A muttered
curse heralded the first arrivers, two teenagers, draped in mangy lion skins
with horned helmets, carrying drums on their backs. They looked around, spotted
Asphodel, and positioned themselves one on either side of her. Her initial
reaction was annoyance, but as their rhythmic drumming echoed across the glade
and surrounded her in a pulsing resonance, she started to relax.
‘Good show lads. We’ll have to make this one
up as we go. All improv.’
Dionysus strutted towards them, his
miniscule toga barely covering his dignity, waving his fennel staff in a
theatrical gesture heavenwards.
‘This is not the spring festival when I come
back from the dead, or autumn where I get dismembered. This one is to put
renewed heart into the good people. Get them off their butts into forward
gear.’
Who does he thinks he is, she thought. Busby
Berkeley or Cecil B De Mille?
‘What’s my role?’ she asked, surprising
herself at the softness of her voice, as the low, percussive beat began to seep
through her roots.
‘Be beautiful.’ He rubbed his genitals with
his free hand and pointed his pine cone at her, giving a suggestive leer.
As he spoke, she could feel her top bud
crackle in preparation for casting off its outer casing. She tried to muster up
outrage for his obscenity and failed. What the heck? She might as well enjoy
this.
The thud of feet and crackle of undergrowth
caused him to look round. Slowly the clearing filled with dishevelled men and women,
their clothes torn and filthy, looking exhausted and resigned. Their leader, a
tall man with a long neck and gaunt face, stepped forward.
‘Lord Dionysus, we came because we were
summoned. But we don’t have time for games. There are houses to rebuild, food
to be found and jobs. Everything is gone.’
‘Really?
You surprise me.’ The youth gave him a condescending smile. ‘And you
expect to accomplish all that, the state you’re in? Reconnecting to the spirit
of nature is the only way forward. Embrace your animal vitality. Don’t be
defeated by loss. Adapt. Live in the moment. Don’t look back.’
Asphodel shook the protective coat of her
top flower loose and it landed on Dionysus’s foot.
‘Enough,’ she said, pushing her stalk up
another few millimetres. ‘They don’t need a lecture. Get on with it.’
‘You’re a star,’ he said bending down to
plant a kiss on her petals. ‘Knew you could do it. Even if you have no respect
for your superiors.’ He swept his staff in a circle above her, creating a
draught that shook her leaves, and shrugged with an irritated expression on his
face. ‘Can’t start till the rich folk come. Late as usual. They’re the ones who
need to learn humility. Experience what it’s like to get stripped of all their
finery and discover they don’t know who they are without their Hermes handbags
and Porsche Turbo Cabriolets.’
‘Shaming them will help?’ she said looking
doubtful.
‘It activates the archetype,’ he replied,
staring up at the sky. ‘These poor people here know all about humiliation.
Nothing to be gained by pulling them lower.’
The tall man stepped forward, twisting his
cap in his hand. ‘We don’t wish anyone else ill. All we want is food, shelter
and work.’
‘And how do you think you’ll get that
without the help of the uncaring ones?’
Dionysus marched round the clearing, gesturing at the drummers to
increase tempo. In the distance a whirring like a flock of buzzards, grew
closer, and turned into a typhoon of wind.
‘Trust them to come in a chopper. Couldn’t
even be bothered to drive. I shouldn’t have given them the coordinates, just
the road directions.’ Dionysus stomped off to greet the incomers in the flat
field below, as the gusts of air subsided and the blades stopped revolving.
‘Tell me,’ said Asphodel to the man,’ you
didn’t happen to see Ma pig and the little ones did you?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, they got away onto the
higher ground. My eldest boy cleared a hole for them in the deer fence.’
She felt a warm glow ripple up her stalk and
more buds unfolded. All her finery was going to be in display.
‘One’ll give a good week’s food over the
winter when they’ve grown on,’ he added.
‘Ouch,’ she said, wincing and chuckling at
the same time. ‘Not much you need to learn about the spirit of nature, is
there?’
A shy grin furrowed his grimy cheeks. ‘The
earth feeds us to live and eats our bodies when we die. No different to the
animals. We take and we give back. It’s the universal law.’
Wonder if they know that, she thought,
watching the procession of fur coats and leather jackets in flimsy boots and
shoes, slipping and slithering on the wet ground, with Dionysus at their head
and two men carrying a picnic hamper at the rear. It would take more than playacting, even with
a dose of hallucinogenics, to reconnect them to their roots.
Still, she couldn’t fault D for trying. No
doubt, he’d be standing plate in hand after the ceremonies were over, as they
escaped back to civilization. Money floats their boat. They’ve replaced soil
with dollars and gold. They’ll pay up to
ease their conscience and then go on making and spending more.
The light disappeared and she suddenly felt
suffocated as an overpowering cloud of spicy resin swirled round her leaves. A
muffled shout made her cringe. Then the darkness lifted as the two drummers on
either side, threw a fur coat they had caught before it flattened her, onto the
muddy ground.
‘Whaddya think you’re doing?’ Dionysus
squealed at a rail-thin, blonde-haired woman, dripping in gold jewellery, in a
black sheath dress with a red-gashed mouth that matched her painted finger
talons.
‘Asphodel is our star. You nearly ruined my
ceremony.’
‘That?’ The skinny legs wobbled as
twig-heeled boots sank into the damp earth. An eyebrow attempted to move
upwards in contempt but the frozen face refused to obey, so she pointed a
ring-laden finger instead.
‘If that’s what we’re supposed to worship,
you can forget it. It’s a scrubby weed.’
‘When you die,’ Dionysus said with a vicious
glint in his eye, jabbing his spear close to her bony chest. ‘This scrubby weed
will be standing over your grave, feeding off your remains. She represents the
symbolic journey you’re about to make, over there.’ He waved towards the fallen
tree root, guarding the entrance to the catacomb.
‘Now, jewellery off. You can leave it on
your 55 stitched-together mink skins there, and your crocodile handbag as well.
Don’t worry my drummers will take care of your wealth.’ He winked at them.
Strange, thought Asphodel. I expected the disrobing to be done
underground. The prospect of the shrivelled and tucked figure standing naked in
front of her was unnerving. To her relief Dionysus threw a woven net of ivy
round the woman and, as the drumming intensified, led the way towards the
chamber. He held up his staff at the entrance and shouted above the din to the
others to follow, leaving their coats and all valuables behind.
As soon as they were out of sight, one
drummer stepped forward and scooped up the mink coat, laden with bracelets,
watches, rings, ear-rings and necklaces. He tied it up with rope, threw it
behind a rock and resumed pounding on the taut deer-hide with both hands.
‘That’s stealing,’ said the leader of the workers,
stepping forward with a worried expression on his gaunt face. ‘We’ll have no part in it. Charity is one
thing. This will get us hung.’
‘Nah,’ both drummers said in unison.
‘I believe what they mean is that Dionysus
is divine,’ said Asphodel tilting her flow stalk in what she hoped was a
reassuring gesture. ‘What the gods give, they can also take away. That’s what
he’s teaching them down there. It’ll go into the Great Mother’s coffers, not
yours. Then he’ll give you grain for
bread and next year’s sowing.’
‘Well said, my dear. How wise, you are.’ The
pine’s voice was sounding hoarse as if the effort was getting too much. He may not be around too much longer, she
thought. Another carcass to feed the insects and fungus, and eventually the soil.
‘If you’re sure,’ said the man, sitting down
on a fallen trunk as if his legs were too weak to hold him. ‘But they’ll still
blame us. They always do.’
One drummer stopped to roll up a shank of
weed which he lit, drew on with a relieved smile and said, ‘When they emerge
they’ll be all tripped out on peyote juice. So loved-up they’ll think it was
their idea. Then tomorrow when the hangover comes, they’ll blame themselves for
being so stupid. It’s a win-win. Help yourself to their lunch box over there.’ He waved his roll-up towards the wicker
basket.
Tomorrow, what a wonderful prospect.
Asphodel twinkled out another two stars down her laden stalk. Peace. The Master
Seedsman was right. What was lost was terrible but nothing ever stays the same for
long. The tang of burning sage floated out of the catacomb, filling the glade
with a heady brew. The poor people, after a whispered discussion, ate pate and
cucumber sandwiches from the hamper and handed round bottles of wine. Asphodel
relaxed, allowing another two flower stalks to pop up. Out of the corner of her
vision she noticed two of her cousins making an appearance on the far side of
the clearing, their first leaves standing upright. What a relief. Less work for her.
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