‘That is handsome of you,’ said Periander. ‘But I am still puzzled. I had a kithara made for Arion in silver, gold and ivory. He never went anywhere without it. Why is it not here amongst the other things?’
‘Well now,’ said the captain. ‘I told you how fond we were of young Arion. Like a younger brother to us, isn’t that right, lads?’
‘Aye, aye …’ muttered the sailors.
‘We knew what his kithara meant to him. We included it with him in his shroud before committing his body to the waves. How could we have done otherwise?’
Periander smiled. The captain smiled. But suddenly his smile disappeared. From the mouth of the golden dolphin at the top of the column emerged the sound of a kithara. The captain and his men stared in amazement. Arion’s voice joined the notes of the kithara and these were the words that came from out of the carved dolphin’s mouth:
‘Kill him, men,’ the captain said.
‘Kill him now and seize his gold.’
‘We’ll kill him now,’ the sailors cried,
‘And throw him to the sharks.’
‘But stop,’ the minstrel said. ‘Only let me sing
One final farewell song.’
One of the sailors let out a scream of fear. The others fell quaking to their knees. Only the captain, white-faced, stayed upright.
A door opened in the plinth and Arion himself stepped from the monument, strumming his kithara and singing:
But the dolphin came and saved him.
He rode it on the rolling waves.
They crossed the sea to Corinth,
The dolphin and the bard.
The sailors began to weep and blubber, begging forgiveness. They blamed each other and most especially they blamed the captain.
‘Too late,’ said Periander, turning on his heel. ‘Kill them all. Now, come with me, Arion and sing me a song of love and wine.’
At the end of the musician’s long and successful life, Apollo, to whom dolphins and music were sacred, set Arion and his rescuer amongst the stars between Sagittarius and Aquarius as the constellation Delphinus, the Dolphin.
From their position in the heavens, Arion and his rescuer could aid navigators below and remind all of us of the strange and marvellous kinship that exists between mankind and dolphins.
Philemon and Baucis, or Hospitality Rewarded
In the hills of eastern Phrygia, in Asia Minor, an oak and a linden grow side by side, their branches touching. It is a simple, rural setting, far from any glittering palaces or soaring citadels. Peasant farmers scratch out their livings here, wholly dependent on the clemency of Demeter for the ripening of their crops and the fattening of their pigs. The soil is not rich and it is always a struggle for the people to fill their barns with enough provender to last them through the winter months, when Demeter languishes and mourns the absence from the upper world of her bright daughter Persephone. That oak tree and the lime tree, unimpressive as they seem when compared to the grand poplar groves and elegant cypress avenues that line the highways connecting Athens and Thebes, are nonetheless the holiest trees in the Mediterranean world. The wise and the virtuous make pilgrimage to them and hang votive gifts in their branches.
Many years ago a settlement had grown up in the valley below. It was somewhere between a town and village in size. It called itself, with that hopeful desperation that always marks out the naming of failed settlements, Eumeneia which means ‘the place of the good months’ – in the forlorn expectation perhaps that Demeter would bless the barren soil of the place and provide bountiful harvests. She rarely did.
At the centre of the agora, the main square, there stood a large temple of Demeter, opposite to one of almost equal size dedicated to Hephaestus (for the people needed their forges and workshops blessed). Around the town could be seen many votive shrines to Hestia and Dionysus. The sparse vineyards that straggled up the hillsides were as carefully tended as any of the olive trees or fields of corn. Life was hard, but the men and women here found much solace in the sour wine of their region.
At the top of a winding lane leading out of the town, in a small stone cottage, lived an old couple called PHILEMON and BAUCIS. They had been married since they were very young and now in their old age they loved each other as deeply as ever, with a quiet unwavering intensity that amused their neighbours. They were poorer than most, their fields were the meanest and most barren in all of Eumeneia, but they had never been heard to complain. Every day Baucis milked their one goat, hoed, stitched, washed and mended, while Philemon sowed, planted, dug and scratched at the earth behind their cottage. In the late afternoons they gathered wild mushrooms, collected firewood or simply walked the hills, hand in hand, talking of this and that or content to be silent companions. If there was enough food to make a supper they would eat, otherwise they would go to bed hungry and fall asleep in each other’s arms. Their three children had long since moved out and were bringing up their own families far away. They never visited and no one else was likely to knock on their door. Until one fateful afternoon.
Philemon had just returned from the fields and was sitting down in preparation for his monthly haircut. There was very little these days to crown his bald old head, but this was a monthly ritual that gave them both pleasure. The loud rat-a-tat-tat on their door almost caused Baucis to drop the razor she had been sharpening. They looked at one another in great surprise, each unable to remember the last time anyone had come calling.
Two strangers stood on the threshold, a bearded man and his younger, smooth-faced companion. His son perhaps.
‘Hello,’ said Philemon. ‘How may we help you?’
The younger man smiled and removed his hat, a strange round cap with a shallow brim. ‘Good afternoon sir,’ he said. ‘We are a pair of hungry travellers, new to this part of the world. I wonder if we might trespass upon your good nature …’
‘Come in, come in!’ said Baucis, bustling up behind her husband. ‘It’s chilly to be out at this time of year. We are higher up than the rest of the town you know and feel the cold a little more. Philemon, why don’t you scare up the fire so that our guests might warm themselves?’
‘Of course, my love, of course. Where are my manners?’ Philemon stooped down and blew into the hearth, awakening the embers.
‘Let me take your cloaks,’ said Baucis. ‘Have a seat, sir, by the fire. And you, sir, I beg.’
‘That is most kind,’ said the older of the two. ‘My name is Astrapos, and this is my son Arguros.’
The younger man bowed at the mention of his name with something of a flourish and seated himself beside the fire. ‘We are very thirsty,’ he said, with a loud yawn.
‘You must have something to drink,’ said Baucis. ‘Husband, you fetch the wine jug and I shall bring dried figs and pine nuts. I hope you gentlemen will consent to dine with us. We can’t offer rich fare, but you would be most welcome.’
‘Don’t mind if we do,’ said Arguros.
‘Let me take your hat and staff …’
‘No, no. They stay with me.’ The young man pulled the staff close to him. It was of a most curious design. Was it a vine that was carved all around it, Baucis wondered? He was twisting it so deftly that the whole thing seemed alive.
‘I’m afraid,’ said Philemon coming forward with a jug of wine, ‘that you may find our local wine a little thin and perhaps a little … sharp. People from neighbouring regions mock us for it, but I assure you that once you are used to the taste it can be really quite drinkable. We think so at least.’
‘Not bad,’ said Arguros after a sip. ‘How did you get the cat to sit on the jug?’
‘Ignore him,’ said Astrapos. ‘He thinks he’s amusing.’
‘Well, I have to admit that was rather funny,’ said Baucis, approaching with fruit and nuts on a wooden plate. ‘I hate to think, young sir, what you’re going to say about the appearance of my dried figs.’