She was not a gentle goddess of sunlit meadows. Ataecina was the Diosa Madre , but a mother of a profound and terrifying kind. Her skin was the pale grey of river stones in shadow, and her hair fell like cascading black water, woven with bones of small animals and the first pale crocuses that bloom in late winter. Her eyes held the still, knowing darkness of a deep well. The Romans, when they came, would try to fuse her with their Proserpina, but they failed. Ataecina was no kidnapped bride; she was the sovereign of her own shadow.
"Why do you disturb my winter, little flame?" she asked, her voice the rustle of dead leaves and the gurgle of a subterranean river. spanish diosa!
And deep in the Mons Sacer, she listened to the rain fall on the earth above, and she smiled, turning a skull over in her hands like a favorite marble, waiting for the next shepherd brave enough to come and listen. She was not a gentle goddess of sunlit meadows