In the author’s note at the end of Orpheus Nine, Chris Flynn’s fourth novel, he writes that its opening scene came to him in a dream – and there is certainly much of the nightmarish about the book’s central conceit. Orpheus Nine opens at an under-10s football match in the small Australian town of Gattan, with parents barracking and bickering on the sidelines. Suddenly all the players stop moving and begin to sing – in Latin, no less – before collapsing and dying. All bar one, that is – Alex van der Saar, the son of the local squattocracy, is entirely unharmed. Just a week ago he turned 10.
The tragedy turns out to be part of a global phenomenon, with the same affliction befalling every nine-year-old on the planet simultaneously. In the days and weeks that follow, the same fate fells every child on their ninth birthday – and this phenomenon (“It wasn’t a virus, it wasn’t a fungal infection, it wasn’t a biological terrorist attack,” one character explains) quickly becomes known as “Orpheus Nine”.
Flynn is no stranger to the dark and the surreal: Mammoth was narrated by a long-dead prehistoric creature; A Tiger in Eden followed a loyalist fighter on the run from Northern Irish police through the beaches and backpacker parties of Thailand. Orpheus Nine takes this sensibility further and transfers it to the speculative realm.
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Most of the novel’s action takes place within months of the original football match and is centred on three parents who grew up together and have raised families in the town. There is Jess, whose son Tyler perished on the football field, all but undone by her grief; Hayley, who lives in fear of her eight-year-old daughter Ebony’s next birthday, months away; and Dirk van der Saar, whose relief at his family’s being spared turns quickly to a sense of entitlement and schemes of profiteering from the crisis.
Orpheus Nine is a fast-paced and highly suspenseful novel but it’s most interested in the human experience, examining the reactions of these adult characters to a crisis of this scale and inexplicability. Dirk attempts to insert himself and his family at the head of whatever new order he imagines must be coming, while Jess and Hayley are far more fearful, struggling to reclaim some sense of control and agency.
Jess, who initially feels entirely alone in her grief and alienated by the town’s pity, is quickly radicalised, then militarised, after connecting online with other “Orpheans” – mothers whose children have perished. Hayley becomes evangelical about wellness, promoting and enforcing within her family a saltless diet – the children afflicted by Orpheus Nine die when their bodies are flooded with sodium, so Hayley’s obsession – part of a “movement” among parents – is a desperate attempt to stave off her daughter’s death.
There are, of course, clear parallels here with some of the more extreme reactions to the Covid-19 pandemic, especially the rise of “conspirituality” rhetoric, with its strange blend of conspiracy theories and wellness ideologies. Jess and Hayley represent each of these poles.
One of the most fascinating aspects of this scenario is the implicit power that grieving mothers like Jess have in this crumbling society, especially when organised. The radicalised Orpheans are determined to keep their losses visible and in the public’s mind, “to channel their fury, demand action” and it is clear that the government fears them. Flynn’s depiction of this group centres on their militant activities – training camps and preparations for attacks – which propels the narrative and ramps up the sense of suspense. But it seems a missed opportunity to explore this as a political force, especially given the historical precedents of similar movements – such as the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo in Argentina – that have effected societal change.
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Orpheus Nine is most compelling in the sections that are set in the past – during the adolescence and teenage friendships of the three central characters. There’s a vitality and a groundedness to these chapters, which serve as an important counterpart to the more speculative central narrative, and the characters here move in unexpected and interesting ways. More importantly, the events deepen each character’s tragedy, not only revealing the forces that shaped them but also the ways in which their adult selves perpetuate the effects of those forces on their children.
Orpheus Nine manages to be both unsettling and a great deal of fun. It is infused with affection for small towns like Gattan, taking delight in their kitsch details and idiosyncrasies. This is a book about fear and the uncontrollable, and all of the conscious and unconscious ways we might react in the face of these, focusing on the particular vulnerabilities of parenthood in this regard. Flynn has produced a novel of great heart – an utterly compelling read.
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Orpheus Nine by Chris Flynn is out through Hachette Australia ($32.99)
