Bacchanalia

She waits in eager anticipation of revelries to come. Standing in the circle, a slip of a hand tightly en-clasped in her each of her sisters'; fingers white with the constricting grip; faces pale in the oppressive heat of silent hope. Their foreheads with wreaths a-bound in rustling haloes; glistening with tiny, sparkling, pearly, beads of sweat. Their shift-like gauzy dresses wrapped in fawn-skin shuffling with the occasional sigh of a restless wind suspiring after the sea and speculating to itself the reason it had gotten all the way up to the hilltop.

The harsh stillness cracks at the clash of cymbals. From her right - towards the Occident comes the mellifluous cacophony of flutes, drums and pipes adding to the tinny monotone of the cymbals. An intense jolt of zeal interspersed with elated passion runs up her spine - through their connected hands she feels her sisters shiver in excitement beside her. The thiasoi were beginning the celebrations!

Slowly, in time to the sound of the beats, she feels herself swaying. Rhythmic, languidly, awaiting the delirium she knows will come. As the sun drowns himself in the wine-red brine, the brackets along the walls of the rock-lined arena flickers to life in a steady stream of yellow bursts in the periphery of her vision. As the beams at the horizon completely blink out, thwarted and extinguished once more by unhurried and impassive waves; the bonfire in the middle of the undulating ring flares up with a hissing roar threatening to burn the very ceiling though the heavens seem far and cold with their haughty stars no more the cold pinpricks on velvet field.

More of her sisters appear with jugs and amphorae. She reaches out with her hands and gratefully accepts a golden goblet. Tilting back her shapely, brown curls, she drains the blood-stained ambrosia - all the while vacillating from side-to-side in synchronous harmony with the rest of the cluster. She passes the chalice around the ring and awaited its return to her. Time seemed sluggish - slow; yet the goblet is already thrust in her hand. The libations are never-ending. She thanks the Gods in an alleluia that is taken up gladly by those around her. The music throbs, the pace quickens, her eyes dull and fevered stare out across the scene. The dancing firelight throws shadows - the circlet of veering and keeling figures form a undulating serpent swallowing its own tail. She smells the sweet fragrance of wine on her lips. Her knotted hair, now undone still has the scent of the oil she coiffed it with. There is a hint of burning incense and rosemary in the air. She feels the pulse of her sisters' hands quicken. She prepares for the gay abandonment of staid decorum she knows will soon come. She herself expects to begin dancing in earnest soon; after all, her mind knows the edge of the precipice of sanity when it senses it.

She starts sensing everything in detail. The sounds of the harmonious instruments, unruly stamping feet, the whitecaps crashing into the rocks below overwhelm her. The lurid colours of the gathered masses in sharp relief by the fire-glow and the dark, lush felt of the night sky above them dazzle her. The sweet, acid tang of the wine and the hint of salt in the bracing night air impress her like they never have. The concept of time ceases to exist. She ceases to exist as a being. She gives herself up to the mystery of it all.

Quite suddenly, she finds herself on another plane, without. She sees herself still dancing and whirling among the women. Yet, here she is observing all of it from up on high. She finds herself enveloped by beautifully shaped, gloriously shining, sublimely god-like figures. The Gods! She bashfully looks up at them with slanted eyes - not daring a direct glance. She notices a smile before she succumbs to the will of the rapture. Her spirit body is aflame, awash with ice. She feels the constant, tingling sensation running up and down her spine - yet she dances on, on the ground below. She spends an eternity suspended in the vacuous expanse surrounded by the very beings she was celebrating. She witnesses all there has been and all there is to be. Then her world goes black.

She awakes to the faint rosy glow in the Levant sky. She finds herself lying in the mossy bank, deep in the woods on the leeward side of the hill. She stands up to notice a few of her sisters from last night nearby in a stupor. She brushes the last vestiges of the torpor from the corners of her mind, adjusts her clothing and hair; and makes her way downhill to the town and her life.