Black Light

“Well,” I said, squinting at the picture. “Aren’t they?”

“June Harrington thought they were the offerings of the galli—the men who castrated themselves to Artemis, and not always willingly.”

I grimaced, but Balthazar only turned the page and continued in the same solemn voice. “She was quite a remarkable woman, June Harrington. We disagreed on the most basic issue of—well, call it belief—but she was a tireless researcher, and fearless. She was obsessed with the ancient mystery cults, with how all of them so obviously had the same origin. She believed that the Erinyes were manifestations of the beings that were the companions of Dionysos. Have you read The Bacchae?”

“I have it.”

“Ah, yes,” murmured Balthazar. “The classic answer from first-year students from New York, no matter how obscure the text: ‘I have it.’ Well, bacchante is one of the terms for the women who followed Dionysos. There are many others. Bassarid, Maenad, Thyiad, Phoibad, Lyssad. Maenad means simply ‘mad woman’; lyssad means ‘the raging one.’ And we also have Potniades, which is particularly interesting because of its possible derivation from the far more archaic Minoan and Mycenaen Potnia, or—”

I exhaled impatiently. Balthazar looked surprised, even disappointed, but with a sigh he flipped through the volume in front of us. “Dionysos. The god of revelry, the god of ecstasy; the god of illusions. His rituals involve madness induced by wine or hallucinogenic plants; the apotheosis of the god was achieved in a state of intoxication, and often involved omophagia—the eating of raw flesh, of animals certainly but at some earlier point of humans as well. Most likely he is an Asian import, by way of Phrygia—Anatolia, that is, Turkey, and there are indisputable links with Shiva—and so from the same land that gave birth to the ancient matristic cults. They may literally have given birth to him—his mother is supposed to have been Semele, a mortal, but Semele is also a name for the goddess of the earth, the field that is wounded when it is tilled; and Semele is also linked with Cybele—who, as you will recall,” he added, gazing at me sternly, “is yet another manifestation of the goddess in her maiden form.”

I blinked, trying my best to look interested, and Balthazar’s expression softened. “Forgive me, Lit. You must be hungry. Here…”

He stood and walked to the far wall, where a small round device like a doorbell was set within the wainscoting. He pressed it. I heard nothing, but within a minute the hallway echoed with the sound of brisk footsteps.

“My housekeeper,” Balthazar explained. Seconds later there was an equally brisk knock upon the sturdy oak door.

“Yes, Kirsten. Come in please—”

The door creaked open. A dour woman in a dark blue paisley dress entered. “Professor?”

“Would you be so kind as to prepare some sort of tray for us?”

“Tray?” The woman gave me a reproving glance. She was tall, head and shoulders above Balthazar Warnick, thin-lipped and black-haired, with eyebrows so dark and straight they looked to have been drawn in black greasepaint. “I brought up your lunch only an—”

“My guest is hungry,” Balthazar said. “Is there any of that salmon left?”

“Inkokt lax,” the housekeeper corrected him with a frown.

Balthazar ignored her. “Do you like salmon?” he asked, turning to me.

“Sure.” What I really wanted was another drink, but it seemed unlikely that Kirsten would be that accommodating.

“Good. Kirsten, if you please—”

“I had intended to have the inkokt lax for my lunch,” said the housekeeper. There was no doubt as to who she thought was more deserving of it. “But I will see what I can do.”

She turned and left. Balthazar watched her go, then gave me a sheepish look. “Kirsten is a devout Lutheran,” he explained. “Here, let’s sit, I’m sure it will take her a few minutes to pry the inkokt lax from the refrigerator…”

He walked over to the woodstove and thrust two small logs into its belly. I sat back down at the table, feeling light-headed, almost disembodied by the atmosphere of this sorcerer’s den, with its Latinate inscriptions and stained-glass windows, the faint scent of woodsmoke and pine needles and the promise of food brought up by a glowering factotum.

And yet there was also something that was weirdly familiar, almost comforting, about it. I began flipping through one of the books in front of me, a musty-smelling folio containing tinted photographs of Greek vases and statuary. It was not until there was a knock at the door and Kirsten entered with a large silver tray, that I realized what it all reminded me of—my childhood visits to Bolerium, with Axel Kern’s housekeeper bringing in platters of inedible delicacies while my parents and Kern sipped their way through Bolerium’s legendary wine cellar.

“Here is your inkokt lax,” Kirsten announced coldly. She nudged aside a stack of papers and set down the tray, which held not only dilled salmon but several porcelain dishes holding capers, cucumbers and sour cream, a knot of cloverleaf rolls and jam, as well as a small silver pot surrounded by wisps of steam and the blessed scent of coffee.

“Thank you, Kirsten,” said Balthazar. When I opened my mouth to say the same, the housekeeper fixed me with such an icy stare that I hastily turned my attention back to the book.

“I will be in the laundry room, Professor Warnick. Goodbye.”

Only after the door closed did I dare look up. Balthazar regarded me, amused, then opened his hand to indicate the heaping tray between us.

“Kirsten will have starved in vain if you don’t eat something,” he said. “Please.”

I ate. Not very much, but enough to satisfy Professor Warnick. He dabbed strawberry jam on a roll and nibbled at it, finally set it aside and poured coffee into two cups.

“Here,” he said. He handed one to me and pushed the tray to the other side of the table. “Do you feel better?”

I nodded. For several minutes we sat without talking. Balthazar stared broodingly at the bay window. I drank my coffee gratefully, pouring myself a second cup. When Balthazar remained silent I turned my attention back to the folio. At first its sepia-toned images seemed to share the same detached, rather prim gravity that all old photographs possess, each picture carefully numbered and named, dated and referenced—

Symposium scene, red-figure cup by the Nikosthenes Painter. Late 6th century B.C., Museum of Fine Arts
Fragment from a bowl of Central Gaulish ware, figure-type of the god Dionysos, 2nd century A.D., British Museum

But as I perused the volume, photographic plates like moths pinned to the oversized pages, the images began to take on a stranger, even malevolent, cast.

Maenads in pursuit of the god Dionysos, one holding an olisbos, black-figure cup by Epiktetos…
Red-figure cup by the Brygos Painter, religious orgy scene featuring woman beaten with a slipper before reclining figure of the god…

Dionysos…

I moved the folio so that its contents were not visible to Balthazar, lowering my face until it was scant inches above the page. The first picture showed three young women carrying branches, hair hanging around angular faces as they followed a distinctively unperturbed-looking man whom I guessed must be Dionysos. The man had lean features and slanted, blank eyes, and carried a long staff topped with a pinecone.

I turned the page. The next one showed an orgy, the women slim, unclothed save for fillets of ivy pinning