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“Who are these people?” Erin muttered to herself as she focused her eyes on the dancers themselves. They were a wonder each unto themselves, barely visible by firelight. Each was costumed to mimic something from the forest. Several of the ladies appeared similar to tree nymphs, assuming Erin remembered her mythology correctly. Their skin was painted with knots and bark like striations, and their hair was strewn with leaves. Each appeared to be a different tree as well. If she was right, those few were pine and spruce, that group aspen, and, on the far side, a few beeches. All trees she’d seen around the state, but now bizarrely humanized. No, they had curves. Sensual hips and buxom chests in contrast to straight-trunked trees.
But not all the women were trees; some were flowers. Columbines. Daisies. Wild roses. Erin lost track. Then there were women who were wild in a way she couldn’t catalog. Curiouser and curiouser.
The men were another matter. They were consistently uniform in their lack of humanity: all were satyrs. This she knew from the horns on their heads, cloven hooves on their feet, their shaggy legs and rumps, their prominent and erect phalli, and the lascivious grins they sported in, well, the direction of every female around them and occasionally other satyrs. Some of them didn’t appear overly picky about who reciprocated their attention, as long as their interest was returned.
“What kind of bizarre wonderland is this?” Erin wondered aloud, a wry smile playing on her lips as she briefly considered whether she had stumbled into some sort of cult gathering.
Despite the late hour, the heat from the bonfire spread throughout the glen, raising the temperature under Erin’s pelts. She shucked them off, already sweating through her t-shirt and shorts. Her shoes had been removed, laid aside next to her backpack. Had she taken them off herself, or had one of these motley crew? Clearly, someone had attended to her while she slept. Or perhaps it was all just a subtext of the dream?
Unencumbered now from the weight of the furs, Erin sat up and breathed in the heady musk of the assembly combined with exotic incenses and oils. The effect was distinctly potently wild. When a priapic satyr set upon a nimble aspen nymph and fell on her between nearby spruce trees, her cries were not those of panic, but instead of heated urging.
Her imagination was definitely running on overtime. Erin couldn’t help biting her lower lip to keep herself from laughing. There was no way his extreme lower anatomy would work out with the dainty and willowy nymph. Yet the nymph urged him on all the same.
At that moment, a man laid down next to her, breathing like he’d just run a marathon and availing himself from a bloated wineskin he brought with him. He was tall, barefoot like the rest of the dancers, and clad in an embroidered burgundy tunic covered with exquisitely wrought golden grape leaves. The fabric was so delicate; Erin was sure it was an expensive silk and itched to touch it.
When he finished drinking, he turned to her with a lazy smile, his eyes flashing gold in the firelight. “How are you enjoying the festivities?” He offered her the wine, his casual demeanor at odds with the frenetic energy surrounding them.
Curious where this dream-state was headed, Erin accepted the wine while her eyes appreciated his long, wavy blond hair falling over broad, muscular shoulders. She took a sip of the potent vintage and swore it singed her stomach and then her veins on contact. Erin couldn’t help but take another, longer pull from the skin, and this time felt the effects from the molten liquid shoot down to the tips of her fingers and her toes. “What type of wine is this?” She gripped the wineskin against her chest.
He grinned and threw back his head with laughter, and Erin was surprised how the reverberating sound rang across the meadow. Yet the drumming and dancing didn’t cease; if anything, they increased in tempo. A moment later, he leaned toward her conspiratorially, not reaching for the wine. Oh no. Instead, he nuzzled up close to Erin, his chin, his lips hovering at the cusp of her shoulder and neck. She felt her pulse race in response to his mere presence.
“Nothing unusual for this sort of gathering,” he whispered into her ear.
Erin’s entire body hummed with an electric thrill, even her throbbing ankle. Was it from being so close to this stranger? She didn’t want to chalk it up to sexual magnetism, but his allure was striking.
“You’re sure there’s nothing unusual about the wine?”
He leveled her with his gaze and then leaned back, giving her some welcome space. “It’s sacramental wine. As my honored guest, I insist you have as much as you’d like.”
His full lips appeared wine-stained, yet he spoke with clear, melodious tones. “Who are you?” Erin took another sip of the impeccably superb wine.
“Your gracious host, of course.” A smile played around the corners of his eyes and lips.
This was a game to him. Erin was supposed to understand and be clever enough to figure it out. Well, perhaps if she hadn’t fallen down a cliff earlier in the day, broken her ankle, and then landed in this wonderfully luscious dream, well then yes, perhaps then she’d be able to figure it out.
She took another sip of the wine. Oddly, she wasn’t feeling increasingly drunk. Instead, Erin felt larger than life. Her consciousness expanded outward, slowly noticing, and connecting with, those around her. It felt like an out-of-body experience, except she was still in her body.
“Have you drugged me, fine host?” Focusing on the man, he at once appeared human and yet not. She could tell he was like the others, something more, but what, she couldn’t say. He hadn’t even touched her or tried to take advantage of her like the satyrs were with the other females.
“As I said, the wine was blessed, nothing more. There is no trickery here.”
He was so serious, his face so grave. Erin’s laughter bubbled forth, but his expression didn’t change. “But this is my dream. This isn’t real. No matter how delicious.” She took another swig. It would be grand while it lasted.
Storm clouds gathered in her host’s visage, and for a moment, Erin felt fear. “This is very real, Erin. You’ve wandered into my domain repeatedly. You’ve felt the call. Now, with my vintage on your lips, you feel the pull to greatness, do you not? I see it upon your face. I feel it echo in your blood. It’s not simply wine to you, is it?”
There was no contact between them but the breath of air, yet she felt surrounded by him.
Erin dared. This was all a dream, after all. “So what if I do?” She took another long pull from the wineskin and reveled in the feel of it coursing through her veins, permeating her skin. “Yes, I feel it thundering through me. But what does it matter when this is all just a dream?”
Her companion relaxed, smiling and smoothing his tunic. “Well then, I suppose you’re right. I would, however, ask for one boon in return for the gift I’ve given you.”
“Just one?” Erin asked, suspicions abounding.
“Yes. One.” His mask of innocence let Erin know she was in for trouble. Big time.
“Okay. What is it?”
“A kiss.”
