The Greatest Since Orpheus

I strummed a single chord. “No,” I said to myself. I strummed another chord. “That’s more like it.” I began to play around that chord, strumming and picking various notes until a song started to evolve. But it was garbage. I put the lyre down with a thud.

“Don’t you have better things to do with your time?” said Paris. My brother had apparently just come back from hunting. He smelled like dirt. 

“You’re a prince of Troy,” he continued, “there’s no reason for you to be a musician, like some common vagabond.”

“But I’m not going to inherit the throne unless you break your neck chariot racing or something. I want to be remembered for something,” I responded. 

“You’re never going to be him,” said Cassandra. My sister always spoke the truth, but I didn’t believe her. A slight, cool breeze floated through the open window, ruffling her dress and hair. The sun was setting on Troy.

“I can’t give up,” I said, “I have to keep trying.”

“Good luck with that, brother,” said Paris as he left. 

“He was taught by Apollo himself,” continued Cassandra, “You’ll never be that good.”

I picked up an amphora and threw it against the wall. It shattered with a satisfying crash. I didn’t feel better, though.

“Now you have a mess to clean up,” said Cassandra as she left the room. I sat in a corner to sulk. It was undignified, I know, but I didn’t really care. Cassandra was right, as usual; Orpheus was the best bard ever, and I’d never hold a candle to him. I sat there until something she said hit me like a lightning bolt from Zeus: “he was taught by Apollo himself.” I would get Apollo to teach me! How to get a god to teach me to play the lyre and sing would be more challenging, to say the least. It was hard enough to get the gods’ attention as it was, but to convince him to give you music lessons? I was determined to try anything. 

I arose early, before sunrise, and left the confines of the city, lyre in hand. As the sun began to peek above the horizon, I started to play. I played a hymn to Apollo; one of Orpheus’ old standards. My fingers flew over the strings and I sang my lungs out, hoping he’d hear me. There was a brilliant flash of light. I covered my eyes to keep it from blinding me. A rushing wind blew over me, and I bowed my face to the ground.

“Alright, who summoned me?” a rich voice said.

I was afraid to look up.

“Hey, I don’t have all day. Lighting the entire world is hard work!” he said.

I finally worked up the courage to look up. There he was, big as life. He looked pretty much like all his statues; a handsome, youthful man with curly hair. He looked a little annoyed. 

“My lord,” I started “y-your most holy awesomeness, I um...”

“Get to the point! I already said I don’t have all day,” Apollo snapped, placing his hands on his hips. He glared at me; his eyes were like daggers.

“I want to be a great musician!” I said finally, “Want to sing and play like Orpheus!”

“Show me what you got, kid,” said the sun god. He sat down on a nearby stone and crossed his arms. I picked up my lyre and began to play another song. 

“Hold it!” he said, holding up his hand. I hadn’t even gotten to the second verse.

“What’s the matter, your holiness?” I asked, confused.

“You’re not really playing,” he answered. 

“What do you mean?” I inquired.

“You’re... playing, but there’s something missing. You’re playing all the notes right, but you’re not feeling the music,” he said.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“You said you want to play like Orpheus, right?”

“Yes.” 

“Well, you’re trying too hard to be Orpheus. You can’t be Orpheus. There’s only one Orpheus.”

I was still confused. I furrowed my brow.

Apollo stood up and looked me right in the eye. His gaze wasn’t angry anymore; that was a relief.

“The only reason Orpheus was great was that he found his own voice. He didn’t try to be anyone else. He didn’t have to be; he was himself, and he was happy with himself.”

He put his hands on my shoulders.

“Play what comes to your heart. Don’t try to copy someone else. You be yourself because you can do awesome things.”

I picked up the lyre again and started to improvise.

“That’s an improvement,” said the sun god, “But it’s still missing something.”

I began playing harder, more passionately as Apollo listened. He rested his head on his hand and furrowed his brow.

“Stop!” he said holding up his hand, “I’ve got it. I know what you’ve been missing.”

“What is it?” I asked, eagerly.

“Pain. That’s what you’re missing. It’s pain.”

“Pain?!” I said in shock. 

“Pain. The reason Orpheus was so great is that he experienced tragedy in his life,” said Apollo, “That tragedy gave his music an edge you’re missing.”

“Then what do I do?!” I said in desperation. Obviously tragedy is something you can’t force; it just happens. I was doomed.

“You have to be willing to suffer and sacrifice for your art,” he continued.

I sat down on the ground and began to sulk.

“Cassandra’s right again,” I said after a length of time, “I should just give up.”

“You’re never going to make it with that attitude,” said Apollo “Here; I’ll do you a little favor.”

Apollo began to glow, brighter and brighter, and then flashed with a brilliance I’d never experienced before. I fell backward.

“That should do it,” he said.

I was alone in silence and darkness. 

It had been several weeks since my encounter with the sun god. I had stubbed my toes 1,000 different times, bumped my head, walked straight into a wall, fallen down three flights of stairs, but I was finally adjusting to being blind. 

“Why did you do this?!” I shouted at the sky. Though I could only barely see it, I could feel the sun’s rays on my skin.

“You asked for it,” came the answer, “You wanted to be great, and I told you you needed to submit to pain and loss. I gave you that pain. You’re welcome.”

Pain was right. My head still throbbed.

“Hey, Demo!” I heard a voice behind me say.

“What do you want, Paris?” I asked. I sounded a bit exasperated. 

“I want you to play at my wedding,” he responded.

“I thought musicianship was only for ‘common vagabonds’.”

“Well, your playing and singing have gotten better, since... you know. I want to impress Helen. You think you can come through for me?”

“Well, I’ll do my best.”

“Thanks, bro,” said Paris as he brushed past me.

“Cassandra, where’d I put my lyre?”

I felt her gently place the lyre in my hands.

“You’re going to write the greatest epic ever, Demodocus,” she said. This was comforting, though I still didn’t believe her.