March 2026

Semele by Ewan Downie

Semele ran through the fields at the back of her father’s house. She needed to get out, away: down the sheep-path, where grey stones broke through close-cropped grass, past the barley field where dull green moved in waves, towards the forest, the waterfall, the pool, to swim, to clean off the muck—the memory of being touched by the old woman’s hands.

The old woman had laughed, without joy, her claw-like hands on Semele’s belly, and looked up at Semele’s father, Cadmus, slumped on his ash-wood throne. “Yes, this one is ripe. She is ready, like the good black earth that cannot help but grow, when it receives the seed.”

In the dark, oak-panelled room, which her father never tired of saying he’d ‘Built with my own hands’, Semele stood, in her thin, faded, sky-blue linen shift which was too small for her, ‘A late bloomer,’ the old woman had said, and wished she could disappear. Her legs were cold. If only the shift would cover her knees. She tried to pull the hem down lower with her hands.

Cadmus looked down at her, purple pouchy bags under his watery eyes. “Have I let you fly free long enough, bird?” He said, his voice creaking.

Semele shook her head. “No, Dad. I will never marry.”

The old woman hissed, and spat to avert bad luck. Cadmus looked amused.

“She must be married, sire,” the old woman said. “The people must be satisfied. One daughter is already wed and has given you an heir. This one must be next.”

“I don’t want to be married,” Semele said.

Why had the old woman always hated her?

She was past the barley, into the fallow field, where buttercups, and thistles, and yellow poppies grew. Her sister had changed since her wedding day: like a candle drowning in its own wax, the flame guttering. Agave, who had just last year run with Semele through this very field on the eve of the fire dances, shrieking, laughing at the world. They had sat together, picked yellow poppies, watched the petals drop and die, painted their faces with milky poppy sap that dried in pale brown lines, like warriors’ tattoos; danced and sung and run together through the long grass, before the drum and lyra called them back to the house. A month after that, Agave was married.

Three days ago, the birth of Agave’s child, Pentheus: the darkened room an ocean of screams, blood-stink of iron, the smell of shit, the groans of her sister, tearing screams; her sister split, ripped open by the wrinkled, waxy, unhuman thing she’d birthed, tied to her sister’s insides with pulsing rope. Agave’s white breast with a tiny hand upon it, small owner-print of blood on her white skin.

The old woman had been there, too, cooing over the baby, congratulating Agave. She was always there these days, standing behind Cadmus, advising him on what the people expected of their foreign king, his half-foreign daughters, reminding him every day how precarious his position really was, whispering doubt into his ear.

She would not be owned.

She had to get away, somehow, from this trap of Thebes.

The boundary of her father’s fields: the dry stone wall her father had ‘Built myself,’ as he never tired of saying, to anyone who’d listen. She was thankful for the shortness of her shift, now, as she clambered over the wall and began to walk through scrubland, bog, pine-smelling myrtle, purple heather; the goats’ bells clanking to her left, towards the hills. She liked goats, their awkward natures, their terrifying split eyes, their horns, their wildness: better than sheep. She turned right, away from the herd, and walked along the path towards the forest.

She was beyond her father’s lands, though really all these lands were his, all Thebes: the land he’d conquered, built, was still building, with wars upon the borders east and west. All lands round here were his, just as she was his, ‘The good black earth.’ She shivered. No. The old woman’s hand grasped at her, knuckles like knotted rope stroked her stomach, her skin shrinking from the touch of hands cold and dry, like leather, the eyes cold and distant, uncaring, like the stars. The cows in her father’s fields, hemmed in by walls, the dogs tethered with rope through iron rings, even the goats not free, bells clanking so they could not get away, her sister, shackled to the thing she’d made and the man who’d made it in her, her husband Echion, who’d left for the wars after a month of marriage.

The old woman had said to Cadmus, “Semele is an adult. It is time. Or the people will say you think your daughter is too good for them, and they will remember you are from somewhere else.”

“See, bird,” Cadmus said, “I am a captive king. I must find a man for you. I cannot let you free.”

Cadmus and the old woman had begun to talk about possible families, and alliances, how the marriage could be turned to advantage, who to offend and who to seduce, what could be gained.

Semele let their talk wash over her. I do not want this. Becoming a wife, receiving some man’s seed, swelling, as Agave had, becoming something less.

Her father had called her his favourite, his bird, had told her this in front of her sister even. When Semele had stolen fruit, or honey cakes from the larder, Agave always got the blame. When she was three years old, her father had been mending the roof one summer and turned to see his youngest daughter staggering up the slates towards him, saying ‘Daddy’, unafraid. Agave had been beaten then, for not taking proper care of her sister. This story had been told to Semele by both her father and her sister, who was four years older, so it must be true.

She would escape the fate of her sister; of her mother, Harmonia, who had died in childbirth, leaving no sons.

Agave claimed to remember their mother sometimes, said it was Semele’s fault she’d died, and that was true, really: if her mum hadn’t had her she’d still be alive.

Her father was saying something.

“What, Dad?”

“You can go now, my bird. We will work things out. All will be well, you’ll see, we’ll find a good match for you. You will be happy. I promise.”

She looked at his sad eyes, his pouchy face, she could not bear him sad.

“Yes, Dad. I know you will.”

“That’s my bird.”

Once she had asked Cadmus what kind of bird she was. She was seven or eight.

“I don’t know,” he’d said, thinking. “A happy brown bird with bright eyes, a small, sweet bird, maybe a wren. Yes, a wren.”

Wrens were boring: little, brown. She wanted to be fierce and bright. Why couldn’t she be a falcon? With martial wings, like knives of blue and silver, to fly so fast and kill with claw and beak, to fly into the sun and fall upon her prey: the burst of feathers when a falcon struck, each feather floating, caught in sunlight, the prey-bird exploded, gone. Not some dull, tiny, hedgerow bird. She pretended she was pleased, and didn’t ask him that again.

Into the forest: it was cool under the trees, moss underfoot, the sound of water; she took the path to the pool, and stopped on a mossy crag above the torrent. She undressed, and laid her clothes upon the stone.

She dived.

The shock of cold, froth of bubbles, she kicked and swam against the current, towards the waterfall, and under it, amongst churning white, she won to the rock behind the fall, where the stone was black and cold and hung with strange dark plants in perpetual wet. The roar of the falls. The white, ever-moving curtain of water. She pushed off and angled down, back under the fall, an arrow, a spear. She opened her eyes and saw bubbles rising past her head, let out air in silver clouds, let herself sink, her body go limp. She swam until she was cold.

When she got out, a man she didn’t know was standing on the bank.

A grip of fear, like lightning in dark sky. There were men who attacked maidens and stole their virtue, as they said in the stories. Virtue? She’d seen sheep covered by the ram; dogs twitching, locked together; cats yowling in pleasure or in pain.

He was looking at her, standing near her clothes, he was three strides away. Her mind froze: she could not seem to realise he was really there. Where had he come from?

The man moved: slowly, he reached down and picked up her towel, held out her towel towards her. “Here,” he said.

She watched herself take a step, hand and arm reach, take the towel, cover herself.

Now he was holding out her dress, the faded fabric hung over his hand.

She looked at the dress, not at his eyes, as she took it from him.

The man stepped back with his hands up. “I won’t look,” he said, and turned away.

Why had she not run?

Him chasing her through the woods, gaining on her, the towel coming off, running naked, him grabbing her wrist. He would be after her in a moment.

She would not give him the satisfaction, she would not be afraid.

She bunched up the dress, slipped it over her head, pushed her arms through the arm holes, pulled the dress down over the towel, then wriggled and pulled the towel down and out under the dress. He had not turned around.

He was old, but not that old, maybe thirty, younger than Echion: wavy brown hair that fell almost to his shoulders, which were broad under the undyed linen shirt rolled up above his elbows, his fingers slightly curled as if they were used to holding a hammer, or a spear. Not very tall, his legs planted wide, his feet bare. “Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m Zeus,” he said.

“Who are you really?”

He laughed. “I’m Zeus.”

In the stories gods visited mortals, supposedly. The gods had been at her father’s wedding to her mother, supposedly. They said. She had played games of being the gods with her sister when they were little. Agave had always wanted to be Hera, queen of the gods. She had preferred Hades, or Athena. This was a game.

“I thought you would be taller, and probably older,” she said.

“I can take many forms.”

“That sounds nice.”

“I suppose. I know no different.”

“Why are you here, then?”

“Because of you, Semele,” he said.

“How do you know my name?” How did he know her name?

“Our fates are intertwined, daughter of Cadmus. May I turn around?”

“I suppose you may.”

His eyes were deep brown, and warm, with fragments of light in them that floated and burst like bubbles in deep pools; his beard was short and trim, his face unlined, his eyes sparkled, he did not smile.

Later, when she tried recall his face in private moments, she could not describe nor remember it. There was something provisional, unfinished, about his face, as if it were simply a collection of parts: nose, eyebrows, cheekbones and the rest, but somehow not a whole. His eyes she could remember, those deep pools, and his voice: quiet, but completely clear.

“Do I have a say in this… intertwining?” she asked, and blushed. Skin on skin, bodies touching. How would it feel to kiss that skin, to bite that lip until it bled, dig her nails into that back? Her breath tightened, lightnings in her spine. Those arms: strong.

“Fate is fate. None can resist.”

“You know what I’ll say next, then? Tell me: what will I say?

“It’s not quite like that,” he said. “Come. I want to show you something.”

She imagined him chasing her through the woods again, but this time she kept just out of his reach, dodging, dancing, not letting him get near her unless she wanted to.

They walked along paths she had not seen before, beneath bright green hazel leaves, over soft moss and cool wood sorrel. Pressure grew, like an animal stretching to wake up, in her throat, between her legs, her belly. She should think of something, something to say to stop the animal before it woke, but she didn’t want to. She reached out and took his hand, and his fingers curled round hers, the heat of his hand, her skin electric. Brown leaves underfoot, green leaves above, the flash of summer sky. She didn’t look at him, she would choose when.

They stopped in front of a clearing, lush green grass, little blue flowers: forget-me-nots.

“Look,” he said.

Across the clearing stood a great oak, its roots like green-grey serpents — quick movement there, amongst the roots, a flash of reddish brown—two—three—baby foxes, appearing and disappearing—yes, three—then gone — then all three foxes burst together onto a patch of sunlit grass and rolled over each other, wriggling.

The man squatted in the clearing and held out his hand near the ground. One cub looked up, as if hearing a sound, and staggered towards him on unsteady legs, the others followed. He picked them up in a squirming mass, they rubbed their backs against his skin.

“Do you want to hold them?” he asked.

Yes.

They were so light, like pieces of uncarded wool, light, and soft, and fast. Like late at the fire dances, when you’ve danced so long you almost float, and no longer hear the drums and lyra, only feel them in your blood, and then the sun comes up. A foxcub licked her thumb, chewed on it with sharp tiny teeth, batted at her hand with its forepaws.

“These foxes,” the man said, “Will grow to be foxes. They will have fox children, and die fox deaths, that is their fate. All things are intertwined, enmeshed.”

“Yes,” Semele said, but in truth she hardly listened to his words.

The air shimmered, like sunlight catching dust, and inside her shimmered too, a buzzing, pulsing, throbbing surge. The foxcubs slept in the sun under the shade of the big oak, their bellies shivering. The man and the girl leaned back against the tree’s roots, soft moss over rough bark.

Now. She chose now.

She leant towards him. She touched his face.

She brushed his lips with hers.

She shut her eyes.

She was living two lives.

At home, her father and the old woman and her sister talked about her possible marriage to hideous men she’d never met: she stood there and nodded and said ‘Yes, Dad.’ She spoke to her sister about the right clothes to wear, the colours of fabrics that were best for dresses, the time of year most auspicious for marriage, pointless things. The old woman instructed her in the duties of a wife, and the so-called secrets of the bedchamber, and Semele listened as if it was all very interesting and had something to do with her. It was not real, this life.

Then there was him.

They met every day in the woods, in the clearing under the great oak tree. She brought the old blue blanket from her room and laid it down. The sun was hot and the rough wool rubbed against the skin of her back, or front. The sky was blue and there was no-one else around: the sky, the earth, the trees, the blue blanket, and him.

They walked together as yellow poppies danced in the soft breeze, as buttercups and yellow ragwort shook above the bright green of the fields. In the cool of the woods, bluebells ached against her feet, her back was against the rough bark of a tree, the sky pale blue between the dancing leaves. They swam in the pool, dived to the bottom and pulled up handfuls of smooth-worn pebbles like buried treasure, glinting in the light: browny-gold, and goldy-gold, and white with veins of silver, that faded to dull stone as they dried. They played with the foxes and watched them grow, in the space of one summer, from babies into adolescent foxes, with sulks, and loves, and dramas all their own. They enclosed themselves in each other, shuddered in each other, tore at each other, clung to each other, their breath ragged, mouths hot, open wide.

This life was real.

She was dressing one morning, and humming to herself, and thinking of him when she opened the drawer of her dresser, and saw the cloths she used each month, and knew: she was late, but not how late she was, and felt the clutch of dread in her throat and chest, like a bird in the darkness of a fist, a small brown bird, its heart racing — it tries to spread its wings but its feathers are pressed against the inside of the fist, it cannot move.

Agave’s belly swelling, Agave complaining of swollen wrists and ankles, of being hot, of feeling sick, the sounds Agave made as the baby split her.

Last year, a girl in the village had begun to show, and the boy she’d slept with had refused to marry her. The girl was stoned to death. The boy was sent to the wars and did not come back.

How young the girl had looked, wedged in the stoning pit up to her waist in sand, her eyes, inward, unseeing, dark. The red welt on the girl’s cheek from the first hit, the voices of the crowd as they picked up stones and threw, murmuring, louder, the stones flying silent through the air, the body slumping, and shivering like a horse beset with biting flies, and lying still. How small her body seemed, when Semele’s father’s men took it from the pit to the place of burning. What had happened to that girl’s baby? What was that girl’s name? Io? Iole? What was her name?

Now it would happen to her: the trap, the same story.

She didn’t go to the woods, or the fields behind the house, or the forest pool, to any of their places: she lay in bed, clutching the blankets in a ball between her legs, and told the servants she was sick.

Her father’s steps, in the corridors overhead, slow, heavy, stiff; the crying and gurgling of her little nephew, Pentheus. A wet, sour feeling somewhere in her belly that moved like sickness: an ache that would not go away.

Telling her father what she had done, his face shutting like a door, his voice calling for his guards to take his daughter to the place of judgement, the old woman staring at her, triumphant, with her sharp, all seeing eyes.

Telling him, Zeus, if that was his name, him laughing at her and turning away, or looking at her in disgust. Or maybe he was just a man who’d sold her a tale, fooled her. She was a fool. There would be no marriage, anyway. She laughed at that: a hard sharp laugh like a cough that hurt her throat. A bad joke. She’d said to her father she wanted no marriage, and now there never would be, she’d made sure of that.

That night, she got up and walked along the dark stone-flagged corridor, up the stairs, to her sister’s room.

The room was dark and smelled of stale milk; she could just make out Agave, lying in the middle of the bed, curled around the baby.

”Agave,” she whispered, “Agave.”

”What is it?” Agave asked sleepily. “What’s wrong?”

Semele lay beside her sister and told her everything: the man who said he was a god, the woods, the pool, the blue blanket, how she was late.

“You need his real name,” Agave said. “Men are liars, they think love is a game, they say they love you and then they go to their wars and leave you all alone.”

“What if he is a god?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not…” She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t.

“You think you’re special, don’t you? A god? Find out who he really is, then father can make him marry you.”

“You’re not my mother. You can’t tell me what to do.”

She was crying now.

She got up and ran, out of Agave’s room, out of the before-dawn house, through the fields, to the clearing in the forest.

She sat under the oak tree, and pulled in her legs, and wrapped her arms tight around them, and stared at nothing, and waited for the sun to come up. She called to the foxes but they did not come out. It was cold. Her face was wet and cold. There was mist amongst the trees. She wished she had brought a coat. She wished she hadn’t spoken to her sister. She wished she’d never met him. She wished her mum hadn’t died.

The sun rose and the mist lifted.

There were three poles at the edge of the clearing, three stakes in the ground: hung, by wire around their necks, three young foxes, snared.

She touched the cold bodies, wispy hair, dead tongues lolling. Wire around her throat, the noose tightening, she would twist and struggle and the wire would tighten, no way to breathe. Her life had been a trap: no choice, no escape.

Then he was there, standing beside her, as if he had always been.

”I missed you yesterday” he said, “and the day before.”

“It’s not fair,” she said, quietly.

One of the foxes had a bead of bright blood on its little nose, its eyes were open, glassy and unseeing. She closed the fox’s eyes. She didn’t look at him.

“All that is mortal, dies,” he said.

“I do not want a fox’s death,” she said.

“I must tell you this: my true form is lightning, flame.”

She wrapped her arms around him, tight, and squeezed; he lifted her up and she buried her face in his neck, his back was to the trunk of the tree and he leant back, his hands under her thighs, she hitched up her slip and took him inside her, stinging star of light.

“Promise me anything,” she said, her eyes closed.

“Anything.” His voice thick, his breath, thick.

“Swear… To do what I say… Swear… By something you’re afraid of…”

She moved on him, he moved in her. Ragged breath. Whose, she could not tell.

“I swear… By the river Styx… I swear… To do as you desire.”

Tightening, brightening. Soon, soon.

“Show. Me. Your. True. Form,” she said.

Each word a wave of heat. Cracks opened, and between the pieces, light.

“Your son will live and be a god,” he said.

A sound so loud that everything was silence.

A burst of feathers.

Something like wind, but everywhere, and all at once.