...
Across an endless empty canvas, colors drifted aimlessly, blindly; aware of nothing but the loneliness of nothingness. Had they arms, they would have reached out; had they eyes, they would have sought out; had they voices, they would have cried out, but they had none to speak of. They had no shape, and almost no substance: fragments of raindrops fallen far from their clouds, and further from the sea once called "self".
In their confusion they wandered, desperately searching for something they didn't know, and guided by the movements of the water around them: pushing and pulling the colors towards one another as if to say,
COME, CHILD. WHERE ELSE IS THERE TO GO? OR ARE YOU THAT AFRAID OF YOUR SHADOW?
The colors were afraid of the darkness, but the shadow was not as oppressive as the solitude of emptiness, and so, guided by this call, they came together once more, and painted a picture both new and old: never-before seen, but known all along...
...
She became aware, and found herself once more in a grove, though whether it was the same as the last couldn't be said; it was hardly recognizable. While the last grove had shown her the beauty of a bountiful Spring, whatever season had been was no longer: the trees were barren, the grass was dry and brown, and there were no flowers or animals to be found, naught but one: the same musician as before.
His eyes had always been sullen, and his skin had always been pale, but now he especially looked like a ghost, and, in her twisted mind, was indistinguishable from a walking corpse. He leaned against that same tree, which now bent over like the crooked, skeletal hand of God, pointing deeper into the wood. He plucked at his lyre. There was no tune or melody, he simply plucked, all the while his body and soul sank lower and lower, threatening to bury him completely.
A wind made the forest shudder, and the crooked finger of the tree waggled with desperation, as if to warn the corpse-like musician of the predator that was approaching...
The bohemian stepped out of the brush and into the clearing. His lips were terse and serious, and yet a certain light gleamed in his eyes, which seemed all the brighter with the sun hidden behind the clouds.
"Ah, Orpheus, there you are," He sighed, though it was closer to a groan, "I had a feeling you might've had something to do with all this."
The musician, Orpheus, looked over at the bohemian with tired eyes, the whole motion seeming to take far too much effort.
"Go away."
"Now, now, Orpheus, wasn't it you who lectured me about scaring away the animals?" He picked at a low-hanging branch, "Not even the leaves can bear your company, now. I can understand not liking humans, sure, but are you really so infatuated with solitude that you'd cast away even the flowers?"
The trees around her creaked in the wind, though, to her ears, it sounded more like a growl.
The discordant plucking stopped, and, slowly, shaking like a newborn fawn, Orpheus pushed himself off the ground,
"I don't need your pity."
"It isn't pity, friend, it's concern- and not just for you either. You're not the only one who enjoys the company of these woods, you know. After all, what's a farmer to do when Winter strikes in Summer?"
"You're a farmer?"
"Of a sort, yes. I own a vineyard."
"Oh," Orpheus hung his head, "I'm sorry. I suppose I haven't really though too much about it. My music always made this place come alive, I don't think I realized it could do the opposite."
"Ah," The glimmer in the bohemian's eyes sparkled, "So it was your music then? But what possible kind of song could have done all this?"
The trees moaned again, SNAKE.
She looked around, "Snake? Where?"
WHAT LUCK, the trees rustled, THE FETUS HAS LEARNED TO SPEAK, BUT CAN IT LEARN TO SEE WHAT LIES IN FRONT OF IT?
She returned her attention to the confrontation, looking carefully for the meaning behind those words.
"This," Orpheus gestured to the grove, bracing himself on a tree and burying his head in his elbow, "-Is loss. It is music without a muse."
"Your muse? Don't tell me... your wife?" He covered his mouth with one hand, only barely hiding the glint of white teeth.
His head hung low.
"Ah, lad. Your music is certainly a gift. I shudder to think what would happen if I had heard it." The bohemian chuckled, and it seemed genuine.
"You'd probably die," He managed through his tight throat, "That's all my music does now. There's no point to it anymore."
"No point? Surely there's a point- or, rather, there need not be a point. Art is art, and I am me, and you are you: none of us need to justify our own creation, we merely are."
"Bullshit."
"Oh?"
"Art is made for the muse- for its purpose. Without the muse, there is no art."
"Sure there is-"
"-There isn't."
"-And why on Earth is that? Even if it were true, what is there to keep you from finding a new muse, or, better yet, from making your own?"
Orpheus raised his head from the crook of his arm, a fire burning behind his eyes,
"I'll kill you."
The bohemian raised his hands defensively, taking one step back but no more,
"Now, now, easy there, I mean no offense. What I mean to say is that an artist like yourself surely understands that the 'muse', the object of your work, was not merely your wife, but, rather, your love for your wife. That love still remains, there in your heart, so why is it that you no longer have a muse?"
The fire began to dim, extinguished by the water collecting in his eyes, "You don't understand- art exists not for the muse herself, but to describe her. To express that which cannot be put into words. My muse was not merely love, it was the experience of love, the meaning of love, the happiness and joy and sorrow of love- things which man cannot express in words alone."
"Would this not be the 'sorrow of love'?"
"You own a vineyard, don't you? Shouldn't you understand the difference between a sour grape and a sweet one?"
"Oh, yes, I know well the taste of soured wine," He grinned like a crocodile, "-and the high price people will pay for such delicacies."
Orpheus moved with energy he hadn't possessed, reaching into his tunic with white knuckles and pulling a knife- he marched towards the loud-mouthed man,
"You insult my love for her one more time, and I swear to Zeus I will kill you!"
He repeated his previous maneuver, hands high and exactly one step back, "You are a pious man, I understand your seriousness, and I promise, if only for the sake of my life, I will tread carefully from here-on, yes?"
The musician seemed to lose his energy, and his hand slumped to his side, as did his gaze.
"Look, friend, all I mean to say is that the human experience is defined by pleasure and pain- these things describe all human affairs and motivations. Your pleasure has turned to pain, but the essence of it is the same, and that is love. Real love. Love that transcends such petty things as life, death, and truth."
Orpheus began to stumble, "Art... art is meant to describe those things which we long to understand, but can't... not with words. Not even with thoughts. There are those who've forgotten what it means to love, but I've never met a man who didn't understand pain, and if I did, I would never do the wrong of destroying his precious innocence."
The musician turned his back to the bohemian completely, and stared intently at the dagger in his hand,
"There is no one who needs to understand my pain; I'm the only victim it needs. If my only options are to spread my pain or end it-"
The stranger snuck his body around the musician's and caressed his hand like a spider finishing its web, "Don't be so hasty, boy. Do you really think she'd want you to do that?"
In a flash of ghost-pale skin the young man flew his arm back, knife outstretched, and caught the bohemian by the nose.
"Augh! Shit!"
He stumbled back, gripping at his face even as crimson blood began to stream through his fingers.
"I warned you!"
He held out a hand to pause the raging musician, the other still gripping his face, "Wait! Hold on! I'm not making light, I'm trying to offer a solution!"
The boy's march continued, "I've had enough of your so-called solutions! Leave me before I do the world the favor of cutting your tongue- or your throat for that matter!"
"Boy-wait! I can fix this! I can take you to Hades!"
Orpheus paused, and the white of his knuckles began to recede, "What?"
The bohemian chuckled, finding the foothold that would take him to solid ground, and responded nasally,
"Yes, yes! I know where to find the entrance to the underworld! I'm sure the king and queen there would be happy to return the soul of your wife for a song or two! I'll even take you there- to the entrance."
He lowered his knife, "You can?"
Here, the stranger finally removed his hand from his face, wiping away the blood to reveal that there was no wound at all.
He smiled devilishly, "Absolutely."
The musician took a step back, "Who are you? A spirit? A satyr? A- a god?"
His smile only grew, "Of a sort. A lonely little god who likes to dance, that's all." The stranger bowed and continued, "If that's all well to you, I'll take you there, but you'll be on your own past the entrance. Is that alright?"
Orpheus took several large breaths, his eyes flitting about, looking for something that made sense, before he raised the knife again,
"If you're lying- I swear I'll-"
"You still think you can kill me, Orpheus?"
The knife lowered again, "If you're lying... I'll just kill myself I suppose."
"Good thing I'm not lying, then."
Here, the colors once again smeared across the canvas, and began to drip and fall into nothingness, but, contrarily, the shapes and lines remained firm, and the world remained as it was, except as a statue.
The trees whispered to her, DID YOU SEE, O FETUS? DID YOU SEE THE MURDER?
"Murder? Do you mean Orpheus's wife?"
THE FETUS CAN THINK AS WELL AS SPEAK, BUT DOES IT SEE?
She went to shake her head, but realized that no such thing existed,
"No. I wasn't there for that."
YOU WERE THERE, BUT YOU WERE NOT AWARE. DID YOU SEE HER MURDERER?
"I just said 'no'."
AH, BUT YOU DID. HE WAS THERE: THE SNAKE IN THE GRASS.
"You mean the stranger? The man in furs- you're saying that he killed Orpheus's wife? Why would he do that?"
She found herself oddly concerned, but couldn't say why.
A MEDICINE MAN HAS NO NEED FOR THE HEALTHY, AND ESPECIALLY WHEN HIS ONLY STOCK IS SNAKE OIL. IF THERE ARE NONE TO BUY HIS REMEDY, THEN HE SHALL SELL POISON UNTIL THE HEALTHY ARE NO LONGER. ONLY THEN WILL HE FIND HIS MARKET, AND WITH IT, HIS PROFIT.
"But still- to go to such lengths as murder..."
Her voice trailed off, and she began to examine what remained of herself. Her reaction was on instinct, a reflexive understanding that such things were wrong and simply wrong. And yet, there was a numbness there. She knew it was wrong, but did not feel that it was.
Who was she?
The trees continued, THE GREATEST RIVAL TO MEDICINE IS HEALTH. THERE IS NOTHING MORE DETESTABLE THAN THAT WHICH IS FOREVER SUPERIOR TO YOURSELF: THE HEIGHT THAT OTHERS MAY ACHIEVE, BUT WHICH IS BEYOND YOUR REACH.
BETTER, YOU WILL SAY, TO BRING THE WORLD DOWN TO YOU THAN TO ENDEAVOR TO THE HEIGHTS BEYOND.
BETTER TO BE THE CEILING THAN THE FLOOR.
AFTER ALL, IF YOU ARE THE HEIGHT OF ALL MEN, THAN WHAT IS THERE THAT IS FORBIDDEN TO YOU? WHAT LAW IS THERE THAT CAN BIND YOU?
She felt a cringe within her: a discomfort she couldn't describe.
OF COURSE YOU SQUIRM. YOU AND HE ARE THE SAME. OR HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN THAT AS WELL?
"We- why would you say that!? What could you possibly know about me?"
WHAT COULD YOU KNOW ABOUT YOURSELF? YOU WITHOUT EVEN A NAME?
"A have a name! My name is-! My name is..."
She couldn't remember.
And with that realization, the shapes and lines which held this world together began to bend and break, and so did the boundaries. The rules came apart, and with the freedom of nothingness she turned to look her accuser in the eye-
-And saw a statue of a man with the lower half of a goat, and a single, yellow eye.
And so the dream ended.
....