‘Olympian’ by FJ Bergmann

Festivities were in full swing. An orchestra of timpani, syrinxes, harps, and kitharas blared from a corner of the temple, echoing among the fluted pillars, while hooves and sandals clattered on the marble floor, mingling with uplifted voices and the thudding of bare feet and paws. In the centre of the naos, a fountain gushed dark wine. It was Dionysus’s birthday, and he had chosen to manifest as a baby: an infernal nuisance of a chubby infant, sitting in the fountain (without a diaper), swilling wine, and grabbing at every exposed breast he saw, no matter how virginal. His entourage of fauns and maenads swirled about the fountain, dancing frenetically, grinning, grinding their hips against each other, and occasionally plunging their faces into the fountain to rise back up with dripping, purple-stained lips.

I stood in the shadows of the adyton under the towering statue of Nemesis, resting a hind leg and fanning myself with my wings as I watched the celebrants stumble into each other. The day had been a scorcher, and no breeze had yet brought respite, though the Winds had been invited and offerings made to them. A centaur tried to trot through a puddle of wine on the floor, and his hindquarters slid out from under him as he brayed in dismay. Horses are more split-brained than humans — and that fellow was quite split-brained, even for a part-horse.

I am all horse, of course. Jealous folk cast aspersions on me by claiming I must be part bird (usually vulture or chicken), but my wings are a purely divine attribute that I owe to my father, Poseidon. What I owe to my mother, Medusa, I could not say; she died as I was being born, and whatever she contributed to my person is not visible.