Bull God

by Roberta Gellis

  “You are responsible for telling my Visions. You aren't responsible for the acts of those whom the Visions concern unless they concern you or this shrine.” He blinked, then frowned. “I don't even know if it's possible to act in such a way as to change my Visions.” His frown grew blacker. “I don't know why the Visions are sent to me ...”

  Ariadne bent forward and took his hands. “You'll worry less about Visions when your belly is full,” she said. “Give me leave to send for the priestesses ...” She hesitated, saw that he was smiling at her, and added, “They've begged me to allow them to see you. Are you willing for me to present them to you today?”

  “So long as they bring a good meal with them,” he said.

  She didn't reply but went to ring the bell that brought the priestesses to her and instructed the women to bring the platter she had had prepared at the beginning of the ten-day and had put into stasis. When she took the large platter to carry it to Dionysus, she told the priestess to be sure that she and the priests be dressed in their best. After Lord Dionysus had eaten, he had agreed that they should be presented to him.

  As she carried the tray in, she dissolved the spell of stasis. Immediately wisps of steam rose from the tureen of soup and from several platters. Dionysus turned his head toward the enticing odors.

  “How did you do that?” he asked. “Was a meal ready that you snatched out of the mouths of your household?”

  Ariadne laughed merrily. “I'm not so improvident as to feed my household on dishes like these,” she said. “We eat well, but these are dainties prepared for a grand state dinner. One of the palace cooks has a soft spot in his heart for me. He heard I was living here instead of in the palace and wasn't invited, so he sent word that he'd save a selection for me. You may be sure I went with the servant and put a stasis on the tray. And here it is.”

  “You saved it all for me?” Dionysus asked softly.

  “Except for a few pieces of meat and stuffed grape leaves,” Ariadne replied. “I had to make sure the stasis would work on the hot food, so I put a bit aside and had it for dinner two days after. It was still hot then, so I hoped it would keep until you came, and it seems to have done so.”

  He looked at her; his lips parted as if to speak, but he said nothing and looked away to pick up a skewer with which he chose a small sizzling roll of hashed stuffing in a pastry shell. Having burnt his tongue and breathed out heavily to cool it, he remarked that the little roll was delicious, skewered another, and told Ariadne to join him. Before she sat, she ladled some soup from the tureen to a bowl. There were several of those and she served herself also. They both ate in appreciative silence for a little while.

  “I have a poor memory,” Dionysus said suddenly, “but not so bad that I have forgotten your worry over the word 'failure.' Were you hoping to distract me with this meal?”

  Ariadne caught the slight sharpness in the question and didn't convey to her mouth the slice of sauced meat she had folded into a bite-sized piece with her skewer. “Oh, no, my lord,” she said. “Although I do hope that I did what you will think is right, I need your advice on how to proceed further.”

  “Yes?” Impatience in the tone and flick of the eyes.

  “When I told Queen Pasiphae of your Vision, she was very rude. I know that you might have had her torn apart for her lack of respect, but she was my mother, my lord.”

  Dionysus made a dissatisfied but accepting grunt, then sighed and nodded.

  “So I told her that the blessing of vine and wine would be withheld from Knossos alone of all places on Crete until apology and restitution were made.”

  He was silent, thinking while he chewed slowly, then nodded and said. “I do approve. Although my punishment would have been harsher, a priestess shouldn't shed kin-blood. But if you've pronounced sentence already, about what do you need my advice?”

  “My lord,” Ariadne said, downcast eyes fixed on her folded hands, “I know what will happen and I am torn two ways. Pasiphae will make no apology nor restitution of any kind, but King Minos will come and plead with me to forgive them both and will offer sacrifice and his own apology.” She looked up, her big black eyes pleading. “Please, my lord, I know the queen deserves punishment, but must I ruin Minos and those who were my brothers because she is unmanageable?”

  “You mean King Minos will sacrifice and beg pardon but he can't force his wife to do so?”

  “That's true, my lord. The queen is the avatar of the Snake Goddess ... and she is, truly. She always knows who will leap the bulls safely and what the pattern of the bull dances means. By that pattern is the planting done. She knows, too, when the land will shake. The people wouldn't permit her to be scorned or harmed. King Minos really cannot force her.”

  Dionysus looked away from her, out the window onto the hillside where the long shadows of late afternoon were beginning to fade into a generalized dusk. Ariadne studied his face and saw in it uneasiness mingled with irritation and then, following a sidelong glance at her, resignation.

  “Queen Pasiphae emerges then free of any flick of punishment or shadow of blame while everyone else pays for her sins?”

  Ariadne sighed. “That's how it often is.”

  Dionysus uttered a sharp bark of laughter without any mirth in it. “Not this time,” he said, and then patted Ariadne, who had drawn in her breath and paled. “No, she won't meet her doom through me. I'll hold my hand. Her death would be a reward to those who let her run amuck and though your heart is soft for love of them, they must suffer too. No, no. I need do nothing. If Queen Pasiphae bears what she carries ...” He shrugged. “You may make whatever arrangement you think best with King Minos—so long as he knows for whose guilt he is paying. But do you know the bounds of the land that's Minos' own?”

  “I know his lands around Knossos,” Ariadne said. “He does have other lands in other places on Crete. I don't know those. But the lands around Knossos are the greatest.”

  “I suppose that will have to ...” Dionysus' voice faded as an idea came to him. Then he smiled beatifically. “No, we'll withhold my blessing from all his lands. Tonight we will bless the lands near this shrine, ignoring Minos' vines. In the next ten-day you'll travel to each of my other shrines on Crete. You are my chosen high priestess, my Mouth, and all the other priests and priestesses must acknowledge you. I'll come to you at each shrine, and we'll bless those lands, but the priestesses of each shrine will know which are the king's lands, and we'll avoid them.”

  “Yes,” Ariadne sighed, “that will make the lesson sharper.”

  “You aren't happy. Are you afraid King Minos will try to punish you when he sees his vines alone do not prosper?”

  She was surprised at his sensitivity to her feeling, but before she could explain that in this case it was not fear, only sadness because those she loved must suffer, he had put down the skewer he was still holding and looked down into his empty hands.

  “Don't fear,” he added, as a silvery ball formed between his fingers. “Come here.”

  She rose without hesitation, even as he spoke, to walk around the little table and kneel at his feet. He looked down at her, staring into her fearless, trustful eyes.

  “This is a spell that will bring me to your side whenever you need me. Call and I'll come if any ever threaten you—but don't abuse that power.”

  He touched the silvery globe to the top of her head while he spoke. Ariadne could feel it flowing over her, slipping under her clothing, tingling slightly and chilling her as it covered her skin. For just a moment she saw the silver mist drift over her small breasts and down her arms to flicker and die around her clasped fingers.

  She said, “No, no. I'll be careful. I'll Call only when it's time for blessing the grapes to bring them to full ripeness or for pressing them into wine ... or in dire need.” Then she lowered her head, bit her lip, and at last looked up, holding out her hands. “But ... but may I never Call to you just for love? Just for the joy you wake in me by being with me? Never?”

 
; He looked at the outstretched, pleading hands; she was reaching toward his but not so bold as to touch them. His lips twisted, almost as if he were in pain, but a moment later he laughed. “Purely for love and joy ... well, that's no bad thing, that my priestess should love me and joy in me. So you may Call. But not each day or even monthly. Twice or thrice a year—say on your birth day or name day—you may scry me and ask if it's convenient for me to come to you. If nothing holds me ... perhaps I'll come.”

  “Oh, thank you. Thank you.”

  He flicked her nose with a finger, pointed back at the cushions on which she'd been sitting, and began to tell her how they would go about blessing the vines, beginning with the fact that she would have to put on clothing that wasn't covered with flounces, which would catch in every twig. She showed him what she had and he settled on a straight gown of soft, white wool and a pair of sturdy sandals. Then he told her what they would do. By the time he had finished explaining, there was little on the tray or in the flagon, dusk had darkened into true night, and Dionysus had lit the nearest lamp with a flick of his fingers.

  The priests and priestesses who came in answer to Ariadne's bell, carried tapers with which, after asking permission, they lit more lamps. Ariadne saw they were dressed in their new best, good cloth, clean and unworn with only simple embroidered patterns of vines and grapes. She remembered then that she had asked permission to present them, and she gestured them all forward to stand before their god. All came stiffly to salute, catching and holding deep breaths.

  “Say to them 'I see you,' “ Ariadne whispered in Dionysus' ear.

  “I see you,” he said, and then with his erratic perceptiveness seemed to know that wasn't enough. In her mind, as if he were scrying her, Ariadne heard him ask for their names and she answered, without effort, in the same manner.

  “Dido, I see you,” he said to the elder priestess and to the younger, “I see you, Hagne.” Upon which he turned to the priests and said “I see you, Kadmos. I see you, Leiandros.”

  Breath sighed out of all of them in a trembling gust.

  “The Lord Dionysus is a merciful god. As you asked, so you have been acknowledged,” Ariadne said before any could speak. “Now you may take the tray and the dishes.”

  When they were gone, Dionysus turned to Ariadne and asked, “What does that mean? I see you. Of course I saw them. How should I not? They were standing right in front of me.”

  Ariadne looked startled, then cocked her head in thought. “It's a royal greeting,” she said, grinning suddenly. “It's very clever, really. It permits a powerful person to acknowledge recognition of a suitor or a courtier without making any promises.”

  Dionysus looked back at her with widened eyes, then also grinned. “Well, well, well,” he murmured, “that is clever, and I know who'll be most grateful to me for suggesting such a device.” He stood up then and caught Ariadne to him in a hug. With an arm still around her, he led her out of the inner chambers to the outer shrine.

  The stars were very bright, but still Ariadne hesitated on the threshold, wondering how she would see when she was out in the fields. Dionysus seemed to understand and went back inside, where he took from the wall a hooked staff used for cutting bunches of grapes from high arbors or trees into which they had climbed. A touch set it glowing. Another touch, this on Ariadne's breast, left a glowing patch which, without needing explanation, she somehow sucked inside herself and attached to a leaf of her heartflower. Then Dionysus took her hand—and vanished.

  He was there. She could feel his strong grip and the warmth of his body not far from hers, but she couldn't see him. “It's a gift of Hekate's,” he said. “She made the spell for Eros, but then she gave it to me also. It takes a lot of power, but I never lacked for that.”

  “But why don't you wish to be seen, my dear lord? The people love you. They would—”

  “They would want to follow me and play games for which, little priestess, you are too young. When you're older ... I'll see. For now, if people see you walking alone through the vineyard, they'll accept a solemn blessing. And when the vines grow strong and the grapes rich, that will increase your power and, through you, mine. For now, that will be enough.”

  They went together, his hand in hers, and, though her eyes couldn't make out his form, the silver mist that flowed from her and back into her made him out clearly and “showed” her and “told” her what to do. Soon Dionysus blessed only the right of the lane through which they passed and Ariadne blessed the left with wide swings of her glowing staff. She felt the power flow from her as she felt it flow when she set stasis on any object; but here in the fields, blessing the vines, she didn't feel cold or empty. Warmth flowed into her as fast, faster, than she could cast it over the vines she passed. Her steps quickened, until she was running lightly, surely, along the rows of vines, Dionysus' hand still locked firmly in hers.

  Ariadne would've sworn that no one could run all night, not even she who danced for the Mother. Then she had her periods of rest. Whether she'd ever stopped all night long, she didn't know; all she was sure of was that she had passed through every vineyard in the land ruled directly from the Palace of Knossos—except those that belonged to Minos.

  In the courtyard of the temple, Dionysus reappeared to her sight, laughing, his eyes alight, for once not with rage but with pure delight.

  “How?” she asked him, also laughing with pleasure, “how could I run for stadia and stadia and not feel breathless or tired at all? When I use power to make a stasis, I'm exhausted, cold and weak. Now I'm warm and stronger than before I started. And you aren't tired either.”

  “That's because when you make a stasis, you're using a spell that is no part of you. The ability to make vines strong is my Gift—and seemingly yours also. A Gift is as much a part of you or me as the beating of our hearts. That doesn't make us tired. Nor does the use of a Gift natural to us.”

  “But I felt the power flow out of me, as when I make stasis. Only it flowed back in even faster.”

  He smiled. “The Mother gives us our Gifts. I suppose She provides the power for them when we use them according to Her will.”

  Ariadne glanced quickly at him and away. Did gods need Gifts from the Mother? Hadn't they all the power— She put the thought aside quickly as Dionysus cocked his head at her and said, “I wish She'd provided a filling for my stomach too. I'm very hungry.”

  She laughed and said she'd fetch food, no dainty dishes this time but olives and cheese and bread, but as she went to get the meal, conscious of the emptiness of her own belly after so much exercise, she wondered again about the need of a god for the same food that common humans ate. No slaughtered kine were offered to the Mother. Braziers of incense were lit, sweet music of drum, pipe, and sistrum was offered, and the beauty of the dance. The Mother did not eat, and yet Ariadne was very aware of the power of the Mother. What else sustained her to dance and dance or to run all night long as she had just done?

  Still, as the days passed, she couldn't doubt the power of Dionysus either, even if he did eat cheese and olives. On five succeeding nights he came to fetch her. On each night, she would be standing in his embrace before the altar of the shrine one moment; in the next, she would be standing with his hands on her shoulders before an utterly strange shrine. Often there was shock and consternation among the priests and priestesses; sometimes Ariadne read anger and envy in the face of the local priestess.

  Dionysus gave no one time to incite his wrath, however. He announced who Ariadne was—his chosen high priestess—and he touched the servants of each shrine with a single wave of rage and terror so violent that they fell groveling to the ground. While they lay, he led Ariadne out into the moonless dark and they blessed the fields. The last night, there was a hair-thin crescent of moon. That night, which was almost warm, Ariadne brought the renewing meal out and they ate sitting on the altar. When he was finished, Dionysus touched her face with slightly greasy fingers.

  “I won't see you again for a time,” he said.
“There are other fields and vines to bless than those of Crete. I may make merrier over them, but remember—if you hear lewd tales of me—that I've had greater pleasure with you than in all those bacchanals.”

  He was gone before she could reply and for a ten-day or two she had little to do and felt very sad, but then the people began to come up Gypsades Hill. The priests and priestesses told her that all through the vineyard leaves were bursting from bud almost with violence; the vines seemed to pulse with the force of their growing. And early and strong there were flowerlets that promised thick bunches of grapes. Only in the vineyard that belonged to the king were there reluctant, blighted leaves, thin growth, and no sign of coming grapes.

  The road up Gypsades Hill could be seen from the south side of the Place of Knossos, in fact from the porch that sheltered the king's own apartment. Perhaps Minos himself saw the constant stream of people driving and carrying sacrifices up the road or perhaps those who tended the vines on his lands complained of their sad condition. Whichever was the spark, one moon to the day that Ariadne and Dionysus had blessed the vineyard, her younger brother Glaukos, followed by a glittering retinue, stalked into the shrine.

  He demanded Ariadne's own presence from Dido and Kadmos, who had been accepting and recording offerings, and Hagne went to fetch her. Summoned, Ariadne twitched with the impulse to spring to her feet and hurry to perform whatever service her brother demanded. She reminded herself of who and what she was now, and took the time to dress and make sure her hair was properly combed.

  Although she kept her face without expression, Ariadne was delighted to see Glaukos' haughty demeanor wilt a trifle when she came from the inner chambers and took her place directly before the painting of Dionysus. She knew that it almost seemed that the hands of the god, thrust forward a little in the painting, rested on her shoulders. Her wine red dress, banded in beaten gold, dazzled her brother's eyes, and he blinked and looked away from her high-dressed hair, wound with gold chains of winking gems, which set off the long curled locks of consecration that fell before her ears down on her budding breasts.