Bentley Little - Dominion

Mr. Holbrook turned back to the chalkboard and wrote two more words:

Apollonian. Dionysian.

"Over the years, over the centuries, Dionysus has usually been misunderstood and misinterpreted. In general, these two words have come to mean 'good' and 'evil.' If something is described as "Apollonian,'

that means it is connected with light and goodness, order and lightness.

The word 'Dionysian,' on the other hand, applies to the dark and chaotic, and is often connected with evil. Although Dionysus was by no means a bad or evil god, this mistake is easily understood. As a god who was half human, half divine, Dionysus had a dual nature. This duality was further emphasized by the fact that he was the god of the vine, the god of wine. Wine can make men mellow, and it can make men mean.

Likewise, Dionysus could be likable and generous, warm, good and giving.

He could also be cruel and brutally savage. Just as the same wine that brings men together in camaraderie can also make them drunk and drive them to commit degrading acts and horrible crimes, Dionysus could bring to his worshipers joy or pain, happiness or suffering. He could be both man's benefactor and his destroyer. Unfortunately, over the years the dark side of Dionysus has tended to overshadow his good side, to the point where today most people's picture of him is highly distorted."

Mr. Holbrook turned back to the board. Dionysian Rites, he wrote.

Bacchanal.

"We will now look at the worship of Dionysus, which was done often through drunken orgies and festivals of debauchery."

Dion felt a pencil in his back. "Now we're getting to the good stuff,"

Kevin whispered.

Dion laughed.

Vella was absent, Kevin had a dentist's appointment, and for the first time Dion ate lunch alone with Penelope. He was glad Kevin wasn't there, but he felt guilty about it. He liked Kevin, enjoyed his friend's company, but at the same time he found that he preferred being alone with Penelope.

The two of them walked through the cafeteria line-- Dion picking up a hamburger and Coke, Penelope a salad and juice--and sat at a table near the low wall which separated the eating area from the softball field.

The conversation was easy, comfortable, free and wide ranging, shifting from music to school to plans for the future.

"What do you want to do with your life?" Penelope asked. "What do you want to be?"

He smiled. "When I grow up?"

She nodded, smiled back. "When you grow up."

"I don't know," he said. "I used to think I'd like being an archaeologist or paleontologist, dig for fossils and artifacts, travel to exotic locations. I thought it would be exciting."

"Exciting?" She laughed. "You've seen too many Indiana Jones movies."

"Probably," he admitted. "Then I thought I'd like to be a dentist. You know, have a big waiting room with lots of magazines and a saltwater aquarium, work five hours a day in a pleasant environment and rake in big bucks."

"Sounds good."

"I suppose. But I've changed my mind since then."

"What do you want to be now?"

"A teacher, I think."

"Why?"

"I could lie and say it's because I want to help open young minds and expose them to great truths, but actually it's because I'd get summers off. I'm spoiled. I like vacations. I like getting my two-month summer, two-week Christmas vacation, and one-week Easter vacation. I don't think I could survive getting two weeks a year, period." He took a bite of his hamburger. "What about you?"

She shrugged. 'The winery. What else?"

"What if you didn't want to work at the winery? What then?"

"But I do."

"What if you didn't? What if you wanted to be a computer programmer?

What would your ... your mothers dor "I don't know."

"They don't have anyone else to leave the place to, do they? You don't have any brothers or sisters."

"I don't have any other relatives."

He looked at her. "None?"

She stared out across the field, then turned back toward him. She wrinkled her nose mischievously. "What if you could be anything you wanted? Not anything practical or realistic. Your secret fantasy."

"Rock star," he said.

She laughed.

"Thousands of girls screaming for me, groupies galore."

"Hey!" He smiled, drank his Coke. "You really don't have any other relatives? Just your mothers?"

She reddened. "I don't want to talk about it, okay? Some other time."

"Okay. I understand." Dion finished his hamburger, rolled up the foil wrapper, and tossed it at the nearest trash can. It missed by several feet, and he stood up, picked it off the ground, and dropped it in. He turned around. Through the thin material of Penelope's blouse he could see the outline of her bra. He sat down next to her. "So what are we?"

he asked. He tried to make the question sound casual. "Are we friends or are we ... more than friends?"

She licked her lips, said nothing.

His heart was beating rapidly in his chest, and he suddenly wished he hadn't said anything. "What are we?" he asked again.

"I don't know."

"I don't either." His voice sounded too high.

They were both silent for a moment.

"I want to be more than friends." Penelope said softly.

Neither of them said anything. The surrounding lunch noises faded from background sound into something else, something less. They looked into each other's eyes, neither knowing what to say but neither turning away.

The silence was awkward, but it was a pleasant awkwardness, the welcome discomfort of initial intimacy. Dion smiled, embarrassed. "Does this mean that we're, uh, like boyfriend and girlfriend?"

She nodded but looked down at the ground. "If you want to be."

"I want to be," he said.

There was a second's hesitation, an instant of uncertainty, then he took her hand in his. His palms were sweaty. He was embarrassed by their sweatiness, but not embarrassed enough to move them away. He squeezed her hand.

She squeezed back.

He let out the breath he'd been holding. "Well, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"It wasn't?" She laughed.

He laughed.

And then they were laughing together.

Dion met with Mr. Holbrook after school.

He hadn't discussed the independent study idea with Holbrook since the teacher had originally brought it up, had, in fact, nearly forgotten about it, but he'd received a pink summons notice during his last period, requesting that he meet the mythology instructor after class, and after dumping his books in his locker, he made his way through the rapidly emptying hall to Holbrook's room.

The classroom was empty when he arrived. He waited five minutes, but the teacher still hadn't shown. He would have left then and there, but a message on the blackboard read:

Dion, Please wait. I will be back shortly.

There were other words on the blackboard as well, most of them half-erased. Many appeared to be foreign, the characters part of a non-English alphabet, and while Dion didn't know how he knew, he realized that they were entirely unrelated to classwork or school.

That frightened him for some reason.

The door of the room opened, and Holbrook walked in. He was carrying what looked like a folded sheet atop an armload of supplies, and he placed them all on top of his desk. "So, Dion," he said. "How're things going?"

"Well, there haven't been any big changes in my life during my afternoon classes."

Holbrook chuckled, but there was no, humor in the sound. 'That's true.

We just saw each other this morning, didn't we?

In class."

Dion had been leaning against the back counter, and he straightened up.

There was something about the teacher's tone of voice that seemed odd, off, unusual.

Threatening.

That was it exactly.

He stared at the instructor, his stomach knotting up. The hostility had been vague, veiled, but it had been there, in the voice, and it was there now in the look the teacher was giving him from across the room.