Dion: His Life and Mine (13 page)

The next morning, Ma Three took Dion breakfast in bed. Her scream shook the entire mountain. Dion was, for once, sleeping peacefully. Too peacefully, and next to him were the remains of several bottles. It took the eight of us to revive him, to pummel his chest, pump his stomach, pour vinegar down his throat so he would vomit up the deadly substance. When we could be sure that he would live, the motherly Mas turned into harpies and descended as one on Silenus. He tried to defend his actions by saying he had made Dion better. Hadn’t they, themselves, said what an improvement had come over him recently? Then Ma Six had to be restrained by Mas One and Three. She hadn’t brought that boy up and kept him safe, for the likes of Silenus to ruin him. Ma One reprimanded Silenus, calmly pointing out that Dion’s sufferings had been caused by the poison simply working its way out of his body.
They could live with him suffering for however long it took, if it meant that Dion would be able to live without the vile liquid. Silenus told them they were wrong. Liquid, he said, was Dion’s life source, his genius. Without it he might as well be dead. Silenus was asked to leave the mountain - not quite as politely as we had been asked to leave Thebes, but the message was the same.

The Mas were as good as their word. They set up a rota system and the eight of us kept vigil, day and night. Soon, as the Mas predicted, the anxiety caused by Dion’s relapse, began to fade. Dion started to spend more time with the boys, played his guitar and worked on the farm. Then, one day, as I sat by his bed watching, his eyes slowly opened, he smiled and told me he wanted to go home.

None of the Mas were happy to see us go and I know that not all of them thought it a good idea. In Naxos, I would have to look after Dion and the boys by myself. There were also bars and clubs on Naxos, while the mountain was free from temptation. But I couldn’t expect, and didn’t want Dion to live the rest of his life, isolated from the world and without trust. I tried to reassure the Mas by saying that I had Nyx on Naxos, but the Mas were left unconvinced and I know I left them uneasy. When, later, they were proved right, they never once said, “We told you so.”

Dion’s revival continued on Naxos. He decorated the house and looked after Staphylus and Oinopion. Although his return to Crete had been further delayed, Oinopion also thrived on Naxos. He liked walking to the cliff to see the strip of land that was Crete, to make sure it was still there. But for the most part he liked being with Dion, whom he referred to as his ‘new Daddy’. For a month we lived like hermits, with Nyx our only visitor, bringing food, gossip from the island and news about the world at large. Then we received communication from Crete, asking us to attend the games my mother had been planning.

Dion insisted that we go as a family and maintained he would do my mother the courtesy of playing a gig, as he had promised. I was still a bit unsure, but Crete welcomed us with open arms. It is something that I have learnt to appreciate about island life. No matter what the world at large thinks, islanders will rally round their own and protect them, just as the sea protects their land from intruders.

Crete had never looked more beautiful. The streets were decorated with garlands of flowers and the atmosphere was one of solidarity and euphoria. For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be Cretan and was proud of it. We made straight for Knossos, so my mother could fall upon her little grandson and meet her son-in-law. Oinopion thrust a bag full of stones, he had insisted on packing, into her hands and explained that they were from his other ‘homes’ so could he please have a rock garden for them? Despite the fact that she was about to host the biggest party the island had ever seen, my mother wasn’t fazed and took her demanding grandson out, there and then, to pick a spot.

I took Dion on a tour of the island, as I had done with Theo on a day which now seemed a lifetime ago.

“It’s beautiful,” Dion said as we sat on the cliff
looking back at Naxos. “I don’t know how you could ever leave it.”

“It wasn’t the same. Then, it seemed like a prison.”

“And now?”

“Now, now it feels like, I don’t know, right I guess.” I shrugged.

“Like home, you mean, it feels like home,” Dion said wistfully.

“Yes,” I said thinking about all the places I had shown Dion that day and the memories that still inhabited them: The place where I had tripped when I first met Bris, the spot where her house had stood with her herb garden, which now, after being neglected, had been taken care of by nature and the track where Andro used to train, day after day. They all felt mine in a way that Olympia, the Mountain and, even, Naxos never did. “Yes,” I repeated, “like home.”

Dion stared, silently, out to sea.

When we arrived back at the palace, the place was in uproar. Having found and cultivated his rock garden, Oinopion had then lost interest in it. Having exhausted other forms of entertainment, he had persuaded his grandmother to play hide and seek with him. Still eager to cater to his every whim, my mother indulged him and had since exhausted all possible hiding places, bar one.

It surprised me that I still knew it so well. It was one of the few places in the palace, or even on the island, which hadn’t been prodded, poked and improved. Dion and my mother followed me in. She looked white and clutched at my hand. I guessed that she had never been down there. Had she never been curious about the place where her son had spent his life? But, then, it was also the place where he had died. We turned corner after corner, calling Oinopion’s name, until we reached Aster’s room. Phaedra’s stars had faded, but were just visible. Andro’s instructions for various wrestling techniques were still pinned to the walls. There were two small cases, which Aster had packed with the few possessions he owned and wanted to take to his new life. Curled up on his bed, sleeping, was the nephew he had never known.

My mother gasped.

Dion, gently, picked up his son and he stirred.

“Look Mummy, I’ve found my very own home,” he said sleepily, but proudly.

There was talk of what to do to Aster’s rooms and his belongings. Finally, it was decided that they should be left as they were, untouched, unspoiled and undisturbed. A quiet place, where those who loved him could visit him, in spirit. I know my mother spent an hour there every day until the day of her death, when she slipped, peacefully, away to be with her sons and wait for the rest of us to join them.

Dion asked if he could practise in the Labyrinth as the acoustics were so good, and he wouldn’t disturb anyone. My mother agreed. For the next seven days, Dion would often climb Mount Ida before returning to practise in the Labyrinth, where he worked on new songs for the festival. The exercise and fresh air seemed to invigorate and inspire him. Each day, when he emerged from a practice session in the Labyrinth, he seemed happier than he had ever been. He made jokes about returning to earth and told Oinopion about his adventures in the ‘underworld’. Whilst Oinopion was entranced, I would think about Dion’s hallucinations and shudder.

Maybe, I should have seen this as a premonition, but then Dion had his hair cut short, telling me it was time for a ‘new beginning’. He even agreed to an interview with
The Cretan Credance
. I had misgivings, but it turned out to be one of the most truthful representations of Dion. After reading it, any concerns I may have had were pushed to the back of my mind, besides my mother was keeping me busy above ground. Phaedra had sent word that she would not be back in time for the festival, which had disappointed my mother. I had hoped that, between us, we could rebuild our crumbled bridges. But while I was willing to mix cement, it seemed she still needed time to find the bricks.

All too quickly, the first day of the festival arrived. Nobody watching the composed and charismatic Queen of Crete, take the stand and make her opening speech, would have had any idea that, just two hours earlier, we had all been in freefall. The clothes, which had been sent back several times to be altered, had arrived in time. I had even managed to get all three of my boys washed and dressed, when my mother’s maid, Tania, anxiously knocked on my door and told me she was unable to find my mother. Although I had come to realise that Tania was trustworthy, I knew enough about the long ears of the press to want to keep any discrepancy to myself.

“I’m sorry Tania, I meant to tell you that she’s taking a quiet walk to compose herself.”

Tania gave me a suspicious look. “What about her dressing time?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, I can help her if she needs it.”

Tania gave me a hard stare for a few moments and I stared back as innocently as I could. Eventually, she relented.

“Now Oinopion,” I said when I had closed the door, “where could your Grandmamma be?”

“Maybe she’s playing hide and seek,” Oinopion, innocently, suggested.

I raced down and through The Labyrinth and into the Minotaur’s lair. There, my mother sat on Aster’s bed, holding one of his little Minotaur statues in her hands.

“From today, Crete will celebrate and revere the Minotaur, just as I should have cherished Asterius.”

Radiant in purple, my mother welcomed her people and thanked them for the hard work they had all put into the festival which, if it went well, she hoped to make an annual event. This was greeted with loud applause. She then went on to outline the schedule.

Day One:

After mother’s speech, we opened up the grounds of Knossos for the evening feast. The gardens were filled with lanterns, twinkling, and the sound of laughter. I had never heard such merriment at home in the whole of my life and I was amazed at how beautiful it was. But I was beginning to realise that it had never been about the place, but about the people or - rather, person. Dion moved from table to table. As son-in-law, he was one of the hosts and he played down his fame, keeping the focus on the festival.

Day Two:

The whole island slept late into day two, getting over the excitement of the evening and building up energy for the entertainment to come. Mother had been the first islander to rise. She’d paced the corridor nervously, hoping for the success of the activities she had planned. In the afternoon, we all gathered on the beach, nearest to Knossos. The crowd parted as seven young acrobats led out three beautiful white bulls, adorned with garlands of the most colourful flowers on Crete. The crowd gasped as three of the acrobats bowed to the bulls and then, taking a graceful run up, grabbed their horns and somersaulted over the beasts. For an hour, the acrobats delighted the crowd with more and more outrageous stunts and tricks, performing handstands, vaults and pommels and flying over the bulls.

Finally, the acrobats, amid applause, bowed to the audience, then to the bulls and then bid us do the same. The entire population bowed down to the bulls and clapped and cheered them. Bull-leaping or ‘taurokathapsio, as my mother had christened it, was now to become a pastime of which Crete could be proud.

I squeezed my mother’s hand gently. It had been a fitting tribute to both her sons, and for a moment I had been transported back to The Labyrinth, where I had witnessed a big brother teach his little brother how to perfect pankration moves.

Day Three:

Following the success of the bull-leaping, mother was able to relax and enjoy the final day, which involved music competitions. The winners were a young group of singers, calling themselves The Chorus. For their encore, they sang one of Libertia’s songs in honour of Dion. I could tell that he was touched. Then it was his turn to take to the stage. He hadn’t let me hear any of the songs he had prepared and so I was, as one, with the rest of Crete when Dion gave his last performance. He sang four songs. “My Jigsaw” was about two brothers and their loyalty. He dedicated it to our sons, but I knew it had been inspired by my brothers and Dion’s relationship with Amphelos. The second, “The Hole in my Soul” was a haunting lament to lost love and the third, “Finding Nirvana” was a tribute to the people of Crete. The fourth and final song, he dedicated to Mount Ida. It was called “Immortally Mortal.” He held us spellbound and silent throughout. We stood, motionless, long after he had played the final chord. Then, at last, he lifted his head and smiled at the crowd. The silence was broken, as applause and cheering burst from us.

             
To round off the festival, and as tribute to its success, we formed a Paean procession and danced through Crete, expressing our pride and passion for our island. Dion joined me, exhilarated, but I was so lost, in the dancing, I didn’t notice him slip away. Even if I had noticed, I wouldn’t have been concerned. Dion often needed time alone after a gig. Despite its short length, this had been his first public performance since the death of Orpheus.

It was only when I arrived back in our rooms at 3am, my feet bleeding, my muscles aching and my throat hurting, that I found his note waiting for me.

At 6am on the 4
th
April, my beautiful, creative, imaginative husband woke up alone in our bed, in our bedroom, in our home, on our island. By 3pm, he was
dead
.

I hadn’t seen Dion for a week before he died. I was still on Crete. In the note, he left me, when he crept away from the festival, he had insisted that I should stay on Crete to spend more time with my mother, dissecting the success of the festival and relaxing after all the excitement. He’d also used Oinopion as leverage. It was unfair to make him leave Crete, early, when he evidently loved being there so much.

High on the success of the festival, both relieved and exhilarated at how well Dion’s gig had gone and the warm welcome he had received on Crete, I had no reason to suspect any hidden message in his lines. It was only later, much later, when I climbed Mount Ida, to walk out my grief, it occurred to me why Dion had spent so much time climbing it. His final song “Immortally Mortal” had, actually, been dedicated to his father, who, like Dion had spent his early childhood on a mountain. A mountain on Crete: Mount Ida.

Authors and directors have creatively pieced together what they believe to have happened during those final nine hours of Dion’s earthly life. Some have had the courtesy to write to me, some have not. Websites have been set up devoted to the subject, including conspiracy theories that Dion didn’t take his own life, but was killed by Me, Cal, Likertes, Silenus or a ‘stranger’ that was seen lurking about the vicinity. Some even believe that he isn’t dead; that he faked his own death to evade the malicious treatment he was getting and is living a quiet life, out of the glare of the public eye. Unbelievably, there may be some truth in that.

Here, finally, is my own version of that day. I have played it over and over in my mind so much that it will be a relief to get it down on paper. I don’t suppose for one minute that it is any more accurate than any of the others.

As I was on Crete, I am unable to assess what occurred in the six days that passed between him leaving Crete and taking his life. Maybe, the change I had seen in him had been an illusion and Dion’s resolve hadn’t broken, since the day I had watched the Mas pump his body clean. Maybe, it was the peace he felt on Mount Ida, which he had never truly been able to find anywhere else. What little I do know of his activities, during those six days, is from his journal and the scribbled bits of paper I found lying around the house. He wrote new lyrics, new music; these too, I found scattered.

He wouldn’t have had any visitors. He kept his activities inconspicuous and unless someone had been closely watching the house, there was no obvious signal that the dark, quiet house held a frenzied inhabitant. Nyx, who had been looking in on the house while we were away, was visiting friends on Kos. Her first course of action, when she arrived back on Naxos, would be to dutifully check on our house and find my husband, who had been dead for three days.

We know that Dion woke at around six, at least this is the time he states in the journal he kept throughout his life and for which greedy publishers have made me pointless offers. Dion wrote incessantly, both entries in his journal and new songs, knowing he didn’t have much time left and wanting to make the most of it. Crumpled pieces of paper lay all over the bed and pens leaked into the covers. Many of his notes recalled hallucinations he’d experienced at the Mas and on Mount Ida. He played and sang some of his new songs to himself. What did it matter that he would not perform any of them? They would be performed. Through them, his mission would proceed so they needed to be perfected. The song he worked upon the most was the one he dedicated to his fans.

After playing non-stop for four hours, Dion slept. It seems that the sleep put him in a calmer mood as the next part of his journal recounts how, in sleep, he had travelled to a better place and wanted to return there. During his last few conscious hours left in this life, Dion wrote letters to his sons, his Mas, his fans and to me. While he composed them, he washed down the secret stash of liquid he had hidden and on which he had been existing for the week he had spent alone on Naxos. The doctor estimated that at around one o’clock, Dion’s abused and battered body would have finally given up and gone into shock, culminating in his heart failing.

Dion’s body lay, undisturbed, for three days. Nyx, on her return, observed little signs that the house was not as it had been when she left it. On entering, she went from room to room calling each of our names, until she came upon Dion lying on Oinopion’s bed. The letters, he had finally finished writing, were in his hand. The remnants of his concoction had seeped into the carpet. Her first reaction was to contact Silenus, then a doctor and finally Crete.

It was my mother who took me to Aster’s room and who, gently, sat me down and told me the contents of the message, she had received. Years before, I had to deliver the news of the death of a loved one in the same room. My mother gave me the chance to grieve in private, before I faced the public, in a way Dion’s fans would find acceptable.

Silenus arranged for us to get to Naxos under cover of darkness. Nyx had called a doctor she knew would be discreet, which meant that I was able to spend a couple of hours alone with Dion’s body and dash any hopes I had that all of this was a horrible, horrible nightmare.

Five days after his death, Dion’s body was removed from our house. Word had leaked out and by midnight, the quiet beach, where Dion and I were married, was filled with fans who had come from near and far to be together. Young men, wearing Libertia t-shirts, held candles in one hand and their hysterical girlfriends in the other. Members of Thiasus, none of whom looked like they had slept in months, clung to each other and wailed.

It was Silenus who suggested I address the crowd. Give the man his due, he knew good publicity, but he also knew it would be the only way to get rid of them. They were needy, hurting and wanted acknowledgement of their grief. They wanted to feel a part of it, a part of him and as he was no longer here, a part of me. My mother stepped in, telling Silenus that my grief was private and not a public spectacle. Silenus left the unspoken words, “oh, but it is” hanging in the air. Instead he turned to me and said gently, “Ariadne, they paid for this house and they will keep paying for it. You should give them something for their money.”

Much has been reported of my address to Dion’s fans. I am surprised by how detailed some of the accounts are; for me, it went in a flash and I barely remember anything. What I do recall is Silenus supporting me by the arm, as millions of candles flickered and blinded me, as I read, aloud, Dion’s final song. I shan’t bother to repeat it here; it has been well-documented and you can easily find copies on
the Internet.
The silence, which had fallen as I had made my descent on to the beach, was broken, the second I finished the last word. Wailing, screaming and crying echoed in my ears as Silenus led me, gently, back to the house and I left the people to their grief. I wish I could say that they had all shown me the same consideration.

I received many letters of support after Dion’s death. The writers of these seemed to want me to help them through their grief, to understand what they were going through as they understood me. I couldn’t, I was numb. Nyx responded to each and every one with the utmost diplomacy. Others were less supportive and accused me of causing Dion’s death, not being there in his hour of need, not spending enough time with him on tour or interfering too much in his music. They were angry and wanted me to give them answers. I couldn’t, I was numb. Nyx ripped these up with the utmost disgust.

Then, someone wrote ‘Murdering Bitch’ on our front door, in red paint and I started receiving death threats. Silenus insisted that I left Naxos until the dust settled and the paint was cleaned off. He arranged for me to go to Olympia. I didn’t stay long. As Dion said, Olympia had been Libertia’s home, not mine and without Dion I had no reason to be part of the music scene. I took the boys to the Mas. We were able to grieve quietly together, sharing happy stories of Dion and laughing at his antics, laughing until we cried. I stayed there longer than at Olympia but, as Dion had said, the mountain was the Mas’ home, not mine. I now knew where mine was and decided to take up my mother’s offer and move back to Crete, permanently. In time, I managed to block out the world and concentrate on my sons and my project. Ma Four had been right; having a mission of my own enabled me to banish the world beyond Crete. Watching it develop and grow, knowing I had played a part in its new beginnings, helped me find one of my own.

I left Silenus in charge of Dion’s estate. He turned our family home into a museum, dedicated to Dion. Ten years ago, it was named a ‘National Historic Landmark’ and I’m told fifty thousand fans visit each year. In exchange, Silenus set up a fund for Oinopion and Staphylus and bought me an apartment in a secluded part of the island. I use it when I visit Nyx.

On Crete, I slept with my eyes open, ate when my mother told me to, took long walks along the cliff, hiked up Mount Ida, held on to my two stunned sons and read and re-read the last words Dion wrote to me. Compared to the long letter he wrote to the boys and the song he dedicated to his fans, it was a post-it note:

It’s time to be reunited with my parents.

I’ll come for you when it’s your time.

Go back to your home; I’m going to mine.