Ariadne(43)

It could be Theseus. Would I pummel his chest and scream my venom at him? Or would I hurl myself at his feet and beg him to love me? I wasn’t sure I knew any more.

If it wasn’t Theseus, then who? Passing sailors? Pirates? The Cretan navy?

I reeled away from the edge, back through to the courtyard, and it was there that I halted and gasped.

Yesterday, I had torn down the vines. I had flung them in every direction and clawed at the roots with my fingers. Nothing had remained but destroyed branches and smeared, crushed fruit which I had seen as I walked past this very morning.

Now, only moments later, more vines than before twined proudly around one another, stretching their luxuriant, glossy leaves to the sun. Pendulous bunches of plump, purple grapes hung from every branch, swaying gently with their own weight.

My hand was pressed to my mouth and I was murmuring, over and over, ‘It cannot be, it is not real . . .’ But they looked so convincing, so true. I must have been driven to madness; I must be hallucinating. Or perhaps I had died already and this was my existence as a wraith condemned to wander this island for eternity. But why would there be grapes in the afterlife of a wandering spirit? The absurdity of the thought struck me as funny and I almost laughed, but the horror that I might be completely mad stopped me. I could not think clearly and I realised with a jolt that the noise preventing me from thinking was that of running water. I turned so quickly I stumbled. The statue – the little stone statue of the laughing god that must be Dionysus – stood now in a bubbling spring and from the cup held aloft by the smiling deity poured a stream of crystal clear water.

Prickles were racing up and down my spine. There was no explanation for what was happening. It was a miracle – only miracles, surely, should not be so terrifying? Maybe they were; maybe coming up this close to true magic, before your own eyes, would be enough to rip the veil of sanity from anyone’s mind and leave the stark, staring chaos of madness behind.

I was entranced by the sight of the fountain but I jolted back to reality with the urgent realisation that this water, wherever it may have come from, could stop flowing as abruptly as it had begun. I scrambled for the empty cask I had set down with such bleak despair only moments earlier. Watching it fill with glorious, life-giving water, better than any nectar the gods could drink upon Mount Olympus, I laughed with the sheer joy of it. Something, somehow, somewhere had blessed me.

Or someone. Perhaps there would be something for me to live for, after all. If a god, a nymph, any kind of deity, had taken pity enough to create this spring for me then perhaps they meant me further kindness. Perhaps my crimes had not disgusted every immortal.

I had always known the gods existed. I had made offerings to them and spoken my prayers and followed the rituals required to honour their glory. But never had I expected that one would grace me with any sign of their presence. Discourse with the gods was restricted to the mighty who walked among us. A hero like Theseus would be privileged to stride ahead in his labours under the guiding arm of a proud Olympian, one of the great gods who ruled us all and delighted in choosing their favourites from that elite pool of champions. And I knew, of course, that those who caught the attention of the gods for the wrong reasons would be punished. But I had never expected in my own life to encounter a god of lofty stature. I had believed that the closest I would come to divinity in flesh and blood was in the maddened, desperate form of my bull-man brother.

This, however – the miracle of flowing water, the simple beauty of grapes glistening in the sunshine – this was a gift of purity; this was divine benevolence. And though I did not know from what source it came, I knew that I must be swift to express my gratitude. Before I would avail myself of the cold, refreshing water or the sweet, delicious grapes, I would offer my thanks.

I hastened back to the kitchen again, to the sweet wine that Theseus had left. Only a few drops remained in the jug, but it was all I had. I thought of the elaborate libations I had seen poured in Crete; the wine we had splashed liberally to please the gods, the blood spilling from the pure white throats of bulls, the fat dripping from spits of roasting meat sparking plumes of smoke high into the air for the delight of the golden immortals. There would be none of that here, but I would hope that whatever god had blessed me would accept my gratitude. I took the jug and a small bowl back through the courtyard, past the miraculous spring of water and out to the patch of scrubby ground beyond. Raising the jug high in my shaking hand, I called out, ‘Whichever kind god has smiled upon me today, Ariadne of Crete gives you thanks,’ and I tipped the few drops that remained into the bowl where they glistened red.

I hoped it would be enough to appease my divine benefactor so that they would not take umbrage at any perceived ingratitude and see fit to make me pay. Now that I had given thanks, anxiety was clawing at me lest the water should dry up as quickly as it had sprung, so I hurried to the brimming cask. I filled my hands and splashed the water into my mouth. To drink my fill without fear was glorious.

I paced back to the rock and tracked the approaching ship which drew closer all the while. I was in a frenzy of nerves. I couldn’t stay still. I wrung my hands together, walked between the rock and the courtyard, and back and forth again. In the courtyard, I stopped. Stared in disbelief.

The water poured no longer. In its place, it was wine that flowed – deep, ruby liquid gushing from the little statue’s cup in sweet, dizzying streams whose intoxicating scent had reached me before I could see what it was. More grapes than ever clustered on the vines beyond.