This story begins with a fairly simple statement of purpose but goes on to largely ignore that purpose. Orpheus and Attila doesn't tell a coherent story of any kind, the author is willing to admit; but, to quote, "it makes me laugh." It is the author's contention that the most downcast stories are written by the most upbeat authors, and vice-versa. Unhappy people tend to write happy stories. Happy people, conversely, are the villains responsible for all the bleak, soul-crushing fiction out there. Goth kids, for instance, while refusing to admit it, are usually the best adjusted, happiest kids. Smiling kids, cheery kids, those are the ones hanging by a thread. So it goes with authors. The consistently funny and upbeat tone of Orpheus and Attila, then, speaks of an author who must have been uncommonly miserable!
Following are a few excerpts from the novella...
Excerpt 1 ――
Please enjoy my retelling of the story of Orpheus and Attila the Hun, based in part on Delacroix’s paintings on the ceiling of the library in the French Parliament House—of how Orpheus brought us civilization from the Pit of Eternal Darkness, and how Attila sent it back.
(For economy’s sake, the story will be told from my own point of view, that of Aeneas, who arrived on the scene somewhere between the aforementioned characters.)
Excerpt 2 ――
I admit with embarrassment that I fled my city as it burned. A hero would have stayed and fought, I suppose, as many did. They followed their paths as I followed mine. I would have preferred to flee alone, because in cowardly flight my speed has no equal, but I was unfortunately entrusted to lead the children of Troy to safety—clumsy little oafs who couldn’t sprint to save their lives! I grudgingly agreed to my charge, lending my flight a heroism it did not deserve. But how much praise do any of us really deserve in this world of eternal self-struggle? I gathered my accolades along with the rest of my ill-acquired belongings, and led my followers through a hidden tunnel out of Troy and into the valley beyond.
The moment the burning city was far enough behind us that I was certain no one could see me from the ramparts, I high-tailed it out of there. “So long, suckers!” I might have yelled, had I been just a little less ashamed of myself.
Excerpt 3 ――
I won’t bore the reader with the circumstances that brought Orpheus to the smouldering netherworld, but suffice it to say after he’d had a look around the place, he chose to fill his metaphorical pockets and make tracks. My interest in recalling for the reader the architect’s sketchy remembrance of the tour guide’s probably apocryphal story is because it provided me with the foundation upon which I would build my new city.
First and foremost, the Devil is a scientist. He has no interest in superstitious nonsense. For him, the universe is a knowable place, and the human tendency to indulge its own ignorance by conceding the (as yet) unknown to an unknowable supernatural sphere is merely an expression of sloth. “Use your senses and then use your reason,” the Devil demands of his students. Orpheus took no small amount of interest in a lecture from the Prince of Lies while waiting for his wife’s shift to end. Most of it went well over his head, but he managed to digest at least the aforementioned overriding principle. And to accompany his stolen knowledge, after the class had emptied, Orpheus swiped a moon rock from a display case at the back of the room.
Excerpt 4 ――
Exasperated, Freckles began to repeat to me the entire story of Orpheus, during which I gasped in horror and tossed the accursed rock back to the storyteller.
I quite wisely did not want to have anything to do with a stolen moon rock being pursued by the Prince of Darkness! Freckles reminded me that I had intended to found my new city on the principles stolen by Orpheus. “Freckles,” I explained, “surely by now you’ve heard from me sufficient grand proclamations to know that they are meaningless!” I’d just assumed everyone knew I was a blowhard. The only principle on which I would ever actually found a new city would be that everyone living therein must shut up and leave me alone.
“To make a long story short, Freckles,” I bellowed, “get that Devil Rock away from me!”
But Freckles, despite in most ways being as cowardly as me, did not fear the stolen rock. And dark portents began to follow us. I suppose they had been following us all along but I only began noticing them after becoming aware of our hazardous cargo. Freckles shrugged off the warnings. He smiled when a raven flew overhead. He chuckled when our dinner fish vomited black bile. And he laughed when we passed a ballerina scraping turd off her jackboots. Well, we both laughed at the ballerina.
