A Myth Retold

Western literature gets many of its images and themes from two sources, the Bible and Greek mythology. John Banyan used Scripture in his great allegory, “The Pilgrim’s Progress.” We celebrate its three hundredth anniversary in this issue (see page 13). Modern writers, too, have powerfully used Bible stories; a notable example is William Faulkner’s “Absalom, Absalom!” Other novelists have retold Greek myths, such as C.S. Lewis did in his version of the Cupid and Psyche myth, “Till We Have Faces.” A student at Wheaton College has written a version of the Orpheus and Eurydice myth. To appreciate the subtle changes the author made in the story, here is an outline of the original. Orpheus, a son of Apollo, was a great musician who with his voice and lyre could soothe wild animals, make trees sway, and make rivers stand still. He married a nymph, Eurydice. When Aristaeus, another son of Apollo, tried to rape her, she ran away, was bitten by a snake, and died. Orpheus descended into Hades to find her. He was allowed to bring her back to earth provided he could lead her out of Hades without looking at her until they reached sunlight. He failed to resist the temptation and Eurydice vanished forever. Ms. Harmeling wrote this story as an assignment for a course on Christology. She transforms the myth into an expression of Christian truth and shows how it is possible to use any genre in a Christian way.

In a far-off land where the air was always filled with heavenly music, a beautiful maiden lived among the beasts and the flowers. Her name was Eurydice. Because of her beauty and love for the animals and nature, she was made their queen.

Every day, the prince of the land rode through the forest where Eurydice lived. He thought her the fairest of all creation and fell in love with her.

Their marriage was celebrated in every comer of the great land. The silkworms worked twice as hard to spin thread for Eurydice’s wedding gown. The bees brought honey and the cows and sheep their best cream for the wedding feast. Every tree gave twice as much fruit and every bush sprang forth blossoms for a hundred garlands. The birds sang such sweet music that the animals laughed and danced to it.

Eurydice and the Prince were married in a flowing meadow of daffodils and every creature in the kingdom came except one. He was the most splendid of all the beasts and was called the Serpent. He walked upright and was adorned with two great translucent wings that glistened in the sunlight. But he was very vain and had always boasted of being Eurydice’s favorite. When he heard of her intended marriage to the Prince, he left the forest, vowing to return soon. Eurydice in her wonderful joy hardly noticed the Serpent’s jealous remarks.

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The Prince, whose name was Orpheus, was known for his amazing musical ability. He had invented a beautiful stringed instrument, which he called the lyre, and upon which he composed melodies more shimmering than those the birds sang.

Upon seeing the radiant Eurydice in all her bridal attire, his love for her overwhelmed him, and he sang these words:

Behold, you are beautiful, my love;

behold, you are beautiful;

your eyes are doves.

Behold, you are beautiful, my beloved,

truly lovely.

Our couch is green;

the beams of our house are cedar,

our rafters are pine.

The flowers appear on the earth,

the time of singing has come,

and the voice of the turtledove

is heard in our land.

The fig tree puts forth its figs,

and the vines are in blossom;

they give forth fragrance.

Arise, my love, my fair one,

and come away.

O, my dove, in the clefts of the rock,

in the covert of the cliff,

let me see your face,

let me hear your voice,

for your voice is sweet,

and your face is comely.

Eurydice’s lovely eyes whispered her happiness. “I shall always love you, Orpheus,” she promised.

“Then you must never leave me, Eurydice. You must continually be at my side.” Orpheus took his bride into his arms. “There is an evil in the land that you know nothing of. With my lyre I can overpower it, but it would prove deadly to you.”

“I shall never, never leave you Orpheus, my life and dearest love. Nothing could persuade me.”

Together, Eurydice and her beloved Orpheus lived blissfully. Every day held new wonders and the land flourished because of their love.

One morning as the mist began to melt from the forest, Eurydice awoke to a strange but enchanting song. It was like no other song she had ever heard in the forest, except for Orpheus’s lyre.

“Come through the mist, Eurydice,” it beckoned.

“Who is it?”

“A wandering spirit with marvels to share.”

Eurydice turned and gazed at her husband sleeping at her side. “No,” she replied. “I must never leave Orpheus.”

“No harm will come to you, beautiful Eurydice. Your handsome Orpheus is only jealous of you. He is afraid that if you leave him for one moment, you will fall in love with someone else.”

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“I shall never love anyone else.”

“Then come through the mist, and you will see a new part of your kingdom that Orpheus has never shown you. You are the queen of this forest. Why should you let Orpheus keep you so chained to himself? Hurry, before he awakens, and he’ll never know you were gone.”

Eurydice played with the golden locks of her lover’s hair. Then no longer being able to resist the enticing voice, she slipped into the mist.

But instead of finding a new wonder, she ran into the arms of the Serpent. “You are mine now, Eurydice,” he gloated. “You shall never see Orpheus again.”

Terrified, Eurydice began screaming for her husband.

The prince awoke immediately, and seeing Eurydice gone from his side he leaped to his feet. Through the mist, he followed her anguished cries until her found her crushed in the arms of the Serpent.

The Serpent sneered at Orpheus and threw Eurydice’s body to the ground. “She’s mine now, Orpheus. You will never see or hold her again and never again will she hear your song.” With that, the Serpent turned and fled.

Grief-stricken, Orpheus caught Eurydice’s lifeless body into his arms. But as he clutched her to him, she faded away until his arms held emptiness.

For days Orpheus wandered aimlessly through the country. The songs of his lyre were so mournful that the animals wept and the trees withered. All other music disappeared from the air.

My grief is beyond healing,

he lamented

my heart is sick within me.

For the wound of the daughter of

my people is my heart wounded,

I mourn, and dismay has taken

hold on me.

Take up weeping and wailing for

the mountains,

and a lamentation for the pastures

of the wilderness,

because they are laid waste so that

no one passes through,

and the lowing of cattle is not

heard;

both the birds of the air and the

beasts

have fled and are gone.

Orpheus knew that there was a hope of bringing Eurydice back to himself. But it was a very toilsome way and it would mean much suffering for him.

In the depths of the forest was a black cave through which one could find his way down to the Underworld or the Land of the Dead. It was a perilous journey that had never been traveled, but so unbearable was Orpheus’s heartbreak that he decided no pain or danger would be too great if it meant restoring his beloved to his arms.

He took his lyre with him, and as he was about to enter the mouth of the cave, he heard strange hissing noises all around him.

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“I sshall win! I sshall win!”

“You shall be damned, Serpent,” cried Orpheus, “and never see this land again.”

Inside the cave darkness enshrouded him. The air tasted of such stale and wasted things that every breath sickened Orpheus. He found the road to be as slippery and jagged as the jaw of a wild beast. It tore his feet and bruised his legs. But the song of his lyre penetrated the blackness and directed his way. It showed him where to rest and it renewed his strength. Without the sweetness of the lyre’s melody, he would have been unable to bear the choking atmosphere. He felt that he was being constricted by something black and evil.

Orpheus knew what that meant. He was entering the Realm of the Serpent. The beast had never really belonged to Orpheus’s kingdom. His vanity had set him apart from fellowship with the other beasts. Since he could not be made their ruler, secretly he created his own kingdom. Orpheus knew of it, as he knew of everything in his land, but he had let the Serpent freely roam through the forest. Now Orpheus must destroy him.

For several days the Prince journeyed. The road seemed interminable. Then suddenly it began winding up instead of down. He climbed until he reached a pinnacle of rock overlooking a gigantic cavern. A bitter wind from nowhere yowled as furiously as a pack of wounded animals, and nearly toppled Orpheus as he watched. As abruptly as it had started, the yowling stopped. The air was strangely calm. Then the pinnacle and cragged rocks and mighty cavern below vanished. Orpheus stood in the throne room of a glorious palace. Everything he saw was gilded with purest gold, and the fragrance of honeysuckle and sweet wine thrilled his senses.

A jeweled curtain parted, revealing a woman draped in silver gauze. Orpheus gasped, for she was the exact image of Eurydice. Her beauty was incomparable, and as he watched she came toward him. The brilliance of the room dimmed as all of it focused on her. Light and fire swirled around the two of them, plunging the room into a sea of sensuality. Then, twining her supple arms about his neck, Eurydice whispered into his ear:

Fall down before the Serpent,

Worship him and all will be well,

Fall down before the Serpent,

Worship him and all these things

Shall be yours.

Her lips parted, begging to be kissed, but in the greatest of agony, Orpheus tore her arms from his neck and flung her to the ground. “Away from me, Serpent!” Instantly everything disappeared and Orpheus found himself back upon the pinnacle.

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Twice more the vision appeared to Orpheus, and each succeeding time his agony increased as he refused Eurydice. The third time that he was returned to the pinnacle he was met with a pulsating cloud of smoke. Suddenly it engulfed the entire cavern floor in flames. A portion of the stone wall moved aside and in an assault of fire the Serpent emerged, more immense than ever before. But the splendour was gone; only terror remained. Horned wings covered his head and body like spears and every pore oozed forth black slime.

“Come and prevail against me, Orpheus,” he jeered; “Sing me a song on your lyre.”

Orpheus cast his lyre upon the rock and it sprang back as a golden sword and shield. He climbed down from the pinnacle to the edge of the burning cavern floor and shouted, “You shall be damned forever, Serpent!”

The beast gripped Orpheus in one sweeping motion and prepared to throw him into the flames. But Orpheus acted more swiftly and thrust his sword into the Serpent’s eye. Roaring with pain, he hurtled Orpheus against the rock and began stinging him with his tail.

Stunned from the repeated blows, Orpheus barely managed to roll himself into a crevice where the Serpent could not reach him. Mustering his strength, Orpheus jabbed at the attacking stinger and pierced the beast’s flesh. At this he struggled from the opening in the rock and lashed out again. The Serpent was upon him now, the flames licking about his feet, but not burning them. Orpheus tried to put out the Serpent’s other eye while the Serpent continued stinging every part of his body.

Steadily weakening, Orpheus dragged himself higher up the rock, but in fury the Serpent threw him down again. Orpheus tried again, and as the Serpent lunged at him, he grabbed the rock. This time the Serpent opened his venomous mouth as if to devour Orpheus. But he raised his sword and stabbed through the Serpent’s other eye. In a flood of blood, Orpheus fell again upon the rocks as the screaming Serpent blindly began flinging boulders at him.

Half-lame, Orpheus struggled to reach the pinnacle, which would place him above the Serpent’s head.

“Higher, Serpent,” he called, at last back at the top. “I’m up … higher!”

The Serpent, howling, lunged upwards with his arms flailing. Orpheus flung his shoulder against the pinnacle of rock, and, straining with all the strength left in him, rolled a boulder down upon the Serpent’s head. That caused an avalanche and rock after rock crashed into him, until in a fit of pain, the Serpent lurched backwards into the flames. The cavern wall from which he had emerged opened once more. With a last flash of fire it enveloped the Serpent and he was gone.

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Orpheus threw his shield and sword into the flames. They melted immediately and his lyre sprang back to him. But his wounds did not heal. As he resumed his journey, they went with him.

He was at the end of his descent, however, for on the other side of the cavern flowed a foaming, black river. On the opposite bank lay a vast, barren land shadowed with ghostly images. Sitting on the bank, a miserable Eurydice shivered and moaned.

Orpheus wept with longing for her, and she glanced up.

“Who is there?”

“It is I,” cried Orpheus, “Come to me, Eurydice.”

“Orpheus?! No, you are all bloodied and ugly. You frighten me!”

“It is because I have crushed the Serpent in order to be with you again. Let me tell you.”

He sat down upon the bank and began to play his lyre and sing:

Set me as a seal upon your heart,

as a seal upon your arm;

for love is strong as death,

jealousy is cruel as the grave,

Its flashes are flashes of fire,

a most vehement flame.

Many waters cannot quench love,

neither can floods drown it.

If a man offered for love

all the wealth of his house,

it would be utterly scorned.

Eurydice began weeping again. “It is you, Orpheus. O, my beloved, I want to come to you, but how can I get across this river?”

“Step into it, Eurydice.”

Eurydice obeyed, and as she did the foaming waters pulled back. Crying with joy she ran into her husband’s yearning arms. In silent ecstasy they clung to each other. Then Eurydice spoke.

“O, Orpheus, where do we go from here? Shall we go back to our forest?”

“Eventually,” soothed Orpheus, stroking her hair. “It will be a long journey back. However, there is nothing to fear, for the Serpent can no longer harm you. He will try, but his defeat has been too great.”

Secure in his arms, Eurydice began her ascent. And as they traveled, the song of Orpheus’s lyre resounded everywhere.

D. Bruce Lockerbie is chairman of the Fine Arts department at The Stony Brook School, Stony Brook, New York. This article is taken from his 1976 lectures on Christian Life and Thought, delivered at Conservative Baptist Theological Seminary in Denver, Colorado.

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