From the publishers website:
Arcadia. The garden of the gods of Olympus. Once they walked its sylvan paths, sipping ambrosia, drinking the wines of Dionysus, and filling the arboreal groves with their laughter. Satyrs and centaurs gambolled in the sunlit groves, sprites and dryads tended to the trees and flowers. Even mortals, those chosen of the gods, enjoyed the revels. Everywhere life blossomed with joyous abandon.
But Pan plays his pipes no more, Artemis hunts not in the deep forests-green, dryads and nymphs dance no longer in dappled moonlit glades to the music of the spheres. Silence reigns over the weed-infested garden walkways. Ancient trees, long untended, clog the forest trails, roots rise up from the ground to topple the statues, fountains and sundials, cracking open the conservatories and summer houses. The great rivers, babbling brooks and simple streams have long since dried up, nothing sleeps in their beds now but desiccated earth and bleached bones.
Yet what is to be done? The gods sleep, so it must be the mortals, feeble though they are, pitiful even, to whom the task must fall. Who can restore the wild woods to their glorious, arboreal splendour? Who can rebuild Arcadia and wake the sleeping gods? Who but you?