Ella and I were disgruntled when Bob, our new landlord, told us we had to move our belongings in the basement to a storage room in a building he owns on the other side of the block. There wasn’t enough room for all our stuff at the new location, so a tower of boxes now stands at the foot of my bed. Take this opportunity, I told myself sternly, to start winnowing their contents. And I’ve been making some startling discoveries. One was this forgotten logo I designed years ago for a friend, an Episcopal priest, who formed a group called Open Heart. Another is “The Black Lyre,” below. I’ve always thought I never did any creative writing before college. Then, among my high school papers, I found this story. Apparently, our assignment was to make up a myth. Actually, I was so stunned by the ending, I couldn’t believe the work was mine—until I realized that, unknowingly, I was writing about my father.

The Black Lyre

There was a feeling of disquiet among the gods on Mount Olympus that day. None had gone about their usual business. Zeus paced restlessly before his throne, while others lingered in the main hall, some conversing quietly, all sensing vaguely that something unusual was about to happen. Hebe had just been sent out to fetch some nectar, when suddenly, a shrill cry was heard from the front hall. The startled gods rushed out after her. There in the large entrance to the palace, near the astonished Hebe, stood an old man, a gnarled gnome, not half her height. Under his arm he carried two lyres—one was white, the other black. The gods were amused as well as intrigued by this strange, disheveled visitor, and they invited him to dine with them. When all were settled comfortably after the supper, he told his story.

His name was Ariphanes. He had been raised by peasants and had loved them greatly, although he knew they were not his true parents. When he was a child they often used to tell him how they had found him, a little baby, on a hillside with the two lyres beside him. He first discovered that he differed from most men in his extraordinary strength, yet he never considered it seriously. As he grew old in appearance, he didn’t lose his youthful agility and vigor. He waited for death for years and years, and finally acknowledged that no mortal man could live as long as he had. Therefore, he must be a god.

Why his divine mother and father had abandoned him, he could only guess. Probably they were ashamed of an ugly, deformed child such as he had been. Even then, they had left a sign of their love by giving him two magical instruments. He said it would be dangerous to reveal any more about his unusual power and hoped that his secrecy about this matter would not offend anyone.

The narrative completed, Zeus asked Ariphanes to demonstrate his musical ability. He submitted readily, using the white lyre, and soon the hall was filled with the sweetest, clearest tones imaginable. The enchanting melody melted away any doubts that might have existed as to the truth of his story and claim to divinity.

The homely but merry old god, with the light-heartedness of a child, soon became the favorite on Mount Olympus. What charmed them into trusting him the gods never knew. Apollo, too, could not help but like him, but, as the former champion of the lyre, he was also terribly envious of the old god’s superior talent.

Several months after his arrival, Ariphanes announced that he was leaving the palace for a week and asked that during his absence no one should touch his instruments. Apollo had been anxious to try to play the lyres of Ariphanes. Now that he had his chance, his desire overcame any guilt he might have had about ignoring the god’s request. He stole the black lyre from its peg and that evening performed for the other gods. The haunting notes soon quelled their disapproval of his actions, and gradually a certain doubt took hold in the minds of many. At first only a few whispered words were interchanged. “Ariphanes’ tale certainly was an odd one. You don’t suppose…” The suspicion grew rapidly. “He’s probably not a god at all.” Finally, all were convinced. “Surely it was all a lie!” “And we were completely taken in.” “We offered him our hospitality, confided in him…” The furious gods held a council and decided what was to be done.

On his return, Ariphanes was greeted by a host of hostile faces. Guessing the cause immediately, he hurried on to his room. The situation could be remedied only by the song of his white lyre.“We have your instruments!” Zeus thundered after him. “And now we want the truth! Admit that you have lied!”

“There is nothing to admit!” cried the old god, turning. “All I’ve told you is true! I am a god! Why, I have power greater even than yours, Zeus, and now I see that I must prove it.”

But the king of the gods seized Ariphanes and hurled him from the palace, sending the lyres flying after him.

Then the old god picked himself up and took his precious lyres. The angry jeering voices faded gradually as he made his way down the mountain.

Greatly embittered, Ariphanes descended among the mortals and wandered the earth for many years, the music of his black lyre working his revenge, for the black lyre spread doubt; the white, long unused, inspired belief. He did, indeed, prove himself a greater divinity than Zeus, for he destroyed the Greeks’ belief in their own gods.