Novel Excerpt: Hebe
Hebe: I
The day Aunt Hestia stepped down as an Olympian, Mother wept. I had never seen her shed tears until that moment, and when she did, the halls of Olympus shuddered, sharing in her sorrow. The queen of gods and goddesses, normally so cold, thawed as Aunt Hestia stood at the center of our meeting hall with all the welcome of the hearth. I merely watched, always between my parent's thrones, ready to pour into their goblets at a moment’s notice.
Dark skin like cinders, thick hair like black moss, Hestia smiled. The air wafted warmly around the hall as the Olympians sat in their elevated chairs. Her patient expression poured silence over every seat.
“It is my greatest honor to offer my seat to Dionysus, son of Zeus and god of wine,” she said. “He is gracious to serve the people of Greece. Though my departure is imminent, the hearth shall always be here to welcome all who desire warmth and comfort.”
“We will greatly miss you, Hestia,” Father said, though at that moment, he was solely Zeus, god of all. Even his breaths rang like thunder.
As I stood beside her throne, Mother steadily raised her voice. She held open her arms. “My dear sister, come here.”
Hestia returned her embrace. Aunt Demeter rose with equal grace, encompassing them both in the deep green folds of her peplos. My uncles dragged their heels, but the other children of Zeus—my siblings—approached with their arms extended, including the one who would replace her: Dionysus. Despite the merriment of his promotion, he looked rather grim, honey-red eyes dark-circled, his dark hair ingloriously uncombed. He seemed more like a shadow to the rest of our siblings, abyssal amid their natural brightness.
When the group parted, I looked toward Mother, watching her as she trailed to her throne. She met my desperate, pleading look and inclined her head. I deftly lowered the cow-headed rhyton to the floor before sprinting to take Aunt Hestia’s warm hand in mine. She smiled down at me. Before my well wishes began, however, Ares startled me to silence.
“Little Hebe!” he yelled. “Pour me a cup!”
“And me,” Hermes yelped next, clacking his sandaled heels together.
All the goblets raised around me, waiting for my response as they each turned to chatter among themselves. I stood fumbling and contemplating who I would choose to serve first.
“Allow me,” Dionysus said, and with one wave, the lifted goblets were filled. I suddenly got the sense that Aunt Hestia wasn’t the only one being replaced.
As if sensing my thoughts, Hestia squeezed my hand in comfort. I watched her walk toward the hall’s entrance and then glanced toward Mother. She still dabbed her eyes, wiping the last of her tears, but a familiar look shaped her features—one that promised swift and brutal action.
As Mother and I settled in her room, I started undoing her long braid so that it could be worn on the top of her head. She had shown me the process a few times before, and now my fingers repeated the rhythm as if it were designed for the motion. Once I finished, we surveyed her reflection in the polished golden walls. The braid appeared tighter than her expression, impossibly still.
“You dislike Dionysus, Mother,” I said, as she placed a peacock feather within her gold-brown locks.
“I dislike every child that Zeus fathered with another. So you, my dear—” she pulled me close after unlatching my fidgeting fingers “—are my most beloved. Zeus and I chose to expend you after one of the most passionate nights in our existences—”
“Mother, there is no need for details,” I said, blanching, but she was already talking over me.
“He saw my look and knew not to flee. For once, I would not chase my own husband. We made love as if we had been reborn, remolded for such a task…which is why you, dearest—” she stroked my burning cheeks “—are the goddess of youth. Most mortal women relish and then despair the effects of childbirth, but you have only made me younger.” She kissed the top of my head. “My sweet little Hebe.”
Little Hebe. It was the title that all gods and goddesses called me. When I expressed annoyance at such diminution, they merely laughed and patted my cheeks. Hermes was slightly more annoying about it than the rest of my siblings. He hovered around me, flicked my forehead, and then shouted the title down the halls until the mountain shook with the mocking message. The first time he did it, I hid for days, crouching feebly in my shadow as if that would save me from all ridicule. It did not.
“Now, Hebe,” Mother said, straightening toward her reflection, “we’re meeting your aunts for a private dinner. If your father requests your assistance, deny him.”
“Yes, Mother.” I paused. “May I seek Aunt Demeter and Aunt Hestia now?”
“Prepare our goblets first. I want nothing of Dionysus’s poisoned cups,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
With Mother’s permission, I hurried through the halls, past the silvery peaks that framed the narrow ridges of where the Olympians treaded. Several passages were available solely for the Olympians, impermissible to the many nymphs who served on the mountain. They were usually faster paths, encouraging a lightness of foot to rival Hermes’s winged sandals.
When I reached Demeter’s earthy quarters—no longer did Hestia possess a room; she had already forfeited her shelter to Dionysus—I nearly tripped over the vines and roots intermittently layering the floor. Her room was positioned within the folds of a deciduous forest, the bed arranged by sets of oak and cedar wood, a blanket of leaves twined over pillows of moss and patches of soft lavender flowers. A trail of brown and orange leaves guided me to the round table in the corner of the room. Both my aunts sat upon small stools, wooden cups clenched in their hands.
“Hebe,” Demeter called warmly, and Hestia rose to embrace me. “I thought you were your mother for a moment, looking all gloom-faced and disheartened like that.”
“Mother never appears that way,” I replied thoughtfully. “Displeased, maybe, but never gloomy.”
“When you’ve seen every shade of her moods, you would also declare her gloomy,” Demeter said, and then smiled widely. “It’s less fun to tease your mother when she hasn’t arrived. What is dragging her?”
“Her reflection.”
“So she is gloomy.” Demeter delicately touched the corners of her brown eyes. Several lines crinkled and stretched from her touch. They returned, after a moment, to a smooth appearance. “It is natural to show our age. See how Hestia and I radiate with ours.”
“I am the only one who radiates,” Hestia said, “lest you forget who lights your fires.”
“I could never forget with your tireless reminders. How you blind me.”
“You’re welcome.”
Demeter laughed and then wiped a tear from both eyes. “Oh, Hestia…I will miss you.” The two sisters embraced. When they pulled away, I stepped forward to fill their cups, lifting a flute-like rhyton, which easily manifested in my grip.
“Mother requested goblets,” I said, and within one blink, their cups had changed.
“This is no longer a celebration. Now it is a mourning between sisters,” Hestia said quietly. “Goblets are ill-suited for this occasion.”
“But Hera receives what she wishes,” Demeter said, and shook her head, as if doing so dismissed her frustration. “Tell me which wine you have chosen for us this evening, Hebe.”
“A red merely a short tread from Phrygia’s borders. It sweetens with every cup,” I said, after Demeter drank and coughed.
“It’s like drinking a river of sand,” she confessed, but Hestia happily gulped.
“Wonderful, Hebe, thank you.”
I had never actually tasted the wine that I served. I knew only what my mother described of its origins and tastes. This I knew was one of Aunt Hestia’s favorites—a taste so dry that it sapped all spit from one’s mouth. Within minutes I was pouring her another full goblet, the liquid tilted at a precise angle.
“How careful you are, Hebe,” Hestia observed. “You have truly gifted us with your expertise.”
“It is my duty.”
“We’re all family, Hebe. Olympians, yes, but this is no formal occasion. Relax your grip, pour yourself a cup, and sit with us,” Demeter insisted.
I peered toward the empty doorway and then meekly grabbed a chair. The hard wood eventually softened once I sat down, exhibiting the flexibility of a cushion, and I realized the bottom was covered with thick moss. Hestia poured a small cup of wine and mostly water. My fingers shook as she handed it to me. Mother had once told me never to drink, cautioning that I would always be too young. “Besides, it is like receiving your first kiss,” she had said, “and it may embitter the taste of water for you.” I couldn’t help but feel this act—meant to be a relaxing, casual event—was a betrayal toward everything my mother had taught me. After several trembling seconds, I pressed the rim to my lips and merely jostled the liquid.
“Quite delicious,” I said, after some unconvincing movements.
“She’s terrified,” Demeter said. “What frightens you?”
“Your mother isn’t very lenient toward your activities,” Hestia said. She studied my slinking gaze. “Hebe, you’ve never left Olympus, have you?”
“No, never,” I answered, a little too quickly. They exchanged a look.
“Would you consider, then, traveling with me for a day or two?” Hestia asked. “Just until I get my bearings?”
“She would have to ask her mother,” Demeter reminded her. “And how would Zeus and Hera fare without their cupbearer?”
“It’s only a consideration,” Hestia said. “We’ll speak with your mother when she arrives.”
But I already imagined the ways she might say no. Her thin brows furrowing as her peach lips pressed tightly together, followed by a firm shake of her head. The exasperated sigh accompanied by the iron-clad, “No.” The worst would be her questions. How would you survive, Hebe? By following your aunt’s shadow? If you must go only with someone else, you are still a child.
Mother’s arrival disrupted my thoughts. The roots of the room creaked. The leaves quivered and then fell to sudden immobility, as if such stiffness was the true nature of their design. Mother tended to unearth the truth of all things, especially in the elements. Even her sisters sat straighter, greeting not their sister but the queen. I quickly leapt upward and placed her goblet near her seat. She accepted the goblet after she sat down, giving her sisters a kind but forced smile.
“Do you appreciate Hebe’s choice?” Mother inquired, nodding toward the goblets.
“Delicious,” Hestia said. “She knew my preference. An awareness she could have only received from her mother.”
“Daughters are least like their mothers,” Demeter said, and laughed at Mother’s playful eye-roll. “There is the response I appreciate. Many have said the same of me and Persephone, you know. Daughters aren’t always meant to be like their mothers. If she was like you, you wouldn’t still have your throne.”
“I’m surprised the others haven’t tried to steal it,” Mother replied. “Perhaps they know I wouldn’t tolerate it if they did, seeing as they’re not my favorites. But, Hestia, you have always been my favorite sister, so I am deeply sad to see you go. Why must you?”
“The people of Greece no longer desire my placement, Hera,” Hestia said. “I cannot retaliate against their preferences. I could, but I would take no delight in doing so.”
“Zeus is the one who determines our position. My own husband—your brother—and he buckles to the demand of the people only when he means to elevate his son. A demigod as an Olympian.” She sloshed the wine distastefully in her mouth. “It’s an utter travesty what is happening to our mountain.”
“I understand the pains of change, Hera—” Demeter began.
“Persephone’s choice is not the subject of our discussion,” Mother interrupted hotly. “We’re discussing Hestia’s departure.”
“It seems we’re discussing your husband,” Hestia said, carefully. “But I am fine to do so, Hera, since this has troubled you for long enough.” She placed her goblet down and clasped her hands together. “Let us not let our troubles divide us. They should allow only unification. And my departure, while troubling, is no problem at all—simply another type of grief.
“My sisters, Olympus is changing, but that means the world is growing, and humans are learning. I’m confident that though they prefer wine to warmth, the people of Greece will never abandon the hearth. After all, they still possess Prometheus’s fire; they still seek all the ways they may connect to us. As long as they seek divine communication, I feel most confident in the future they shall build.” She smiled at me. “Besides, we know the impressions of youth are powerful, and the young are the ones who harbor the greatest thirst for wine.”
Aunt Demeter and Mother stared at me in silent recognition as I held the rhyton of wine tight in my hands. My status as the goddess of youth guaranteed my childlike features, so my form was incapable of growing past its current height. It was an unusual trait to possess as a goddess, especially since all gods and goddesses were capable of shapeshifting. But in that moment, I had never felt more like a child—and more ashamed of still being so young. My cheeks burned. The question—more wine?—was lost in my throat.
If the youth of humanity most desired wine, then I—through my unshared cravings—had inadvertently inspired them to value Dionysus over Hestia, making me perhaps the prime reason that my aunt had been uprooted.
Aflame with realization, Mother stood over me, her wordless gaze practically weighing me to the floor. I had endured plenty of Mother’s chastisements, but this one seemed as if it would be particularly scathing. I shrank and tried to look anywhere other than her eyes, wondering how many apologies it would cost me this time, but Demeter stepped in front of Mother’s usually unchallenged feet.
“Speak to Zeus about it later, Hera. For now, let us enjoy Hestia…and the wine.” Her smile was coy. “While we’re still able to enjoy both.”