Eryn Holbrook is pursuing a Master of Arts in the Graduate Liberal Students (GLS) program at Simon Fraser University, where she also works as an IT manager. A musician and songwriter, Eryn has released half a dozen albums over the past two decades. The GLS program has awakened an interest in Greek mythology and German philosophy, which has evidently influenced her writing.
fiction
The First Time I Met Dionysus
Eryn Holbrook, Simon Fraser University
The age of the Socratic man is over: crown yourselves with ivy,
take the thyrsus stalk in your hand,
and don’t be amazed when tigers and panthers lie down
fawning at your feet.
— Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy
Spider Hill Road winds along a mountainside of thick evergreen forest on the West Coast of British Columbia. Somewhere along that road sits an abandoned shack where teens gather to drink beer, make out, or play acoustic guitar riffs by the dim light of a propane lantern. The people who live along this road work at the rock quarry or at the hydroelectric plant on the nearby lake. Their kids wait for the school bus to pick them up early in the morning when the moon is still in the sky. It was an evening in late October, 1993, when I first saw Spider Hill. William was in his final year of high school. I was in the grade below him. William was moody but dependable—an only child, like me. We were serious, mercurial, and often lonely. I lived one town over, in a suburban bedroom community where the streetlights came on reassuringly at dusk. Any mention of Spider Hill in my town would conjure up images of thrill-seeking locals speeding down the narrow, winding road in pickup trucks. The unluckiest among them would miss the turn and flip over in a ditch or end up crumpled against the thick trunk of a cedar tree. Some of their names were printed in the local paper or on the back page of the high school yearbook.
That night in ’93 I waited at the edge of my driveway for William to pick me up. He phoned me up earlier that day, said he was taking me to a party somewhere up in the woods. He sounded nervous, careless, and out of breath. I knew not to ask too many questions. If I did, he would change his plans and I’d be stuck at home on a Saturday night. William pulled up as the streetlights flickered on. He opened the passenger-side door from the inside. “Ready?” he asked. “For what?” I answered, sardonically. He was quiet as we drove along the highway towards Spider Hill Road in his mom’s ancient, rusted-out pickup. He held on to the steering wheel with a focused determination, navigating sharp turns and dodging potholes beneath a canopy of evergreens and cottonwood. I stared out the window in silence as we passed a row of roadside memorials. Some were decorated with flowers; others bore faintly carved initials or rain-weathered Polaroids.
We turned up a long gravel driveway that ended at a modest log cabin. An orderly crew was tending a massive bonfire in the middle of a grass field. They moved through the smoke in a blur of plaid flannel jackets, jeans, sturdy work boots. According to William, the place belonged to a relative—an older cousin or uncle. (I can’t remember which.) There was a barn to our right and, although they were mostly hidden in their stalls, I could see puffs of steam erupting from several horses’ nostrils as we passed. On the field, a few dozen people moved about purposefully, tending the fire or raking up leaves. We pulled over and parked beside the barn, stepping out on to the path as a slender white figure appeared, leaping like a fawn out of the darkness, taking us both by surprise. This was the first time I met Dionysus. My eyes adjusted to the light of his lantern as his shape began to materialize. Shoulder-length golden ringlets spiraled gently against a sharp, moon-pale face. He had the spry gait of a gazelle and the proud stance of a Greek satyr. A loose, multicolored scarf draped carelessly behind him. Black leather boots curled up slightly at the toes. Part Mephistopheles, part Robin Goodfellow. Dionysus leaned in closer to William and me, grinning madly as if he were about to share a terrible secret.
DIONYSUS: Are you here for the party?
Whatever the case, I’m
so glad you’ve come. It’s
going to be awesome, like
nothing you’ve seen.
He was only a few years older than us but spoke with a confidence and authority that suggested he was in charge. I looked at William questioningly. He shrugged and looked away. Dionysus motioned for us to follow him towards the bonfire.
The fire was almost as tall as the trees that lined the property. I sat next to William and Dionysus on a freshly cut tree stump and made small talk with strangers in the dark. In my thin satin jacket, they must have thought that I was either brave or unprepared. (It was the latter.) They explained that this bonfire was an annual tradition. After a few hours of burning, hot coals would be raked over the field. Then everyone would take a turn walking across the coals, barefoot. Dionysus turned to me.
DIONYSUS: Have you ever walked on fire?
We do it every year.
It’s a tradition around here.
I shook my head, but it took me a moment to fully process the question. My eyes widened as the flames crackled. He must have sensed my hesitation.
DIONYSUS: Don’t worry. First,
I’ll be guiding us in
a group meditation. Then,
we will all walk together.
There’s nothing to fear.
Just let go of your mind
and you’re free. You’ll see.
His tone was casual, but my mind was racing, looking for an escape. This wasn’t what I had expected. I started to stand up and inch away from the fire but William stepped behind me and blocked my retreat. He tried to reassure me. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen it before on TV. It’s just, like, mind over matter—or whatever,” he offered. I wasn’t persuaded. One by one, the chorus of flannel figures gave their speeches. Someone passed me a warm beer.
FIRST VOICE: But you came all this way.
You must give it a try.
There’s nothing to fear.SECOND VOICE: It’ll be an experience
you’ll never forget.THIRD VOICE: You can watch if you want
but you’ll be sorry to miss out.
The wind changed direction and the smoke from the fire bellowed towards me. My eyes burned. The smoke obscured the scene like a heavy curtain. Backlit by the fire, the voices of the choir seemed to be coming from all directions. A dozen shadows crowded around, their voices hovering in the smoke-filled air.
CHORUS: You can trust him.
You can trust Dionysus.
We do it every year.
It’s our tradition!
Stepping out of the circle of voices, I wanted to explain something, but my words wouldn’t come together. Dionysus stood up and held his lantern high in his left hand. A hush came over the crowd. The hovering shadows became solid figures again and assembled around their leader. He explained that he would be leading everyone up to the cabin for instructions and a guided meditation. I turned to William. “This is crazy,” I whispered to him sharply. “These people are crazy. You didn’t tell me this was going to happen. I thought we were just coming up for a party.” William turned and looked at me with the same determination I had seen in him earlier that evening. “You wouldn’t have come if I’d told you.” He was right, of course, but I was still angry. We were quiet for a few minutes. “You don’t have to do it,” he sighed. “I’ll stay here with you.” I exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours, releasing a long puff of steam into the cold air. “Thank you,” I said as I turned away from him and watched the assembly of Bacchae walk up the driveway towards the cabin’s warm glow. Dionysus followed behind them with his lantern held high above his head. I shivered in the darkness. William came up behind me and placed his flannel jacket around my shoulders. A few of the initiates stayed behind to rake hot coals across the field.
I’m sure there were a lot of reasons why I didn’t follow Dionysus to the cabin. One thing—I didn’t trust him. I was also too skeptical, too rigid. Admittedly, I was afraid of anything I couldn’t understand rationally. Walking on hot coals without feeling any pain? It didn’t make sense, and I was sure I would fail if I tried it. Dionysus’s followers, on the other hand, were instinctively confident. Confident that mind could transcend matter. What did that even mean? It wasn’t logical. I watched the fire and waited with William in silence.
Twenty minutes later, Dionysus and his initiates emerged from the cabin, marching in a line, chanting in unison to the beat of a drum.
CHORUS: Where do you wave your thyrsus
over your worshippers,
O Dionysus?
perhaps in those thick woods
of Mount Olympus,
where Orpheus once played his lyre,
brought trees together with his songs,
collecting wild beasts round him.[1]
William and I stood at the edge of the field observing their hypnotic, coordinated movements from a comfortable distance. At Dionysus’ signal, the figures began walking across the burning field, the legs of their jeans rolled up to their shins. They moved across the coals swiftly, as if carried along by a strong wind. They continued their chanting. The pulsing of the drum seemed to be the only thing keeping time moving forward. The voices of the chorus lifted into the trees. Steam rising up from the hot coals hovered over the scene like a gossamer veil. Caught in the swell of the dithyrambic chorus, my sense of time slowed and seemed to fold in on itself. As I stood watching Dionysus lead his initiates, one by one, over the burning coals, I felt like a stranger from a distant country. They walked across the field with joy, without hesitation, without fear, and celebrated their journey to the far side with cheering and ecstatic dancing. The drum beat louder, the voice of the chorus swelled. Dionysus was in there somewhere, swallowed up in the leveling frenzy of the crowd. Listening to those multiplied voices unified in celebration, I was awestruck by this coming together of spirit, this voluntary surrendering of the self to something bigger and more profound. I found myself wanting to be a part of it. To follow the lead of that charismatic guide. To lose myself in the chorus.
But by then it was too late. They had already crossed over to the other side, and the ritual was over.
Note
[1] Euripides, Bacchae. Trans. Ian C. Johnston. [PDF File.] 2019. http://johnstoniatexts.x10host.com/euripides/bacchaepdf.pdf
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