Wine and Poison Chapter 2 - The Witch and the Young Wanderer of Mount Cithearon

Determined to find out who lived there, he hid himself behind a large boulder.

 

He didn’t know how much time had passed, but it felt like an hour. There was no sign of life in the dilapidated hut. 

 

The herbalist’s wariness had relaxed. The surroundings seemed strangely tidy, so much so that he thought it was inhabited, but was it really empty?

 

Just when the herbalist thought it was safe to continue, the wooden door finally opened. 

 

The creaking sound of the old door was strangely irritating to the ears.

 

The herbalist almost gasped in surprise. He managed to hold it together and stared wide-eyed at the figure that stepped out of the door.

 

‘Her? No, it was her…’ 

 

A hunchbacked old woman with graying hair pulled back in a tight bun. It was her beastly yellow eyes that startled the herbalist. 

 

It was hard to tell how old she was, but her eyes were as dark and clear as the beasts that roamed the mountains.

 

‘Could a monster pretending to be human lurking in Mount Cithearon?’

 

The herbalist regretted it when he realized he had gone too deep. His legs were too tense and too stiff to avoid the creature’s attack.

 

Slowly pulling himself out, he squinted as he saw the old woman hesitate. It was a curiosity that was of little use in saving his life, and he regretted yet again that he hadn’t hurried away.

 

It was a human bone that the old woman was discarding at the foot of the mountain beside the hut. 

 

The herbalist bit the tip of his tongue and squeezed his eyes shut tight as the skull, with its youthful pupils and two gaping eyes, caught his attention.

 

‘A witch!’

 

‘My life ends here today,’ he shuddered, regretting that he had overheard the old herbalist’s words.

 

It wasn’t long before the old wooden door creaked shut. The herbalist’s eyelids fluttered, and he cautiously opened his eyes. 

 

The hut was as deserted as before, and he was still breathing.

 

The herbalist must have been dreaming, he thought, a dream of an old woman with golden eyes throwing away skeletons, but then he felt the dampness in his pants and grimaced. 

 

Inwardly, he cursed his foolishness and mocked his legs, which were finally working again.

 

Still, the gods have given him more time to live. 

 

‘I will offer half of today’s tin of herbs to the first temple I pass.’

 

With a fervent prayer in his heart, the herbalist hurried away.

 

He walked diligently despite his exhaustion and weakness, fearing that if he delayed, the witch who had discovered his presence would snatch him up and use him as an ingredient in her hideous concoction.

 

Barely making it out of the rugged terrain of Mount Cithearon, the herbalist donated half of his herbs to the first temple he encountered, as he had vowed. 

 

Although he was a bit annoyed that it was the temple of Dionysus, he had sworn an oath.

 

“Merciful gods of Olympus. Save my feeble body from the witches of Mount Cithearon, and I offer you a bunch of medicinal herbs from my heart.”

 

The eastern propylon was smaller in scale than the central gate, but it contained a delicate statue of the gods. 

 

A beautiful sculpture of the god of wine, with long, flowing hair, looked down blandly at the frivolous herbalist who ruffled himself.

 

🫧

 

The borders of Thebes, a wide expanse of bare grassland, where the gaze casts far ahead, filled with low, sand-colored houses, with the mountains rising in gentle ridges to the east and west, and behind them, the mountainous heights. 

 

A half day’s journey away lay the city of Athens, guarded by the goddess Athena.

 

In comparison, Thebes was called the city of the gods. Of course, that’s a common saying in Thebes, where the god was known as a wandering god who never stayed in one place for long.

 

But it was true that the god did visit Thebes from time to time, even if that didn’t mean he loved the city.

 

Thunk—

 

Thunk—

 

The sound of the cane hitting the ground echoes in succession. 

 

A man of average height, wearing a well-worn chlamys cloak and a wide-brimmed ash-colored hat, was crossing the border, tapping the ground with a gnarled cane. 

 

A common sight everywhere, the wanderer’s eyes widened at the intruder’s arrival, but the guard sighed, losing interest.

 

The faded vagrant was soon in front of him. The guard instinctively lowered his gaze. He could see the insteps of his feet. 

 

He wore no shoes, and some people did. 

 

The poor and the self-proclaimed romantics who were too poor to afford even a pair of worn-out shoes. 

 

To a soldier whose only dream was to earn his wages diligently and keep his wife and children well-fed, neither were people he wanted to associate with.

 

‘For a poor man, he has clean feet. A romantic, I hope he’s not seducing innocent maidens in the town.’

 

“Show me your identification.”

 

“Here.”

 

The guard’s shoulders tensed. Instinctively, his whole body stiffened, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. 

 

The voice was so sweet that he felt a momentary jolt of discomfort.

 

A feeling of unease washed over him as he realized that he was both fascinated and wary of this short man. 

 

His short stature and low voice suggested that he was still a boy, or perhaps a man who had just come of age, and such men tended to run amok like an undergrown colt.

 

He wore his hat so thickly that it was impossible to see his face, but with such an impressive voice, it was enough to make women swoon.

 

In a town populated by the crazed followers of the god Dionysus, there’s no shortage of debauchery. 

 

Thinking of a bunch of men who did nothing but drink and fool around rather than work hard, the soldier spoke.

 

“Have you come to see your lady, young man?”

 

“Well, I’m here to see a girl.”

 

‘Well, crap. How blatantly obvious.’ 

 

The guard now resolved to give his maidenly sister and his young daughter, who loved to wear skirts, a one-page speech on the dangers of debauched men. 

 

Zeus, the king of the gods, was revered by men, but how many women, human and divine alike, had fallen prey to him and gotten their fill.

 

The citizens of Thebes, all too familiar with the princess who burned to death while pregnant with Zeus’ child, were divided. 

 

Hedonists, intoxicated by wine and pleasure, and conservatives, wary of uncontrollable lewdness and debauchery. Weeping was clearly of the latter.

 

“How long will you stay?”

 

“Not more than a week, I have business to attend to.”

 

At least it’s a relief.

 

“That’s plenty of time to enjoy Thebes.”

 

“…”

 

“Beware of the crazy women.”

 

The guard, who returned the young man’s identification badge, wishing him moderate debauchery, moved out of the way.

 

The barefoot wanderer, wearing a tattered hat and even more patched-up clothes, trudged slowly into Thebes, his feet crunching in the sand. 

 

The guard stared at the man’s back, ignoring the other visitors. 

 

The man’s plain clothes and subdued demeanor suggested that he was obviously penniless, but his leisurely gait had a strange dignity. 

 

It wasn’t until the young vagabond was out of sight that the guard regained his composure.

 

“Indeed, I wonder if you’ve been bewitched by Maenades.”