Bull God

by Roberta Gellis

  “But why?” he asked. “This never happened when I came to my old priestess's Call. Only on a special festival were so many offerings made.”

  The mist of tendrils touched him, brought back to her puzzlement and a hint of satisfaction. She smiled. “Because you have been long absent,” the “woman” Ariadne said. “Be cause the grapes and the wine have lost the legendary perfection they had in the past. Because they know I'll ask you to bless the grapes and the wine and each is afraid that, if he doesn't sacrifice, you'll skip over his vines or his fermenting casks and storage pithoi.”

  “They think I know each and every one of them?”

  That betrayed that he didn't but Ariadne wouldn't hurt her dear god by showing her knowledge of that weakness. It didn't matter to her that he was not all-powerful and all-knowing as other gods claimed to be. He was hers, and—she recalled that contagious madness—quite powerful enough.

  “They fear you know every one of them.”

  He brought his eyes from the courtyard and looked at her and smiled. “You are just as pretty without all that paint on your face,” he said. Then he looked back at the courtyard.

  “There are cattle and goats too, my lord,” Ariadne said. “They are tethered outside the shrine. I also need to know whether you want any of the furniture that was in the high priestesses' chamber. I set aside the most precious things, some goblets of well-bejeweled gold and two ivory tables.”

  He shook his head. “I am half asleep and half deafened by the noise. I cannot think.”

  “Come then to my chamber, my lord. Food and drink for breaking your fast will be there, and you can sit in your chair and decide.”

  In the doorway he paused, and she felt his satisfaction again even before he turned and smiled approval at her. Then he walked across to the chair, sat down, and lifted the cup of wine standing ready. He sipped the wine and shrugged, gestured at the cup and the flagon that stood on the table, and drank more freely. Ariadne guessed he had changed the quality of the drink.

  “It is the best Crete can produce since we somehow offended you,” she said. “The offerings, they are meant to appease that hurt.”

  He looked past her around the room that now presented quiet comfort, reached out absently for the food. As he bit into the bread and cheese, chewed an olive, he shrugged again. “That was unfair, perhaps. The little folk did nothing to hurt me. I had thought my priestess rejected me, but even after I learned it was no fault of hers, that she had died, I wouldn't come to Knossos. I suppose the 'blessing' eroded from the soil in the years of my neglect.”

  “But you will restore it, my lord?”

  “Yes. I've already promised and you—little thorn in my flesh—I'm sure won't allow me to forget.”

  “I don't mean to be a thorn in your flesh, my lord.”

  He laughed merrily around a mouthful of honey cake. “No? Then don't call me so early in the morning.”

  That reminded Ariadne of the woman in his bed, but she didn't dare say that if he hadn't been disporting himself all night he wouldn't have found her call early. Instead she said meekly, “I'm very sorry. I thought it unwise to have so many offerings in the open. And we have no feed for the animals nor anyone to care for them. The priests and priestesses are old.”

  He didn't answer at once, going on with his breakfast, mostly honey cakes and wine now, with a thoughtful frown. At last he said, “Get rid of the furniture you have in the storage room. Sell it and get another storage room cut into the hill. That should be place enough for the new offerings. The animals will have to be slaughtered and butchered. You may keep what you like and what you think you can use, either alive or butchered parts.”

  “Do you want the flesh salted down?”

  “No, I'm not fond of salt meat.”

  Ariadne blinked. “But there are cows and bulls, goats and sheep and pigs, not to mention the fowl. I'll place it all on the altar if you desire, but it will have to be taken by tomorrow or the next day at the latest. It's growing warm and the flesh will rot.”

  “You must bespell it to stasis.”

  “Stasis? What's that? And I know no spells, Lord Dionysus. I dance for the Mother, but I'm no witch.”

  “Stasis is like freezing, but not cold. Everything stops. If you bespell a haunch of meat to stasis, the blood does not ooze from it and it won't rot so long as the spell lasts.”

  “But I don't know the spell,” she said, her voice beginning to tremble, “and I have never cast a spell in my life.”

  “I can give you the spell,” he said. “We'll see if you can take it and then cast it.”

  Ariadne stared at him, her breath fluttering between her parted lips. Spells! If it hadn't been for the misty tendrils, which brought from him such a sense of pleasant indifference, as if what he proposed was the most ordinary thing in the world, she might have collapsed, weeping. Ordinary for gods, her mind said, but not for me. Only she remembered that she wouldn't be alone. Some priests and priestesses had powers of healing or could see the future. And Daidalos could do things that seemed impossible. Maybe she would be able to do such things also.

  “Watch my mouth,” Dionysus said, and allowed his lips to part slightly.

  Between them Ariadne saw a silvery shadow. It was different from her tendrils, harder and brighter looking, but not rigid. It oozed from between his lips and began to form a bubble, as babies sometimes formed bubbles of their own spit, but this grew larger and held its shape firmly until it was a ball as large as she could cup in her hand. He gestured her to him and she went, reluctantly, knowing that he desired her to sip that ball out of his mouth although he hadn't told her. Eyes wide, shaking her head slightly and hoping he would change his mind, she knelt before him. He leaned forward and took her head in his hands. Her lips parted to cry a protest, but he lowered his head too quickly and the silver bubble touched her mouth.

  It was nothing like what she had imagined, not cold or wet or slimy. It was warm and tingled very faintly, and it didn't fill her mouth or choke her. Indeed, it didn't seem to have any tangible substance and seemed to dissipate as it slipped through her lips so that her mouth met his. She felt him smile when their lips touched, and his tasted only of honey cake and wine. Forgetting the silver ball, she would gladly have held him to her, mouth to mouth, but he lifted his head promptly.

  “Inside you there is a place that's different—”

  “The flower around my heart? How did you know of that?”

  He laughed. “Gods know.” Then he sobered and shook his head. “Not everything, and even what we know we sometimes don't understand. But leave that aside for now. All those who have Power have some place, see or feel it in some way.”

  “See it? The mist of tendrils. Is that Power?”

  “That's the way you see it. Now look at the special place within you from which the mist comes. There should be a bright spot—”

  “A little bud!” Her voice came out rather high with surprise and delight. It was such a pretty thing, nestled close to her heart just where two of the petals of the heartflower met.

  “You are a very quick learner, Ariadne,” Dionysus said.

  He seemed pleased and Ariadne banned all the reluctance she had initially felt about becoming a witch. Daidalos had once offered to teach her magic, but he was a frightening person. Dionysus, who, she realized, should have been even more frightening, was to her a most seductive teacher.

  “You make the lessons easy,” she replied.

  “You have the art. There's almost no need for lessons. However, it's dangerous to play with what you don't understand, so I'll teach you and hope you don't begin to try to create new spells—”

  Ariadne shook her head. “You needn't worry about that. My Power, if I have any, is bound to you. The heartflower only opens when you're near me.” She frowned. “I didn't think of that. It may be that I won't be able to cast any spell if you aren't near.”

  “We'll see,” he said. “Now look at your little bud. Will it to grow large
r.”

  She did as he said, surprised to see the mist nearest the bud float toward it and enwrap it. The bud grew swiftly and when Dionysus told her to break it off, she did so.

  “Now, quick,” he said, “before the place seals over, desire a new bud to grow but leave that one small.”

  That was harder. The mist was already thin, and Ariadne felt as if her chest were all hollow and ice coated that emptiness. Her heartbeat slowed. She was about to cry that she could not, when Dionysus laid his hand upon her breast. A touch of warmth flowed from his hand; it didn't fill the hollow, but she no longer felt as if she were falling in upon herself. She looked up and his eyes caught hers and held them. His will caught hers, bound it, bent it. And then, there was another bud, tiny but perfect, where the first had grown . . . and Ariadne knew how to grow as many more as she would ever need. She wasn't given time to consider that.

  “Where's the large bud?” Dionysus asked. His eyes were gem-bright, his voice hard as flint.

  So weak and trembling that she would have sunk down, except that the hand on her breast seemed to hold her upright on her knees, gaze still locked with her god's, Ariadne “looked” within her, without moving her eyes, and found the ball of light.

  “Place your hand beneath your breast. Will the spell to flow out into your hand.”

  She uttered a tiny whimper, expecting the ball of light to rip through bone and flesh and skin and leave a gaping, bleeding wound, but she couldn't tear her eyes from his, couldn't thrust away his demand. And his will grasped hers, shaped it, pointed it. Trembling and crying, eyes unmoving, Ariadne “saw” the ball of light touch her chest, just between her barely swelling breasts, and with only the faintest sensation of chill, slip out into her hand.

  Dionysus pulled his hand away and Ariadne was able to move her eyes. Unbelieving, she looked down, and there on her hand lay a silver ball of light. Of course she knew she would see it just as clearly if her eyes were closed or if she were still looking at her god's face, but that she could see it there, trembling a little as her hand shook, gave her an odd joy.

  “Cut it in half,” Dionysus ordered, “and then in half again.”

  With a knife? she wondered. How did one cut in half a ball of light that wasn't really there? And suddenly she knew it didn't matter. She could create a knife in her mind, or she could imagine ghostly fingers pinching the spell in half or she could just “will” the division. Because she thought it more elegant, she “made” a little knife and sliced the spell apart, and as it started to join together, she told it firmly to remain in two parts. Two smaller balls of light lay on her hand and she cut each of those in half with the knife also.

  “Drop one part of the spell on what remains of the cheese, the bread, and the honey cakes, and say with each, 'Anagkazo teleia stigme stasis.' Then take the last piece back within you. You can just close your hand on it and will it back into your well of power.”

  The food on the table was out of her reach, and she had no idea how to will the spell there so she tried to get to her feet. She couldn't; she was cold and sweating and her legs had no more strength than the jelly around cooked fish. She gasped and tried again. This time Dionysus caught her free hand and lifted her up. Oddly, there was no pull on her arm; the feeling as she rose had much in common with the way she grew light when the Mother lifted her hair.

  That reminded her that she must tell Dionysus about her need to dance on the Mother's day, but she didn't dare divert her thoughts from the words she needed to say so she first went to the table and pushed a little ball of light onto the plate of cheese. “Anagkazo teleia stigme stasis,” she said, and repeated the words twice more. With each repetition she grew colder and weaker, but she thought she had cast the spell successfully because each portion of food became surrounded by the faintest shimmering. Still, she would have fallen had not Dionysus supported her.

  “Take back the last part,” he reminded her.

  Ariadne closed her hand slowly and was fascinated by the “taking back” of what remained of the spell, watching, first with her eyes and then with her eyes closed, as the last portion shrank between her fingers until it was gone. She felt a little warmer, a little less hollow as the silver light disappeared, and when Dionysus urged her toward the stool she was able to walk there, but she sat down rather heavily.

  “It will grow easier with practice,” Dionysus said. “The use of Power is like any other sport or labor. Practice improves performance.”

  That was true, Ariadne thought, with a sense of relief. She had thought she would die of exhaustion when she had begun to learn to dance for the Mother, but ... “Oh,” she cried, “I am yours first and wholly, but I have long done the praise-dance for the Mother on Her days. Lord God, may I continue to dance for Her?” He stared at her, frowning, and she hurried on. “There is no one else. My mother must sit between the sacral horns as Her image, my older sisters—” He lifted his hand, and she stopped, biting her lip.

  “You dance for the Mother?” he asked.

  “Yes, lord,” she whispered.

  He seemed uncertain, looking at her and then out of the window shaft. Ariadne couldn't see what caught his eye, but he turned back to her abruptly and said, “Worship of the Mother is always permitted. You may also ask Her to fill your well with Power. When do you dance?”

  “In six ... no, five days. Oh, thank you, for your kindness and understanding, my lord. It would be dreadful if there were no one of the royal blood to dance for Her.”

  He didn't respond to that, saying instead, “When the offerings are prepared and laid upon the altar, Call me.” Then he smiled at her. “But not in the early morning.”

  And he was gone.

  CHAPTER 5

  The next five days Ariadne was so busy with her duties at Dionysus' shrine and so exhausted that she returned to Knossos only to tumble into bed and sleep. She had discovered that she could use the spell Dionysus had given her even though the flower around her heart was closed. The bright bud clung to the outer part of the petals and she could make it grow and renew itself.

  She also managed to find the power to place the spell of stasis on the slaughtered offerings, but the toll on her was terrible. By the end of each day she was chilled and shaking. The day before she was to dance, she Called Dionysus— just before sunset—and he said she must clear the shrine of all but the offerings, staying in her chambers and forbidding the priests and priestesses and the new novices, three boys and three girls offered by their parents, to leave the chambers assigned to them.

  In the morning, a round-eyed little boy had come to her bedchamber to tell her that everything had disappeared, the meat, the gutted fowls, the ivory tables and jeweled cups, the casks of cheese and the pithoi of wine and oil. Ariadne sent him back with her approval and with the message that she would not come to the shrine that day. Then she pulled the blanket over her head and tried to go back to sleep, wondering how she would find the strength to dance.

  She had the whole day because the praise-dance would begin when the long rays of evening sunlight lay across the dancing floor. She would dance into the dusk and then again as the full moon rose—if she could. Her doubts increased through the day; even a second blanket and a footwarmer couldn't drive out the chill inside her. She was too tired to get out of bed and too weak to eat much, even when Phaidra brought the food to her.

  Midafternoon she rose at last, heavy-eyed and unwilling, because she knew how long it would take to dress. Having her hair coiled and combed was torture and she had to cling to the wall and brace her trembling knees when the dancing skirt, its thirty dark red flounces all embroidered in gold and black, was fastened around her waist. The bodice didn't add much weight, but the gold thread apron pulling at her, bowing her forward, almost seemed the last straw.

  They let her sit to paint her face. The bronze mirror showed her features so drawn that she didn't need the paint the maids were applying to make her look older. She felt a single prick of surprise that no one rem
arked on her dull silence. She had always been eager and excited to dance for the Mother. That thought was overridden by the fact that Pasiphae would have a fit, but Ariadne was too tired to care even about that, and when Pasiphae came she said nothing at all beyond, “Are you ready?”

  She hardly seemed to see Ariadne. In a way that was nothing new, Pasiphae had never cared what Ariadne felt or thought, but in the past she had always been alert to anything that might spoil an act of worship in which she played the role of the goddess. Now Pasiphae seemed indifferent to Ariadne and her performance but not dull or ill. She looked excited, even feverish, however the intensity was all turned inward toward some purpose of her own.

  “It's time, let us go,” Pasiphae added.

  Ariadne levered herself to her feet, wondering dully whether Dionysus had known this would happen, had wanted her to be unfit for the praise-dance so she would disgrace herself and become unwelcome to the Mother. Tears dimmed her eyes as she followed Pasiphae to the grand stair where Minos and the noble boys and girls of the dance chorus were waiting. She took her place just behind her mother and father, foremost of the dancers. When she looked down the stairs, a wave of dizziness swept over her and she swayed. A hand caught her arm and steadied her.

  I love Dionysus, she thought, but I love the Mother too. May I not show that love? A little spurt of anger, a little thrill of resentment, because she could never follow her own heart gave her some strength, and she started down the stair. I will not give in, she thought. I will show that my heart is large enough to hold both. And upheld by a stubborn will to have done her duty to Dionysus and still praise the Mother, she walked steadily behind Pasiphae across the bull court, through the passage, down the ramp, and the few hundred paces to the steps down to the dancing floor.