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  Praise for Michael Cadnum

  “Not since the debut of Robert Cormier has such a major talent emerged in adolescent literature.” —The Horn Book

  “A writer who just gets better with every book.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Cadnum is a master.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Blood Gold

  “A gripping adventure set during the 1849 California gold rush. Complementing the historical insight is an expertly crafted, fast-paced, engrossing adventure story full of fascinating characters. This is historical fiction that boys in particular will find irresistible.” —Booklist, starred review

  “This novel is fast paced.… The well-realized settings, which range from remote wildernesses to sprawling cities, create colorful backdrops for Willie’s adventure. An enticing read.” —School Library Journal

  “The prose is lively.… A spirited introduction to the gold rush for older readers.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Breaking the Fall

  Edgar Award Nominee

  “Tension hums beneath the surface.… Riveting.” —Booklist

  “Eerie, suspense-laden prose powerfully depicts the frustrating, overwhelming and often painful process of traveling from youth toward adulthood.” —Publishers Weekly

  Calling Home

  An Edgar Award Nominee

  “An exquisitely crafted work … of devastating impact.” —The Horn Book

  “Probably the truest portrait of a teenaged alcoholic we’ve had in young adult fiction.” —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

  “Readers … will never forget the experience.” —Wilson Library Bulletin

  “[Readers] will relate to the teen problems that lead to Peter’s substance abuse and the death of his best friend.” —Children’s Book Review Service

  “Through the prism of descriptive poetic images, Peter reveals the dark details of his sleepwalking life.… An intriguing novel.” —School Library Journal

  Daughter of the Wind

  “Readers will enjoy the sensation of being swept to another time and place in this thrill-a-minute historical drama.” —Publishers Weekly

  Edge

  “Mesmerizing … This haunting, life-affirming novel further burnishes Cadnum’s reputation as an outstanding novelist.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review

  “A thought-provoking story full of rich, well-developed characters.” —School Library Journal

  “Devastating.” —Booklist

  “A psychologically intense tale of inner struggle in the face of tragedy.” —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

  Forbidden Forest

  “Cadnum succeeds admirably in capturing the squalor and casual brutality of the times.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Heat

  “In this gripping look at family relationships Cadnum finds painful shades of gray for Bonnie to face for the first time; in her will to grasp the manner and timing of her healing is evidence that she is one of Cadnum’s most complex and enigmatic characters.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Compelling. Adopting the laconic style that gives so much of his writing its tough edge and adult flavor, Cadnum challenges readers with hard questions about the nature of fear and of betrayal.” —Publishers Weekly

  In a Dark Wood

  Los Angeles Times Book Prize Finalist

  “A beautiful evocation of a dangerous age … Readers who lose themselves in medieval Sherwood Forest with Cadnum will have found a treasure.” —San Francisco Chronicle

  “In a Dark Wood is a stunning tour de force, beautifully written, in which Michael Cadnum turns the legend of Robin Hood inside out. Cadnum’s shimmering prose is poetry with muscle, capturing both the beauty and brutality of life in Nottinghamshire. In a Dark Wood may well become that rare thing—an enduring piece of literature.” —Robert Cormier, author of The Chocolate War

  “[T]his imaginative reexamination of the Robin Hood legend from the point of view of the Sheriff of Nottingham is not only beautifully written but is also thematically rich and peopled with memorable multidimensional characters.” —Booklist

  “Cadnum’s blend of dry humor, human conflict and historical details proves a winning combination in this refreshing twist on the Robin Hood tale.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “A complex, many-layered novel that does not shirk in its description of [the period], and offers an unusually subtle character study and a plot full of surprises.” —The Horn Book

  The King’s Arrow

  “The King’s Arrow is an adventure story full of color and romance, as resonant as a fable, told in clear, clean, swift prose. A wonderful read.” —Dean Koontz

  Nightsong: The Legend of Orpheus and Eurydice

  “Cadnum (Starfall: Phaeton and the Chariot of the Sun) once again breathes life into classic mythological figures.… Skillfully creating a complex, multidimensional portrait of Orpheus (as well as of other members of the supporting cast, including Persephone and Sisyphus), Cadnum brings new meaning to an ancient romance.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Another excellent retelling of one of Ovid’s mythical tales. This well-written version is a much fuller retelling than that found either in Mary Pope Osborne’s Favorite Greek Myths or Jacqueline Morley’s Greek Myths. The story is a powerful one, delivered in comprehensible yet elevated language, and is sure to resonate with adolescents and give them fodder for discussion.” —School Library Journal

  Raven of the Waves

  “[A] swashbuckling … adventure set in the eighth century, Cadnum (In a Dark Wood) shows how a clash of cultures profoundly affects two distant enemies: a young Viking warrior and a monk’s apprentice.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Convey[s] a sense of what life might have been like in a world where danger and mystery lurked in the nearest woods; where cruelty was as casual as it was pervasive; where mercy was real but rare; and where the ability to sing, or joke—or even just express a coherent thought—was regarded as a rare and valuable quality … Valuable historical insight, but it’s definitely not for the squeamish.” —Booklist

  “Hard to read because of the gruesome scenes and hard to put down, this book provokes strong emotions and raises many fascinating questions.” —School Library Journal

  Rundown

  “Deep, dark, and moving, this is a model tale of adolescent uneasiness set amid the roiling emotions of modern life.” —Kirkus Review

  “Cadnum demonstrates his usual mastery of mood and characterization in this acutely observed portrait.” —Booklist

  Ship of Fire

  “Brimming with historical detail and ambience, this fact-paced maritime adventure will surely please devotees of the genre.” —School Library Journal

  Starfall: Phaeton and the Chariot of the Sun

  “Cadnum (In a Dark Wood) once again displays his expertise as a storyteller as he refashions sections of Ovid’s Metamorphoses into a trilogy of enchanting tales. Readers will feel Phaeton’s trepidation as he journeys to meet his father for the first time, and they will understand the hero’s mixture of excitement and dread as he loses control of the horses. [Cadnum] humanize[es] classical figures and transform[s] lofty language into accessible, lyrical prose; he may well prompt enthusiasts to seek the original source.” —Publishers Weekly

  Taking It

  “Cadnum keeps readers on the edge of their seats.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “Cadnum stretches the literary boundaries of the YA problem novel. This one should not be missed.” —Booklist, starred review

  Zero at the Bone

  “Riveting … [an] intense psychologi
cal drama.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “Much more frightening than a generic horror tale.” —Booklist, starred review

  “A painful subject, mercilessly explored.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Nightsong

  The Legend of Orpheus and Eurydice

  Michael Cadnum

  FOR SHERINA

  WITH ENDURING THANKS TO IRIS

  STRETCHING

  AMONG THE PEAR TREES

  SILENT DEER

  1

  ONE

  Orpheus paused beside the river.

  The angry current churned, too hard and deep for an easy crossing, the cold white water surging through the black stones.

  Once again he heard the troubling wail in the distance.

  “Are you sure this is a safe place to cross, Prince Orpheus?” asked Biton, his young servant, making every effort to disguise his anxiety.

  “I had heard it was a peaceful waterway, Biton,” replied Orpheus, trying to sound reassuring. “But now that I look at it, I have my doubts.”

  It was a day when the approach of spring was still merely a hint in the sunlight. The two travelers had nearly reached their destination, the land where King Lycomede ruled with his daughter the princess Eurydice. Orpheus had sent no advance notice of his visit, but he expected a warm welcome. Monarch and shepherd alike were always glad to play host to the famous singer, and for his own part the poet was eager to set eyes on the princess, who was said to possess an ardent love of music – and a magical beauty.

  “Let’s wander down the river for a while,” suggested Biton. “No doubt some strong-armed ferryman will offer his services.”

  Orpheus was tall and sturdily built, with hair the color of amber, but he had no great faith in his own physical powers when it came to such a violent flood. The poet cocked his head, listening for the distant cry – and heard it again, faint but persistent.

  “Do you hear it, too, Biton?” asked Orpheus.

  “I was hoping I was mistaken,” the young servant responded regretfully. “To my ear, I’m afraid it sounds very much like a crying baby.”

  Vultures circled a rocky knoll not far up the hillside beyond the river. With each approach, the winged scavengers came closer to a tiny being apparently abandoned there, at the foot of a great ash tree.

  “Look there, master, upriver!” said Biton excitedly. “A herd of goats is already halfway across. If goats can make it through the water, then surely we will find our footing!”

  “Those aren’t goats, Biton,” said Orpheus grimly. He lifted his legendary silver lyre over his head, and waded out into the seething river.

  Indeed, the poet thought, the animals in question were not anything like goats. They were a pack of wild dogs fighting hungrily to swim the current, no doubt attracted by the human infant’s wail. Once there, Orpheus feared, the creatures would make quick work of the baby, and have the ferocity besides to fight over the scraps.

  Orpheus sang out a prayer, that the river god might ease the tumbling waters just long enough for a poet and his trusted attendant to reach the opposite bank. He was the most famous singer in the world; his mother was one of the Muses – Calliope, the goddess of epic poetry – and his father was the mortal king Oeagrus of Thrace.

  The Muses were daughters of Jupiter, and the nine of them empowered human talent in music, dance, and song. No poet but Orpheus could claim to be the offspring of such an immortal.

  And it did seem that at the sound of the poet’s song, the river relented in its brutal torrent – just slightly.

  “Be careful, master!” called Biton, already far behind.

  The poet had rescued Biton some years before, saving him from drowning in a sudden freshet in Rodos – a dry, rocky streambed had filled with a flash flood during a summer storm. Orpheus had given the orphan the affectionate name for an ox, because the boy was so strong, and even-tempered as well.

  The poet reached the midpoint, where the river was deepest. The water spun, gathering around him, surrounding him with power that had been, until hours ago, snow on one of the mountains. Upriver, the pack of wild dogs was halfway across as well, struggling but making headway.

  Orpheus lifted his voice again, in one of his favorite songs, the story of the many rivers falling out of the sky, flung by the hand of Jupiter. It was a beautiful, soothing tune, and it was wise to remind the river god that, for all his thunder and foam, he was subject to the pleasure of the sky.

  Beyond, the vultures circled, ever closer to the tiny human being.

  It was an old practice among farm laborers, when sharp poverty made it impossible to feed yet another mouth: An unwanted newborn was left alone, out under the heavens. There the Fates could determine the infant’s future, although the poet knew that many such babies lost their lives. Like many before him, Orpheus was often troubled by the flinty ways of gods and men.

  At last Orpheus reached the dry, white pebbles of the opposite bank.

  He ran as hard as he was able, through brambles and winter-bare bushes, his strong legs driving upslope.

  Not far downhill the pack of wild dogs shook dazzling moisture into the sunlight. And then they resumed their course, tumbling over one another in their eagerness.

  Orpheus was nearly there, a stitch in his side, the muscles of his long legs burning.

  He set down his lyre, and knelt, breathing hard.

  The blue-black wings of the carrion birds swept upward, retreating awkwardly and reluctantly as the poet gathered the wailing infant, wrapped in rough-spun wool, into his arms.

  Orpheus took a deep breath, and sang the first words of the old lullaby, “Hush, dear one, the friendly sun is high.”

  The infant stirred, a baby girl not more than a week or two old.

  She gave a kick, and gazed up into the poet’s smile. She cried no longer, and as the poet gave voice to the time-honored verse – the winds at peace with Apollo, lord of the sun – the infant grew calm.

  But within moments the dogs were upon them.

  TWO

  The pack closed in.

  The lead dog drew so near that Orpheus could feel the warmth from the feral body and smell his rank, hot breath.

  He was a thickset brute, larger and less famished in appearance than the rest, with a square snout and fine golden fangs. An old, white scar along his spine showed where a shepherd’s barbed arrow had broken off some summers ago. The dog had intent, silver-colored eyes, and uttered a rumbling growl.

  The poet was afraid. Not so much for himself, but for the infant. And there was plenty of unease left over for him to consider his own flesh and bone, too. The wet, gaunt animals had spent a bleak winter, by the looks of them, and the poet felt a twinge of compassion for their empty bellies.

  But he was not so frightened that he failed to remember the power of song.

  “The divine Apollo’s golden blessing on all of you,” sang Orpheus, a friendly verse of greeting.

  White Scar answered with a deeper growl.

  “This baby is safe with me, my dear friend,” sang Orpheus, an improvised air with a sweet melody that disguised the poet’s growing anxiety.

  The throng of hungry animals urged White Scar from behind, shouldering and slavering, but the big animal resisted, suspicion and wonder, perhaps, keeping him where he was for a few moments more.

  Orpheus reached up, and placed the infant in a fork of the ancient ash tree, its branches leafless this chilly day. Some people believed that Diana, the goddess of the hunt, favored such venerable trees, and the poet was thankful for the old tree’s sheltering limbs.

  Then the young man hefted the shining lyre from the ground, and settled the gleaming musical instrument into the crook of his arm. His fingers were stiff and cold from the river crossing. Nevertheless, he began to play well, lifting his voice in a poem about Persephone.

  It was the story of the graceful mortal woman kidnapped by the lord of the underworld. Some people believed that the arrival of spring flowers was a s
ign that Persephone was returning to the land of the daylight, bringing new life. Others held that enigmatic Pluto was a jealous lord, and released his wife into the upper world but rarely. Orpheus sang of how Persephone, exiled among the colorless shades of once living people, fondly remembered the creatures of daylight.

  She was fond of the hunting animals, too, the poet sang – like the wild dog White Scar, with his fine teeth. The verses told of Persephone’s regret that she could not enjoy the company of such hardy animals, imprisoned as she was in the dark-steeped realm of the dead.

  Orpheus closed his eyes, and sang of Persephone’s passion for all living things.

  When his poem was done, Orpheus opened his eyes – and beheld only empty hillside where the dogs had been.

  “They left!” panted Biton, hurrying up and brandishing his staff. “And it’s a good thing for them, too,” he added. “By Hercules, master, I’ll kill any dog that so much as snaps at you!”

  THREE

  “I do believe it’s him!” whispered the farmer to his wife, eyeing Orpheus’s lyre. “Yes, I’m sure it’s the poet!”

  Servants peered through the gate, and then hurried off to obey their master’s orders.

  “We have mare’s milk and cow’s cheese, Prince Orpheus,” offered the landowner. “Soft-baked bread, if you please, and the sweetest olive oil under the sky.”

  Orpheus told Biton to pay the farmer with the best, bright-minted Lydian silver.

  “This is far too generous!” said the farmer with a laugh – closing his hand tightly around the precious metal. “If bread and cheese will not please you, is there anything else I can get for the son of the immortal muse?”

  He asked eagerly – but with a trace of caution, too.

  Orpheus glanced around at the sleek geese and fat cows. This well-fed farmer’s own children – three of them – gathered behind their father, too shy to speak.

  The infant in the poet’s arms made a tiny bleat – a sound very much like the young goats in a nearby pen – and squirmed hungrily. Along the path, Orpheus’s repertoire of sweet-sounding refrains had reassured the infant, but even the finest song fell short of being food.