by Rick Riordan
“Great news,” Zeus said. “Both of these fine gods want to marry you. Because I’m a stand-up king and an all-around thoughtful dude, I will let you pick. Bachelor Number One, Poseidon, likes long walks on the beach and scuba diving. Bachelor Number Two, Apollo, enjoys music and poetry and spends his free time reading prophecies at the Oracle of Delphi. Who do you like better?”
Hestia sobbed in horror, which kind of surprised the bachelors. She threw herself at Zeus’s feet and cried, “Please, my lord. No-o-o! Neither of them!”
Apollo frowned and checked his breath.
Poseidon wondered if he’d forgotten his underarm deodorant again.
Before they could get too angry, Hestia collected herself and tried to explain. “I have nothing against these gods,” she said. “But I don’t want to marry anyone! I want to be single forever.”
Zeus scratched his head. That idea simply did not compute. “So…never get married? You don’t want kids? You don’t want to be a wife?”
“That’s correct, my lord,” Hestia said. “I—I will take care of the hearth for all time. I will tend the flames. I’ll prepare the feasts. Whatever I can do to help out the family. Only, promise me I’ll never have to get married!”
Apollo and Poseidon were a little miffed, but it was hard to stay mad at Hestia. She was so sweet and earnest and helpful. They forgave her for the same reasons they wanted to marry her in the first place. She was genuinely nice. Among the Olympians, niceness was a rare and valuable commodity.
“I rescind my offer of marriage,” Poseidon said. “Furthermore, I will protect Hestia’s right not to marry.”
“Me, too,” Apollo said. “If that’s what she wants, I will honor her wishes.”
Zeus shrugged. “Well, I still don’t get it. But okay. She does keep an excellent hearth. Nobody else knows how to toast marshmallows just right—not too soft, not too crispy. Hestia, your wish is granted!”
Hestia breathed a huge sigh of relief.
She became the official goddess of the hearth, which may not seem like a big deal but was exactly what Hestia wanted. Later on, people made up a story about how Hestia used to have a throne on Mount Olympus and gave it up when a newer god named Dionysus came along. It’s a good story, but it’s not actually in the old myths. Hestia never wanted a throne. She was way too modest for that.
Her hearth became the calm center of the storm whenever the Olympians argued. Everyone knew the fire was neutral territory. You could go there for a time-out, a cup of nectar, or a talk with Hestia. You could catch your breath without getting accosted by anyone—kind of like “base” in a game of tag.
Hestia looked out for everyone, so everyone looked out for her.
The most famous example? One night Mother Rhea had this big party on Mount Ida to celebrate the anniversary of the Olympians’ victory over Kronos. All the gods and the friendly Titans were invited, along with dozens of nymphs and satyrs. Things got pretty wild—lots of nectar drinking, ambrosia eating, and crazy dancing with the Kouretes. The gods even convinced Zeus to tell some of his infamous satyr jokes.
Hestia wasn’t used to partying so much. About three in the morning, she got light-headed from the dancing and the nectar and wandered off into the woods. She bumped into a random donkey tied to a tree; probably one of the satyrs had ridden it to the party. For some reason, Hestia found this extremely funny.
“Hello, Mr. Donkey!” She giggled. “I’m going to—hic!—I’m going to lie down right here and, uh, take a nap. Watch over me, okay? Okay.”
The goddess fell face first in the grass and started snoring. The donkey wasn’t sure what to think about that, but he kept quiet.
A few minutes later, this minor nature god named Priapus came wandering through the woods. You don’t hear much about Priapus in the old stories. Frankly, he’s not very important. He was a country god who protected vegetable gardens. I know—exciting, right? Oh, great Priapus, guard my cucumbers with your mighty powers! If you’ve ever seen those silly plaster garden gnomes that people put in their yards, that’s a holdover from the days when people placed statues of Priapus in their gardens to protect their produce.
Anyway, Priapus was all about parties and flirting with the ladies. He’d had a lot to drink that night. He was roaming the woods looking for some unsuspecting nymph or goddess he could get cuddly with.
When he came to the clearing and saw a lovely goddess passed out in the grass, snoring alluringly in the moonlight, he thought, YES!
He sneaked up to Hestia. He didn’t know which goddess she was, but he didn’t really care. He was sure that if he just cuddled up next to her, she would be delighted when she woke up, because hey, who wouldn’t want to get romantic with the god of vegetables?
He knelt next to her. She smelled so yummy—like wood smoke and toasted marshmallows. He ran his hand through her dark hair and said, “Hey, there, baby. What do you say we do some snuggling?”
In the darkness nearby, the donkey apparently thought that sounded like an excellent idea. He brayed, “HHAWWWWW!”
Priapus yelled, “Ahhh!!”
Hestia woke with a start, horrified to find a vegetable god leaning over her, his hand in her hair. She screamed, “HELP!”
Back at the party, the other gods heard her screaming. Immediately they dropped whatever they were doing and ran to help her—because you simply didn’t mess with Hestia.
When they found Priapus, all the gods started whaling on him—throwing goblets at his head, punching him, calling him names. Priapus barely got out of there with his life.
Later, he claimed he had no idea he was flirting with Hestia. He thought she was just a nymph, or something. Still, Priapus was no longer welcome at the Olympian parties. After that, everyone became even more protective of Hestia.
Now, there’s one more part of Hestia’s story that’s kind of important, but I’m going to have to do some speculating here, because you won’t find this in the old myths.
At first, there was only one hearth in the world, and it belonged to the gods. Fire was like their trademarked property. The puny humans didn’t know how to make it. They were still cowering in their caves, grunting and picking their noses and hitting each other with clubs.
The Titan Prometheus, who had made those little dudes out of clay, really felt sorry for them. After all, he’d created them to look like immortals. He was pretty sure humans were capable of acting like immortals, too. They just needed a little help getting started.
Whenever Prometheus visited Olympus, he watched the gods gather at Hestia’s hearth. Fire was the single most important thing that made the palace a home. You could use fire to keep warm. You could cook with it. You could make hot beverages. You could light torches at night. You could play any number of funny practical jokes with the hot coals. If only humans had some fire…
Finally Prometheus got up his courage and spoke to Zeus.
“Hey, Lord Zeus,” he said. “Uh, I thought I should show the humans how to make fire.”
Zeus frowned. “Humans? You mean those dirty little guys that make funny shrieks when you step on them? Why would they need fire?”
“They could learn to be more like us,” Prometheus said. “They could build houses, make cities, all sorts of things.”
“That,” Zeus said, “is the worst idea I’ve ever heard. Next, you’re going to want to arm the cockroaches. Give humans fire, and they’re going to take over the world. They’ll get all uppity and decide they’re as good as immortals. No. I absolutely forbid it.”
But Prometheus couldn’t let it go. He kept looking at Hestia sitting next to her hearth. He admired the way she kept the Olympian family together with her sacred fires.
It just wasn’t fair, Prometheus decided. Humans deserved the same comfort.
What happened next?
Most versions of the story say that Prometheus stole
hot coals from the hearth. He hid them in the hollowed stalk of a fennel plant—though you’d think somebody would notice him sneaking out of the palace with a smoldering plant that smelled like burning licorice.
None of the stories mention that Hestia helped Prometheus. But the thing is, how could she not have known what he was doing? She was always at the hearth. There’s no way Prometheus could’ve stolen fire without Hestia noticing.
Personally, I think she had sympathy for Prometheus and those little humans. Hestia was kindhearted that way. I think she either helped Prometheus or at least turned a blind eye and let him steal the hot coals.
Whatever the case, Prometheus sneaked out of Olympus with his secret burning licorice stick and gave it to the humans. It took a while for them to learn how to use the hot flaming stuff without killing themselves; but finally they managed, and the idea spread like…well, wildfire.
Usually Zeus didn’t pay much attention to what was happening down on the earth. After all, the sky was his domain. But one clear night he stood at the balcony on Mount Olympus and noticed that the world was freckled with lights—in houses, towns, even a few cities. The humans had come out of their caves.
“That little punk,” Zeus grumbled. “Prometheus armed the cockroaches.”
Next to him, the goddess Hera said, “Uh, what?”
“Nothing,” Zeus muttered. He yelled to his guards: “Find Prometheus and get him in here. NOW!”
Zeus was not pleased. He didn’t like it when someone disobeyed his orders, especially when that someone was a Titan whom Zeus had generously spared after the war. Zeus was so displeased, he decided to punish Prometheus in a way no one would ever forget. He chained the Titan to a rock on Mount Caucasus at the eastern edge of the world, then summoned a huge eagle, which was Zeus’s sacred animal, to peck open Prometheus’s belly and feed on his liver.
Oh, sorry. That was a little gross. I hope you weren’t on your way to lunch.
Every day, the eagle would rip Prometheus open and chow down. And every night, Prometheus would heal up and grow a new liver, just in time for the eagle to show up the next morning.
The other gods and Titans got the message: Don’t disobey Zeus, or bad things will happen to you, most likely involving chains, livers, and hungry eagles.
As for Hestia, no one accused her of anything; but she must have felt bad for Prometheus, because she made sure his sacrifice wasn’t in vain. She became the goddess of all hearths, across the world. In every mortal home, the central fireplace was sacred to her. If you needed protection, like if someone was chasing you or beating you up, you ran to the nearest hearth and no one could touch you there. Whoever lived in that house was obligated to help if you asked for sanctuary. Families would take their important oaths on the hearth, and whenever they burned a portion of their meal as a sacrifice to the gods, part of that sacrifice went to Hestia.
As towns and cities grew, they operated just like individual homes. Each town had a central hearth that was under Hestia’s protection. If you were an ambassador from another city, you always visited the hearth first to proclaim that you had come in peace. If you got in trouble and you made it to the town hearth, no one in that city could harm you. In fact, the citizens were honor-bound to protect you.
It turned out Prometheus was right. Humans did start acting like the gods, for better or worse. Eventually, the gods got used to this and even accepted it. The humans built temples for them, burned sweet-smelling sacrifices, and chanted about how awesome the Olympians were. That certainly helped.
Still, Zeus didn’t forgive Prometheus for disobeying his orders. Eventually Prometheus got freed, but that’s another story.
As for Hestia, she was able to maintain peace on Olympus most of the time—but not always.
For instance, one time her sister Demeter got so mad at her brothers, she almost caused World War Zero….
DEMETER TURNS INTO GRAINZILLA
OH, YEAH. DEMETER!
Try not to get too excited, because this chapter is all about the goddess of wheat, bread, and cereal. Demeter just flat-out rocks when it comes to carbohydrates.
I’m not being fair to her, though.
Sure, she was the goddess of agriculture, but she had other things going for her. Among the three eldest goddesses, she was the middle sister, so she combined Hestia’s sweet personality with her younger sister Hera’s knockout hotness. Demeter had long blond hair the color of ripe wheat. She wore a crown of woven corn leaves—not a fashion statement most people can pull off, but she managed. She liked to adorn herself with poppies, which often grow in fields of grain—or so I’m told. I don’t go walking in a lot of grain fields.
A dark robe covered her bright green dress, so whenever she moved, it looked like fresh plant shoots breaking through fertile earth. She smelled like a rainstorm over a field of jasmine.
Since Hestia decided never to get married, Demeter was the first goddess who seriously drew the attention of the guy gods. (Hera was beautiful too, but her attitude…well, we’ll get to that later.)
Not only was Demeter good-looking, but she was also kindhearted (mostly), she knew how to bake awesome bread and cookies, and she cut a surprisingly warlike figure wherever she went. She rode a golden chariot pulled by twin dragons. At her side gleamed a gold sword.
In fact, one of her Greek names was Demeter Khrysaoros, meaning the Lady with the Golden Blade. Sounds like a good title for a martial arts movie. According to some legends, her blade was actually the scythe of Kronos, which she reforged into the world’s most deadly harvesting tool. Mostly she used it for cutting wheat, but if she got angry enough, she could fight with it….
Anyway, the guy gods all liked her. Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades all proposed marriage, but Demeter turned them down flat. She preferred to roam the earth, turning barren plains into fertile fields, encouraging orchards to bear fruit and flowers to bloom.
One day, Zeus got persistent. He had just divorced Themis and hadn’t remarried yet. He was lonely. For whatever reason, he fixated on Demeter and decided he absolutely had to get with her.
He found her in a field of wheat (no surprise). Demeter yelled at him to go away, but he just kept following her around.
“Come on!” he said. “Just one kiss. Then maybe another kiss. Then maybe—”
“No!” she shouted. “You’re so annoying!”
“I’m the king of the universe,” Zeus said. “If we got together, you’d be the queen!”
“Not interested.” Demeter was tempted to draw her golden sword, but Zeus was the most powerful god, and people who opposed him got into a lot of trouble. (Cough, like Prometheus, cough.) Also, her golden chariot was parked way at the other end of the field, so she couldn’t just hop in and flee.
Zeus kept pestering her. “Our kids would be powerful and amazing.”
“Go away.”
“Hey, baby. Don’t be like that.”
Finally Demeter got so disgusted, she transformed herself into a serpent. She figured she could lose Zeus by hiding in the fields and slithering away.
Bad idea.
Zeus could transform into an animal too. He changed into a snake and followed her. That was easy, since snakes have a great sense of smell; and like I said earlier, Demeter had a very distinctive rainstorm-over-jasmine scent.
Demeter slithered into a hole in the dirt. Another pretty terrible idea.
Zeus slithered in after her. The tunnel was narrow, so once Zeus blocked the entrance, Demeter couldn’t get out. She didn’t have room to change form.
Zeus trapped her and wouldn’t let her go until…Well, use your imagination.
Months later, Demeter gave birth to her first child—a daughter named Persephone. She was such a cute, sweet baby, Demeter almost forgave Zeus for tricking her into reptile hanky-panky. Almost. They didn’t get married, and Zeus was a pretty neglectful dad; bu
t still the little girl became the light of Demeter’s life.
More about Persephone in a sec…
I’d like to say that was the only time Demeter got into a bad situation with a man. Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
A few years later, Demeter took a vacation to the beach. She was walking along, enjoying the solitude and the fresh sea air, when Poseidon happened to spot her. Being a sea god, he tended to notice pretty ladies walking along the beach.
He appeared out of the waves in his best green robes, with his trident in his hand and a crown of seashells on his head. (He was sure that the crown made him look irresistible.)
“Hey, girl,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “You must be the riptide, ’cause you sweep me off my feet.”
He’d been practicing that pickup line for years. He was glad he finally got to use it.
Demeter was not impressed. “Go away, Poseidon.”
“Sometimes the sea goes away,” Poseidon agreed, “but it always comes back. What do you say you and me have a romantic dinner at my undersea palace?”
Demeter made a mental note not to park her chariot so far away. She really could’ve used her two dragons for backup. She decided to change form and get away, but she knew better than to turn into a snake this time.
I need something faster, she thought.
Then she glanced down the beach and saw a herd of wild horses galloping through the surf.
That’s perfect! Demeter thought. A horse!
Instantly she became a white mare and raced down the beach. She joined the herd and blended in with the other horses.
Her plan had serious flaws. First, Poseidon could also turn into a horse, and he did—a strong white stallion. He raced after her. Second, Poseidon had created horses. He knew all about them and could control them.
Why would a sea god create a land animal like the horse? We’ll get to that later. Anyway, Poseidon reached the herd and started pushing his way through, looking for Demeter—or rather sniffing for her sweet, distinctive perfume. She was easy to find.