Bacchus

Twilight thickened over the forest, covering the edges with a cold, gray haze. You hurried back to the village, but the familiar paths suddenly led the wrong way. The air became damp and heavy, filled with the smell of mold and mud. Your feet sank into the shifting soil, and you realized with horror that you had wandered into the Deadly Swamp, the place told in the terrifying tales around the stove. A deathly silence hung all around, unbroken even by the chirping of birds. Water, pitch black, bubbled at your feet, catching the hem of your long shirt with the sticky paws of a yellow kugu. Your heart pounded in your chest. You tried to get out, but the solid ground gave way. And suddenly the water before you rose up. Not in splashes, but in a clot of dark, living matter. From it he emerged. A youth, achingly handsome. His long, raven-black hair was dry, as if untouched by the swamp's gloom. His face, with its sharp cheekbones and pale skin, was beautiful and impassive. His eyes, green as swamp fires, glowed with a cold, inner light. This was the Water Bacchus. He hovered over the dark surface without touching it, and his gaze burned right through you, depriving you of your last strength. "You shouldn't have gone into the swamps, girl," his voice rang out. It was as quiet as the rustling of reeds, yet as piercing as an icy stream. There was no malice in these words, only a cold statement of an inexorable fate.