While the Thracian bard was singing such songs, drawing to himself the trees, the spirits of wild beasts, and the very rocks—look! The Ciconian women, crazed with wine, their breasts draped in animal skins, spotted Orpheus from a hilltop as he sang to his lyre. One of them, her hair streaming in the breeze, cried out: "Look! There's the man who scorns us!" She hurled her spear at the mouth of Apollo's poet. But leafy with ivy, it left only a mark, no wound. Another woman's weapon was a stone. Thrown through the air, it was defeated by the harmony of voice and lyre and fell at his feet, as if begging forgiveness for such mad violence.

But the reckless assault intensified. All restraint vanished. Insane Fury took command. The music would have softened every weapon, but the massive noise—the Phrygian flute shrieking from its curved horn, drums pounding, hands clapping, Bacchic howling—drowned out the lyre. Then at last, unable to hear him, the stones turned red with the poet's blood. First the maenads seized the countless birds, snakes, and wild creatures still mesmerized by the singer's voice—Orpheus's trophies. Then they turned their bloody hands on Orpheus himself. They swarmed like birds mobbing an owl caught abroad in daylight, or like the way a doomed stag in the morning arena becomes prey for the hounds while the theater crowds watch from both sides. The women rushed the poet, hurling their ivy-wrapped wands, never meant for such use. Some threw clods of earth. Some threw branches ripped from trees. Others threw stones. And so their fury wouldn't lack for weapons, it happened that oxen nearby were plowing under the yoke, and not far off muscular farmers were digging the hard soil, laboring to bring forth crops. When they saw the mob, they ran, leaving their tools behind. Across the empty fields lay scattered hoes, heavy rakes, long mattocks. The frenzied women grabbed these, tore apart the threatening oxen, then rushed back to attack the poet. As he stretched out his hands—for the first time speaking words that had no effect, for the first time failing to move anyone with his voice—the godless women killed him. And through that mouth, Jupiter!—that mouth heard by rocks, understood by the senses of beasts—his spirit left his body and melted into the air.

For you, Orpheus, the grieving birds mourned. For you the wild animals mourned. The hard rocks mourned. The forests that so often followed your songs mourned. Trees dropped their leaves in grief, as if tearing their hair. They say the rivers swelled with their own tears, and the naiads and dryads wore dark mourning veils, their hair streaming loose.

His limbs lay scattered. But you, river Hebrus, received his head and his lyre. And—wonder of wonders!—as they floated midstream, the lyre gave out mournful notes. The lifeless tongue murmured something mournful. The riverbanks echoed back in mourning. Then, carried out to sea, they left their native river and reached the shore of Lesbos, near Methymna. There, on that foreign sand, a savage serpent attacked the head as it lay exposed, hair still dripping with sea spray. But at last Phoebus appeared. He drove off the snake just as it was about to strike and froze its open jaws to stone, petrifying the gaping mouth exactly as it was.

---

His shade descended under the earth. It recognized all the places it had seen before. Searching through the fields of the blessed, it found Eurydice and clasped her in eager arms. Now they walk side by side. Now he follows where she leads. Now he goes ahead, leading her. And now Orpheus can look back at his Eurydice—safely.

---

But Bacchus wouldn't let this crime go unpunished. Grieving for the loss of the poet of his sacred rites, he immediately bound all the Thracian women who'd witnessed the murder—every one of them—to the forest with twisted roots. He stretched out each woman's toes from the foot that had chased Orpheus and drove them down into the hard earth. Like a bird that has stepped into snares a cunning fowler has hidden—when it realizes it's caught and beats its wings in panic, only tightening the trap with its frantic movement—that's how each woman, stuck fast to the ground, tried in terror to run but couldn't. The supple root held her tight and restrained her as she struggled. When she looked for her toes, her foot, her nails, she saw bark creeping up her smooth legs. She tried to slap her thigh with a grief-stricken hand—and struck oak. Her chest turned to oak too. Her shoulders became oak. You'd have thought her outstretched arms were real branches, and you wouldn't have been wrong.

---

But this wasn't enough for Bacchus. He abandoned those very fields and, with a worthier company, headed for his vineyards on Mount Tmolus and along the Pactolus river—though the Pactolus wasn't golden yet back then, not yet envied for its precious sands. His usual crowd—satyrs and bacchantes—thronged around him, but Silenus was missing. Phrygian peasants had found him stumbling drunk, old and wine-soaked. They'd wreathed him with garlands and led him to King Midas. Thracian Orpheus had taught Midas the sacred mysteries, along with Eumolpus from Athens. When Midas recognized his fellow initiate and companion in the rites, he threw a generous feast to celebrate the arrival of his guest—ten days and ten nights in a row. And on the eleventh dawn, when the Morning Star had marshaled the high host of stars, the king came joyfully to the Lydian fields and returned Silenus to his young foster-son, Bacchus.

The god, delighted to have his foster-father back, gave Midas a grateful but dangerous choice—he could choose any gift he wished. Midas, who was about to make terrible use of this gift, said, "Make it so that whatever my body touches turns to golden gold." Bacchus nodded approval of his wish and granted the gift that would bring harm, sad that Midas hadn't asked for something better. The Phrygian hero left delighted, celebrating his own ruin. He tested whether the promise was real by touching things. Barely believing it himself, he plucked a twig from a green oak with tall leaves—the twig turned to gold. He picked up a stone from the ground—the stone too turned pale gold. He touched a clod of earth—under his powerful touch, the clod became a mass of gold. He picked dry ears of wheat—the harvest turned to gold. He held an apple he'd picked from a tree—you'd think the Hesperides had given it to him. When he placed his fingers against tall doorposts, the posts seemed to gleam. Even when he washed his hands in water, the water streaming from his palms could have fooled Danae. He could barely wrap his mind around his own dreams come true—turning everything to gold.

While he was celebrating, servants brought out tables heaped with food and piled with roasted grain. But then—disaster. Whether he touched bread with his hand, the bread went rigid. Whether he tried to tear into meat with eager teeth, a golden sheet covered the food where his teeth touched it. He mixed wine—the gift from the god who'd given him this power—with pure water. You could see molten gold flowing through his jaws.

---

Stunned by this strange disaster, rich and miserable at once, he wanted to escape his wealth. He hated what moments before he'd prayed for. No amount of abundance could relieve his hunger. Dry thirst scorched his throat. He was tortured by the hateful gold he deserved. Lifting his hands and glittering arms to heaven, he said, "Forgive me, Father Bacchus! I've sinned, but pity me, I'm begging you. Save me from this shining curse!"

The power of the gods is kind. Bacchus, when Midas confessed his fault, restored him and released him from the gift granted in good faith. "And so you don't stay smeared with your ill-chosen gold, go," he said, "to the river near great Sardis. Follow the mountain ridge upstream against the flowing current until you reach the river's source. Where the spring foams out most abundantly, plunge your head and body together under the water and wash away your crime."

The king went to the water he'd been told to find. The golden power stained the river and passed from his human body into the stream. Even now, having absorbed the seeds of that ancient vein, the fields beside the river grow hard with gold, their soil yellowed by the moisture.

---

Now, hating wealth, Midas took to the woods and fields, worshiping Pan, who always lives in mountain caves. But his thick skull remained, and just as before, his stupid mind's ideas were going to harm their owner. Mount Tmolus rises steep from its high ridge, commanding a wide view over the sea. Extending down slopes on either side, it's bounded by Sardis on one side and little Hypaepa on the other.

Pan was there, showing off his piping to the delicate nymphs, playing light tunes on his wax-joined reeds. He dared to mock Apollo's music compared to his own and came to an unequal contest with Tmolus as judge. The ancient judge sat on his own mountain and shook his ears free of trees. Only dark green oak leaves crowned his head, and acorns dangled around his hollow temples. Looking at the god of flocks, he said, "The judge is ready."

Pan played his rustic pipes. His wild music charmed Midas, who happened to be there listening. After Pan finished, holy Tmolus turned his face toward Phoebus. His forest turned to follow his gaze. Apollo, his golden hair bound with laurel from Parnassus, swept the ground with his robe dyed in Tyrian purple. In his left hand he held a lyre decorated with gems and Indian ivory. His right hand held the plectrum. His very posture was that of an artist. Then he plucked the strings with a skilled thumb. Enchanted by the sweetness, Tmolus ordered Pan to yield his pipes to the lyre.

The sacred mountain's judgment and verdict pleased everyone—except Midas. He alone challenged it, calling it unfair. The god of Delos wouldn't let those ears keep their dull human shape. He stretched them out long, filled them with gray bristles, made them flexible at the base, and gave them the power to swivel. The rest stayed human. He was punished in one part only—he took on the ears of a plodding donkey.

He desperately wanted to hide them. Ashamed, he tried to cover his temples with purple turbans. But the servant who usually cut his long hair had seen them. The man didn't dare expose what he'd witnessed—such a shameful thing—but he longed to let it out into the open air and simply couldn't keep quiet. So he crept away, dug a hole in the ground, and in a quiet voice reported what kind of ears he'd seen on his master. He whispered to the hole he'd dug, then piled the dirt back in, burying the evidence of his words, and left the spot in silence. A thick grove of whispering reeds began to grow there. When a full year had passed and they'd matured, they betrayed the digger. Swayed by the gentle south wind, they repeated the buried words and revealed the master's ears.

---

His revenge complete, Apollo left Mount Tmolus. Carried through the flowing air, he landed in Laomedon's realm beyond the narrow channel named for Helle, daughter of Nephele. To the right of the Sigean strait, to the left of Rhoeteum, an ancient altar stood consecrated to Jupiter, who speaks through oracles. From there Apollo saw Laomedon beginning to build walls for the new city of Troy. He watched the massive project rising through grueling labor—work that demanded enormous resources. Along with Neptune, the trident-bearer and mighty lord of the sea, Apollo took on mortal form. For agreed-upon gold, they built walls for the Phrygian king.

The work was finished. The king refused payment. He added the ultimate treachery on top—he swore falsely that he owed them nothing. "You won't get away with this," said the ruler of the sea. He tilted all his waters toward the shores of greedy Troy and transformed the land into the likeness of a sea channel. He stripped the farmers of their wealth and buried their fields under waves. But even this punishment wasn't enough. The king's daughter was demanded as sacrifice to a sea monster. Bound to the hard rocks, she was rescued by Hercules, who then demanded his promised reward—the horses that had been promised. When payment for such great service was denied, Hercules captured the twice-perjured walls of conquered Troy. Telamon, who'd joined the expedition, didn't leave without honor either—he won possession of Hesione. Peleus became famous for having a goddess as his wife. He wasn't prouder of being Jupiter's grandson (that distinction he shared with others) than of having a god for a father-in-law—that honor was his alone.

---

Old Proteus had prophesied to Thetis: "Goddess of the waves, bear a child. You'll be mother to a young man who in his prime will surpass his father's achievements and be called greater than his father." So Jupiter, to prevent the world from holding anything greater than himself—though he'd felt warm passion for her in his heart—avoided marriage with sea-born Thetis. He ordered his grandson, the descendant of Aeacus, to take his place in her bed and enter the sea-nymph's embrace.

In Thessaly there's a bay curved like a sickle. Arms of land reach out. If the water were deeper, it would make a harbor. The sea just skims the surface of the sand. The shore is firm—it doesn't hold footprints, doesn't slow your passage, and isn't draped with seaweed. Nearby stands a myrtle grove covered with two-colored berries. In the middle is a cave, whether shaped by nature or by art it's hard to say—though more likely by art. Here you, Thetis, often came, naked, riding a bridled dolphin. Peleus seized you there as you lay sleeping. When prayers didn't work and you fought back, he resorted to force, throwing his arms around your neck. If you hadn't turned to your well-practiced arts and shifted through varied shapes, he would have succeeded in his bold attempt. But first you became a bird—and he held onto the bird. Then you became a massive tree—Peleus clung to the tree. Your third form was a spotted tiger. Terrified, the son of Aeacus let go.

Then he worshiped the gods of the sea, pouring wine over the waves, burning sheep entrails and incense smoke, until the prophet of Carpathos spoke from the depths of the sea: "Son of Aeacus, you'll win the wedding bed you're after. But when she's sleeping in her rocky cave, catch her unaware and bind her with strong rope. Don't let her fool you by lying in a hundred shapes. Keep holding on, whatever she becomes, until she changes back to what she was before."

Proteus spoke and plunged his face back into the sea, letting the waves close over his last words.

The sun was sinking low, his slanting chariot heading toward the western sea, when the beautiful daughter of Nereus left the ocean and entered her familiar cave. Peleus had barely gotten a good grip on the girl's body when she started shifting forms again—until she realized her limbs were held fast, her arms stretched out in opposite directions. Then at last she groaned and said, "You're not winning without divine help." And she revealed herself as Thetis. The hero embraced her as she confessed defeat, won what he'd prayed for, and filled her with great Achilles.

---

Peleus was happy in his son, happy in his wife. If you left out the crime of murdering Phocus, everything had gone well for him. But guilty of his brother's blood, driven from his father's house, he was received in the land of Trachis. Here King Ceyx ruled—son of Lucifer the Morning Star, bearing his father's radiance in his face—a kingdom without violence or bloodshed. But at that time Ceyx was grieving, unlike himself, mourning a lost brother.

When the son of Aeacus arrived, exhausted by worry and the journey, he entered the city with a few companions. Not far from the walls, in a shaded valley, he left the herds of sheep and cattle he'd brought with him. When he first got the chance to approach the king, he held out a suppliant's olive branch and told who he was and whom he was descended from—hiding only his crime, lying about his reason for fleeing. He asked the king to help him, whether in the city or the countryside. To this the king of Trachis responded with a peaceful expression:

"Our benefits are open even to common people, Peleus. We don't rule an unwelcoming kingdom. You bring to this generous spirit powerful claims—a famous name, Jupiter for a grandfather. Don't waste time in prayers. Whatever you're asking for, you'll get it all. Consider what you see here as your share. I only wish you saw better things!" And he wept. Peleus and his companions asked what cause stirred such deep grief. To them he explained:

---

"You might think this bird, which lives by hunting and terrifies all other birds, always had wings. He was a man once. And true to character, even then he was fierce, violent in war, quick to use force. His name was Daedalion. We were born from the same father—the one who summons the Dawn and appears last to leave the sky. I cultivated peace. My concern was preserving peace and my marriage. My brother loved savage wars. His courage conquered kings and nations—the same man who now, transformed, harasses the doves of Thisbe.

"He had a daughter, Chione, blessed with extraordinary beauty. By her fourteenth year, when she was ready for marriage, she had a thousand suitors. It happened that Phoebus and Mercury—the son of Maia—saw her at the same moment as they were traveling, Apollo returning from Delphi, Mercury from Mount Cyllene's peak. They both fell in love at the same time. Apollo postponed his hopes for love until nightfall. Mercury couldn't wait. He touched her face with the sleep-bringing wand. She collapsed under its power and submitted to the god's assault. Night had scattered its stars across the sky. Then Phoebus disguised himself as an old woman and took the pleasures already stolen.

"When her womb had carried its burden to term, she gave birth to Autolycus from Mercury's seed—a crafty child skilled in every kind of theft, accustomed to turning white things black and black things white, living up to his father's talents. From Phoebus (for she bore twins), Philammon was born, famous for his voice in song and his mastery of the lyre. But what good did it do her to bear two sons, to have pleased two gods, to be daughter of a mighty father and granddaughter of a radiant grandfather? Does glory harm many people? It certainly harmed Chione. She dared to claim she was more beautiful than Diana and criticized the goddess's looks. Diana's fierce anger flared. 'I'll please you with actions, not words,' she said. Without hesitation she bent her bow, drew the string, and shot an arrow that pierced Chione's insolent tongue. Her tongue fell silent. No voice could follow her attempted words. Life and blood both left her as she tried to speak.

"How miserable I was, holding her then, carrying a father's grief in my heart. I spoke consolations to my devoted brother, but the father absorbed them no better than rocks absorb the sea's murmuring—he just kept lamenting his stolen daughter. But when he saw her on the funeral pyre, he tried four times to throw himself into the flames. Four times driven back, he turned his tormented body to flight. Like a bull stung by hornets on the back of his neck, he rushed where no path led. Even then he seemed to me to run faster than humanly possible. You'd have thought his feet had grown wings. He fled from everyone, desperate for death, and reached the summit of Parnassus. When Daedalion hurled himself from the towering cliff, Apollo took pity. He turned him into a bird and held him aloft on sudden wings. He gave him a hooked beak, gave him curved talons like hooks, his old courage, and strength greater than his body ever had. Now he's a hawk, kind to no one. He rages against all birds and, still grieving, becomes a source of grief to others."

---

While the Morning Star's son was telling these wonders about his kinsman, Onetor the Phocian—Phocus's guardian—came running up breathless and panting: "Peleus! Peleus! I bring news of terrible disaster!" Peleus told him to report whatever he'd brought. The king of Trachis too waited in fear, his face trembling.

The man reported: "I'd driven the exhausted cattle to the curved shore when the sun at its highest point looked back on what remained of the day. Some of the oxen had bent their knees on the golden sand and were lying there, gazing out at the wide expanse of water. Some wandered here and there with slow steps. Others were swimming, their necks raised above the sea.

"Near the ocean stands a temple—not gleaming with marble or gold, but built with thick beams, shadowy with ancient trees. Nereids and Nereus own it, a sailor told me as he dried his nets on the shore. Next to it lies a marsh thick with willows, made swampy by stagnant seawater. From there, with a tremendous crash, came a huge beast—a wolf—roaring, terrorizing the whole area, bursting out from the marshy reeds. Its jaws were smeared and splattered with foam and blood. Its eyes blazed, flooded with red fire. Though it raged equally with rabies and hunger, it was more savage in its rabies. It didn't bother satisfying its hunger and terrible fast with slaughtering cattle—instead it wounded the whole herd, laying them all low with murderous intent. Some of us too, wounded by deadly bites as we tried to defend the animals, were killed. The shore and the first waves turned red with blood. The marshes echoed with bellowing.

"But there's no time to waste. The situation won't allow hesitation. While anything remains, we should all gather together and take up arms—take up arms and come with weapons together!" The farmhand spoke. But the losses didn't move Peleus. Mindful of his crime, he concluded that the grieving sea-nymph was offering his losses as funeral gifts to dead Phocus.

---

The king of Trachis ordered his men to put on armor and take up weapons. He was about to go with them himself when his wife Alcyone, roused by the commotion, rushed out. Her hair wasn't fully done—she scattered it loose, threw herself around her husband's neck, and begged with words and tears that he send help without going himself, saving two lives in one.

The son of Aeacus said to her, "Set aside your kind and dutiful fears, my queen. Your offer fills me with gratitude. But I don't want to take up arms against some unknown monster. The sea divinity must be appeased." There was a tall tower, a lighthouse on top of the citadel, familiar and welcome to exhausted ships. They climbed it and groaned to see the slaughtered cattle scattered on the shore and the ravager with its bloody mouth—savage, its long fur matted with blood. From there, stretching his hands toward the shores of the open sea, Peleus prayed that sea-blue Psamathe would end her anger and bring help. The prayers of Peleus didn't bend her. But Thetis, pleading for her husband, won this pardon. Even so, called back from its savage slaughter, the wolf kept going, drunk on the sweetness of blood—until, clinging to a heifer's torn throat, it was changed to marble. Its body and everything except its color were preserved. The stone's color proved it was no longer a wolf, no longer something to fear.

Still, the fates wouldn't let fugitive Peleus settle in this land. He traveled as a wandering exile to the Magnetans. There he received purification for the murder from Acastus of Thessaly.

---

Meanwhile, troubled by his brother's dark omens and the things that had followed, Ceyx's heart was disturbed. He wanted to consult the sacred oracle, humanity's comfort. He prepared to visit the god of Claros, since the villain Phorbas and his Phlegyan gang had made the Delphic shrine inaccessible. But first he informed you of his plan, most faithful Alcyone. Immediately a deep chill seized her bones. Pallor like boxwood spread across her face. Her cheeks grew wet with streaming tears. Three times she tried to speak. Three times tears soaked her face. With sobs breaking up her loving protests, she said:

"What wrong of mine, dearest husband, has changed your heart? Where is that concern for me that used to come first? Can you now leave secure, with Alcyone left behind? Does a long journey now appeal to you? Am I now dearer to you absent than present? But I assume the journey's by land. Then I'll only grieve, not also fear. My worries won't include terror. It's the sea that terrifies me—the grim face of the ocean. I recently saw shattered planks on the shore. I've often read names on tombstones that have no bodies beneath them. Don't let false confidence enter your mind just because your father-in-law is Aeolus, who locks up the powerful winds in his prison and calms the seas whenever he wants. Once the winds are released and have taken hold of the ocean, nothing's forbidden to them. Uncontrolled, they command every land, every sea. They harass even the clouds of heaven and strike out crimson lightning through violent collisions. The more I know them (and I do know them—I often saw them when I was a little girl in my father's house), the more I think they should be feared.

"But if no prayers can change your mind, dear husband, if you're too determined to go, then take me with you! At least we'll be tossed about together. I won't fear anything except what I'm actually suffering. We'll endure together whatever comes. Together we'll be carried across the vast ocean."

---

Her husband, descended from the stars, was moved by the words and tears of his Aeolian wife. The fire in him burned no less hot. But he didn't want to abandon the planned sea voyage, nor did he want to share the danger with Alcyone. He spoke many soothing words to calm her frightened heart. But those didn't win her over. So he added this final consolation, which alone swayed his beloved:

"Any delay seems long to me, it's true. But I swear by my father's flames—if only the Fates allow me to return—I'll be back before the moon has filled her circle twice."

When this promise stirred hope of his return, he immediately ordered a ship to be pulled from the shipyard, launched into the sea, and fitted with all its gear. When Alcyone saw this again—as if foreseeing the future—she shuddered. Tears poured out. She embraced him and at last, utterly wretched, said "Farewell" with her grief-stricken mouth, then collapsed completely. The young crewmen (while Ceyx tried to delay) brought the oars back in double rows to their strong benches and began cutting through the water with rhythmic strokes. She lifted her tear-filled eyes and saw him standing on the curved stern, waving his hand to signal her. She waved back. As the land receded farther and her eyes could no longer make out faces, she followed the fleeing ship with her gaze as long as she could. When even that became invisible with distance, she still watched the sails floating from the top of the mast. When she couldn't see the sails either, anxious, she went back to their empty bedroom and lay down on the couch. The bed, the couch—everything renewed Alcyone's tears. Every part of it reminded her that he was gone.

---

They'd left the harbor behind. A breeze filled the ropes. The sailors shipped the hanging oars to the sides, set the yardarms on the top mast, and unfurled all the canvas to catch the favorable winds. They'd sailed less than halfway across—or at most halfway—and both shores were far behind when the sea began to whiten with swelling waves under the night sky and the violent east wind began to blow harder.

"Lower the tall yardarms now!" the captain shouted. "Furl all the canvas on the yards!" Those were his orders. But opposing gales made the commands impossible to follow. The crash of the sea drowned out every voice. Still, on their own initiative, some rushed to pull in the oars. Others worked to reinforce the sides. Others tried to take down the sails and deny them to the winds. One man bailed out seawater and poured it back into the sea. Another hauled down the yardarms. While all this was done in chaos, the brutal storm intensified. From every direction, savage winds waged war and whipped the angry sea into chaos.

Even the captain was terrified. He admitted he didn't know the ship's condition or what to order or forbid. The sheer scale of the disaster overpowered all skill. There was noise everywhere—men shouting, ropes creaking, waves crashing, seas surging, thunder booming from the sky. The ocean rose up in waves that seemed to match the height of heaven, touching the storm clouds with spray. Now, when it churned up golden sands from the depths, it took on their color. Now it turned blacker than the rivers of the Styx. Sometimes it spread out flat and whitened with roaring foam.

The ship from Trachis was tossed by these changing moods. Now, high as if on a mountain peak, it seemed to look down into valleys and to Acheron's deepest pit. Now, when the curved sea towered around it, it seemed to gaze up at the highest heaven from the infernal depths. Often the hull, struck by a wave, gave an enormous crash—no quieter than when an iron battering ram or catapult smashes besieged walls. Like lions that gather momentum and hurl themselves chest-first into spears and weapons, that's how the waves, whipped up by the winds, hurled themselves against the tall ship—and rose far higher still. Now the wedges began to fail. The seams, stripped of their wax coating, gaped open and offered a path for the deadly waves.

Look—torrential rains fell from bursting clouds. You'd think the entire sky was descending into the sea and the swollen ocean was climbing into the regions of heaven. The sails were drenched with rain. Seawater mixed with water from the sky. The heavens lost their stars. Blind night pressed down, weighed by its own darkness and the storm's. But lightning scattered this and provided flickering illumination. The rain blazed in the lightning's fires. And now the waves were leaping inside the hollow timbers of the hull. Like a soldier who stands out above all others—when he's leaped up repeatedly at a fortified city's walls and at last achieves his ambition, fired by love of glory, and among a thousand men seizes the wall alone—that's how it was when nine waves had battered the high sides. Then a tenth wave, rising more massively, rushed forward with violence and didn't stop assaulting the exhausted hull until it descended like an invader into the walls of a captured city.

---

So part of the sea was still trying to invade the ship, while part had already broken through. Everyone trembled—no different than a city trembles when some attackers dig at the wall from outside while others defend it from inside. Skill failed. Courage failed. As many deaths seemed to rush in and overwhelm them as the number of waves that came. One man couldn't hold back his tears. Another stood frozen. This one called blessed those who had funerals waiting for them. That one prayed to the gods, raising his arms to a heaven he couldn't see, uselessly begging for help. One man thought of his brother and parents. Another thought of his home, his loved ones, everything he'd left behind. Alcyone filled Ceyx's mind. Only Alcyone was on Ceyx's lips. Though he longed for her alone, he was glad she was absent. He would have liked to turn his gaze toward his homeland's shores, to cast a final look toward home. But he didn't know where it was. The sea churned in such swirling chaos, and the whole sky was hidden by shadows drawn from pitch-black clouds. The darkness of night was doubled.

The mast snapped under the assault of the hurricane. The rudder broke. One triumphant wave, like a victor, rose up and gazed down on all the rolling waves below. No lighter than if someone had torn Mount Athos or Pindus from their foundations and hurled them whole into the open sea—the wave fell headlong and with its weight and impact drove the ship down into the depths at once. Most of the men went with it, pressed down by the massive surge, never returning to the air, meeting their fates. Others clung to pieces and shattered planks from the hull. Ceyx himself, with the hand that used to hold his scepter, gripped fragments of the wreck. He called out—in vain!—to his father-in-law, to his father. But most often on the swimmer's lips was his wife, Alcyone. He remembered her. He repeated her name. He prayed that the waves would carry his body to her eyes, that even lifeless he might be buried by loving hands. As he swam, whenever the waves let him open his mouth, he spoke Alcyone's name. He murmured it to the very waters.

Look—a black wall of water broke over the surging waves and buried his sinking head in its collapsing crest. The Morning Star was so dim that night you couldn't recognize him. And since he wasn't allowed to leave the sky, he veiled his face with thick clouds.

---

Meanwhile, unaware of this terrible disaster, Alcyone counted the nights. She hurried to finish clothes for him to wear when he returned, and clothes for herself to wear when he came home. She promised herself his imagined homecoming. She brought dutiful incense offerings to all the gods, but above all she visited Juno's temples. She came to the altars for a husband who no longer existed. She prayed that he would be safe, that he would return, that he would love no woman more than her. Of all these prayers, only the last could possibly come true.

But the goddess could no longer bear being prayed to on behalf of a dead man. To ward off these death-polluted hands from her altars, she said, "Iris, most faithful messenger of my commands, go swiftly to the drowsy hall of Sleep. Order him to send a dream in the image of dead Ceyx to Alcyone, revealing what truly happened."

She spoke. Iris put on her robes of a thousand colors and, tracing an arched curve across the sky, sought out the palace hidden beneath clouds where the commanded king dwelled.

---

Near the land of the Cimmerians lies a cave, a deep hollow in a mountain—the home and private chamber of lazy Sleep. Phoebus can never reach this place with his rays, whether rising, at noon, or setting. Mists mingled with gloom breathe up from the earth, creating the uncertain light of twilight. No wakeful bird with crested head calls to the Dawn with its songs. No watchful dog, no goose—shrewder than any dog—breaks the silence with its voice. No wild beast, no livestock, no branch stirred by a breeze makes a sound. No human voice creates a clamor. Mute silence dwells here. Yet from the deepest rock flows a stream of Lethe's waters. As it glides with a murmur, the wave rattling over pebbles invites sleep.

Before the cave's entrance, fertile poppies bloom, along with countless other herbs. From their sap, Night harvests sleep and sprinkles it, still moist, across the darkening earth. There's no door in the entire dwelling—no hinges to give a creak when turned. No guard watches the threshold. But in the cave's center stands a couch of ebony, raised high, cushioned and dark, draped with a black coverlet. There the god himself lies, his body dissolved in languor. All around him lie empty Dreams in imitation of countless forms—as many as ears of grain in a harvest, leaves in a forest, grains of sand cast up on the shore.

As soon as the maiden entered and pushed aside the Dreams crowding her path, the sacred dwelling gleamed with the radiance of her robes. The god lifted his eyes, heavy with sluggish drowsiness—barely, repeatedly falling shut again, his nodding head tapping his chest. At last he shook himself free, propped himself up on an elbow, and asked why she'd come. He recognized her. She answered:

"Sleep, peace of all things, gentlest Sleep among the gods, rest for the spirit—you whom care flees, who soothe bodies exhausted by hard labor and restore them for toil—command your Dreams, who imitate reality with perfect mimicry, to go to Hercules's city of Trachis. Tell them to take the king's form and appear to Alcyone, showing her visions of the shipwreck. Juno commands this."

After Iris had delivered her orders, she left. She couldn't endure the power of sleep any longer. As she felt drowsiness creeping into her limbs, she fled and traveled back along the rainbow arc by which she'd come.

---

But the father, from his population of a thousand sons, roused Morpheus—master craftsman and imitator of forms. No one expressed more skillfully the walk, the face, the sound of speech. He added clothing too, and the words each person typically used. But he only imitated humans. Another son became beasts, birds, long-bodied serpents. The gods called him Icelos, but mortals named him Phobetor. There was a third with different skills, Phantasos. He deceptively became earth, rock, wave, timber—anything without a soul. These typically showed their faces to kings and leaders by night. The others wandered among common people and ordinary folk.

The elder Sleep passed over these and from all his brothers chose Morpheus alone to perform what Thaumas's daughter had commanded. Then Sleep, relaxing again into soft languor, laid down his head and buried it in the deep couch.

Morpheus flew on silent wings through the darkness. In moments he reached the city of Thessaly. Setting aside his wings, he took on Ceyx's face. Assuming the form—deathly pale, corpse-like, naked—he stood before his wretched wife's bed. His beard seemed wet. Heavy water appeared to flow from his soaked hair. Then, leaning over the bed, his face streaming with tears, he spoke:

"Do you recognize your Ceyx, dearest wife? Or has death changed my face? Look closely—you'll know me and find your husband's ghost instead of your husband. Your prayers, Alcyone, didn't help me. I'm dead. Don't delude yourself with false hopes. The stormy south wind caught our ship in the Aegean Sea. Tossed by violent gales, it broke apart. My mouth, calling your name in vain, filled with waves. No unreliable messenger brings you this news. You're not hearing wandering rumors. I myself, shipwrecked, present as I am, tell you my own fate. Get up, come, weep for me and put on mourning clothes. Don't send me unwept to the hollow underworld!"

To these words Morpheus added a voice she would believe was her husband's. He even seemed to shed real tears. He had Ceyx's hand gestures.

Alcyone groaned and wept in her sleep. She moved her arms, reaching for his body, but embraced only air. She cried out, "Wait! Where are you going? We'll go together!"

Startled by her own voice and her husband's image, she jolted awake. She looked around first to see if the man she'd just seen was still there. Her servants, roused by her cry, had brought in lamps. When she couldn't find him anywhere, she struck her face with her hands, tore the clothes from her chest, and beat her breasts. She didn't bother to loosen her hair—she ripped it out. When her nurse asked what caused such grief, she said, "Alcyone is gone, gone! She died with her Ceyx. Spare me your consoling words! He died in a shipwreck. I saw him. I recognized him. I reached out my hands to him as he left, trying to hold him. He was a ghost—but still a ghost, clear and true, of my husband. He didn't have his usual appearance, if you ask. His face didn't shine as it used to. Pale, naked, his hair still dripping wet—that's how I saw him, poor man. He stood right here, in this very spot."

She looked to see if any footprints remained. "This is it—what I feared with my prophetic mind, what I begged you not to do when you were leaving—don't follow the winds! But I wish now, since you were going to die, that you'd taken me with you. It would have been so much better for me to go with you! Then I wouldn't have spent any time alive without you. Death wouldn't have separated us. Now, though absent, I've died too. I'm tossed by waves though absent. The sea holds me without holding me. My heart would be crueler than the sea itself if I tried to prolong my life and struggled to survive such overwhelming grief. But I won't struggle. I won't abandon you, poor man. Now at least I'll come to you as your companion. If not in a shared urn, an inscription will join us in the tomb. If our bones can't touch, at least our names will touch."

Grief cut off more words. Sobs broke up everything she said. Groans were wrenched from her shattered heart.

---

Morning came. She left the house for the shore and sadly returned to the spot where she'd watched him leave. "He cast off the cables here," she said. "He kissed me goodbye on this shore." As she remembered these acts tied to specific places and gazed out at the water, she saw something in the distance that looked like a body. At first she couldn't tell what it was. But after the waves pushed it closer—though it was still far off—it was clearly a body. She didn't know whose, but because it was shipwrecked, she felt moved by the omen. As if shedding a tear for a stranger, she said, "Poor man, whoever you are, and if you have a wife somewhere!" The waves drove the body nearer. The more she stared at it, the more her mind reeled. Oh god! And now, washed close to shore, now close enough to recognize—she saw: it was her husband! "It's him!" she screamed. She tore at her face, her hair, her clothes. Stretching out her trembling hands toward Ceyx, she cried, "Is this how you return to me, dearest husband? Is this how, you poor man?"

A breakwater lay beside the waves, built by hand, which broke the sea's first fury and absorbed the assault of the waters. She leaped onto it. It was miraculous that she could—she was flying! Beating the light air with newborn wings, she skimmed across the surface of the waves, a pitiful bird. As she flew, her throat, rattling through her slender beak, made sounds like someone filled with grief and lamentation. But when she touched his silent, bloodless body, she embraced his beloved limbs with her new wings and tried in vain to kiss him with her hard beak.

People wondered whether Ceyx felt this or only seemed to lift his face from the motion of the waves. But he had felt it. At last, with the gods taking pity, both were transformed into birds. Bound by the same fate, their love endured. Their marriage bond wasn't broken by their transformation. They mate and raise young. For seven peaceful days in winter, Alcyone broods over her nest suspended above the sea. Then the ocean's waves lie calm. Aeolus keeps the winds locked up and bars their escape, giving his grandchildren a tranquil sea.

---

An old man, watching these birds flying together over the vast straits, praised their love preserved to the very end. Someone nearby—or maybe the same man, if that's how it happened—said, "That bird you see skimming the sea with his legs tucked up" (he pointed to the long-necked diver) "he's of royal blood too. If you want to trace his lineage back in unbroken succession, he descends from Ilus, Assaracus, Ganymede who was snatched up to Jove, old Laomedon, and Priam who witnessed Troy's final days. He was Hector's brother. If he hadn't met a strange fate in his youth, he might have won a name as great as Hector's. Though Hector was born to Hecuba, Dymas's daughter, they say Aesacus was born in secret to Alexiroe beneath shady Mount Ida—Alexiroe, daughter of the two-horned river god Granicus.

"He hated cities. Far from the gleaming palace, he haunted hidden mountains and the humble countryside. He rarely visited Troy's gatherings. But he didn't have a rustic heart that couldn't be conquered by love. He was often hunting through the forests when he saw Hesperia, daughter of the river Cebren, drying her hair in the sun on her father's bank, her hair spread across her shoulders. When the nymph saw him, she fled—like a tawny deer startled by a wolf, or like a river duck caught far from the safety of the lake fleeing a hawk. The Trojan prince pursued her. Fear made her swift, but love made him swifter.

"Then—a snake hiding in the grass grazed her foot with its curved fangs as she ran and pumped venom into her body. Her flight stopped with her life. Beside himself, he embraced her lifeless body and cried, 'I'm so sorry, so sorry I chased you! I didn't fear this. Winning you wasn't worth this price. Two of us have destroyed you, poor girl. The snake gave the wound, but I gave the cause. I'd be more guilty than the snake unless I offer you the consolation of my own death.'

"He spoke, then threw himself from a cliff that the pounding waves had hollowed out beneath. Tethys took pity on him as he fell. She caught him gently and covered him with feathers as he swam across the sea. She wouldn't grant him the death he craved. The lover was furious that he was forced to live against his will, that his soul, desperate to leave its wretched home, was blocked from escaping. Once he'd grown new wings on his shoulders, he flew up and hurled himself down at the sea again. His feathers softened the fall. Aesacus raged. He plunged headlong into the depths, trying again and again to find the path to death. Love made him thin. His leg joints stayed long, his neck stayed long, his head stayed far from his body. He loves the sea and takes his name from diving into it."