
“Orpheus.” How did this strange man know his name? “Care you to invite a wandering God as a guest in your humble home?”
Orpheus studied him with confusion, head to toe. “A god? Who are you?”
The man extended his arms to his sides. “Aight brother, don’t you recognize the God of messengers and godspeed?”
Orpheus remembered. Sometimes mom talked of him, the liminal god of trickeries and treats who crossed boundaries, with many strange stories about him as he walked these same fields of wheat through the end of the world. Legends were many, but sightings were few. Yet Mom has seen him, she’d say lightheartedly, right here walking our little garden so many times.
“I shall grant you hospitality as my highly esteemed guest, brother Hermes, god of speed” Orpheus chanted, just as Mom has taught him. “Anything you need for your long travels ahead, you shall have right here by your feathered feet.”
“Thank you, brother. You’re a kind soul.” Hermes entered the house, closing the door as he walked to the table of worn wood, sitting on a worn out chair with a tired demeanor.
Orpheus walked to the kitchen, picking some barley cookies and filling a mug with dandelion wine for his highly esteemed guest.
“This storm of dust is unusually bad”, the God said behind him. “This year their fight has made the mightiest storm I’ve ever seen.”
“Whose fight?” Orpheus asked as he brought food for his guest.
Hermes took a long sip from his dandelion wine.
“Hades and Persephone” he answered, then. “When the King and the Queen of the World Below fight like this, the winds get restless here in the world above. He came too early again. He missed her. Every year they have this fight.”
Orpheus nodded. He remembered his mom telling him about it, about a Mighty King and a Mighty Queen who ruled the world below, their love gone wrong as their yearly fights scattered dust on the world above.
One of these storms killed his father, shortly before he was born.
He glanced worriedly at windows and doors trembling against the wind. His mother is still out there somewhere…
“Looks like the sky’s gonna fall.”
The God dismissed it with a hand gesture.
“They’re always like this. Hopefully they cool these mighty tempers soon.” He sighed. “These storms are giving me so many souls for me to guide down below.”
He put the mug down on the table with a plonk.
“That was some damningly good booze! Dandelion wine, alright? Been an eternity I drank anything like this.”
“Thank you. It’s a secret recipe from my mom.” Orpheus smiled. “What’s a psychopomp, a highly esteemed god like you, doing here in the middle of nowhere, either way?”
“You flatter me, boy.”
Hermes sighed, forlorn. He sat erect on his chair of worn wood, serious.
“Well, alright, this is why I’m here. As the god of messengers, I am here to bring you a message.”
“What kind of message?” Orpheus was suddenly worried. He did not like the sound of that.
Hermes twirled something in his hands – something small.
“Orpheus, son of Polyhymnia. I promised to your mom I’d look for you if anything happened to her.”
Orpheus’ heart sank heavy and hard down his chest.
“No…”
Please no. Please do not be this.
“Swept away by the storm” the God continued. “The wind has taken her away. Death reaped her soul away when she fell down a cliff to the end of the world. I had to guide her soul down below just now, right as I came.”
No…
Orpheus was speechless. Speechless.
No. No. No.
“But she asked me for a last favor as I guided her to her seat in the train.” The God raised his palm, showing Orpheus what he had in his hands – a seed.
All Orpheus wanted in that moment was to run out of the comfort of his old mill home to the storm, to search for his mom. But Mister Hermes was also there to stop him, from doing anything dangerous to himself.
He was there as the storm raged on. They exchanged some words. Somehow, despite his job, Hermes was still able to keep his lighthearted humor. But Orpheus was too shocked and distraught to have anymore lighthearted conversation.
Eventually the God left, as the dust for once settled.
Orpheus lied down in his bed all alone that night. They only had one bedroom, one bed for two, so he still cuddled up with his mom every night. He used to.
The bed felt so cold without her warmth.
He examined the seed Hermes left for him, tears blurring his vision. Your mother has asked to be buried in her garden with this, the God has said. Plant this in her grave, and tend it every day with care.
Orpheus sobbed. He was familiar with feeling the dirt in his hands as he dug the soil, to mulch and nourish the Earth for new growth. He remembered his mom always talking about how, one day, when she passed away, she wished she could be buried in a beautiful garden, to nourish a beautiful tree and give sweet, delicious, nourishing fruits back to the world.
He wished he weren’t the one to bury her.
As dawn came, he took courage to do the deed, and search for her body.
And he found her, somewhere down the cliff nearby. So close to the edge of the world, as legends say.
Stiff, still, lifeless. Not breathing, no beating in her heart.
He carried her, as if he were taking her to sleep in her bed after a bad night, like she has done with him so many times before. And he laid her down in the bed he made, in this garden they have grown together, though the plants around were also so damaged by the storm.
He put the seed with her, cupping her hands around it. He tucked her as he covered her in soft, dark soil, hoping she’d feel comfortable in death.
When he was done, he fell and crashed beside the makeshift grave. He could not anymore hold his tears as he sobbed furiously.
His tears fell over the covers of dirt, watering the seed.
He did not want to leave this grave. He did not want to leave her. And for long, lingering moments, he couldn’t.
He did not know how long he stayed there, lying beside his mom’s grave. But he knew it was long enough he fell asleep, only to wake up how long after.
His mother taught him everything she knew about herbs growing around them, every plant, every tree and bush. There were no such thing as weeds here. Every green could give them food, every poison can be medicine. Even plants that for humans had nothing useful, could become support and nourish and protect other plants. And she taught Orpheus to love all plants, even the most unassuming flower could be beautiful.
He was able to sustain himself and keep himself alive without her tending and doting as the seasons turned, just with dandelions and assorted roots he picked in the woods and in the fields. He could have dandelion pancakes each morning every day!
He was never good with simple, practical stuff like lighting a match, though. He had to learn how to do so himself now, and after months he got the hang of it a little, but he was still so messy with phosphorus. When he was little he almost burned the whole house by accidentally setting some napkins on fire – luckily his mom put it out with a bucket full of dust. She made a point of always turning the oven on from then on, even if Orpheus was the one cooking. She’s not there to light matches or put fires out for him anymore.
Orpheus would rather eat all these fruits and vegetables raw. Every day he would drink unboiled milk, mixed haphazardly with honey and his favorite herbs. Hey, they were enough to kill all those germs! And to preserve his cold kykeon for a long, long time.
If he kept the right deities placated, he thought, he’d keep his house and his garden safe and sound.
He still had company in his fellow countrymen, when he got out to contribute and participate in common events – the mulching, the sowing, the harvest, the threshing, helping everyone on making food and milk and honey and wine, getting cheese and honey for himself as well as fruits and seeds for his garden.
But his countrymen were fewer and fewer as the seasons turned, the storms getting harsher. They were leaving, Orpheus heard rumors, for the other side, with dreams of a new life in the afterlife realm. Old Jack Hammer swung jackpot right on his head. Mister Miner dug a hole to China and fell right on the other side. Sweatshop Sally worked herself to death. Missus Miller starved in a cellar where the sun didn’t shine. Sad-eyed Cinderella got swept off her feet by the dust storm, dragged away with the ashes of summertime. All for a couple of glittering nickels and dimes.
This never made sense for Orpheus. Why would a man of his own free will go work all day in the mine, in the mill? At least up on top a man can breathe while he’s, well, living!
A sour feeling grew within him the more and more he thought of it. A ravaging storm of dust and rancor swept his father and his mother away from him. Orpheus would rather believe these were things out of their choice, their breaths of life by Necessity reaped away. But a small, rancorous part of him started to nurture a bitter idea – whether any of them chose to go down, to that windless, lifeless place his countrymen sing about, Hadestown.
He shook his head anytime the idea came up, on his tongue the bitter taste of turpentine.
Mister Hermes still visited his old mill home, sometimes. They would chat, mostly about music – Hermes was, too, a musician – but also about the current situation right here at the end of the world. Sometimes Orpheus would follow him to his humble Station at the world’s edge, to witness Spring herself return to the world above with the turning of years. And to get some of that premium wine she brings right out of treasures hidden deep underground.
He got fairly close with the Gods, these last years. Hermes would sometimes give him his hat as he played his hymns, blessing him.
It was after one of these godly visits, that Orpheus got the idea of composing the next greatest sacred hymn. A song about a love gone wrong, so mayhaps the Mighty King and Queen of the Underworld could rekindle their lost torch.
And every day Orpheus would walk to his garden, sitting down right by his mother’s grave as he always did, to work on his song. A beautiful tree – a manzanita (“little apple” in South-tongue), growing gloriously tall and wide, branches packed with ambrosial red berries to nourish him with every harvest – now grew upon her grave, blooming and maturing incredibly fast under his care. All bushes and vines in this garden, too, blossomed full of life.
He smiled once again, hearing the song of birds up in his mother’s tree.
“Hi, mom” he said as he leaned his back on the manzanita tree. He willed to believe the spirit of his mom perhaps, just perhaps, still lived in the form of this beautiful tree. “Got some progress with my song today. Hope you are proud.”
The tree dropped a few of these incredibly delicious berries on his hand, as if reminding him to eat.
“Thank you so much”, he said. “I love you.”
The leaves seemed to be laughing on the wind.
He loved to spend his time here, hearing the birds sing and the sound of rivers rushing nearby, feeling the smell of all these flowers in Spring. He felt relaxed here as he tended and cared for each plant, as he picked each fruit of his labor to eat or to share with his countrymen. And he felt inspired here, sitting by this tree, as he worked on his sacred hymn.
Sometimes he saw others – sometimes fellow countrymen, sometimes strangers – in this garden, coming to pick some fruits and leave. And he’d smile every time, as he knew that’s what his mother would want. They never had a fence around their cottage garden, or rabid dogs. What they had, they had to share. And no one picked too much, there were always fruits and edible blossoms left in the trees for the birds to eat. There were always seeds left for new life to bloom.
Many times, when they saw Orpheus tending his garden, they’d come and offer to help him. He appreciated the help, every time. Some brought mulch, some brought new seeds and sprouts for him. They then invited him to come to their houses at any time and help them, and Orpheus would come back with enough cheese and honey to sustain himself.
This is how life should be.
And Orpheus tried keeping his head high with a smile, seeing the bright side in everything as his mother did, even when harsh weather came to this little paradise they had created. They were getting more frequent now, his plants barely surviving these harsher and harsher dust storms. And the manzanita tree there still stood, strong and tall, full of life and vigor even with all her leaves struck out of her branches by the ravaging wind.
One day, as the sun was setting after one long such storm, Orpheus saw a strange girl camping in his garden.
He has never seen her before in his life. She wore a dusty grey coat draped over a white travel robe, a wine-red bandana wrapped around her neck. Her long, dark hair was tied in a high up ponytail.
He observed her as she climbed his beloved manzanita tree to pick the berries that remained in the dead of winter, then climbed down to eat them all in one go – really, really hungry. He saw the way she closed her eyes as she tasted the nectar of these fruits, savoring the sensation as it lasted.
She then picked up some dead branches around, and piled them up on the ground – reasonably far enough from any dormant plant.
“Anybody got a match?”
He scrambled to pick his matchbox from a pocket in his denim farmer’s jacket.
“Give me that!” She came to him to quickly pick it.
And he kept watching as she lit the match – quickly, with skill, not even the wind could put it out – lighting the pile of branches up.
She sat by her fire, warming herself up. She didn’t seem to really have anywhere to return to, because she lingered there a really, really long time.
She seemed to stick her hands in the fire as she watched the flames. Not afraid of giving herself high degree burns, or burning the whole garden down. She was practical enough to be careful.
He was honestly in pure awe. The strange girl struck a match and lit a flame in his poor heart. Wind didn’t want this flame to catch, but it caught…
She caught his eyes staring at her in awe.
“What?”
“Come home with me”, Orpheus offered. “What’s a girl like you doing here in the dead of winter, in the end of the world? Shelter yourself from the storm.”
She eyed him head to toe.
“Who are you?”
“The man who’s gonna marry you! There’s only one bed in my house” he joked. “I’m Orpheus.”
She laughed hard, scornfully. Certainly not because she found his awful joke funny.
“And I should care because…?” she said.
“Because you’re Eurydice”, Orpheus said, reminded of a message Mister Hermes has recently brought – to watch for a hungry young girl coming in from the cold, who may appear here in this very garden someday. “You’re homeless, and I am inviting you as a guest in my house. So come home with me.”
She studied him, surprised he knew her by name.
She stood up, curious.
“And where would this home of yours be?”
“Right here” Orpheus gestured to his garden of dormant plants, and to his humble old mill home covered in dust. “Be my guest.”
“Right here?”
He nodded.
“This is the middle of nowhere” she said.
“I know. This is literally the end of the world” Orpheus said, resigned. “But you should see it in Spring.”
She shrugged. “When is that?”
“It will come. At any day.” Hopefully. Though the constant storms of dust were also sweeping his hopes away, he thought as he looked up at the cloudy, dreary sky.
“Well.” Eurydice looked at the sun setting on the edge of the world. “It’s late. So what do you do here, all along?”
“Hey, this is my garden.” Orpheus slung his trusty old guitar in front of him. “I’m working on a song.”
“A singer?” she asked, suddenly interested. “Is that what you are?”
“I also play the lyre” he said, in an attempt to seem cool.
“A liar. And a player too?” Attempt to seem cool has failed. “I’ve met too many men like you.”
She went back to her camp fire, sticking her hands into the flame once again. How come she’s not afraid of burning them?
“I’m not like any men you met!” Orpheus protested. “How many men have you even met here in the end of the world?”
“You don’t know where I came from.”
An awkward silence lingered between them. Wherever she came from, she came from somewhere very, very far away.
The manzanita’s branches were trembling in the wind.
“Oh yeah” Eurydice said then. “What makes you different then, from any man I may have met?”
“Well, I’m the son of a Muse” Orpheus said, proudly. “My mom was the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met. Until now, that I have met you.”
Eurydice raised an eyebrow.
“Was?”
“She died” he said. “You’re standing upon her grave right now.”
Eurydice hastily jolted out of where she stood.
“Oh, yikes” she yelped. “I am sorry, I didn’t––”
“It’s alright” Orpheus said. “In fact, I am sure Mom likes you.”
He looked up to his manzanita tree. She seemed to whisper softly on the breeze.
“You’re weird” Eurydice said, crouching nearby.
Orpheus only kept looking at her, without saying anything.
“But I’ll admit” the girl said, then, “you’re kind of… cute.”
“Good.” Orpheus smiled. “I’ve been so lonely here in the end of the world, since my mom died. And now, I’m gonna marry you.”
The marry you part no longer sounded like just a bad joke.
She still laughed hard, though.
“Why should I become your wife?”
“Because” he crouched on his knees in front of her, slowly as he lowered his voice with a smile, “I’ll make you feel alive.”
They came closer now, their noses almost touching as they, for once, shared the same breath.
“Alive? That’s worth a lot.” Eurydice stood up, extending her arms to her sides. “What else you got?”
Above them, the manzanita tree seemed to reach her branches out, letting the setting sun shine its last beams of daylight on son and daughter-in-law.