Adam of Albion

by Kim McMahon

  “Nnnrrrrggghhh.” It shook his earlobe like a terrier worrying a bone, slapping against his cheek.

  “Come on, we can’t do this,” Adam pleaded. “If anybody else sees you, we’re screwed. Let’s at least talk, and if you’re still mad, you can bite me again.”

  The head hovered there a few more seconds, but then grudgingly let go and thumped back to the floor. It glared up at Adam through narrowed eyes.

  “Truce—for now,” it muttered.

  SIX

  “Is it okay if I pick you up again, so we don’t have to stay here on the floor?” Adam asked, and added hastily, “I’ll be really careful from now on.”

  The head gave a curt nod, chin bobbing down on its stub of neck and almost touching the floor. Adam gingerly cupped it in his hands and set it on the bed, then sat crosslegged facing it.

  Doing his best to ignore the fact that he was about to have a conversation with a miniature head that not only talked, but had an amazing vocabulary for chewing people out, he decided the best way to start would be to smooth its ruffled feelings.

  “I’m sorry I had to carry you in that pack,” Adam said. “I didn’t have any choice.”

  “Well, I can’t say I enjoyed it, but I’ve had worse rides,” it answered grumpily. “Try spending sixty-seven years as a gilt eagle head on the prow of a Roman war galley. Especially when you’re seasick the whole time.”

  Adam felt his mouth gaping open again. A Roman war galley? He was pretty sure there hadn’t been any of those around since, well, the Roman Empire. And how could you be seasick if you didn’t have a stomach?

  He decided to let that go. “We should probably introduce ourselves. I’m Adam Keane, from Montana.”

  The head somehow managed to preen itself grandiosely, like a politician stretching to his full height as he stepped up to deliver a speech. Even though it didn’t have a body, it acted like it did, Adam was starting to realize.

  “Since great antiquity, I have been known by many names,” it intoned. “I am the Apotheosis of Algorithms, the Brandisher of Benevolence, the Consummation of Cerebration, the Decimator of Demagoguery, the—”

  Adam stared, fascinated. Man, this little guy did not suffer from low self-esteem! The routine sounded well practiced and like it could go on for quite some time—all the way through the alphabet, for sure.

  He cleared his throat politely. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s a lot I want to know about you, and we don’t have much time tonight—how about if we save all that for later and you just give me one name for now? Something short that I can pronounce?”

  The head subsided, obviously a little miffed at having its act shut down.

  “Very well—I bow to the exigencies of the moment,” it said, with the noble and slightly tragic air of taking one for the team. “You may call me—Orpheus!”

  “Like, the Orpheus?” Adam said excitedly. Orpheus had been a famous musician in ancient Greece, and he’d done a lot more besides—sailed with the Argonauts on the Quest for the Golden Fleece, and tried to rescue his girlfriend from the realm of death itself.

  That Orpheus had a body. But then, Adam remembered, he’d been torn apart by a bunch of crazy women—and his head had lived on! Was this it? If it was, he’d either been a lot smaller than Adam had imagined or his head had shrunk somehow.

  This Orpheus sighed, now looking nostalgic. “No, that was another chap. I knew him, of course—taught him everything he knew about music. But the Greeks started spinning their legends and got the two of us confused. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past thousands of years, it’s that you can’t trust a poet for a straight story.

  “I got along fine with the Greeks, all in all—wonderful taste in art and architecture, very sharp in mathematics, and pretty fair wine, considering the times. But their imagination tended to run wild, and in the end they were too dramatic for their own good.

  “Anyway, let’s just say I’m the original Orpheus. You’ve probably heard some garbled stories.”

  “But you’ve really been around that long?” Adam said.

  Orpheus snorted, like, Are you kidding? “I could write a book,” he declared.

  Once again, it started to dawn on Adam how insane this conversation was, and again he pushed the thought firmly aside.

  “So—I don’t mean to pry, but—are you, like, a cyborg?” he asked.

  Orpheus frowned. “That’s not a word I’ve ever heard.”

  How could anybody not know what a cyborg was? Hadn’t he ever seen a Terminator movie?

  “It’s a lot like a human, but it’s really kind of part computer, part robot,” Adam said.

  “Never heard of those, either.” He was starting to look miffed again, and Adam realized what the problem was. Orpheus was something of a know-it-all, and he wasn’t happy about somebody else—especially a mere boy—having the edge on him.

  “I’ve been asleep for a while,” Orpheus went on. “Since the French Revolution, to be more precise.” His eyes narrowed dramatically. “That was a wild time, let me tell you—heads rolling all over the place, I was just one of the crowd.

  “But tonight, I woke up—I don’t know how or why. Anyway, I’ve missed everything since then and whenever now is.”

  Asleep since the French Revolution? That made Rip Van Winkle’s twenty years seem like a catnap!

  “Maybe we can get you online,” Adam said. “You can learn everything there.”

  Orpheus scowled, and Adam almost bit his tongue. He’d screwed up again! Obviously, Orpheus wouldn’t know what the Internet was, either.

  “Look, I’m not trying to show off, honest—I know you’re a lot smarter than I am,” Adam said hastily. “Those are just things that people talk about all the time these days. We need to get you caught up.”

  Orpheus nodded, a little gruffly, but seeming mollified.

  “Let’s start with the basics,” he said, glancing around the room. “Where are we?”

  “It’s called Blackthorn Manor. In Cornwall, England.”

  “Cornwall, is it?” Orpheus’s voice took on a tone of fond musing. “Lovely place, and very mysterious. Spent some time questin’ for the Holy Grail here, back when. Never did find it, but got to know the locals quite well. Always makes me remember Tristan and Isolde—nice young couple, but a sad story. He had to sail away without her, and never came back.”

  A faint shadow of doubt was starting to creep into Adam’s mind as to whether Orpheus might be stretching the truth somewhat. First ancient Greece and Rome, then the French Revolution, and now the Holy Grail? That was a lot to buy.

  Then, without warning, Orpheus began to sing—a melody that was hauntingly beautiful, enhanced by his rich baritone voice.

  “The water is wiiiiiiide, I cannot get o’er;

  “And neither have I-I wings to-oo flyyyy—

  “Give me a-a booat, that will carr-yyy twooo,

  “And both shall row, my love and I-I-I.”

  Adam was knocked out! Even if Orpheus was a fibber, he sure could sing!

  But suddenly, the melodious voice stopped as sharply as if it was cut off by an axe. Orpheus’s eyes flared with alarm, staring at something across the room.

  Adam spun toward it.

  An opening was appearing in the wall—just like in an old spooky movie, a bookcase sliding silently aside to reveal a dark, narrow passageway.

  And sitting on the floor just inside was a girl, dressed entirely in black, with her knees tucked up to her chin and her head resting on her folded arms. Her eyes were closed, she had a dreamy smile on her pale oval face—

  And her long, wild hair seemed to float around her like a cloud of moonlight.

  She opened her eyes and raised her head.

  “Oh, drat,” Artemis said. “These bloody clumsy boots. I must have hit the button by mistake.”

  SEVEN

  Adam scrambled in front of Orpheus, trying to hide him, although it was already too late. Artemis was gazing straight at the
little head, her eyes intent with fascination. Orpheus was doing his rock act again, silent and still, but she must have heard him.

  “Excuse me, but this is, like, my room,” Adam said indignantly.

  “Oh, I hardly think so. You are a guest here,” Artemis replied, not at all abashed.

  “That still doesn’t give you the right to go spying on people.”

  “Don’t be tiresome. It’s not about a right—I’m just naturally sneaky, you can ask anyone.”

  She stood, tossing her hair like a cyclone, and came into the room, pausing to turn on a dim lamp. Orpheus’s skin instantly started to change tone, still dusky but lightening enough to blend with the new ambience. He was like a chameleon, Adam realized—probably a very useful survival skill for someone his size.

  Artemis walked straight to Orpheus, as if Adam wasn’t even there, and knelt on the floor in front of him.

  “The singing was splendid,” she said.

  Adam was sure he saw Orpheus’s eyebrows rise just a tiny bit, like he was pleased by the compliment. Uh-oh, Adam thought. Vain as the little guy was, he’d be a sucker for her flattery, and talking her ear off in no time.

  “What makes you think it was coming from him?” Adam said quickly.

  “Quite obviously, it wasn’t coming from you,” she said, with a glance so withering he wouldn’t have believed a girl her age was capable of it. It actually made his mouth go dry.

  “He’s a gadget,” Adam stammered. “He can say a few sentences, knows a few tunes, but that’s it.”

  “Really?” she said coolly. “I’ve never heard of such a gadget, and I’m rather sure I would have.”

  “They’re not on the market yet. He’s a . . .” Adam squeezed his memory as hard as he could—what was that word? “Prototype. This friend of mine, his father works for the company, that’s how I got him.”

  Her lips twisted wryly in another very adult expression. “You play with dolls, is that it?”

  Damn! Adam thought. He was used to being one-upped—it happened all the time with Barry—but that was like getting slugged with a baseball bat. This was more like a razor slice, so quick and precise you didn’t even know it had happened until you were bleeding.

  “Let’s stop the charade, shall we?” she said. “I heard every word you both said.”

  “I was practicing ventriloquism,” Adam tried, desperate now.

  “Yes, and I’m Lady Gaga.” She stood up abruptly and plunked herself down on the bed beside Orpheus, sending him into a bouncing little dance. “Come on, talk to me,” she said to him. “If you’re who I think you are, I already know quite a bit about you—I’ve been studying arcane knowledge all my life. You’ve been worshipped as an oracle since ancient times, isn’t that right? Inspired tons of legends? Hobnobbed with great minds like Roger Bacon and Albertus Magnus? And so much more? And now you’re right here in our guest room—how lovely!”

  Orpheus stayed clammed up, but this time a pleased little flicker showed in his eyes. Adam just sat there astonished—she was acting as cool as if she’d walked in on Adam and Barry discussing football scores.

  But, sophisticated as she seemed, she was still a girl—which meant that if she found out the truth, everybody on the planet would hear about it within seconds. She was probably getting ready to Twitter her friends right now. He groped frantically for a way to keep the situation under wraps, but nothing came.

  “How about another song—please?” she asked Orpheus sweetly.

  Then, as she leaned coaxingly close to him, one of her earrings swung forward, finding its way through her hair and dangling in plain sight.

  Orpheus let out a yelp so sharp and sudden that both kids jumped.

  “My love—can it really be you?” he cried out.

  Adam thumped the heel of his hand against his forehead in despair. Well, it was all over now—the secret was out. Only a few hours after his promise to Jason, and he’d already blown it. He felt like crawling under the bed.

  But wait—what was it Orpheus just said? My love? To an earring?

  The little head’s eyes were glowing as he gazed raptly at the pendant dangling from Artemis’s ear. It was pretty—about an inch and a half long, emerald green, and shaped like one of those Egyptian crosses with a loop at the top and flared out at the arms and bottom. The design was graceful, somehow haunting, and it definitely suggested female.

  But it was still just a piece of jewelry. Even Artemis seemed taken aback, for the first time.

  “This ankh?” she said, touching it with her black-nailed, silver-ringed forefinger—she wore a lot of rings, Adam noticed. “I collect them. I’ve been fascinated with them since I was a baby, and for quite some time I’ve been studying the various types of Goddess worship around the world and through history. So I always wear a symbol in case I meet up with a like-minded devotee. Which, so far, I haven’t.”

  But while she spoke, Orpheus’s joy faded before their eyes, as fast as it had appeared. He even seemed to get a little smaller, like he’d somehow shrunk into himself.

  “My mistake,” he murmured sadly. “It fooled me for a second. I suppose I’m still a bit muddled from just waking up. It—it reminded me of somebody I used to know.”

  Adam and Artemis exchanged quick, puzzled glances. Somebody?

  “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you,” Artemis soothed. “Do tell us about her. Does she look like this?” She touched the ankh again. Adam hadn’t yet reached the age where he paid attention to things like a girl’s eyes, but now he noticed that hers were almost the same emerald green.

  Orpheus nodded, exhaling a long sigh. “Her name is Eurydice,” he said.

  “Of course!” Artemis exclaimed under her breath. Adam recognized the name, too. In the legends about Orpheus, she was his beautiful lover who he’d tried to rescue from Hades.

  “She’s my love, my heart, my very life,” he said hoarsely, with tears starting to trickle down his cheeks. “We were always together, from the very beginning. But I lost her. Ever since then, century after century, I’ve searched the world for her—but all for naught.”

  So that was what he’d been crying about, Adam realized. But besides the weirdness of his girlfriend looking like a piece of jewelry, how had they managed to stay together? Without arms, he couldn’t very well carry her.

  “That’s so sad.” Artemis’s eyes were shining with sympathy—and fascination. “What happened?”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” Orpheus said, ruefully shaking his head, or more accurately, himself. “It was during the Third Crusade. I was hidden inside the saddle pommel of a warhorse, so I couldn’t see what was going on—all I know is that a battle broke out. I could tell from what I heard that there were Templars around—they were always spoiling for a fight—along with Richard the Lionheart and a band of his Crusaders, Saladin and his elite personal guards, and a handful of Assassins. A thoroughly dangerous mix.”

  Richard the Lionheart?! Adam thought. Saladin?! Templars?! Whoa!

  “But Eurydice was right there with me, same as always. Then all of a sudden things went crazy. Somebody grabbed me, I got roughed up for a few seconds—and—and then she was gone.” He finished with a catch in his voice, and the tears started rolling again.

  “You poor—” Artemis hesitated—she’d been about to say, poor little head— “poor dear. You must be terribly lonely.”

  “Lonely, worried sick about her—all those things,” Orpheus said sadly. “And then—oh, never mind.”

  “What is it?” she prompted. “Maybe we can help.”

  We? For a second, Adam was outraged—she was inviting herself in on this! But then he started thinking that it might be pretty handy to have someone who knew so much about all this stuff—if he could just keep her from blabbing the secret.

  “Artemis, please, we can’t let anybody know about this,” he said anxiously. “Will you promise? No telling your parents, no texting your friends?”

  She gave him another withe
ring stare. “Silly boy. I never tell my parents anything and I don’t have any friends. Besides, I’m training to be an adept, delving deep into the great arcane mysteries. I can keep a secret to my grave.”

  Adam was getting kind of tired of being called boy, but he let it go. He had no choice but to trust her now, so he might as well try to get along with her.

  “Now, you were about to tell us something more,” she said, turning back to Orpheus.

  His face turned shy, like he was being pushed into revealing something that was personal and embarrassing.

  “Well—Eurydice isn’t just my love. She gives off an endless flow of energy—it’s her essence, her nature. And that’s the life force that keeps me going.”

  “Like a battery, or power pack?” Artemis said excitedly.

  Orpheus frowned. “Those are more terms I don’t know,” he said impatiently. “The point is, I’ve been running on reserves since I lost her—but they’re running out. That’s why I went to sleep a couple of centuries ago. I was reaching a critical shortage, and I decided to make it last as long as I could—hoping against hope that somehow, someday, she’d find her way back to me.”

  Adam had been feeling totally out of this conversation, just sitting there tracking back and forth between the other two, like he was watching a tennis match.

  But the meaning of this hit him like a kicking heifer.

  “You mean you’re dying?” Adam said, horrified.

  “You could put it that way,” Orpheus agreed. “Technically, I’m not alive in quite the same way you are, but it’s close enough for all intents and purposes. The end result will be the same, anyway.”

  He closed his eyes and, rather melodramatically, toppled over on his ear.

  Artemis drew herself up very straight and folded her arms coolly.

  “Then we’ll just have to help you find your Eurydice,” she said. “Won’t we, Adam?”

  EIGHT

  Orpheus sighed, this time in exasperation, and bounced upright again.

  “Out of the mouths of babes,” he said, rather patronizingly. “Thanks, I do appreciate it. But what I need is the people who woke me up—not volunteers from the Children’s Crusade.”