What They Need To Hear
Short Fiction Story
by Marie C Lecrivain
I.
Apollo finds a long line of the faithful coiled around his temple spiralling outward into the dusty foothills. He smiles. Yes. Business is booming, he tells himself, but the franchises need equal distribution. The shareholders are not happy.
He considers his next move. Apollo knows his horny father left a trail of hoof prints and feathered destruction between here and Cyprus. He decides to become one of the little people. Apollo bows his shoulders like Atlas, drinks a cup of black coffee to stain the white of his smile, unlaces his sandals, and stashes his lyre into a battered guitar case. He rubs earth into his hair, and behold; he's now a 99%er, albeit a little too good-looking, but the day’s hot, and the line’s long, so perhaps, no one will notice.
II.
Apollo takes his place at the end of the line. He wonders what's become of the world he once knew, the one he once looked down upon in his daily sunrise travels while cruising in his celestial Porsche with one million kelvin horsepower and rhino leather interior. The former green-and-blue world is now stained brown and grey.
He wonders when the sacrifices, libations, and jingles the bards wrote in his honour will resume.
Where have all the tributes gone?
He’s never asked his worshipers for much; a few nymphs to seduce, a crown of sonnets, a handful of coins - every day - this is what he requires. He’s nothing like his twin sister, Artemis, who demands all aspirants become lifetime members of PETA and invest all their savings in turbine wind-power farms. Nor is he like his brother, Ares, who spends his devotees’ donations on manufacturing cheap chariots and subpar body armour, and then sells them back to his favourite warmongers at 3,000% profit.
No. Apollo doesn't understand their ways, or their reasoning.
Where did we go wrong? Apollo asks himself.
Perhaps the answer’s among mortals. He fine-tunes his heavenly ears to listen to the whispers within the hearts of men.
The wailing of ten thousand whiners crashes against the surface of Apollo's mind. He tries not to flinch at the tsunami of misery. Apollo knows the key to successful customer retention is active listening, so he lets the tides of complaint wash over him. The lightest float to the top:
I can’t conceive a child.
I need a good 401K plan.
I want to buy a hut, but I have shitty credit.
These are everyday concerns, not ones Apollo allows his oracles to spend more than five minutes ruminating. They’re not worth chewing laurel leaves.
He dives in deeper, searches for true misery, and finds more of the same.
I work two jobs, and I still can’t pay my rent.
My wife has cancer and our insurance stopped covering her treatments.
I’ve been unemployed for three years. No one will hire me.
I’m a veteran of the Peloponnesian Wars, and the government cut my benefits.
Apollo becomes frustrated, as these are - again - everyday concerns. Why are there so many people here, instead of at one of the other three friendly locations? He just installed a new coffee bar at Delphi. For an extra 50 drachmas, aspirants can now receive expedited prophecies.
Apollo realizes the answers can’t be found in the hearts of men, so he turns off his heavenly hearing, cracks his neck, and sighs.
III.
Behind Apollo, the line has stretched beyond the farthest point a mortal man can see. Astounded, Apollo finds himself at the bottom of the temple steps and wonders how much time has passed. Tapping on the pilgrim’s shoulder in front of him, he asks, Dude, what time is it? I left my portable sundial at home.
The pilgrim shrugs, It’s mid-morning, but hopefully, I’ll be able to meet with the oracle. They close for lunch at 11:30. I’ve been in line for two days.
Apollo considers this information carefully. With trepidation, he asks, There are other oracles you could visit. Why are you waiting so long for this one?
The pilgrim smiles and utters one word. Orpheus.
IV.
Apollo patiently waits as the line moves forward. He watches the pilgrims, one after the other, enter the shrine, a modest arch lit by the light of lavender-and-thyme scented candles. He watches each pilgrim emerge with a satisfied smile on their face and realizes this is what he’s not seen in a very long time: the Sign of Satisfaction, the guarantee of customer loyalty.
V.
It’s Apollo’s turn to enter the shrine. He looks around for a temple maiden to take his payment - and finds none.
He walks slowly through the arch. Inside, he finds none of the usual trappings. Gone is the 50ft gold statue of Apollo’s radiant being. Erased are the frescoes of his sexual exploits. Vanished is the marble prie-dieu for the pilgrims to kneel upon. In its place is a simple three-legged stool placed near a wooden pedestal upon which sits the head of Orpheus, eyes closed, a faint frown on his pale face.
Apollo regards the silent face of Orpheus and wonders, How long can an immortal go without sleep… and dreams?
Apollo seats himself on the stool, stretches out his legs, opens his guitar case, and pulls out his lyre. Setting his hands to the strings, he plays a soft melody meant for Orpheus’ ears alone. He watches the face of Orpheus gradually change; the frown bends upwards into a smile and the lines recede from his brow.
Once he’s through, Apollo puts away his lyre. Orpheus’s eyes open; one green, the other black, long ago reminders of his adventures upon the earth, and then below.
I miss music, says Orpheus. A single tear drips down his face. I miss the feel of the lyre in my hands.
Apollo stares into the eyes of Orpheus.
My son, you're taking business away from the other temples, Apollo says. Why?
Orpheus says nothing.
Apollo cracks his knuckles, a staccato chorus that reverberates through the shrine.
Orpheus, he says, I have to know what you're doing differently, and why.
Orpheus sighs a long melodic breath that sends a shiver up Apollo’s shrine.
It’s not what I’ve done, he says, his eyes filled with tears. It’s what’s been done to me, left to rot forever in this room, an eternal sympathetic ear for the world’s problems. I never asked for this. I never asked for this… but what’s there to do, other than listen and give them the one answer that fits every inquiry.
What answer? Apollo asks.
There are worse things than suffering, answers Orpheus, all of this will pass away. They’ll never truly die.
VI.
The melodic symphony in Orpheus’ tears can only be heard by Apollo, who then reaches out and caresses the back of his son’s head.
Orpheus, my boy, Apollo says, I’m sorry, but you're fired.
I figured as much, Orpheus says, but what shall become of me? May I die now?
Gently, Apollo picks up the head of Orpheus, opens his guitar case, and tucks it in beside the lyre. We'll discuss that as soon as I come up with an answer to satisfy the shareholders.
(Note: this story was inspired by the writings of Apollonius of Tyana)
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