“No!” She ran, breaking the force before it could flow back to the portrait and complete the cycle – and extinguish her will.
Four
Clio ran from his room, from his house, from his trap. Through the vineyard, the only place that came to mind. Her bare feet pounded against the grass. In the recesses of her brain, pain registered when her foot landed on a sharp pebble. The only direction she pursued was away.
Dion – Dionysus – would follow, of that she was sure. The only god to remain faithful to his wife, he’d singled her out to replace Ariadne. Trapped Jon, and then tried to trap her.
The sun had slipped behind the horizon. A stand of trees walled the vineyard with leafy, woody darkness. She slowed to catch her breath. In the hills behind her, a bird called and swooped to its nest, but nothing else moved.
Leaning a hand against a tree, she rested for a moment. No clear path showed to lead her on. It had to be the way – the Maenads lived wild and free in the forests. At Dion’s house, they had seemed like a feral pack.
And legend said they were.
Frenzied with wine, the Maenads sang and ran. Her mother’s stories had romanticized the Maenads: they worshipped Dionysus in the sacred purity of the wilderness, not in temples. In the forest, the god provided them with herbs, berries and goat’s milk. They slept in the soft meadow grass under a sky filled with stars blazing like hot coals embedded in smooth black ash, until the moon began its descent in acquiescence to the impending dawn. They bathed in clear brooks. The Maenads exulted in the open sky and the wild beauty of the world.
As a young girl, Clio had been fascinated by the Maenads – lovely, free women, who acted as they chose, loyal to their sisterhood and to Dionysus. She had imagined herself to be one of them. She, too, had loved to run through the woods, throw her arms open to the wildness of nature.
When she was thirteen, a library book had revealed the true nature of the Maenads. A wild group, yes; feral, most definitely. Terrifying to any creature they encountered. In their wine-induced frenzy, they shrieked and tore any living thing in their path to pieces, singing while they devoured bloody shreds of its flesh.
Oh, God. She hadn’t seen Jon in a full day. Anything could have happened by now. The urge to find him overwhelmed her.
To pace herself, she jogged through the trees, fighting back tears. Tears would be of no help. To fight the Maenads, she must be as fierce and shrewd as they.
But which way should she go? They could be anywhere. She stopped, stilled her breath so she might hear anything to provide her a clue.
Echoing through the hush of mist-filled trees, thumping somewhere far-off, yet insistently, she heard it. The drumbeat. The rhythm instilled a restlessness that grew with each thud, until her heart beat in time, until she was ready to explode.
The drums called to her: follow your heart, follow your heart.
Like a gypsy thief, she followed their mantra.
The course of her fate had been mapped by some ancient cartographer, laid out like an intricate high-walled maze that she blindly followed.
In her mind, she saw them: they’d slipped the reins of responsibility, slipped through the door to wander the night. They’d filled Jon with wine until he became senseless enough to follow them. They danced like primitive things, encircling the fire until the flames leapt high, casting shadows against the sky so their spirits would be one with the heavens, free at last to soar.
Oh, to laugh and dance in such a sisterhood. To slip the shackles of so-called civilization. To live without restriction!
Without love, she reminded herself. Without Jon.
The urge to find the drums became a desperate need. A delirium.
Follow your heart, follow your heart, they called.
She opened herself to the sound, let her soul guide her to Jon. His love drew her to him like a tether tightening between them.
The woods stretched ahead, deeper than she’d thought possible. She stumbled through the dark, fighting off the distress threatening to overwhelm her.
A faint light shone ahead. Careful not to make a sound, she hurried toward it.
Ringed in leaping flames, the clearing revealed a surreal ceremony, ancient as the stars. Their hair flowing, three Maenads beat their palms against primitive bongos, five others dancing in short flowing dresses, chanting and singing:
O Bacchanals, come,
Oh, come,
Sing Dionysus,
Sing to the timbrel,
The deep-voiced timbrel.
Joyfully praise him,
Him who brings joy.
Holy, all holy
Music is calling
To the hills, to the hills,
Fly, O Bacchanal
Swift of foot.
Oh, O joyful, be fleet.
How glorious their beauty shone in the firelight, even with joyful madness in their eyes.
In the center, Jon struggled against the ropes binding him to a log, angled backward. To throw him off balance, perhaps? Escape didn’t seem likely; he lay naked except for his bonds.
Their chants grew louder and the dancing women tightened their circle. From deerskin pouches, they poured wine into his mouth. He turned his head, but Mariam grabbed his jaw and emptied her pouch down his throat. It overflowed from his mouth. Her eyes widened and her tongue traced the spilled wine from his chest and up his neck.
Horror gripped Clio as Mariam peered into his face like a madwoman, then straddled him with a whoop. A ceremonial move, a precursor to what was to follow, her hips ground against his. Throwing her head back, her moans rose to a scream. She slid from him, and laughed at his obvious arousal. The other women shrieked and laughed, and tore shreds from their dresses until they were tattered. One by one each wetted her hands from a jug, and slid her oiled palms across his chest, his legs, his thighs.
Horror turned to fascination watching their tongues flick the oil from his skin. A part of her wanted to be one of these women, running free, answerable to no man, sleeping in sweet pine-needle beds or under a dome of stars, dancing and laughing.
They slid shreds of their tattered dresses across him. With dazed, heavy-lidded eyes, he lay moaning while they teased his desire. To tantalize him, they nipped at his legs and hips, their tongues circled his nipples.
When they laughed, they must have been imagining the feel of his flesh tearing from his bones. His screams for pity would only fuel their frenzied celebration.
He moaned louder. “Clio.”
His breath might have been at her ear, in their own private frenzy. She widened her stance. “Maenads! Take your leave. I come to claim what is mine.”
The drumbeats ceased.
In unison, they looked at her, startled, wild-eyed. The crackle of the fire the only sound.
Mariam arched her brow and smiled. Her steps slow, yet sure, she led the others toward Clio. They swirled around her. Their eyes reflected the flames encircling them. Their caresses slid across her shoulders, her back, her waist, and legs. She stood unflinching at their touch. She met each gaze with determination. Their heads bowed, each peered into her eyes invitingly, smiling.
She understood: they wanted her to join them in violating her husband. Destroying him.
Raising her chin, she moved toward Jon with purpose. The drummers caressed the bongos softly, the beat increasing as they closed in on him. The Maenads twirled their strips of rags in the air and chanted.
Fear filled his eyes anticipating her approach, her familiarity masked by the strength she drew from these ferocious women. Their wildness grew like a seed within her, its roots spreading fast through her blood. It pulsed with a primal urge. Her fingers slid across the oiled skin of his waist and hips, mimicking their touch. How his muscles rippled beneath.
He lifted his head toward her, but she kept out of reach of his hungry lips. He would be subservient to her. She would have him when she was ready. He would beg, but not be able to touch her.
The Maenads danced and twirled
in the firelight. Mariam held out her deerskin flask, and Clio grabbed it and drank her fill. She emptied what was left onto his chest, then flung it to the ground. Their chanting became more rhythmic, and their hips swayed hypnotically.
Her lips moved across his waist, her teeth clenched his skin, but did not break it. He moaned, his eyes following her every movement, not understanding, but trusting. Even as Mariam handed her a long silk scarf, and motioned for her to slip it around his neck. She wound the silken tie as instructed.
She did not tie it, but held either end and straddled him. “You are mine.”
He strained toward her.
She leaned against him. “I told you – I will do anything for you.”
Face filled with relief and pride, he nodded. Beneath her hands, his heart pulsed. She would not fail him.
The drummers beat faster. The Maenads’s feet flew atop the grassy clearing, their shredded clothes swirling as they danced.
Flasks and jugs littered the ground. Standing against the wooden triangle holding Jon prisoner, a saber gleamed in the firelight. A small knife lay beside it.
She smiled and thrust her hips at him. The women shrieked and laughed. If she were to carry through with this, she was sure they would attack him once she’d finished.
She lunged forward and grabbed both the knife and the saber. In one deft stroke, she inserted the knife in the bathing suit’s belt and swung the saber over her head. “Party’s over, ladies.”
The women fell away from the circle. Their nostrils flared, their teeth clenched.
If they came at her one by one, she might be able to hold her ground. They glanced at Mariam, who looked at each with uncertainty. Clio could see a plan desperately trying to come together in the woman’s head. If the Maenad leader drew them together to attack as one, Clio stood no chance. With a yell, she swung the saber out toward them. They scattered to the edge of the fire.
A rumble like a thousand thunders made them all gasp.
Beyond the circle of fire stood Dionysus, glorious in his rage. How she would have loved to see him on Mount Olympus, a beautiful god among gods.
He strode into their circle, his eyes ablaze with power. His stance signaled an impending fight. Defeat was not in a god’s nature.
Mariam smiled and sidled next to him.
Clio touched the saber’s tip to the earth, hoping reason would suffice. “You would deprive me of my love, when you know the torture of such deprivation?”
Dionysus narrowed his eyes. Fierceness hardened his features. He would not yield.
She stepped toward him. “So great was your love for Ariadne, you set her crown in the heavens so people throughout the ages would know of your eternal devotion for her. Would you dishonor that love?”
His thunderous voice echoed through the woods. “I am God of the Vine. Dishonor is not known to gods.”
“Yes, you are son of Zeus and Semele. An immortal. You braved the depths of Hades to bring your mother to Mount Olympus. Why not do the same for Ariadne?”
His head lowered, he studied her. “One such favor is granted. No more would be tolerated.”
“I am a mortal. Like Ariadne, I will die someday. You will be alone again.”
He walked toward her. “Then I must take you now while I can.”
She stepped back to Jon. “I love my husband. I will never love you. No matter what.”
Dionysus roared in anger and anguish, wrestling with the two sides of his nature: the God of the Vine was either a person’s blessing or ruin, benefactor or destroyer. He loved humans and traveled among them, unlike the other gods. To teach them, to allow them to transform into beings like himself . To let them feel possessed of a power greater than themselves.
“Would you rather I let my Maenads have their way with your Jonathan?”
With hideous smiles, the pack of females hissed and gnashed their teeth. They slithered closer, their claw-like nails ready to rip into the body she so loved.
“I swear by the River Styx, I will take my own life rather than spend it without Jon.” She swung the saber above her head, ready to strike. They circled closer, eyes wide with anticipation.
Dion extended his arm. “Come to me.”
At his command, she let the sword fall to the ground with a clang. Her willpower siphoned away as he stretched toward her. Her mind blanked with a white static.
The drummers beat softly and the Maenads chanted in time. Clio stepped one foot in front of the other and the women swirled around her, behind her. She walked toward the husband she’d left so long ago, who had grieved for her for ages. The void between them, the loss multiplied by years upon years, closed with each step she took.
She took Dionysus’ hand and stood by him. “My lord.”
His lips touched her fingertips. “Ariadne. My love.” The firelight danced in his dark eyes, lit from within by an inextinguishable desire.
When they turned, a voice she didn’t recognize called a foreign name.
The softness left Dionysus’ face. He glanced over his right shoulder and nodded.
A man screamed. Through the haze of her thoughts, she turned toward the noise.
“Clio!” Jon struggled against his bonds, his eyes pleaded: don’t go with him.
A howl like the sighs of a thousand years of ache and want rushed over her, then fell away. Clio’s beloved husband lay helpless, about to be ripped to shreds by the heartless Maenads.
“Jon!”
He grasped her arm. “Ariadne.”
“No! Let me go!” Her pleas were useless. He held fast.
The Maenads closed around Jon. Clio shrieked. Her fingers brushed the knife in her belt. She unfastened it. If they were going to kill Jon, she would not live to see it. With a primal scream, she closed her eyes, held the knife out and thrust it toward her chest.
Dionysus sliced the air between, and the knife twirled through the air end over end.
She faced him. “I will not live without Jon.” She stood tall. “If not today, then another day. Soon. By whatever means available.”
His agonized roar boomed throughout the clearing. He clenched his fingers into fists and raised them.
Wide-eyed, the Maenads whirled toward him. Silence filled the forest.
Clio quieted her trembling so her voice would not quiver. “If you let them kill my husband, it would only fuel my desire to join him in the afterworld.”
His nostrils flared and he studied her, his jaw set hard.
Mariam took a step toward him, doubt in her eyes. “My lord—”
He raised his palm. “It is finished.” He nodded to the forest.
Mariam bowed her head and stepped back. She lifted her hand, and the drummers shouldered the straps of their bongos and beat softly. The other Maenads followed her into the forest, singing:
The wine of Dionysus
When the weary cares of men
Leave every heart.
We travel to a land that never was.
The poor grow rich, the rich grow great of heart.
All conquering are the shafts made from the vine.
A land that never was – a land she almost became entrapped within.
Dionysus heaved a heavy breath. He raised his head. “It would have been no dishonor to take you as my wife. You are as regal as my queen.”
She curtsied. “I am greatly honored by the attentions of such a beautiful, wise and kind god.”
He whirled away. “Please. No more lies.”
“Not lies, Dion. I speak the truth. But I am Jon’s wife, and always will be. I am no match for you, my lord.”
His eyes glittered. “You have made your choice. Though it baffles me that you choose such a pitiful specimen over me, I will honor it. But my door will always be open to you. If you change your mind….” He bowed, and as swiftly as he had appeared, disappeared into the trees.
Watching to be sure he’d really gone, Clio blew out a breath, then ran to Jon and threw her arms around his waist.
H
is laughter mixed with tears. “Oh, babe, you were amazing.”
In the distance, the drums beat and the Maenads sang. The engine of a sports car roared, and tires peeled away. Dion was gone.
Her knees almost buckled in relief. “Oh Jon.” With a rush of breath, she kissed his chest, neck, cheeks and lips.
“Untie me. Let’s get the hell out of here and go home.”
She pushed her hair from her face. “First, promise me: No more drinking.”
“I promise.”
She inhaled deeply, touched her fingers to her lips, then to his mouth. “All right.” She scanned the grass for the knife. The jugs of oil, the flasks of wine littered the area. The blade glinted at her from near the fire. She bent to retrieve it.
“By the way, have I mentioned how hot you look in that bathing suit?”
The bathing suit. She’d spent what might have been a lifetime in it. “I’m glad you like it.” She sidled toward him, reaching for his hip. “And I didn’t tell you how sexy you are, bound to this log?”
He laughed. “Sexy?”
Lifting the jug, she tipped it over her palm, then smoothed its contents across his hips. “Oh, yes. Very.”
She pulled the straps of her bathing suit down, pushed it past her thighs and stepped through it.
Drumming echoed louder and she slid her leg across his waist.
Laughter echoed above the trees.
She leaned against him. “Before we go, we have some unfinished business.”
Her thighs clenched his waist, and the rhythm intensified. The Maenads yipped and sang. The distant drums beat faster. The power of the sisterhood flowed through her, strong and wild. She thrust herself against him, again and again, until she fell over him, spent.
She no longer envied the Maenads their freedom, for it came with too steep a price: love.
Slicing through his silken bonds, she smiled. “You look exhausted.”
His hand trembled against her waist. “You must be, but you don’t look it. You look so…alive.”
She pulled him up, but his knees buckled and he lay down. She rubbed his arms and legs. “Let’s rest here awhile.” She snuggled against him on the soft grass, skin against skin, one body indistinguishable from the other, until the horizon bled a rose hue into the sky. The colors intensified, . A a slow swirl of red, orange and yellow melding with a crystalline blue ocean-sky, wide and inviting. Rays of sun crept to the horizon’s edge, and burst over it like a symphony.
Clio's Choice Page 5
