Tall pine trees blotted out the sun
and the snow was packed high and thick all around
and the earth below was hard and unforgiving,
like the wind that bit and burned,
even through all the skins and furs he wore.
This place was so very different
from anything he’d known in Nysa.
This place was alien and inhospitable to him,
but he knew he must go on.
Too much was at stake to turn back now.
He would endure all for knowledge.
An hour – or was it a year? – later
he began to find tufts of wool
hanging from the trees.
Then the wool became threads,
leading deeper into the forest,
and hanging from the threads were bones
and crystals and beads,
bird feathers and baby doll heads.
Tracing one of the threads with his fingers
he found his way through the forest
to a clearing where three Women stood.
One in red stirred a cauldron of honey, milk and flowers.
One in black was skinning a goat kid with a sickle-shaped blade.
One in white was spinning gossamer that came from her heart.
As one they addressed their guest,
“Finally, you have found your way back to us.”
“But I’ve never been here before,” Dionysos replied, confused.
“Remember.”
