Harry Turtledove (Editor) - The Enchanter Completed

"Afraid so, old man," I said, though terrified so might have been more accurate.

"What is it about this place?" Beddoes exclaimed, demanding an answer of the stuffed porcupine above the bar, which one of our local Nimrods had contributed to the Club d-cor. (Granted he had found the poor dead creature at a Provincetown yard sale rather than between the crosshairs, but a hunt is a hunt.) "Why do we keep attracting this sort of thing?"

He was of course referring to the fact that the Club had, for some time now, become a magnet for beings whose like had not been seen heretofore outside of Greek mythology. In some cases they had assumed a semblance less apposite to Doria than to Darien. The most recent incident, of which I have already made passing mention, involved a Dr. Dion Sonoma whose true identity proved what every maenad worth her frenzy already knows: In vino there is often too damned much veritas for comfort. No matter their appearance, those refugees from Attic shores, the havoc they inevitably wrought was all of a piece.

I blamed Simpson. We all did. His case had been the first, him and his notion that bringing a Greek sphynx onto Club property did not violate the No Pets rule. Had we but known, and been less enraptured by the novelty of it all, we might have spared ourselves much. Riddles are no fun when the wrong answer ends in disembowling.

However, past errors and their ensuing regrets would do nothing to ameliorate current difficulties. No use crying over spilled entrails. All of us then present in the bar were experienced survivors and knew we must deal with the situation at hand before it managed to get out of same.

"What are you guys talking about?" our uninvited guest wanted to know. He was seated a little farther along the bar, in company with Langley. I had given our Youngest Member the task of standing watch and ward over the man as soon as I realized who he was and what it meant.

"You," I replied cheerfully.

"Yeah? What? The whole to-hell-and-back thing or just my music, man?"

"A bit from Column A and a smidge from Column B, as they say." I spoke with an airiness I did not quite feel. One of the first things our new friend had done upon discovering when he was, was to recount how he had come to be absent from the surface world for so long.

He had done it before. After all, his name was Orpheus.

I ought to clarify: Orpheus was not just his name, but his identity. He never had bothered to disguise or conceal it in any way. As he remarked, it made for all sorts of in-one's-face irony whenever he opened for Styx. Yes, he had enjoyed a renewed career in music, or what passes for music among some people, and had made a tidy sum at doing what he did best. No fool he, at least in matters of business. In time, he fell in love and married a beautiful girl who somehow managed to die in a freak concert accident. A freak fell on her while stage diving from the top of one of the speakers.

Some people simply refuse to learn from past mistakes: Believing more in recycling than rewedding, once more Orpheus took the road to Avernus and confronted grim Hades upon his iron throne. He used his gift of enchanted song to beguile the lord of the dead to release his lost love's spirit so that she might return to life.

There was no arguing with the power of Orpheus's music, though the idea of being forced to truckle repeatedly to a paltry demigod put a king-sized knot in Hades' loincloth. His divine displeasure was for naught. Orpheus had the upper hand, and it could span three octaves. And so, with epicly exasperated undertones of Here we go again , great Hades gave him back his new bride under the same condition as for his previously lost spouse, Eurydike: That Orpheus must ascend from the Underworld never once looking back to confirm that his beloved was in fact following him into the light of day.

As many a schoolboy knows (of the sort who have received a proper education) Orpheus did not trust Hades. Just as the exit from Avernus was within sight, he looked back. This violated the hellish compact. Eurydike's shade vanished, weeping, into the Underworld once more, and Orpheus was forbidden from returning for her. It is a little-known fact that the phrase, No do-overs originated with the lord of the dead.

I am sorry to report that Orpheus had not used his renewed career as an earthly musician to cultivate a better sense of trust. This time, too, he looked back before he had removed his new bride fully from Hades' realm. Some people might not learn from past mistakes, but some gods do. When Orpheus turned his head this time, instead of his bride's fleeing ghost he beheld Hades himself.

With astonishing speed the lord of the dead slapped a gag on the celestial singer so that not one hemidemisemiquaver might escape his lips, then declaimed How dare you think that I am not a demiurge of honor? Your bride was eager enough to escape Avernus, but you had to look back. Again. I forgave your petty skepticism once; now I am insulted. Since you seem so fond of gazing into the depths of my kingdom, stay here!

And so he did, until the lucky day when at last he was able to work the gag off, belt out a few bars of Sloop John B. (the "I wanna go home" verse in particular), and take his leave.

The rest is Club rose garden history.

"Yeah," said Orpheus, nodding sagely. "I guess the whole thing is pretty cool. Think maybe I could finally get some coverage on VH1? It'd make a kickass episode of Behind The Music. " He grinned and ordered another tequila shooter. It was his sixth, though the liquor seemed to have no appreciable effect on him. I suppose a lengthy and enforced residence in Avernus will do much to increase one's tolerance for mere earthly intoxicants.

Beddoes leaned close and whispered urgently in my ear, "Are you sure he's who you claim he is? Mightn't there be some mistake?"

I shook my head. "He is that demigod musician beyond compare, sweet-voiced Orpheus whose songs had the power to charm the very stones of the earth. I can not help it if now he has chosen to sing rock music rather than music to rocks ."

"But Orpheus isn't just mythic, he's dead," Beddoes protested. "See here, I've had a Classical education as well as you and I know the story: He was torn to shreds by the women of Scythia over some silly trifle or another. Touchy things, women."

"Not quite so dead as all that," I said, a shade pedantically. "His severed head lived on and continued to sing despite the ladies."

"Granted, but look at him now , would you? He's got a head and a working body! How did he manage that ?"

"He got better?" young Langley suggested.

We both gave him a withering look ere I proceeded to say: "However our musician friend managed to recoup his corporeal deficit, the fact remains that he is here now. It is with the here and now that we must deal."

Beddoes would not be assuaged. "How can you be sure he's Orpheus?" he insisted.

I sighed. "You are evidently an empyricist. So be it." I turned to Orpheus and said, "I beg your pardon, old man, but would you mind favoring us with a little song?"

He smiled. "No problem. Whaddaya wanna hear?"

I told him, though not before I stuffed my ears with a shredded cocktail napkin and covertly signaled both the bartender and young Langley to do the same. Then Orpheus sang.

Some time later, a dripping wet Beddoes was a believer. As he wiped soapsuds from his eyes with a bar towel, he grumbled, "Did you have to make him sing that song?"

"My dear Beddoes, it was the most illustrative item I could come up with off the cuff. I thought you liked South Pacific ?"