The Nightingale

It is on the seventh day of each month that the future lives of men are unveiled and they come from all parts of the Earth to know what the fates have in store for them. This is except for during the winter months, when twice-born Dionysus returns and natural chaos reigns in place of Apollo’s measured reason.

When frost is on the ground and the sheaves of wheat have frozen back into the Earth – when the great, bright star of Maia appears on the horizon – then it is that nine wild maenads herald the arrival of Dionysus. His body is buried very close to where I am standing and during his season our dedications are made for to the following year’s harvest, while we pray that the sun God will return, his golden youth be resurrected.

When I am satisfied that the purification rituals have been performed correctly and the Temple is spotlessly clean, I walk towards the entrance of the great hall. It is elaborately decorated with all manner of votives – burnished golden shields, statues, cauldrons, tripods and bows - from all four corners of the Earth. Counted amongst them are the ensigns and symbols of every noble family that is known to this world.

I instinctively look up before leaving Apollo’s house, to above the entrance where a thousand garlands of laurel create fragrant canopies beneath the ceiling and pay host to the songbirds that sing his praises. The sweetest voice I ever heard belongs to the nightingale, who reveals to those with ears to hear the innermost longing of the psyche. A pure, shrill note breaks the silence and escapes into Echo’s lonely realm.

When daybreak comes I shall return.