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The young satyr sat hunched over, his head with its unkempt mass of tiny bronze curls barely concealing his goat ears and tiny horn nubs, cradled in his hands. His fingernails were chipped, broken to the quick, and covered in blood and grime from digging through rubble like that upon which he was perched all day. Once this had been a grand old French theater, one of the oldest buildings in New Orleans. Now it was just a heap of wood and stone and ashes. His slender young body convulsed with noiseless sobs: he had no more tears to shed, but still he cried. "Here," a voice said from behind him, soft and gentle like a young bud on the vine. "Drink." Dionysos pushed the cup into his nerveless fingers and the young satyr just held it, the coolness soothing to his bruised and flushed hands. "Drink." Dionysos repeated, more insistently. Martes, for that was the boy's name, slowly raised his head and stared at his God. Dionysos' handsome face was covered in dirt and his ivy crown hung lopsided on his head, damaged in places. His long, flowing himation was in tatters, soaked and covered in mud waist high. One of his buskins had been damaged and was hanging from his leg in shreds, kept there only by the laces. Dionysos smiled at his young charge, but the gesture didn't quite reach his eyes, which were dark with sadness and suffering. Martes felt the God's hands enclose his own and lift the cup up to his mouth. He let the wine pass over his lips, cold as ice, and swallowed. The wine was sweet and soothed his dry, parched throat. As it entered his body it left a warm, pleasurable sensation in its wake and he took several more mouthfuls before Dionysos let go. Dionysos sat down beside him on the rubble and sighed heavily. The two sat in silence for several long moments, the warm, humid night air clinging to them wetly. Off in the distance they could hear the buzzing of cicadas, and faintly a person crying. "Why?" Martes finally asked. "Why did this happen?" "I don't know." Dionysos confessed, taking up a piece of masonry and exploring it with his fingers. "None of us do. We all thought Typhon was safely imprisoned beneath Aetna, with chains of adamantine forged by Hephaistos. He shouldn't have been able to get loose." Dionysos tossed the stone and it bounced off a neighboring streetlamp that somehow still stood. It skidded a few times and then came to rest in the empty intersection. "Somehow he did." "Is this the end?" "No. It only seems that way." Martes swallowed hard. It was difficult to believe him. Everywhere he looked there was total destruction: ruins of buildings that just a couple days before had stood whole; fires smoldering in burnt-out husks of homes; mountains of filth; houses covered in the thick, brown, brackish water of the river; corpses laying exposed in the streets, floating in the water, hanging from trees; men running around lawless, looting and murdering and raping little children. Certainly if this was not the end, it was the beginning of the end. Dionysos placed his hand on Martes' shoulder: he hadn't realized that he was shaking. "I saw the winds toss waves into buildings and knock them flat as if they were made of sand. I saw the levy, which seemed so strong, so invulnerable, begin to crumble, and not even you or Athene standing there holding it up could stop the water from coming. I saw families desperately fleeing overcome by the water, and moments later, they were floating on the surface as corpses. I dug through the wreckage, all the while hearing the desperate pleas for help growing softer and softer, until, by the time I got to them ... it was too late. I saw men and women hunched in alleyways, too weak from hunger and thirst to even move. On the bridge I saw young children wandering terrified and alone, toddlers who could only cry out for their mothers, whom they would never see again. I saw ..." but Martes' voice faltered, overcome by weeping. Dionysos enfolded him in his arms and held the young satyr as he wept. Finally, Martes broke away and stared up at his God. "How can you tell me that this isn't the end?" "Man is a remarkable creature. He is resilient and strong. Somehow, when things seem the worst, and all hope is lost, he finds the courage and resources within himself to come back, to continue in the face of hardship, to rebuild and recreate life anew. Man has faced much worse than this and survived. I promise you, my son, bad as it is, this is not the end." "But what's the point? Why should he even bother if it can all be swept away in an instant?" "Because that is the way of life. It is a delicate thread stretched over a gaping chasm, and it can snap at any moment. And it will snap, because that is its moira. But, by Zeus, how beautiful that thread is while it lasts - it shines brighter than any star in heaven. And while men live, they are driven to create, to build, to reflect on what it means to be alive, to share their experiences with others, to love and live their lives to the fullest. This is an uncontrollable drive in men, as instinctual as a bird's need for flight or an ant's desire to gather food. And this desire - to reach out across the chasm to touch another, to create and thus to leave a lasting mark on the world that will extend beyond their mortal limits ensures that this city will not die, that it will be reborn, one brick at a time, one life after another. It will not be easy, and it will not be as it was before, but life here will continue; Typhon shall not prevail, for creation is more powerful than uncreation." "Are you sure?" "Yes. This is my city, and my people." They sat for a while longer in silence, Martes reflecting on the God's words. And then Dionysos stood and brushed some of the dirt from his ragged himation and said, "Come, my child. You need your rest. We have much to do tomorrow if we are to help these mortals rebuild. There are lives to be saved, and psukhes to be guided, and food to be brought to the hungry survivors. Hermes and Demeter cannot do it alone." And so Martes stood and took Dionysos' hand in his own
and the pair walked into the darkness. |
