And now the stranger worked a miracle.

Reaching for the highest branch of a great fir,

he bent it down, down, down to the dark earth,

till it was curved the way a taut bow bends

or like a rim of wood when forced about the circle

of a wheel. Like that he forced that mountain fir

down to the ground. No mortal could have done it.

Then he seated Pentheus at the highest tip

and with his hands let the trunk rise straightly up,

slowly and gently, lest it throw its rider.

And the tree rose, towering to heaven, with my master

huddled at the top. And now the Maenads saw him

more clearly than he saw them. But barely had they seen,

when the stranger vanished and there came a great voice

out of heaven—Dionysus’, it must have been—

crying: “Women, I bring you the man who has mocked

at you and me and at our holy mysteries.

Take vengeance upon him.” And as he spoke

a flash of awful fire bound earth and heaven.

The high air hushed, and along the forest glen

the leaves hung still; you could hear no cry of beasts.

The Bacchae heard that voice but missed its words,

and leaping up, they stared, peering everywhere.

Again that voice. And now they knew his cry,

the clear command of god. And breaking loose

like startled doves, through grove and torrent,

over jagged rocks, they flew, their feet gladdened

by the breath of god. And when they saw my master

perching in his tree, they climbed a great stone

that towered opposite his perch and showered him

with stones and javelins of fir, while the others

hurled their wands. And yet they missed their target,

poor Pentheus in his perch, barely out of reach

of their eager hands, treed, unable to escape.

Finally they splintered branches from the oaks

and with those bars of wood tried to lever up the tree

by prying at the roots. But every effort failed.

Then Agave cried out: “Maenads, make a circle

about the trunk and grip it with your hands.

Unless we take this climbing beast, he will reveal

the secrets of the god.” With that, thousands of hands

tore the fir tree from the earth, and down, down

from his high perch fell Pentheus, tumbling

to the ground, sobbing and screaming as he fell,

for he knew his end was near. His own mother,

like a priestess with her victim, fell upon him

first. But snatching off his wig and snood

so she would recognize his face, he touched her cheeks,

screaming, “No, no, Mother! I am Pentheus,

your own son, the child you bore to Echion!

Pity me, spare me. Mother! I have done a wrong,

but do not kill your own son for my offense.”

But she was foaming at the mouth, and her crazed eyes

rolling with frenzy. She was mad, stark mad,

possessed by Bacchus. Ignoring his cries of pity,