First published in in Cheers! A Dionysus Fanzine.

The edges of the curtain of night begin to chase the sun from the sky, dimming its fiery light with a soft veil of pale purple. Below, the leaves of the forest’s canopy rustle in the evening breeze. Pine needles sing the notes of an orchestra warming up, playing tuneless trills in ascending and descending scales.

A branch cracks under a padded foot; a soft ear flicks in one direction, then another. Hushed growls rumble and disappear in the rushing wind. Birds seem to whisper to each other, their calls muted and hurried as they flit unseen between the trees. Flashes of gold light shatter through the canopy in broken shards between the leaves, shining on iridescent wings and spotted fur coats hiding in the edges of the forest clearing. The sun’s last gleaming gasp fades over the distant horizon, and the forest holds its breath beneath the darkening purple sky.

Unsilent silence buzzes in the air: the pounding of a heartbeat, the nervous twitch of a feather, the desperately slow breathing of one trying not to make a sound. Fear and excitement thrum in the drumbeat rhythm of hearts hiding in the trees. The forest waits.

In the distance, bells chime high like ringing laughter. Pipes echo the lilting birdsong of dusk, and voices coarse and loud rise in joyful song as they toss their thyrsi above their heads. The ground shakes beneath a procession of dancers, feet striking the ground in time with the tempo of clapping hands and banging drums. Their call invites response, and the music grows with the joined voices of the whistling wind, the chirping birds, the purring cats, and the chittering insects.

The scent of pine mixes in the air with smoke perfumed with incense, and the warmth of bodies in motion drives the chill from the breeze. Merriment bright and sharp as a dagger glints in the eyes of the thiasus as its members weave through the trees, torches held aloft. For all their rampant revelry, there is a tightness in the air around them — something held back, waiting for release.

The satyrs and maenads rush into the clearing, grinning and whispering. Limbs shiver with barely-contained excitement. The light from scattered torches catches the dazzling colours of loose clothes and bright feathers in the trees. They belong here, the wild things — here in a world of shadow and light, of luscious heat and thrilling cold, of things unreal and fantastic — but there is yet one missing from their number. Creeping like shadows, the players take their places on the soft grass and wait for the curtain to rise on their master of ceremonies.

His eyes glow like a wild cat’s in the flickering shadows, teeth bared in a wide grin. The drums roll like thunder as Dionysus steps out of the dark, glowing wine-red in the reflection of the flames. Long, loose hair twined with ivy flows down his back in waves. The light caresses his skin, shadow clinging to the folds of his scant clothing. A drop of wine lingers on his lips, dark as blood in the fireglow. Shallow breath catches in the throats of the assembled revellers as aching want settles low in their bellies; the binding chains of the world weigh heaviest on those for whom liberation is within grasp.

In his hand is the key. He raises his cup; the tension breaks.

Arms lifted in rapturous prayer, now free of the weight of the world’s woes and cares, wave in unfettered jubilation as the dance begins in earnest. Thyrsi strike rocks in time with the rhythm of the drums, bleeding milk and honey and wine from the earth. Spinning and twirling in revolution after revolution, the maenads lick salt sweat off their faces as they stumble in delirious ecstasy. In the wine on their tongues is the acidic brightness of life and the enticing bitterness of decay, the ripe fruit of the world they know and the intoxicating magic of the world they seek. Heat pulses through them with each echoing drumbeat, their speed increasing until the dancers cannot keep pace and fall in a tangle of roaming hands.

His word drives the festivities; sing, he says, and voices roar in wordless noise — dance, he says, and their feet hardly touch the ground. The stars twinkling in the night sky above reflect dimly in his eyes, wide and hungry as they roam over the scene. Rejoice, he says, and what shackles remain fall to the ground in an echoing clatter.

At the centre of the cyclone of colour he stands, a fixed point in the blurred swirl of fire in the heavens and below. He holds the broken links of chains in his hands: all that remains of the world that grasped so desperately for those who would be his. What limits and restrictions to which the mortal world clings, what small boxes and tight irons into which the amorphous ‘they’ try to force existence — boundaries created by lesser powers, attempting to subdue the vastness of the universe into pieces they can control. Dionysus laughs as he throws the chains beneath the feet of the dancers, whose steps are so light they do not even feel them.

He pours another cup of wine, and another. Ripples in the blood-red surface make visible the thrumming rhythm of the drums, and the members of the thiasus drink deeply of the music pounding in their shared heartbeat. The sharp sting of alcohol mellows into bliss that radiates warmly through their veins, every nerve alight with crackling fire. Dizzy in the rhapsody, their senses are filled with him.

Every voice surrounding them is his: seductive whispers in their ears, loud singing to the music of the pipes and drums, ringing laughter echoing through the dark forest. His words are not a command, but a release; husky and low, his speech weaves through the music, the birdsong, the purring of the cats, and the cries of those who praise him, sweetly moaning, Enjoy.

The earthy smell of freshly picked plants rises in the air — the scents of life and of death, wrapped up in one instant. Grapes burst on their tongues, sour before sweet, and the soft flesh of the fruit is washed down with wine laced with spices that speak of faraway days and endless nights. The metallic taste of blood fills their mouths, salted with sweat and laced with the smell of sun-warmed grass. Enveloped in the heady warmth of body heat, they breathe him in.

Hesitant fingers lightly trace circles on skin bared to the night. Invisible touch stirs nerves like vibrating strings of a musical instrument, filling the air with a song of desire. The thiasus is a tangle of flesh, of hands reaching out to one another for companionship, for pleasure, for solace. In the comfortable contact of skin on skin is a heat derived not from something as simple and earthly as touch, but from the divine hand of their conductor. His caress, languid and unhurried, lingers in savouring bliss.

In the blinding lights of his stage, the dark world beyond disappears. Shadows shrink away and all that remains are the players, illuminated by divine candescence. Whirling in ecstatic abandon, the revellers feel their senses blend into each other: they hear every touch, taste every sound. With every revolution, the world blurs. Faster and faster they spin, eyes fixed on the immovable point of the lord of it all, returning to him again and again.

His fingers trace the secret into their skin, and from his lips falls the late-night whispered truth of a lover — that this is all there is, and all there is is this: joy, in shared moments, in celebration, in seduction, in indulgence.

The moments last forever, and are over far too soon. Yellow sunlight creeps into the sky, turning it the dim blue-green of the sea. Joyful songs fade into the quiet, comfortable laughter that fills the misty morning air. The owls’ low hooting gives way to the tentative dawn orchestra, gently chirping over the dull echoes of drums being set down and the breeze moving through discarded pipes. Burning down to embers, the crackling fire fades to rumbling.

Exhausted bodies strewn on the grass slip into satisfied sleep and a chorus of steady breathing rises from the members of the thiasus. Dionysus, still awake, watches over them. Reflected in his dark eyes, the rising sun finds its match in his undimmed brightness. The night’s raucous fire becomes the comforting warmth of morning, and in endless cycles of dark and light, Dionysus is the constant. His domain is neither one nor the other, but all realms fueled by joy. It is different now, as the players rest tangled in one another and the audience has long since exited the clearing. Uninhibited ecstasy mellows into the quiet bliss of companionship, and he is here in this rapture as much as any other.

Never is his bounty spent; always there are more seats at his table. The followers of Dionysus look neither backwards nor forwards, but around — at the world in each moment, at each moment as a gift of pleasure, at each pleasure as a glimpse of the divine. Over every feast table and in the wings of every stage, at every wild dance in forest clearings or gilded halls, Dionysus raises a cup, and bids you drink.