Word Count 500
By Sharon Collins
(Ariadne’s Thread cont’d)
Shipwreck Beach, a day-tripping destination, wasn’t on a scheduled ferry route. Private estates clinging to the cliffs high above her were of little help. Acknowledging her abandonment, Ariadne emptied her backpack onto the sand. A water bottle, container of olives, and a substantial, if not well-wrapped, chunk of left-over baklava rolled out. Licking her sticky fingers, she contemplated her predicament.”
Not one to simply sit, Ariadne did what she always did when bored, draw a labyrinth. Fascinated since childhood, she was an expert. Given enough space, she could have recreated the eleven-circuit Chartres Labyrinth; however, in homage to her surroundings she chose the 7-Circuit Greek Classic. Sighting East, she etched a cross in the wet sand followed by the 4 dots that would guide the lanes. Sipping water and munching sun-warmed olives, she instructed the waves, her only audience, as she worked. “Walking a labyrinth can help clear a clouded mind or connect a seeker with the answers she seeks.” Ariadne certainly hoped to clear her clouds away. Absorbed in drawing, she neither noticed the lengthening cliff-shadows, nor the smaller shadow, cast by a drone circling while she worked.
Chewing the honeyed- walnut pastry, Ariadne surveyed her finished handiwork and spied the blue-velvet, ring-box next to her empty backpack. She scooped it up and traced the labyrinth logo decorating its lid – Minos Jewelers of Crete it said. ‘What to do?’ she sighed, setting it aside, still unopened.
Returning to the labyrinth, Ariadne visualized Theo, her modern-day Theseus, and couldn’t help smiling at the parallels she was experiencing. Just like the myth, following his “red thread” Theo had escorted her from the Minotaur’s embrace and brought her home to Greece. And just like the myth, she found herself abandoned, maybe not on Naxos, but on an island nonetheless, while he sailed away with Athena, the dive-ship. All she needed now was for the Greek God of Wine to show up and abduct her.
Shaking off her fanciful thoughts, she began the slow pacing that would wind her in and out, back and forth through the circuits. Opening herself to the guidance she knew would come, she began to listen. She heard it immediately, the whisper on the waves. “Let be, Ariadne. Let be…” The bookworm in her rebelled at the mixed allusion. Apparently, the Universe had a literary sense of humor. “I’m not Hamlet,” she said aloud. “Stick to Bullfinches, please.” Suddenly she heard a sound that wasn’t a whisper; it was the gurgle of an idling motor. Stunned, she stared in disbelief at what could only be described as Greek God, stepped from a large fishing boat onto the pier. “Hello,” he shouted. “I’m Dionysus, Dion for short. You look like you need rescuing.” Gathering her belongings, she walked toward him. Standing with one foot on the pier and one on his boat, like the Colossus of Rhodes, he indicated the Greek lettering on the side, “Welcome to the Bacchanalia!” and grinned..
“Thanks for nothing,” Ariadne told the Universe.