Dionysus Dissolving

The sun glinted off the blue-green sharpshooter as it hopped up onto the dried vine, searching for a place to lay its eggs. Its carapace the only spot of color amongst the rows of brown, fruitless stalks of the Silenus Vineyard.

The sharpshooter, like its locust cousin, carried its own form of plague–Pierce’s disease, a bacterium that prevented the vine from absorbing water and eventually die. Not that there was any water left to absorb after five years of drought, broken well pumps and the decimation of savings that had left Silenus Vineyards destitute of water and life.

Peter Silenus watched as a drop of water rolled off the proffered cluster of grapes, hung suspended for a moment, then fell to the floor where a small pool had collected.

The transparent man holding the grapes was a god.

Peter Silenus was fixated.

Another drop, this time from his nose, slid down his other arm, lingered on his pointed finger before falling slowly onto the thirsty sand. It vanished instantly, leaving no trace. As if it were never there.

“Interesting choice,” a woman said, suddenly at his side. “Most men would have ordered a nude woman.”

“What?” Peter turned to her, broken out of his reverie.

She wore a bemused smile. “The ice sculpture? It’s very... lifelike.”

It was very well done, life-size and anatomically correct in every detail.

“Do you know who it is?” Peter asked.

“Not for certain, but I can guess,” she said, drinking from her wine goblet. “Not Bacchus. The Greek gods were more brutish, less dainty. Ergo, he’s Roman. Dionysus?”

“Correct,” Peter said. “He’s said to be one of the dying gods.”

“Well, he is melting,” the woman said, as she watched another drop rolled down Dionysus’ chest, his belly, then off his erect penis onto the floor. “An obvious choice for a vineyard wedding.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Perhaps we should re-join the wedding? Your daughter is probably wondering where you are...”

She waited a moment for Peter to say or do something. He made no move nor sound.

She shrugged and finished her wine in a last gulp. “I need a refill,” she announced, hoping he would join her.

Peter was back to studying the statue. More drips were forming. More drops falling. Dionysus dissolving. The sand absorbing him.

Peter sipped from a glass of water as he watched the moon climb past the mountains to the east, illuminating the vineyard in pale blue light. A soft, warm wind blew off the hills. Dust devils danced down the neat, skeletal rows of dried vines, kicking up more dust, as if to emphasize the desiccation, placing a last layer of dirt over a bone-yard of hope.

The distant sounds of laughter, thumping of the DJ’s bass speaker, clinking glasses of wines being toasted, drunk and refilled, drunk and refilled–filtered out to him. Peter’s cellar had been thrown wide open, his coveted larder depleting, his reserve flowing out.

Persephone was drunk, which was her right and duty as the bride. She sloppily drank Silenus Merlot from a silver chalice, spilling and staining the front of her wedding gown.

Her husband pointed this out to her.

“So what? I’ll never wear it again,” she laughed, as she poured the rest of her wine down her nearly exposed bosom, then forced her new husband’s face into it. His muffled laughter and eager tongue tickled her, and she giggled happily.

A couple staggered down one of the long rows of vines. He attempted to hug her, feel her up, seduce her–pushing her against one of the wooden stalk supports. The support snapped like a bone breaking, the vine tore, dried up marbles of dead grapes scattered, as they fell, laughing, onto the dirt where they made dusty, stained love.

When Peter next passed Dionysus, his face had now melted away. A nude, faceless, dying god still offering his grape and debauchery to an endlessly thirsty world. Peter continued upstairs to his room. He sat at his writing table and inscribed a note. He signed it, folded it and carefully placed it into an off-white envelope.

On the outside he wrote: ‘To my darling daughter. Read this only AFTER your honeymoon. Love always, Dad.’

The orgy of festivity vibrated up through the floorboards.

The muddy pool of water around Dionysus’ remaining torso attracted a skimming mosquito. She drank a miniscule amount of water, and then, being an unsatisfied female, went off in thirst for blood.

Despite the debris of broken bottles and sticky, spilled wine, Peter found the dim quiet of the wine cellar reassuring. He laid his pounding head against the cool wall, allowing the scorching heat from the day, trapped inside his body, to ebb into the bricks.

A well-endowed brunette, nearly falling out of her dress as she nearly fell down the stairs, laughed at her own ineptitude.

“Hello you,” she called out, spotting Peter. “I came for more wine,” she giggled, looking around the bottle-lined walls. “Do you think there’s any left?”

Peter raised his head. “I have just what you need.”

He led her back to where a thick wooden door was nearly hidden in a dark recess.

“Spooky,” the girl giggled, grabbing his hand for comfort.

He pulled out an old-fashioned key and unlocked the door to a cramped stone room with a bare bulb hung from the ceiling.

Peter yanked the chain, lighting it. The bulb swung in, illuminating empty wine racks, save for two dust-cobbed bottles before them; then swung out, catching the glint of a revolver’s barrel, unseen by the girl, atop the far rack.

“These are the last two remaining bottles from our very first cuvee,” Peter said, handing her a bottle.

“Yummy!” She examined the label. “It’s older than me. Is it still good?”

“Definitely.”

“Goodie,” she pressed the bottle against her chest. “Let’s go drink it!”

“I can’t, but will you give this to Persephone for me?” He handed her the envelope.

“Are you sure you don’t want to party?”

“I’m sure.”

“I’m pretty easy,” she grinned, leaning into him. “You wouldn’t have to try very hard.”

“I can see that,” he said, pushing her gently away. “I have something I must do.”

“Can I do it with you?” she grinned, salaciously.

“No! Please go. And be sure make sure Persephone gets the letter.”

“Party-pooper!” She shook the letter at him and made a pouty face. She swung awkwardly at the bulb above her as she left.

The bulb swayed, casting dark and light shadows in the cramped cellar.

The gun was no longer on the shelf.

The last bottle was uncorked.

Peter reached up and stopped the swinging light.

The giggling girl slipped in the pool of water left by melting Dionysus. She fell to the ground with a night shattering scream, the ancient bottle of wine smashing with a bang loud as a gunshot, spilling the blood of grapes across the thirsty soil.