Long time reader and commenter Xenophon sent me this video of a French Vineyard owned and staffed by Veterans:

I think this is a wonderful way to reintegrate them back into society, and give them a meaningful vocation after everything they’ve been through. 

Hail to the Gods and Spirits of the fields, and to those who give their lives to protect and tend them!

Reminds me of one of my favorite Biblical passages:

And they shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more. (Isaiah 2:4)

Nonnos, Dionysiaka 6. 155 ff
Zagreus the horned baby, who by himself climbed upon the heavenly throne of Zeus and brandished lightning in his little hand, and newly born, lifted and carried thunderbolts in his tender fingers for Zeus meant him to be king of the universe. But he did not hold the throne of Zeus for long. By the fierce resentment of implacable Hera, the Titanes cunningly smeared their round faces with disguising chalk (titanos), and while he contemplated his changeling countenance reflected in a mirror they destroyed him with an infernal knife. There where his limbs had been cut piecemeal by the Titan steel, the end of his life was the beginning of a new life as Dionysos. He appeared in another shape, and changed into many forms: now young like crafty Kronides shaking the aegis-cape, now as ancient Kronos heavy-kneed, pouring rain. Sometimes he was a curiously formed baby, sometimes like a mad youth with the flower of the first down marking his rounded chin with black. Again, a mimic lion he uttered a horrible roar in furious rage from a wild snarling throat, as he lifted a neck shadowed by a thick mane, marking his body on both sides with the self-striking whip of a tail which flickered about over his hairy back. Next, he left the shape of a lion’s looks and let out a ringing neigh, now like an unbroken horse that lifts his neck on high to shake out the imperious tooth of the bit, and rubbing, whitened his cheek with hoary foam. Sometimes he poured out a whistling hiss from his mouth, a curling horned serpent covered with scales, darting out his tongue from his gaping throat, and leaping upon the grim head of some Titan encircled his neck in snaky spiral coils. Then he left the shape of the restless crawler and became a tiger with gay stripes on his body; or again like a bull emitting a counterfeit roar from his mouth he butted the Titanes with sharp horn. So he fought for his life, until Hera with jealous throat bellowed harshly through the air–that heavy-resentful step-mother! And the gates of Olympos rattled in echo to her jealous throat from high heaven. Then the bold bull collapsed: the murderers each eager for his turn with the knife chopt piecemeal the bull-shaped Dionysos.

Óðinn as the Archangel Michael reminds me. 

Do you know the face Dionysos wore when he wandered among the Slavs?

No, not Xors or Jarilo. I’m talking later, post-conversion.

Specifically Saint Tryphon the Pruner. This handsome fellow:

If you’re not familiar, here’s some resources you may want to sift through.

• Martyr Tryphon of Lampsacus Near Apamea in Syria
• Saint Trifon who?
• Saint Trifon the Pruner, Bulgaria’s Patron Saint of the Vinegrowers and Winemakers
• On the Iconography of Miniatures with Depictions of Exorcism of St. Tryphon in the Buća Codex from the Marciana Library in Venice
• The Authority of Saint Tryphon Over Demons
• The Veneration of St. Tryphon in the Roman Empire 
• Immobility in Motion: Saint Triphon’s Reliquaries and their Performativity
• St Tryphon Medallion, Russia
• Saint Tryphon of Lampsacus

I’ve got something in the works, but it’s going to take me a while to stitch all the pieces together.

But I will point out that the serpette or pruning-hook is a very important Dionysian symbol and weapon:

The wines of the neighbourhood of Vevey, especially on the sunny district extending hence to Lausanne, and called La Vaux, enjoy a considerable reputation. The Romans are believed to have first planted the vine on these hills and the discovery of a stone inscribed Libero Patri Colliensi proves that they had erected a temple to Father Bacchus at Collium, a little village now called Cully, on the margin of the lake between Vevey and Lausanne.

A society or guild of very high antiquity called L’Abbaye des Vignerons having for its motto the words Ora et labora exists at Vevey. Its object is to promote the cultivation of the vine and for this purpose it despatches every spring and autumn “experts”, qualified persons, to survey all the vineyards of the district and upon their report and testimony it rewards the most skilful and industrious vinedressers with medals and pruning hooks (serpes d’ honneur) as prizes.

In accordance with a custom handed down from very ancient times, which is possibly a relic of pagan superstition, this society periodically celebrates a festival called la Fête des Vignerons. It commences with the ceremony of crowning the most successful cultivator of the vine, which is followed and accompanied by dances and processions formed of the lads and lasses of the neighbourhood attired as Fauns bearing the thyrsus and nymphs. Father Bacchus in his car and Ceres throned on a waggon filled with wheat sheaves appear in the most classical costume in the midst of their followers. But the procession includes a singular mixture of scriptural characters along with these heathen Bacchanals. Thus Silenus riding on his ass is followed by Noah in his ark and Pomona is succeeded by the spies from Canaan bearing between them the bunch of grapes. A vine press and a forge at work are also exhibited drawn by fine horses. On other days of the fête (for it lasts for several) the spectators are entertained with the native dances and songs of Switzerland performed by the herdsmen and shepherdesses of the neighbouring Alps and the concluding and perhaps the most interesting part of the festivities consists in the bestowing upon a young maiden, the fairest in fame and form in the vicinity, a dower and in the celebration of her marriage with a partner of her choice. (John Murray, The handbook for travellers in Switzerland and the Alps of Savoy and Piedmont) 1865

It was often the subject of poets. 

Consider Clément Marot’s Song of the Vineyard Knife:

Enough of love; let’s leave for something new
All that to-do, and sing the vineyard knife;
No grower of vines but has recourse to you,
Makes use of you to prune his vines; O knife,
My vineyard knife, my little vineyard knife,
Renewing life, you make my good vines grow,
From which year after year the rich wines flow!

Vulcan, the high gods’ blacksmith, did design
This shape divine, in heaven hammered out
The white-hot steel, and dipped it in old wine
To give the fine edge temper; and the shout
Bacchus gave out proclaimed beyond a doubt
That even devout old Noah could not find
A knife for pruning vines more to his mind.

With vine leaves crowned, young Bacchus brings his slim
Curved blade to trim and bless the fruitful vine;
With flagons old Silenus follows him
And from each rim, in one unbroken line,
Pours down the wine, tries dancing, lies supine;
And for a sign his nose is cherry-red;
Of his great family many men are bred.

Or Épitre by Pierre de Ronsard:

Being a poet, I love Bacchus more than all other gods.
The grape harvest has pleased me above everything.
This purple manna falls.
The barefoot tramplet thrusts
the beaten gush of juice
into the vat.

Battalions march in order upon the hillsides.
One cuts the grapes with pruning knives;
another humps them to the presses in a basket.
One turns the wheel around its whining screw,
another piles the squeezed marc, presses it with a plank;
one holds a straining-basket to the spigot,
another takes the crushed seeds;
one holds the hogshead, another empties wine in.
And the whole press resounds with the brilliant noise of it.

And my favorite, Vyacheslav Ivanovich Ivanov’s The Vineyard Of Dionysus:

Dionysus walks his vineyard, his beloved;
Two women in dark clothing – two vintagers – follow him.
Dionysus tells the two mournful guards – The vintagers:
“Take your sharp knife, my vintners, Grief and Torment;
Harvest, Grief and Torment, my beloved grapes!
Gather the blood of scarlet bunches, the tears of my golden clusters –
Take the victim of bliss to the whetstone of grief,
The purple of suffering to the whetstone of bliss;
Pour the fervent liquid of scarlet delights into my ardent Grail!”

You can read more about him here.

Some even link it to the Wolfsangel or wolftrap.

Paulus Diaconus in his Historia Langobardorum discusses how in the course of their migration from Scandinavia to Northern Italy a Germanic tribe changed their name from Winnili to Lombards, due to a contest of wits between the Gods Godan and Frea. 

8. At this point, the men of old tell a silly story that the Wandals coming to Godan  besought him for victory over the Winnili and that he answered that he would give the victory to those whom he saw first at sunrise; that then Gambara went to Frea  wife of Godan and asked for victory for the Winnili, and that Frea gave her counsel that the women of the Winnili should take down their hair and arrange it upon the face like a beard, and that in the early morning they should be present with their husbands and in like manner station themselves to be seen by Godan from the quarter in which he had been wont to look through his window toward the east. And so it was done. And when Godan saw them at sunrise he said: “Who are these long-beards?” And then Frea induced him to give the victory to those to whom he had given the name. And thus Godan gave the victory to the Winnili. These things are worthy of laughter and are to be held of no account. For victory is due, not to the power of men, but it is rather furnished from heaven.

9. It is certain, however, that the Langobards were afterwards so called on account of the length of their beards untouched by the knife, whereas at first they had been called Winnili; for according to their language lang means “long” and bart “beard.” Wotan indeed, whom by adding a letter they called Godan is he who among the Romans is called Mercury, and he is worshiped by all the peoples of Germany as a god, though he is deemed to have existed, not about these times, but long before, and not in Germany, but in Greece.

That much I was familiar with already; I’ve even written a couple poems on the subject. However, reading a little further in the deacon Paul’s work I discovered this fascinating bit:

11. Departing from this place, while they were arranging to pass over into Mauringa, the Assipitti block their way, denying to them by every means a passage through their territories. The Langobards moreover, when they beheld the great forces of their enemies, did not dare engage them on account of the smallness of their army, and while they were deciding what they ought to do, necessity at length hit upon a plan. They pretend that they have in their camps Cynocephali, that is, men with dogs’ heads. They spread the rumor among the enemy that these men wage war obstinately, drink human blood and quaff their own gore if they cannot reach the foe. And to give faith to this assertion, the Langobards spread their tents wide and kindle a great many fires in their camps. The enemy being made credulous when these things are heard and seen, dare not now attempt the war they threatened.

Starting to notice a theme?

Oh, and the Lombards are quite interesting; long after conversion they maintained devotion to their God Óðinn; they simply started calling him “Saint Michael the Archangel” to keep it licit. Oaths were sworn on his sword and they built an immense church to him in what had previously been a sacred cave or grotto, as Jeff Matthews writes:

After 650 AD, the Lombards from Benevento spread into the Gargano, where the cult of the Archangel Michael had established itself in the 400s. The sanctuary of the Lombards in Monte Sant’Angelo was the first church of Saint Michael in the west and a model for many such later places of worship in western Europe. If, indeed, there really was a place of devotion to Michael in the Gargano as early as the beginning of the 400s, that is likely due to Byzantine influence. Earlier, in the 300s, Constantine the Great (272-337) built the Michaelion, one of the earliest and best-known of such churches. It was just north of Constantinople at a site physically similar to the Gargano and built over an ancient temple previously associated with medicine and therapeutic waters. […] That has given Christian art another common depiction of Michael —slaying a serpent or dragon or a fallen angel, one of the hosts of Satan. Devotion to Michael was congenial to the Lombards, for he was like their earlier Germanic deity, Woden, a healer yet the god of war and protector of heroes and warriors. This, no doubt, hastened the Christianization of the Lombards. The Gargano, itself, had a long history of myth and ritual from before the Christian era. The area is rugged and covered by forests and ravines. Many of the myths and rites had to do with curative waters and the practice called incubatio, a rite whereby one slept by a sacred place in order to have divine revelations the next morning. These earlier rites then left their traces in the cult of St. Michael. The man-made structures within the later sanctuary reshaped what had originally been simply a natural cave. The inscriptions within the site let us follow the evolution of the grotto into a full-fledged place of religious expression that welcomed pilgrims from distant places and offered them hospitality.

And then there’s the whole matter of the Langobard Funerary Perticae, but we don’t need to get into that, do we? Why don’t you check out these images of Horned Figures and Weapon Dancers instead. 

Fufluns demonstrates ancient art of Etruscan divination

Step 1. Drink lots of wine.
Step 2. Strip down to your boots and crown.
Step 3. Drink more wine.
Step 4. Get some chick to hold up a mirror or bowl filled with wine (assuming there’s any wine left) until you start seeing visions.

Fufluns Pachie is totally my favorite version of Dionysos’ name, though the Oscan Loufir comes a close second:

“Charming language,” he said, “charming! Ever since I learned that the Etruscans used to call the god of wine Fufluns, I’ve taken the keenest interest in their language. Fufluns – how incomparably more appropriate that is than Bacchus, or Liber, or Dionysos! Fufluns, Fufluns,” he repeated with delighted emphasis. “It couldn’t be better. They had a real linguistic genius, those creatures. What poets they must have produced! ‘When Fufluns flucuthukhs the ziz’ – one can imagine the odes in praise of wine which began like that. You couldn’t bring together eight such juicy, boozy syllables as that in English, could you?” (Aldous Huxley, Those Barren Leaves pg. 248)

All kidding aside, this image is really cool as you actually see Dionysos engaged in the act of divination. If you’d like to learn more about Dionysos’ cult in Etruria you should probably start with Larissa Bonfante’s superb study.

And here is a system of Etruscan Runes that Serena Powers came up with. You can even get a free online reading using a variety of different casts. 

When I mentioned that Northern Italian alphabets (and Etruscan in particular) had an influence on the shape of the Runes I wasn’t kidding. (This is especially interesting in light of the strong presence of Óðinn, Loki and Freyja in the region.) Note I said influence and shape; I believe the Runes to be a class of grammatical beings brought into this world through the terrible sacrifice of Óðinn (which just so happen to look Italian, as all the best things do.) 

For instance, here are a couple articles on the Camunic language and alphabet; here’s one on the North Etruscan thesis, and here’s another; here’s something on different families of magical alphabets; and finally check out this analysis of the vitally important  Rhaetic inscription on the Spada di Verona or “Sword of Verona.”

Why is that last so important? 

The two translations provided by Giancarlo Tomezzoli and V. A. Choodeenov read:

Alternative A (by G. Tomezzoli): faniniufikuremieshiiitifasuvakhikvelisunes → fanin i ufik u remieshi i itifas u vakh ik velis u nes.
Translation: War and mutilation are to the Romans and the fury is to their God Bacchus, Velis is with us.

Alternative B (from V. Chudeenov): raniniufikuremleshiipivauvakhikvelisunes → rani ni ufik u remleshi i piva u vakh ik velis unes.
Translation: The wounds are not the mutilations among the Romans; when you are drinking together with Bacchus, Veles has them (already) carried away.

It shows Dionysos interacting with the Slavic Gods, and Veles in particular. I cannot tell if we are to understand the two as working together or at odds, but the implications are interesting nonetheless. 

Synopsizing the Kypria, Proklos in the Chrestomathia mentions the legend of Odysseus’ feigned madness:

Nestor in a digression tells him how Epopeus was utterly destroyed after seducing the daughter of Lycus, and the story of Oedipus, the madness of Heracles, and the story of Theseus and Ariadne. Then they travel over Hellas and gather the leaders, detecting Odysseus when he pretends to be mad, not wishing to join the expedition, by seizing his son Telemachus for punishment at the suggestion of Palamedes.

Couple of notable things, starting with the mention of Lycus (= Wolf.) 

Then the sequence: Odysseus > madness of Herakles > Theseus and Ariadne > madness of Odysseus. 

Also, the trauma of a threatened child breaks his mask of insanity, which had withstood all of their previous tests. 

Don’t worry. As Josho Brouwers relates in Odysseus the Jerk: A terrible person despite being fictional, he ensures that prick Palamedes gets his. 

Vision without execution is hallucination. 

Shall I continue teasing out the position of Hermes within the Starry Bear pantheon (we haven’t even gotten to his contributions to the figure of Harlequin nor his role in the Wild Hunt, let alone his cultus in Romano-Celtic, Germanic and Slavic lands) or shall we move on to Loki? (Beyond what has already been told here, that is.)

Before you decide be sure to read Alberto Aldrovandi’s Loki in Pavia, a Langobard Demon and Jeffrey Turco’s Nets and Snares: The Loki of Snorri’s Edda and the Christian Tradition from the homework I assigned previously, as that’s going to be my jumping off point.

Or maybe we’ll begin by discussing German philosopher Nietzsche’s encounter with a horse in Turin.

One of the reasons this caught my eye is that I’ve long had an interest in the letter ϝ.

All the way back in Strange Spirits I wrote:

An interlude while the actor pauses to refresh himself. Weird and alien, nothing is quite what it seems. The world rushing, the languid embrace of the vegetation, shadows that linger too long and light seen through the trees.

At least when I’m out of it I get poetry. I have made a Dionysos shape with my words, a door for the spirits to pass into the world. The land is familiar to me as a woman’s body; the forest beckons, I follow the path as drunkenness settles upon me, dark as the cloth of the robe of night.

I was born in flames and thunder, strong desire and a promise rashly made. Were it not for the cool ivy that the women on the mountain with skins of animals hanging off their shoulders chew to court madness – if it wasn’t for that I would be dead. Ivy wrapped herself around me, keeping the heat and destruction from my delicate flesh so that I might grow and one day teach the world to dance.

A man dressed like a goat runs across the stage, singing a libretto.

All error in Christianity stems from its inability to recognize the true plurality of the Gods. There are multitudes in me. All else is fine.

Wow, with what wry wit we weave wisdom’s winding ways, watching wonderstruck while wildly writhing wight-wed women willfully wail weird witchy words, wander wide western wildernesses, wet with waves wrecking whatever won’t withstand winter, wine, winds.

Digamma fell out of favor a long time ago, but I aim for a restoration.

I have come to claim the Basilinna in the venerable house of the bull so that the flowers will rise from the black earth and the children will get to taste wine for the first time. Placate the wet ghosts and the king with unwashed hands with silent feasts where no food is touched only the somber consumption of my liquid grace.

Suddenly the raven takes to wing, the song is at an end.

There’s lots of interesting stuff in the last post, but the highlight for me is the association of Freyja’s Distaff with the archaic Greek letter ϝ (digamma) which was pronounced something like the English W, likely originating from the Phoenician (wāw “hook.”) Before falling out of general usage it entered Etruscan as 𐌅 (with the value of V) and Latin as the letter F. It was then pillaged by the Germanic tribes on the border of Northern Italy, influencing the shape of the Fehu Rune ᚠ, which represents the f-sound in the Younger Futhark and has the meaning of “money, cattle, and wealth.”

In the Old Norwegian Rune Poem we find:

ᚠ Fé vældr frænda róge;
føðesk ulfr í skóge.
___
Wealth is a source of discord amongst kin;
the wolf lives in the forest.

While the Anglo-Saxon has:

ᚠ Feoh byþ frofur fira gehƿylcum;
sceal ðeah manna gehƿylc miclun hyt dælan
gif he ƿile for drihtne domes hleotan.
___
Wealth is a comfort to all;
yet must everyone bestow it freely,
if they wish to gain honour in the sight of the Lord.

Normally glossed as “Lord” (i.e. Freyr, brother of Freyja “the Lady”) drihtne more accurately signifies Chief of the Warband.

Richard Hinckley Allen, Star Names: Their Lore and Meaning
Orion, the Giant, Hunter, and Warrior admired in all historic ages as the most strikingly brilliant of the stellar groups, lies partly within the Milky Way, extending on both sides of the celestial equator entirely south of the ecliptic, and so is visible from every part of the globe.

With Theban Greeks of Corinna’s time, about the year 490 before our era, it was Ὠαρίων, the initial letter having taken the place of the ancient digamma, ϝ, which, pronounced somewhat like the letter W, rendered the early word akin to our Warrior. Corinna’s pupil Pindar followed in Ὠαριώνειος, but by the time of Euripides the present Ὠρίων prevailed, and we see it thus in Polymestor’s words in the Ἐκάβη of 425 B.C.:

through the ether to the lofty ceiling,
where Orion and Seirios dart from their eyes
The flaming rays of fire.

Catullus transcribed Oarion from Pindar, shortened to Arion, and sometimes changed to Aorion; but the much later Argion, attributed to Firmicus, was for Procyon, probably from Ἀργος, the faithful dog of Ulixes.

At one time it was Ἀλετροπόδιον, found in the Uranologia of Petavius of the 16th century, which Ideler said should be Ἀλεκτροπόδιον, Cock’s Foot, likening the constellation to a Strutting Cock; but Brown goes back to Ἀλη, Roaming, and so reads it Ἀλητροπόδιον, the Foot-Turning Wanderer, mythologically recorded as roaming in his blindness till miraculously restored to side by viewing the rising sun.

Ovid said that the constellation was Comesque Boötae; and some authors asserted that Orion never set, an idea possibly coming from the confusion in name with Boötes already alluded to; although even as to that constellation the assertion would not have been strictly correct. Matthew Arnold similarly wrote in his Sohrab and Rustum:

the northern Bear,
who from her frozen height with jealous eye
confronts the Dog and Hunter in the South.

In the Norsemen’s astronomy Rigel marked one of the great toes of Orwandil, the other toe having been broken off by the god Thor when frost-bitten, and thrown to the northern sky, where it became the little Alcor of the Greater Bear.

Riccioli cited Baculus Jacobi, which became in popular English speech Jacob’s Rod or Staff, — the German Jakob Stab, — from the tradition given by Eusebius that Israel was an astrologer, as, indeed, he doubtless was; and some had it Peter’s Staff. Similarly, it with the Norse Fiskikallar, or Staff; the Scandinavian Frigge Rok, Frigg’s, or Freya’s Distaff, — in West Gothland Frigge Rakken, — and Maria Rok, Mary’s Distaff; in Schleswig, Peri-pik. In Lapland it was altered to Kalevan Miekka, Kaleva’s Sword, or still more changed to Niallar, a Tavern.

The mention of wool in that last post reminds me: what’s the name of the Weaver’s father again? Oh, yeah. Ikarios, just like Erigone’s father. 

 

Herodotos, The Histories 4.72ff
When a Scythian dies his nearest kin lay him upon a waggon and take him round to all his friends in succession: each receives them in turn and entertains them with a banquet, whereat the dead man is served with a portion of all that is set before the others; this is done for forty days, at the end of which time the burial takes place. After the burial, those engaged in it have to purify themselves, which they do in the following way. First they well soap and wash their heads; then, in order to cleanse their bodies, they act as follows: they make a booth by fixing in the ground three sticks inclined towards one another, and stretching around them woollen felts, which they arrange so as to fit as close as possible: inside the booth a dish is placed upon the ground, into which they put a number of red-hot stones, and then add some hemp-seed. Hemp grows in Scythia: it is very like flax; only that it is a much coarser and taller plant: some grows wild about the country, some is produced by cultivation: the Thracians make garments of it which closely resemble linen; so much so, indeed, that if a person has never seen hemp he is sure to think they are linen, and if he has, unless he is very experienced in such matters, he will not know of which material they are. The Scythians, as I said, take some of this hemp-seed, and, creeping under the felt coverings, throw it upon the red-hot stones; immediately it smokes, and gives out such a vapour as no Grecian vapour-bath can exceed; the Scyths, delighted, shout for joy, and this vapour serves them instead of a water-bath; for they never by any chance wash their bodies with water. Their women make a mixture of cypress, cedar, and frankincense wood, which they pound into a paste upon a rough piece of stone, adding a little water to it. With this substance, which is of a thick consistency, they plaster their faces all over, and indeed their whole bodies. A sweet odour is thereby imparted to them, and when they take off the plaster on the day following, their skin is clean and glossy.

In other news: Bees Absolutely Love Cannabis and It Could Help Restore Their Populations.

Also: Scorched animals treated with New Zealand’s golden mānuka honey.

.

If you don’t care for this ending there’s always the variant tradition that makes Pan the Freddy Krueger of Greek Mythology.

From the Wikipedia article on Penelope:

In some early sources such as Pindar, Pan’s father is Apollo via Penelope. Herodotus (2.145), Cicero (ND 3.22.56), Apollodorus (7.38) and Hyginus (Fabulae 224) all make Hermes and Penelope his parents. Pausanias 8.12.5 records the story that Penelope had in fact been unfaithful to her husband, who banished her to Mantineia upon his return. Other sources (Duris of Samos; the Vergilian commentator Servius) report that Penelope slept with all 108 suitors in Odysseus’ absence, and gave birth to Pan as a result. [15] This myth reflects the folk etymology that equates Pan’s name (Πάν) with the Greek word for “all” (πᾶν).

Starry Bear myth is so romantic.

Each time Dionysos completes a regenerative cycle he begins again as a vulnerable child beset by monstrous foes who seek his utter annihilation.

Just when that is about to happen Hermes swoops in and whisks him away to safety in some exotic locale where he is protected and tutored by indigenous land-spirits until he reaches maturation and sets off on a new set of adventures.

And that’s how he ended up as Odysseus that one time. Hermes wiped the God’s memories and stitched him into the mortal line of the Wolf Itself, so his malign pursuers would lose track of him and he could be trained for war.

It works for a while; he has many adventures, overcomes many tests and trials.  But the persona cracks while in Italy, when the Falcon Sorceress from the Black Sea has him sit on a throne, drink a hallucinogenic potion from her chalice and asks him the questions from the gold lamellae while he’s tripping balls.

After that he journeys to the underworld, overcomes further ordeals and eventually returns home to his beloved Weaver, massacring her 108 suitors in a berserk frenzy.

He convinces her that he truly is her long-lost husband by noting something only he would know – one of the pillars of their marital bed is a living tree. (And also the Tree of Life or World Tree.)

She embraces her man, and welcomes him home. Then she introduces him to the half-goat child she had with Hermes while he was away. 

Paignia

Courageous Border Collie Leads 900 Sheep to Safety During Australian Bushfires.

 

 

Pausanias, Description of Greece 7.22.2
The market-place of Pharai is of wide extent after the ancient fashion, and in the middle of it is an image of Hermes, made of stone and bearded. Standing right on the earth, it is of square shape, and of no great size. On it is an inscription, saying that it was dedicated by Simylos the Messenian. It is called Hermes Agoraios (of the Market), and by it is established an oracle. In front of the image is placed a hearth, which also is of stone, and to the hearth bronze lamps are fastened with lead. Coming at eventide, the inquirer of the God, having burnt incense upon the hearth, filled the lamps with oil and lighted them, puts on the altar on the right of the image a local coin, called a ‘copper,’ and asks in the ear of the God the particular question he wishes to put to him. After that he stops his ears and leaves the marketplace. On coming outside he takes his hands from his ears, and whatever utterance he hears he considers oracular