Orpheus and Mae’s many wild tumbles and their last violent rumble removed all the excellent PR paint Silenus had used to brush over the cracks that had formed in his protégé’s portrait. Whilst Daedalus was an exceptional craftsman, even he wouldn’t have been able to restore it. Another death was linked to Dion, and whilst in rock-and-roll terms, Pentheus was small fry and could be overlooked, Orpheus was venerated and could not. Despite the fact that Orpheus was a grown man and could decide for himself, Dion was blamed for urging Orpheus into returning to music, when he was still dutifully mourning his beloved wife. It was hinted that Dion was even using his friend’s untarnished reputation to hide his own tarnished one. Apparently, Orpheus wouldn’t have looked twice at another woman, and would have stayed loyal to his dead wife’s memory, if Dion hadn’t ‘pushed’ him into a relationship with Mae. In other papers, Mae had seduced an unwilling and unwitting Orpheus. In both versions, liquid and the bottle were the cause of it all as, after all, wasn’t the bottle Mae’s weapon of choice?
Newspapers ran features contrasting Orpheus and Dion. While one wrote quaint country songs with lyrical melodies, the other wrote about abused women. While one had been married to a nice country girl whose death the world had mourned, the other was married to a runaway daughter who hadn’t shown her father the respect he deserved and, frequently, abandoned her children to the care of others. In fact, hadn’t Orpheus’s wife received her fatal bite while holidaying with Dion and his wife? And hadn’t Dion’s wife forced drugs on Eurydike? And so the list went on. Tria crashed out of the album charts. Dion and Libertia had outstayed their welcome. The party, fun while it lasted, was over. Cal and Likertes headed for their homes in Olympia, where they were welcomed them back with open arms. Neither of them ever told me their version of the tour, or the effect it had on them. If they were only affected half as much as Dion, then quite honestly, I don’t want to know. They’ve worked hard to move on and forge careers, post-Libertia.
Silenus accompanied Dion back to the mountain. Dion looked shell-shocked. Disbelief was written all over his face and he shook. He shook uncontrollably. It took what little strength he had to compose himself long enough to meet his baby son for the first time and to be reunited with Oinopion. Oblivious to the situation, Oinopion prattled on about Crete and explained to his Daddy that he shouldn’t bother to unpack as he only had five rocks left. Dion smiled and nodded until the Mas took the babies away and then he collapsed. He slept and slept, with his eyes wide open. Silenus tried to pour liquid down him, trying to revive him. Dion fought and struggled and shouted that he didn’t want any of that evil stuff near him. He kept away from the boys, saying he wasn’t fit to be around them until he had been purged of that vile stuff and become pure again. I was relieved and I could tell the Mas were too – well, at least three of them: one, five and seven. I had begun to question Silenus’s control over Dion through this ‘medicine’ of his. Then the panic attacks and hallucinations started, at least that’s what I thought they were at the time.
“She’s waiting for me. I’ve left her at Troezen and she’s waiting for me,” he would say, over and over.
“Who’s waiting?” I asked, trying to cool his brow.
“My mother. My father sent for me, told me to go the underworld and take her to him. She’s waiting for me in Troezen.” Sometimes he would explain, in broken sentences, how he had paid Charon to get him across the river Styx.” Sometimes I would find him sleepwalking and asking,
“Is this the way? I’ve been walking for miles, is this the way to Hades?” I would guide him back to bed gently so as not to wake him. Other times he would scream out in the middle of the night, calling for his mother:
“Semele, which one of you is Semele?” Then he would cry uncontrollably and beg to be left in peace. When pressed for the reason for his outburst, he would describe the souls of the dead, who gathered around him: young brides, unmarried youths, sad old men, lonely women who begged him to take them with him. After a while he just whispered over and over, “I will return to you, we will all be reunited, I will return to you.”
The last of Oinopion’s rocks had gone, but he didn’t ask about going back to Crete. After seeing the state his Daddy was in, he didn’t question the simple response that “his Daddy was too ill to travel at the moment.” Instead, every day he collected a rock from the mountain to take back to Crete with him. As his collection grew, Dion seemed to get better and better. He stopped sleepwalking and talking to people, the rest of us could not see. I began to believe that we had turned a corner, until I walked in on Silenus giving Dion a bottle. Dion’s eyes pleaded with me to understand, but I couldn’t cope with the self-hatred I saw behind them. I didn’t enlighten the Mas as to how Dion’s remarkable recovery had happened, but took the boys out for the day to avoid being at home. When we returned, it was late and Dion was already in bed.
The next morning, Ma Three took Dion breakfast in bed. Her scream shook the entire mountain. Dion was, for once, sleeping peacefully. Too peacefully, and next to him were the remains of several bottles. It took the eight of us to revive him, to pummel his chest, pump his stomach, pour vinegar down his throat so he would vomit up the deadly substance. When we could be sure that he would live, the motherly Mas turned into harpies and descended as one on Silenus. He tried to defend his actions by saying he had made Dion better. Hadn’t they, themselves, said what an improvement had come over him recently? Then Ma Six had to be restrained by Mas One and Three. She hadn’t brought that boy up and kept him safe, for the likes of Silenus to ruin him. Ma One reprimanded Silenus, calmly pointing out that Dion’s sufferings had been caused by the poison simply working its way out of his body. They could live with him suffering for however long it took, if it meant that Dion would be able to live without the vile liquid. Silenus told them they were wrong. Liquid, he said, was Dion’s life source, his genius. Without it he might as well be dead. Silenus was asked to leave the mountain - not quite as politely as we had been asked to leave Thebes, but the message was the same.
The Mas were as good as their word. They set up a rota system and the eight of us kept vigil, day and night. Soon, as the Mas predicted, the anxiety caused by Dion’s relapse, began to fade. Dion started to spend more time with the boys, played his guitar and worked on the farm. Then, one day, as I sat by his bed watching, his eyes slowly opened, he smiled and told me he wanted to go home.
None of the Mas were happy to see us go and I know that not all of them thought it a good idea. In Naxos, I would have to look after Dion and the boys by myself. There were also bars and clubs on Naxos, while the mountain was free from temptation. But I couldn’t expect, and didn’t want Dion to live the rest of his life, isolated from the world and without trust. I tried to reassure the Mas by saying that I had Nyx on Naxos, but the Mas were left unconvinced and I know I left them uneasy. When, later, they were proved right, they never once said, “We told you so.”
Dion’s revival continued on Naxos. He decorated the house and looked after Staphylus and Oinopion. Although his return to Crete had been further delayed, Oinopion also thrived on Naxos. He liked walking to the cliff to see the strip of land that was Crete, to make sure it was still there. But for the most part he liked being with Dion, whom he referred to as his ‘new Daddy’. For a month we lived like hermits, with Nyx our only visitor, bringing food, gossip from the island and news about the world at large. Then we received communication from Crete, asking us to attend the games my mother had been planning.
Dion insisted that we go as a family and maintained he would do my mother the courtesy of playing a gig, as he had promised. I was still a bit unsure, but Crete welcomed us with open arms. It is something that I have learnt to appreciate about island life. No matter what the world at large thinks, islanders will rally round their own and protect them, just as the sea protects their land from intruders.
Crete had never looked more beautiful. The streets were decorated with garlands of flowers and the atmosphere
was one of solidarity and euphoria. For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be Cretan and was proud of it. We made straight for Knossos, so my mother could fall upon her little grandson and meet her son-in-law. Oinopion thrust a bag full of stones, he had insisted on packing, into her hands and explained that they were from his other ‘homes’ so could he please have a rock garden for them? Despite the fact that she was about to host the biggest party the island had ever seen, my mother wasn’t fazed and took her demanding grandson out, there and then, to pick a spot.
I took Dion on a tour of the island, as I had done with Theo on a day which now seemed a lifetime ago.
“It’s beautiful,” Dion said as we sat on the cliff looking back at Naxos. “I don’t know how you could ever leave it.”
“It wasn’t the same. Then, it seemed like a prison.”
“And now?”
“Now, now it feels like, I don’t know, right I guess.” I shrugged.
“Like home, you mean, it feels like home,” Dion said wistfully.
“Yes,” I said thinking about all the places I had shown Dion that day and the memories that still inhabited them: The place where I had tripped when I first met Bris, the spot where her house had stood with her herb garden, which now, after being neglected, had been taken care of by nature and the track where Andro used to train, day after day. They all felt mine in a way that Olympia, the Mountain and, even, Naxos never did. “Yes,” I repeated, “like home.”
Dion stared, silently, out to sea.
When we arrived back at the palace, the place was in uproar. Having found and cultivated his rock garden, Oinopion had then lost interest in it. Having exhausted other forms of entertainment, he had persuaded his grandmother to play hide and seek with him. Still eager to cater to his every whim, my mother indulged him and had since exhausted all possible hiding places, bar one.
It surprised me that I still knew it so well. It was one of the few places in the palace, or even on the island, which hadn’t been prodded, poked and improved. Dion and my mother followed me in. She looked white and clutched at my hand. I guessed that she had never been down there. Had she never been curious about the place where her son had spent his life? But, then, it was also the place where he had died. We turned corner after corner, calling Oinopion’s name, until we reached Aster’s room. Phaedra’s stars had faded, but were just visible. Andro’s instructions for various wrestling techniques were still pinned to the walls. There were two small cases, which Aster had packed with the few possessions he owned and wanted to take to his new life. Curled up on his bed, sleeping, was the nephew he had never known.
My mother gasped.
Dion, gently, picked up his son and he stirred.
“Look Mummy, I’ve found my very own home,” he said sleepily, but proudly.
There was talk of what to do to Aster’s rooms and his belongings. Finally, it was decided that they should be left as they were, untouched, unspoiled and undisturbed. A quiet place, where those who loved him could visit him, in spirit. I know my mother spent an hour there every day until the day of her death, when she slipped, peacefully, away to be with her sons and wait for the rest of us to join them.
Dion asked if he could practise in the Labyrinth as the acoustics were so good, and he wouldn’t disturb anyone. My mother agreed. For the next seven days, Dion would often climb Mount Ida before returning to practise in the Labyrinth, where he worked on new songs for the festival. The exercise and fresh air seemed to invigorate and inspire him. Each day, when he emerged from a practice session in the Labyrinth, he seemed happier than he had ever been. He made jokes about returning to earth and told Oinopion about his adventures in the ‘underworld’. Whilst Oinopion was entranced, I would think about Dion’s hallucinations and shudder.
Maybe, I should have seen this as a premonition, but then Dion had his hair cut short, telling me it was time for a ‘new beginning’. He even agreed to an interview with The Cretan Credance. I had misgivings, but it turned out to be one of the most truthful representations of Dion. After reading it, any concerns I may have had were pushed to the back of my mind, besides my mother was keeping me busy above ground. Phaedra had sent word that she would not be back in time for the festival, which had disappointed my mother. I had hoped that, between us, we could rebuild our crumbled bridges. But while I was willing to mix cement, it seemed she still needed time to find the bricks.
All too quickly, the first day of the festival arrived. Nobody watching the composed and charismatic Queen of Crete, take the stand and make her opening speech, would have had any idea that, just two hours earlier, we had all been in freefall. The clothes, which had been sent back several times to be altered, had arrived in time. I had even managed to get all three of my boys washed and dressed, when my mother’s maid, Tania, anxiously knocked on my door and told me she was unable to find my mother. Although I had come to realise that Tania was trustworthy, I knew enough about the long ears of the press to want to keep any discrepancy to myself.
“I’m sorry Tania, I meant to tell you that she’s taking a quiet walk to compose herself.”
Tania gave me a suspicious look. “What about her dressing time?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, I can help her if she needs it.”
Tania gave me a hard stare for a few moments and I stared back as innocently as I could. Eventually, she relented.
“Now Oinopion,” I said when I had closed the door, “where could your Grandmamma be?”
“Maybe she’s playing hide and seek,” Oinopion, innocently, suggested.
I raced down and through The Labyrinth and into the Minotaur’s lair. There, my mother sat on Aster’s bed, holding one of his little Minotaur statues in her hands.
“From today, Crete will celebrate and revere the Minotaur, just as I should have cherished Asterius.”
Radiant in purple, my mother welcomed her people and thanked them for the hard work they had all put into the festival which, if it went well, she hoped to make an annual event. This was greeted with loud applause. She then went on to outline the schedule.
Day One:
After mother’s speech, we opened up the grounds of Knossos for the evening feast. The gardens were filled with lanterns, twinkling, and the sound of laughter. I had never heard such merriment at home in the whole of my life and I was amazed at how beautiful it was. But I was beginning to realise that it had never been about the place, but about the people or - rather, person. Dion moved from table to table. As son-in-law, he was one of the hosts and he played down his fame, keeping the focus on the festival.
Day Two:
The whole island slept late into day two, getting over the excitement of the evening and building up energy for the entertainment to come. Mother had been the first islander to rise. She’d paced the corridor nervously, hoping for the success of the activities she had planned. In the afternoon, we all gathered on the beach, nearest to Knossos. The crowd parted as seven young acrobats led out three beautiful white bulls, adorned with garlands of the most colourful flowers on Crete. The crowd gasped as three of the acrobats bowed to the bulls and then, taking a graceful run up, grabbed their horns and somersaulted over the beasts. For an hour, the acrobats delighted the crowd with more and more outrageous stunts and tricks, performing handstands, vaults and pommels and flying over the bulls.
Finally, the acrobats, amid applause, bowed to the audience, then to the bulls and then bid us do the same. The entire population bowed down to the bulls and clapped and cheered them. Bull-leaping or ‘taurokathapsio, as my mother had christened it, was now to become a pastime of which Crete could be proud.
I squeezed my mother’s hand gently. It had been a fitting tribute to both her sons, and for a moment I had been transported back to The Labyrinth, where I had witnessed a big brother teach his little brother how to perfect pankration moves.
Day Three:
Following the success of the bull-leaping, mother was able to relax and enjoy the fin
al day, which involved music competitions. The winners were a young group of singers, calling themselves The Chorus. For their encore, they sang one of Libertia’s songs in honour of Dion. I could tell that he was touched. Then it was his turn to take to the stage. He hadn’t let me hear any of the songs he had prepared and so I was, as one, with the rest of Crete when Dion gave his last performance. He sang four songs. “My Jigsaw” was about two brothers and their loyalty. He dedicated it to our sons, but I knew it had been inspired by my brothers and Dion’s relationship with Amphelos. The second, “The Hole in my Soul” was a haunting lament to lost love and the third, “Finding Nirvana” was a tribute to the people of Crete. The fourth and final song, he dedicated to Mount Ida. It was called “Immortally Mortal.” He held us spellbound and silent throughout. We stood, motionless, long after he had played the final chord. Then, at last, he lifted his head and smiled at the crowd. The silence was broken, as applause and cheering burst from us.
To round off the festival, and as tribute to its success, we formed a Paean procession and danced through Crete, expressing our pride and passion for our island. Dion joined me, exhilarated, but I was so lost, in the dancing, I didn’t notice him slip away. Even if I had noticed, I wouldn’t have been concerned. Dion often needed time alone after a gig. Despite its short length, this had been his first public performance since the death of Orpheus.
It was only when I arrived back in our rooms at 3am, my feet bleeding, my muscles aching and my throat hurting, that I found his note waiting for me.
Chapter Thirteen Dion’s Departure
At 6am on the 4th April, my beautiful, creative, imaginative husband woke up alone in our bed, in our bedroom, in our home, on our island. By 3pm, he was dead.
I hadn’t seen Dion for a week before he died. I was still on Crete. In the note, he left me, when he crept away from the festival, he had insisted that I should stay on Crete to spend more time with my mother, dissecting the success of the festival and relaxing after all the excitement. He’d also used Oinopion as leverage. It was unfair to make him leave Crete, early, when he evidently loved being there so much.
Dion: His Life and Mine Page 14
