Page 29 of This Divine Revelry

‘You’d be surprised,’ he says, smiling still. ‘So, if we might return to the matter at hand. All’s well? There are tinctures, somewhere, if you’re having trouble sleeping.’

My throat burns. What is this place, where they cook food for strangers and decorate bedding and care if you cannot sleep?

‘Or a god, with ears, if you’d care to use them,’ he adds, seeming to sober.

But the last person I confided in was Theseus. And what a mistake that was. He left me here and my sister betrayed me and my father ordered my execution and, between all that, I think perhaps I was safer on this island alone. These people are too nice, too friendly, and I don’t trust it any more.

‘I just need some water,’ I say finally. ‘You might want to try drinking some too.’

I manage to fall asleep again and wake in a warm and cosy mound of blankets. The breathing around me reminds me of Charis and all the nights we spent sleeping in the same bed just so we could talk a while longer.

When I emerge it is to the smell of baking bread and someone is already blowing on panpipes, and I wonder if I’ve contracted something on this island that’s made me hallucinate all of this.

Then I see the spread Myrto has organized and decide I do not care – if this is a vision of my half-starved, probably dying brain then it’s how I’d like to leave this world.

She stands by a laden table, helping people load plates. Loaves of rosemary-studded bread sit in the table’s centre, surrounded by platters of fried eggs seasoned with garlic and chives. Then, beyond that, bowls filled with any sort of toppings we might want: jugs of oil infused with garlic or rosemary or truffles, creamy dollops of cheese, tureens of honey, olive and caper tapenades, jewel-hued jams and ground nuts sprinkled with cinnamon. She’s even lined up stalks of asparagus down the table, so that with the bread in the centre and the rest spiralling out, it’s formed a sort of flower, each petal more appetizing than the last.

‘If I stay, can I worship you rather than Dionysus?’ I ask, coming up beside her.

She laughs. ‘Oh, absolutely not. This is very much my preference: all of the control and none of the responsibility. Dionysus is more than welcome to the spotlight.’

I help wash up when we’re done, then wonder what else I should be doing. Surely this sort of community only works if everyone pitches in? And if I am truly a guest then I should be contributing gifts of my own.

‘Hey, Areatha!’ I turn to find a woman waving me over. She looks to be about my age, with silken hair and golden freckles specking every inch of visible skin. ‘What are you up to? Do you want to come harvest grapes with us?’

That could work.

So the woman – Opora – leads me back to the vineyard near my former abode where a handful of satyrs and maenads await. Together we pluck grapes and fill baskets. They tell stories and sing and then at one point a woman who looks near identical to Opora pops up from behind a bundle of vines and begins pelting us with grapes.

‘Calybe!’ Opora shrieks. ‘You rat!’

Calybe giggles – and a satyr on her side takes up the fight and throws more grapes our way. Suddenly, war lines are drawn.

Opora drags me behind one of the bushes.

‘My sister is a tyrant who must be taken down,’ she says, very seriously. ‘I think we may have to destroy them.’

‘I agree, but I’m not sure how you win a grape war.’

Apparently by hurling as many of them as possible as quickly as possible until the other side surrenders. At which point Opora hauls me up and spins me around, screeching our victory.

‘Do you think that’s enough for the revelry?’ one of the satyrs asks, wiping his short curling horns free of juice.

‘The wine for that’s already fermented. I just didn’t want to waste ripe grapes,’ Opora says.

‘Is that not what we just did?’ I ask, eyeing the splattered fruit.

‘Joy is never a waste!’ she protests. ‘Besides, the insects and birds will eat those, and that’s never a waste either.’

But it feels like a waste when we return to camp and Dionysus is throwing more logs on the fire blazing at its centre. He straightens up, and takes in my grape-smeared appearance.

‘I knew you’d get into the swing of things,’ he commends.

I don’t even stop, just walk right past him. ‘If you’d led with food fights I might have considered. Now I’m worried this is a kink of yours.’

‘Hey, new girl, no kink shaming in the cult of Dionysus!’ he scolds.

‘Good thing I’m not joining!’