The Songs of the Kings by Barry Unsworth Page A

hero’s pride and rashness; rather than lose face, Perseus would make any sort of wild vow. And so it had happened. He had undertaken to bring anything that the king might ask, even to the head of the Gorgon Medusa, who had snakes for hair, a glimpse of whose hideous face turned men instantly to stone. No one had ever survived an encounter with the Gorgon. Naturally, the king at once accepted the offer. “Well, since you mention it,” he said, “the head of the Medusa is just what I would like.”
    The Singer proceeded now to describe the appalling difficulty of this self-imposed task. The Medusa had two sisters and all three Gorgons were equipped with wings of gold. On foot, how could he get near her? And then, how could he kill her and cut off her head without once glimpsing her face? Even if by some miracle he brought it off, how could he escape the sisters’ vengeful pursuit? But Perseus had one trump card, unknown to everyone, even to himself: he had the support of Athena, who hated Medusa for reasons that belonged in another story, one that the Singer, digressing a little, professed himself well able to relate if there was popular demand for it. Athena appeared to the hero in all her splendor and told him how he could get the better of the Gorgon. She gave him exact instructions . . .
    The Singer paused here, at least his silence was at first taken by the audience as simply another dramatic pause. But nothing followed, the silence lengthened and they became aware again of the plucking and clawing of the wind and its voice on the hillside like the shuddering indrawn breath of some creature inconceivably huge. There was a restless stirring among the people, and several called out, demanding that the story should continue. But the Singer laid his lyre aside. He had been reciting for many hours, he was tired, it was time for his meager evening meal. Besides, the appearance of Athena was an excellent point at which to break off, an exciting moment in the story. He would continue next morning. The morning audiences tended to be sparse, they needed beefing up. Having heard the first episode, people were likely to return; and every return increased the possibility of gifts. He heard the rustle of the crowd’s disappointment, the faces glimmered before him like soft, very pale flames. He turned his head towards where he knew the sea to lie. “Tomorrow morning,” he said, “when the sun is still low enough to make a bar on the water, I will give you the words of Athena, you will have the sequel— there are two episodes in the story of Perseus and the Gorgon.” This evening the boy had not come with his gift of food. He had not come even for the shortest time, to sit close by and listen to the Songs. Perhaps he would not come again.
    The crowd began to move away, quietly enough now—they were after all accustomed to sequels and installments and adventures told in series. It was the wind that had made them feel lonely and unprotected, once the voice of the Singer had ceased. Odysseus waited until the last had gone, then went up to the Singer, who was eating bread and small black grapes. “I am Odysseus,” he said, close to the Singer’s ear.
    The movement of the jaws did not cease at this announcement, nor was there any change in the angle of the cropped and bony head, always tilted upward, as if to catch some distant sound.
    Odysseus hesitated for some moments. The Singer was not an easy proposition. He was an entertainer, he had power. The audience had been gripped by the Song, spellbound, for a while they had forgotten the wind. One who could distract the people in this way, turn them from discontent and the breeding of revolt, was a very valuable instrument, especially at a time like this. But instruments had to be controlled.
    â€œI don’t want to tell you your job, of course,” he said, speaking close to the whorl of the Singer’s left ear, “but