I always dreamed of being well-versed in the classics; proficient in Latin, faster than bears, able to sip orange juice with Socrates on the balcony of his Caravan… We had many many good times but they had to end, my friends. For the classical age was doomed to end the moment all its records were eaten by a hungry scholar who couldn’t be bothered going to the corner store.
Nevertheless…
ARIADNE AND THE VINE
By Leah O’Hearn
Namque fluentisono prospectans litore Diae,
Thesea cedentem celeri cum classe tuetur
indomitos in corde gerens Ariadna furores,
necdum etiam sese quae visit visere credit,
utpote fallaci quae tum primum excita somno
desertam in sola miseram se cernat harena.
“He broke up with me. Where should I go now?” Ariadne stared hard at her laptop while the waves lapped at the shore in the background. She hit ‘enter’ furiously and then glared at her surroundings. She was on an idyllic island for fuck’s sake! Why couldn’t he abandon her some place horrible, some place she would be happy to leave behind? No, the bastard had to pick someplace beautiful, some place she’d fallen in love with and now had to leave…because, well, she couldn’t stay now, could she?
She would be so lonely. How could she come to the beach on the weekend and not think of the way things used to be? She would sit on the sand with her book, her sun cream, and her picnic as usual but only the breezes would gently play with her hair now, not his sweet, caressing, fingers.
She shook her head savagely, trying to shake out all tender thoughts. Sweet, caressing fingers…no, they were adulterous, ugly, misshapen, calloused fingers. The bastard.
The bloody no good prick of a sodding bloody bastard. If only she had picked up something sharp when he’d told her he was breaking up with her. If only the heavens had opened up with a great thunderstorm and he’d been struck by lightening, burnt to a crisp before her eyes.
The bastard.
“Let’s go teach English on a gorgeous tropical island, babe. It’ll be an experience to remember forever!” he had said. Somehow he hadn’t remembered he had a girlfriend that night he’d slept with some local girl. Now he was taking her home to meet his parents.Their flight had left this morning.
Ariadne clutched at the ankles of her thoughts as they ran spitefully away, then she finally looked back at the screen in front of her. Google never failed her when she was faced with one of life’s tough decisions.
“The arsehole!” she accidentally shouted. “Right, right, back to Google.”
She flicked down the options it gave her.
1. How to break up with your man. How should it go?
Dr. Katie answers all your relationship questions.
http://www.womentogether.com
Oh Google, that’s just cruel! she thought with an unwilling smile.
2. Music and lyrics: Breaking up is hard to do
Find the lyrics to all your favourite songs. Plus free downloads.
http://www.freemusic.com
Hmm…no, no need to make yourself suicidal, she thought grimly as her eyes flicked down to the next option.
3. Travel Asia thread: India.
You’re nearly broke? You should go to India, you can live so cheaply…
http://www.forlornplanet.com/travelforum/asia/india
A smile broke out and ran riot on her face. She sighed with pride at her resourcefulness and strength. Prising the bottle of wine from the well she had made in the sand, she raised it to the sand, the sea, the sun, and even the lecherous old guy waving his gold chain in her direction. “Here’s to India!” She shouted with glee as she drained the wine of its dregs.
But suddenly the bottle began vibrating in her hand. She felt herself going all fuzzy at the edges. For a moment, she thought drunkenness was kicking in, but a mere bottle or three of wine had never in the past made her surroundings dance and waver. She closed her eyes in fear of what they might tell her next.
Then, the squawking of sea birds and happy families on holiday filled her ears. She opened her eyes one by one, and glanced in open-mouthed astonishment at the people around her. Where on earth had they come from? And where was the tropical island beach she had just been sitting on? Now she was sitting on a bench, and the beach here had pebbles, “glamorous” handbag-skinned people, and stylish lamps along the path. She turned and saw French seaside restaurants behind her. To her left was a tall, rocky headland jutting out into the sea. Everything was familiar but she couldn’t grasp where she was.
Gradually she became aware of another person on the bench. She turned slowly and looked straight into the eyes of a frightened looking young woman.
“How did you do that?” the woman asked, wide-eyed.
She became aware of, and a little embarrassed about, the empty wine bottle in her hand and she half wondered if this woman was asking her about that. On reflection she decided that her appearance out of thin air was probably more on the poor girl’s mind.
“Err…I don’t know?” she answered, but it was more of a question, directed at the universe. She decided that the best course of action was to act like the sane one here, and so she went on the attack “And who are you?”
“I’m India. And you?”
“Ahh, ahh, I see. I’m Ariadne.” She looked down at the bottle with her eyebrows knitted in confused concentration. Surely if this bottle were capable of transporting you anywhere you wanted, it wouldn’t be so obtuse as to mistake India for a person rather than a country.
She realised she was now attributing her change of scenery to a wine bottle, a wine bottle with consciousness enough to misunderstand an instruction, and she began to fear for her sanity. Perhaps she had just rolled over and hit her head on a rock? Finally she asked, “Where are we?”
“Nice, of course! Are you a time traveller or something?” India asked, looking a little excited.
“That depends.” Ariadne said, shocked and disturbed by this new idea. “What year is it?”
“20-”
“Oh that’s ok then! No, I’m not a time traveller.” She sighed with relief.
“So why are you here? Why did you just suddenly appear on my bench? I was quite happy on my own.” India said defensively.
“I don’t know…I…I was on a beach on a lovely little island. I was drinking some nice wine and wondering what to do with my life.”
“So I’m not the only one lost then? My boyfriend just broke up with me. I thought we’d be together forever. I know that’s a cliché but…” India stopped and looked out onto the sea, watching it as it lapped at the pebbles with contentment. “We just seemed so right for each other. We were happy. We made each other happy, and for my part, to be honest, he still makes me happy even though he’s done this…” India trailed off as she stared into the distance.
Ariadne looked hard at the young woman and realised in vino veritas: This was exactly where she needed to be. She began to tell India her story.
Minister uetuli puer Falerni,
inger mi calices amariores
ut lex Postumiae iubet magistrae
ebrioso acino ebriosioris.
at uos quo lubet hinc abite, lymphae,
vini pernicies, et ad severos
migrate, hic merus est Thyonianus.
The restaurant was at the height of its lunchtime trade. Table after table was filled with loud, happy people on holiday. Their idle festivity had spread to the waiters, who leaned on the bar inside, joking and admiring the view. The air crackled with tinkling toasts and laughter.
“And then he told me I’d be happier on the island if I ‘engaged with the local culture a little more’! And I said ‘I was happy, you bastard, until you decided ‘to engage with the local culture’ a little more than was appropriate!”
“You didn’t say that!” India cupped her hand over her mouth like a little girl about to point and say “Mamma!”
“Of course I did. It was bloody well true!” Ariadne replied indignantly. “And what’s more, I told him that if he thought he was going to get away with treating me like that, he had another thing coming. I told him to watch his back”
They stared out at the waves uncomfortably. Ariadne watched as children played on the beach, and her mind wandered back to her own childhood. “My parents used to bring us here when we were little. They would leave my brothers, sisters and I playing among the pebbles on the shore, and they would come to these restaurants with their friends. They would sit like king and queen among their circles of friends and business associates. Mum preened herself constantly and flirted with any young waiter who would look twice at her. Dad was too stuck up and pre-occupied with his business deals to notice or to care. I think if she had fallen pregnant to some young bull, he would have pretended the child was his solely to avoid chatter and social disgrace.” She drifted off into her own thoughts for a moment.
“The thing is,” she continued finally, “it’s not about man versus woman. I’m not going rant about him, get pissed, then go buy shoes and move on to the next dull sod. It’s about a little respect, a little human decency. I would never have done something like that to him. I don’t mean falling in love with someone else. No one can really control that. I mean carrying on behind my back and then announcing he and his fiancée were off to see his parents. What kind of behaviour is that?”
India nodded her head sadly and slowly turned her glass of wine in its place. Ariadne watched her for a moment with curiosity, “You know, you still haven’t told me what happened with your boyfriend. I’ve been sitting here railing against my ex and you’ve not said a word about yours.”
“Not now. Later, but just not now.” she answered with tears welling in her eyes. After an obvious inward struggle she said, “So what’s your plan? You seem to be going somewhere with all this, and you have a very interesting weapon at your disposal.”
“I propose we make the bastards out there pay for all the hurt they cause. The modern world just doesn’t understand revenge anymore. Once upon a time, you were supposed to be judgemental. Once upon a time, if someone screwed you over, you were allowed – no – it was your duty to take revenge. Nowadays, you have to understand, you have to allow for difference of opinion, and you have to be a fucking relativist about everything. Someone killed your friend? Oh well, perhaps his parents didn’t love him enough when he was a child. Someone coldly went and broke your heart, carefully planning it out to avoid all possible discomfort to himself? Never mind, he had his reasons, the sensitive soul. I’m fucking tired of it. You screw me over? You are going to be judged and you are going to pay for it. I want to strike a blow for truth, integrity, and judgement!”
By the time she finished, she was shouting and sweating, staring at India with defiant, missionary zeal. The others in the restaurant had frozen in the middle of chewing, talking or raising forks to their lips to stare at her.
But India saw through the bravado and the ruthlessness. She patted Ariadne’s hand and said softly “Ok, ok, I see. So how will we do this? If this bottle can change space, I guess it can change time, but do we want to do that? It’s one thing to save on petrol and airfares but it’s another to change history. I think before we take action we should try to understand what this thing is capable of. We should try to find out as much as we can about it.”
Ariadne took the wine bottle from her handbag and placed it on the table. It looked so cheap and insignificant. “Fine. We’ll figure out what it’s capable of and then REALLY get back at them.” Ariadne gulped down the rest of the wine in her glass and poured herself another. “I want to kill him, I really do. And her, I really want to kill her. I want to torture them. I want to curse them. I want them to suffer the deepest grief and discomfort. I want to hurt them in ways that exceed all the punishments of Hades….I want to…I want to…” She paused, suddenly aware of her body. Her stiff hands, claw like with the sheer effort of concentration, moved through the air as though she were performing some Eastern dance. Her movements were grotesque as they searched through the air for ever more punishments. She was like a statue of Shiva come to life, but the destructions she intended would bring about no new life. She let out an exasperated sigh. “Let’s take a look at the label,” she said, leaning forward to peer at its swirling script.
The label was small and pale. It curled a little at the edges where the contents of Ariadne’s handbag had rubbed against it. In oversized cursive script was the word “Sete” and beneath it in a smaller plainer font “Prodotto in Italia”.
Ariadne slowly turned the bottle around, disappointed, but amused at her disappointment. What was she expecting to see, she asked herself, an instruction manual? The words “Produced by Nemesis-Bacchus Industries in Association with the Dirae”?
“Sete…that means ‘thirst’, doesn’t it?” India asked, distracting Ariadne from her musings.
“Strange name for a…” said Ariadne hiccoughing “…wine. It’s not exactly a thirst-quencher on a hot day.” She was still puzzled at the distinct lack of information on the bottle and was turning it round and round in her hands.
“I guess Bacchus can slake all kinds of thirsts.” India said thoughtfully.
“Good point!” replied Ariadne, drinking the entire contents of her glass pointedly. She looked as though she were ready to pass out. “Ok, India, put your hand on the bottle.” She did the same and said in a mocking voice “Oh mystical bottle, take us to your origins.”
At parte ex alia florens volitabat Iacchus
cum thiaso Satyrorum et Nysigenis Silenis,
te quaerens, Ariadna, tuoque incensus amore.
The world began to swim in itself and dance about drunkenly. Ariadne could feel herself falling and rising, rising and falling, bobbing up and down on a sea of consciousness. Could consciousness make you nauseous? Could existence make you nauseous? Could freedom make you nauseous? Ariadne thought so as she opened her eyes and threw up on the sand. But there was something special about this sand. It was deep, dark, and fertile. It was luscious and bursting with life. Here and there, small brilliant green shoots emerged. Here and there, beautiful flowers of deep crimson and purple blossomed like jewels scattered on the shore. She walked unsteadily towards the spot where the sand met the trees, then spun around, realising that she shouldn’t be feeling quite so lonely. Where was India? She looked up and down the long gracefully curving shore, but there was no one there.
From behind her she began to hear an irresistible beat. It surged then crept through the forest and into her senses. It teased her ear with its sensual but elusive rhythm. It seemed to come from inside her and yet from some other exotic place all at the same time. Soon she could hear indistinct, joyful cries ringing out in time to the music. As if from nowhere a man suddenly stepped out from behind a tree. He was joined by a band of followers, all tousled haired and kohl-rimmed eyes. He was beautiful. Ariadne gasped despite herself. His dark wavy hair had been touched by the sun in places. His deep brown eyes bore into hers, and she could hear his breathing, since he stood but a few feet from her. His gaze was alarmingly intense. Ariadne tried to get a grip.
“And who the hell are you then?” she asked with more force than she felt.
The man didn’t take his eyes from hers. He replied calmly “I am the maker of the wine.”
“Ok, you made the wine, but what about the bottle?” she asked insolently, rubbed the wrong way by his faux-grande way of speaking.
The man smiled softly. “The bottle…well, that I left to my friend Hephaistos – he does not usually work with glass, but I think he did exceedingly well. He is a maker of marvels that man. However, the wine is special too. It prepares you for truth. It brings joy and sorrow but it reveals all.”
Ariadne looked past the mysterious man to his groupies. They leaned against trees smoking cigarettes, kissing in the shadows, and lazily making tunes on lyres. Gazing from face to face, she suddenly recognised one of them. “India! There you are! What happened?”
India smiled back, pulling her attention away from the boy playing music. “I must have got here before you somehow. I’ve been here quite a while I think.” She turned back to the boy and his lyre and sat listening with fascinated concentration.
Ariadne groaned and looked around. The man was still staring at her, as though waiting for her to recognise something. He stared hard, like a long forgotten lover on the other side of the street. His brow furrowed as she turned her head this way and that, and finally he took her hand. She snatched it back impatiently so he took it again.
“Come. I want to show you something.” he said quietly.
They left the slothful satellites and walked through the trees. As they walked, he took the bottle from her hand and held it a moment. The translucent green glass began to darken as the bottle was filled with more wine as though from an invisible cask. He smiled and raised his eyebrows as he gave her a proud sideways glance. She took the bottle and drank.
“It’s good. You should start your own vineyard.” She grinned.
“Too much work. I have no need of money or status or any of your worldly trappings. I prefer to be free, Liber, if you like.” he replied haughtily.
“‘Scuse me!” she retorted like a schoolgirl.
Suddenly he stopped and directed her gaze to the mountain before her. She looked over the landscape with growing consternation. The fertile slopes of the mountain were familiar to her.
“But this is…”
“Yes. This is Mount Vesuvius. You have been here before, I think. The people here have known it for a long time. It is dangerous – all the more so because it is pleasant and seductive. You see how the mountain’s slopes support life? How green the plants grow here? The farmers forget the death that this mountain can bring. They are lured back by the fertile soil and the beautiful land, and they build their homes, their lives, and livelihoods. Then the mountain begins to rumble and inevitably it destroys everything. Once, it is said, great king Jupiter punished monstrous giants for their rebellion against him by trapping them under mountains such as Vesuvius. These mountains are their tombs, but they do not lie peacefully. The heaped soil covers their fiery exhalations for a time until it can cover their anger no longer. Their restless rage tosses and turns until they breathe their madness upon the whole landscape.”
Ariadne wept as he spoke and closed her eyes as his words flowed over her. Eventually she said softly, “You struggle for so long with the impulse to rock the boat, to actually say it out loud when you are unhappy, disappointed, and broken hearted. All those times you stop yourself because you don’t want to make him unhappy too, and because you know that you love him more than anyone could understand, least of all him. So you stop yourself because loving him and simply being with him is more important than scoring points or giving voice to sundry passing pains. But it builds up. The hurt and the anger pile on top of each other and the pressure builds up. Then something is broken or ignited, and hot tears erupt. They stream down your face in the bitterest of showers. They scorch you and him and everything you ever had between you. The tears don’t stop until they’ve destroyed everything.”
“But Vesuvius brings both creation and destruction. The very eruption which destroys so much also makes the soil rich and full of life.” he said.
She shook her head in quiet despair. “Some say you can love again, but how can you with all that pain and death buried deep within? How can you trust or relax, knowing that any minute an eruption could occur? And if it is possible to move on, to forget, and to love again with the same intensity – then what is it all worth? What are the pledges, the tender looks, and the passion really worth? They’re the ghosts of loves past, whispers on the wind rather than the sweet nothings of a lover. They are empty mimicries of the real thing.”
Ariadne drank long from the miraculous wine bottle and handed it to the man, who suddenly looked like he could use a stiff drink too. He stared at Vesuvius for what seemed like an age before sighing, “I see your point.” He turned and smiled at her fondly “You are a romantic, then? An idealist? There are not many in this world now.”
“I suppose I am. I’d rather forgotten that, to be honest.” She allowed the memories to come back to her, the memories of that summer here in the shadows of Vesuvius. She and Theseus had come here over a break while they were at university. They’d had no money. She had stolen some from her father’s wallet to help pay for their trip. They’d made love, slept late, lived on bread, wine, and olives, and generally swanned about the town like a couple disgustingly, gloriously in love with each other and their youth. She’d loved it. It was the happiest time of her life. Those happy memories were too much and they stabbed at her heart now. She could feel it beating heavily and she wondered how it could possibly go on. It didn’t seem right that it could take such a battering and feel so sick and heavy with grief and yet still go on beating. Her life was something closer to a living death. She felt shrivelled, sick, and dead inside, with only enough spirit to animate the bile and only enough emotion to fuel the anger.
Suddenly she felt the man’s lips on hers and for a moment she kissed back. He tasted like the wine, only sweeter and somehow more intoxicating. She thought of her wasted heart and a wave of revulsion swept through her. Crying now, she pushed him away. She wanted to throw up but she turned back into the trees and ran. Through the tears and the nausea she didn’t know where she was going. Her foot caught a vine among the leafy beds and she fell, hitting her head sharply upon a raised tree root. Everything faded into black, leaving only the faint damp scent of the undergrowth in her nostrils.
Odi et amo. Quare id faciam fortasse requiris?
nescio sed fieri sentio et excrucior.
As the world came back into view, she realised that her view consisted of leaves and dirt. There was nothing for it – she would have to sit up. She carefully raised herself up and slumped back against the tree with a nauseous sigh. Things were still a little blurry but she could make out the shape of a person sitting against the tree opposite her. She squinted drunkenly as the shape moved and came closer.
“You’re awake then. Are you okay?” It was India. Her voice was worried and tired.
“Mmm, yes. Yes. I think so.” She replied, though she wasn’t at all sure she was okay. “Did you find out anything useful about the bottle?”
“Well, we know that Bacchus, Liber, Dionysus, whatever you want to call him, made it with Hephaistos. God knows why really, the silly drunks.”
They sat quietly for a moment and let the breezes coming in off the sea wash over them. Somewhere not far away they could hear the sound of the lyre and laughing. It sounded like they were rousing themselves for a party. Neither Ariadne nor India wanted to stay and play. It was time to leave. Ariadne was the first to say it.
“Where to next? Where do you want to go? You still haven’t told me what happened with you and your boyfriend, you know.”
India ignored her comment. She simply said, “We’ve seen the bottle’s origins, perhaps we should see ours -or at least, the origins of our problems.”
Ariadne nodded with the heavy solemnity of the inebriated and they looked around for the bottle. It was lying amongst the leaves on its side, the fragrant liquid spilling upon the undergrowth. They both held onto the bottle and India said “Take us to the beginnings of our relationships.”
Nothing happened. They laughed, and Ariadne said “Perhaps we need to empty the bottle? I think the other times it worked, I’d finished drinking the contents. Will you do the honours?”
“No. It’s all yours.” India replied dryly.
Ariadne drained the bottle quickly and expertly, wiping her lips afterwards. “I never could be ladylike.” She said with a huge grin.
Again, they both touched the bottle and this time, Ariadne intoned “Bacchus’ bottle, take us to the beginnings of our relationships.”
They scrunched their eyes shut in eager anticipation of the wrench from their surroundings. In through the trees the sounds of the lyre skipped wantonly. They heard the Bacchantes laughing and talking. Ariadne opened one eye slowly to survey the scene. Up in the opposite tree a snake was wound around a branch. It watched them with a curiously intense curiosity. Ariadne poked her tongue out and was startled to see the snake do the same.
“Nothing happened.” She said to India, thumping her arm. She looked down at the bottle. It was filling itself up quietly and smartly like a well-trained butler. “Brilliant.” She added, “We’re stuck with an invisible Jeeves, a smart-arse snake, and a bunch of moody adolescents – not to forget the great god Bacchus.” At this she took another great swig from the bottle.
They both slumped back against the tree. India smoothed her hair and skirt, and looked around calmly, as though this were the cue for a white knight to come galloping up the beach and into their lives. Ariadne stared at her incredulously and then burst out “Are you going to tell me what happened with you and your boyfriend yet? Come on, I won’t laugh! Obviously, I understand how you’re feeling!”
“No, not now” She answered in a teacher-like voice.
Ariadne groaned and looked back to the branch where she had seen the snake. It was gone. That was a relief at least. She was never one to be precious and wimpy around the creepy creatures of this world, but she hadn’t liked the way that snake looked at her. It reminded her of the way a careers counsellor at university had looked at her – an appraising look, amused at her efforts, mocking. He had ridiculed her and Theseus for their mad dreams and their refusal to stick with the sensible paths their parents had chosen for them.
“I met Theseus at university” She heard her voice begin telling India the story despite herself. “I was being a good little girl and studying bloody accounting of all things, because my parents wanted me to do something useful and ordinary. I remember the first time I saw him. He was half-asleep on a patch of grass, with an open book about sword fighting lying on his chest. The next time I saw him he was on stage singing in a rock band. The time after that he was reciting one of his poems in the university bar. He seemed lost, crazy, and strangely heroic and I loved him immediately. We started seeing each other and from the very beginning we were inseparable. Talking to him for the first time was like picking up a conversation with an old friend after the waiter interrupts to set your meal down.” She stopped briefly, stung by the images in her mind. She doused the wounds in another long drink from the bottle.
“I admired his sense of freedom so much. He used to tell me that free young minds were being grimly sacrificed to the idea of a stable job. He thought everyone should be able to choose their own path through the maze of possibilities that university offered. The myth of fulfilment through a secure job was a monster he wanted to slay. Still, he was lost. He wanted others to find their way out of the labyrinth, but he couldn’t find his. He helped me to realise that I wanted to paint. My parents hated him for that. My brothers and sisters all followed my parents’ wishes. They were lawyers, accountants, and doctors. My mother in particular was fond of telling me that I was ruining my life and that I should go back to accounting and be sensible. It was perverse how much she wanted me to have an ordinary job.
“But Theseus supported me, and eventually I found a way to pay him back. I realised he needed some direction for his hectic creativity. I told him about installation art, conceptual art, Cristo and Jeanne-Claude. I knew the heroic ideal of making the world ‘a more beautiful place’ would appeal to him. I told him about the Reichstag cushioned in silvery fabric, its stony form changed to soft billowy pleats. I told him about the umbrellas sequined over the landscape like otherworldly mushrooms. He was captivated.
“I remember it was cold that day. We were huddled up in our bedroom with blankets wrapped around us, and as we talked I was knitting myself a jumper. The wispy, white wool caught his eye. He stared out the window at the snow and thought for a long time. Then he virtually disappeared for two weeks, and neither pleas nor demands could make him tell me what he was up to.
“I didn’t get to finish my jumper: he took all my wool. Finally I got a text message from him telling me to come over to the marketing and business faculty of the campus. I had to park my car far down the road because there were too many people there. I followed them in eager confusion, knowing Theseus was the man behind their wonder but unsure what he’d done with my wool to cause such a sensation. I turned the corner and looked up at the flashy, businesslike building- it was now shimmering with beautiful woollen cobwebs.
“I saw him sitting amongst a group of admirers, talking enthusiastically about his art. I knew then that I would follow the beautiful idiot to the ends of the earth. Well, to a tropical island at any rate…” she trailed off dryly.
They sat thoughtfully in the silence that followed. Ariadne swigged the wine, letting the tart liquid course across her tongue then slide acidly down her throat. She imagined him now, amusing his new girl with the tease of becoming his muse. Would he run his fingers through her hair the same way he did hers? Would his lips form the same kisses?
“Let go.” India broke upon the silence with such sudden banality that Ariadne thought she must have been holding on to the woman’s hand, or hair, or dress. The words spread out into the silence like water drops on a still surface. They radiated out into the forest. Again there was silence.
Ariadne felt like the sun, sitting at the centre of the system that depends on it. The forest seemed to be waiting for her answer. She imagined the tiniest woodland bug, its eyes turned beadily upon her, its antennae quivering. She felt her heart pumping, each vein pulsing as it carried blood about. Steadily the whole forest seemed to pulse and pound her ears.
“I bloody well have!” She shouted. “I hate the bastard. He left me. He abandoned me on a fucking island while he went off romping with some idiot he barely knows. I hate him, I hate him!” She shouted and her body shuddered with passion. She began crying messily and loudly. Her eyes swelled red as the tears continued. She cried so much she wanted to throw up.
India sat, patiently watching her. “Let go,” she said again quietly.
“I just wish I could see him now. I bet he’s regretting it. I bet he realises he has nothing in common with her,” Ariadne spluttered, mixing bile and wine.
Their surroundings grew fuzzy and white noise blurred in Ariadne’s ears. The trees faded in colourful pixellated nothingness, like a dissolving Grace Cossington Smith painting. The rumbling peak of the volcano just visible through the trees, the leaves, and the distant ocean fractured into broken-down colours. Silence.
Quare iam te cur amplius excrucies?
quin tu animum offirmas atque istinc teque reducis
et Dis invitis desinis esse miser?
difficile est longum subito deponere amorem.
difficile est, verum hoc qualubet efficias.
una salus haec est. hoc est tibi peruincendum.
hoc facias, sive id non pote sive pote.
Then a mournful dirge and bells ringing out seized her consciousness. As she opened her eyes, she saw a grey church gently blurring through the drizzle. She felt the hard, cool glass of the bottle in her hand, and dimly realised she had no control over its powers. The dreary cold seeped into her bones, as she tried to acclimatize to this new place and a new wakefulness. Beside her sat India, sober and elusive as ever. India simply looked about her with quiet perceptiveness. They were sitting in a cemetery, backs propped up against gravestones. No rolling mists, no wraiths populated the landscape, just a cold, limping rain.
The sounds of footsteps and weeping began to drift from the church. A coffin slowly floated out into the rain on the shoulders of sombre men. Some of the men looked familiar but she could not be sure from such a distance. Then she saw a form she would recognise even if sixty years had passed and she had Alzheimer’s and it was an off day. It was Theseus. She knew the way the rain could dampen his dark hair, she knew his stride and its many moods, she knew the way his clothes hung on him, she just knew. She almost called out, but her voice caught in her throat when she saw a woman step out from behind him. The small woman with beautiful coffee skin and dark hair clutched his hand close and looked up at him with concern. She was obviously in love.
The sight stung her. Her heart hung heavily within her chest as she watched them follow the coffin out of the church and on to a distant area of the graveyard. She saw his mother walking with his elder brother. She had tears streaming down her face but she was clearly trying to hold it together. His father then: Theseus had loved his father so much.
She cried as she watched him walking behind his father’s coffin. She cried as she watched him grip the woman’s hand tightly. She cried as he put his arm around her and gave her a sad, gentle kiss on the forehead.
India smiled sympathetically and pushed the hair from Ariadne’s eyes. “Now you see.” She whispered.
Ariadne nodded, “He’s gone. It’s over. I love him still in a way. I know that now…but it’s over.” She took a deep breath and turned again to watch him slowly walking in the procession. “He was a bastard to leave me the way he did, but it’s over.” She held up the bottle and toasted the happy couple, and then she drank till she exhausted the wine.
She watched resignedly as the bottle began to refill. “Who are you, then?” she asked India, almost as an afterthought.
“I am part of you…the sober, thoughtful part of you.” India replied almost reproachfully as she slowly began to melt into the ground. Her form mingled with the raindrops before Ariadne’s eyes.
“If ever there was an argument against sobriety – she was it!” Ariadne started. She took another long drink from the refilled bottle. Wine slowly began to flow through her veins, replacing her blood. Every inch of her body danced and floated in intoxication. Her memory flitted across the story of her life, flicking through the pages. Her fluttering mind wanted to escape and fly off into the stars, to perch upon them and crown them with its sudden benevolence. She felt weak yet somehow invincible through the strength of the wine. Unconsciousness was beckoning her and her skull felt increasingly heavy. She sank down and lowered her heavy head onto her knees. And she died, wedded to the vine.
—
Leah O’Hearn studied Classics for four long hard years, joyfully slaving away in the musty depths of Latin, but she is now working as an English language teacher in Chongqing, China (yeah she hadn’t heard of the place before either). Is she bitter? No…
