So finally, it reached the moment of desperation – Hera knew that she would have to have a child without Zeus’ love, somehow. But how could you conceive by yourself? Hera remembered a story that her mother had told her, about the seed of the olive tree, and the magic that it could do. So, Hera descended into the mortal world, for the first time in years. She took her old, familiar disguise – an elderly woman, dressed in rags but still looking noble – and she walked into the nearest village. At the market, she bought one olive tree seed from a confused merchant, who couldn’t help but ask why she only needed one. She just smiled, paid with a coin, and left. She swiftly climbed Mount Olympus in her godly form, took to her chambers in the palace, and slammed the doors behind her. She hurriedly dipped her cup into a cask of ambrosia, the rich drink sloshing onto the floor as she sat down on her bed. Hera opened her mouth, she put the seed on her tongue, and she washed it down with the ambrosia. Breathing heavily, excited, she waited, but nothing happened.
The minutes went by, and Hera still sat on the bed, frozen. She suddenly felt foolish – was her mother lying to her when she told the story? Was it nothing more than folklore? She didn’t want to think she was that desperate to be that stupid. She downed the rest of the ambrosia to drown out the thought, threw the goblet to the floor, and stormed out of the room.
But what Hera didn’t know – at least, not then – was that her mother, the serene, gray-haired Rhea – was telling the truth. Yes, the powers of a simple olive tree seed were folklore, but all short truths grow into tall tales. And so, as the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months, Hera became sick. Her gray eyes turned cloudy, her lips withered and paled, her strides became a standstill. Somehow, at least for a short while, she managed to hide the truth from the rest of the gods living on Olympus. She didn’t want them to know that she had actually swallowed an olive tree seed, all in the hopes of conceiving a child.
And that was why she was ill – the seed lodged itself in the pit of her stomach and fermented. The seed began to crack until it split, and it split until her stomach bubbled, and her stomach bubbled until her entire body rolled with spasms. It wasn’t until Hera began screaming uncontrollably that any one guessed that something was wrong. The servant-girl Hebe and her assistants gently lifted Hera into her bed and took care of her through her sickness. Hebe was the only one allowed to press a damp cloth against Hera’s face, the cloth sizzling from Hera’s fever. As Hebe did so, Hera twisted and curved and mumbled words in thousands of languages except her own. Hebe grew nervous because of this – she called in the other gods and goddesses, to see if any of them knew what to do, but none did.
And, of course, Zeus was never there during Hera’s sickness. He took the bedridden Hera as his excuse, and he left for even longer periods of time – each time he returned, he asked Hebe just one question about Hera before retiring to his own, private chambers. The question was the same every time:
“Do you think she will live to see another day?”
Hebe always answered “Yes”, but she was confused why Zeus asked that. Of course Hera would live to see another day – Hera would live to see every day, just like the immortal gods before her and after her. They can never die, only be born.
But if Hera wanted her Zeus to be with her in that room, she didn’t show it. She was literally blinded by the pain, her eyes closed tightly to the world around her. She didn’t talk anymore – all that came from her lips were screams and crying. Her arms and legs flailing, her fingers searching for something that did not exist, Hera reminded Hebe of, oddly enough, a newborn infant.
One day, Hebe was tending to Hera as she always was now. Hebe turned her back for one minute to the screams, to fill another goblet of ambrosia, when the crying suddenly choked off. Startled by the sudden silence, Hebe turned and immediately stumbled backwards. Hera had turned like a statue in the bed, her limbs rigid, her breath silent. All that moved were her eyes, her silvery eyes that had not been opened in months. They looked downwards, frightened – Hera was terrified because there was something growing out of her mouth. Trembling, Hebe inched closer, peering at the strange growth. Slowly, she ran her fingers over the growth. As soon as she did, though, Hebe jumped back, putting her hands to her mouth in horror. She knew what was growing out of Hera’s mouth – Hebe had touched the same thing before, in the garden in the palace’s courtyard.
It was the beginnings of an olive tree, and it was growing quickly. All Hera and Hebe could do was watch as the trunk grew up and out. By the time Hebe could find the words to scream, the tree had already grown a foot upwards. Its roots began to crawl out of Hera’s mouth and slither across her cheeks. Still, Hera had not moved, except for her wide eyes and tears running down her face.
The doors to the chambers burst open and a rush of servants stormed in, having heard Hebe’s screams.
“What’s wrong, milady? Has something happened…”
The words were abandoned as all of the servants stopped and stared at the olive tree growing out of their queen’s mouth – two of the servant-girls fainted at the sight.
Hebe screamed, “Find Demeter!”
A servant-girl rushed out to find the goddess as Hebe turned once more towards the queen. Hebe felt foolish for asking for someone else’s help, when Hera was her duty and hers alone. But she did not know what else to do – she knew she couldn’t chop the tree down – the ambrosia that Hera drank made the tree as vibrant as any god. All Hebe could do was watch as the gnarled branches began to sprout and the olives began to blossom. Most of the olives were withered, but there was one olive that kept on growing, ballooning until the entire branch began to bend. Hebe supported the tree and especially the heavy branch, watching as the olive grew almost to the size of her. Just when Hebe thought that she couldn’t hold it up anymore, the olive broke off the branch. The olive collapsed to the floor and split open, its juices splashing out. The branch that Hebe was holding onto broke off in her hands, immediately withering into dust between her fingers.
Demeter rushed into the room. “What happened, Hebe?”
Shocked and silent, Hebe could only point at the olive tree. Demeter did not look surprised in the slightest – she simply rushed over to the bed. Hebe looked on as Demeter stroked Hera’s hair and made soothing sounds. The frozen Hera looked intently at Demeter, hypnotized. Hera was too distracted to notice Demeter’s other hand, which worked its way through the thick web of olive tree roots, past Hera’s lips, into her mouth.
“Forgive me, sister.”
Hera shook madly as Demeter clasped the main root that reached down Hera’s throat. Demeter grunted as she tried yanking the stubborn root, still anchored to Hera’s stomach. Hera looked up at Demeter, silently crying. Demeter couldn’t bring herself to look back – she knew that if she looked at her sister Hera, she would immediately regret the hurt she was causing.
Suddenly, the root tore free from Hera, and the tree fell on the floor with a thud. Hera was crying from the pain, crying at being able to breathe again, but it was all over, the illness had run its course. Demeter scooped a cup of ambrosia from the cask and made Hera drink. As she did so, Demeter heard Hebe gasp.
“What is it, Hebe?”
“Look. Look!”
Demeter turned her head slightly, and what she saw made her drop the cup, the ambrosia staining the bed. The massive olive that had fallen on the floor had split in half. Instead of a pit inside of the olive, though, there was a sleeping infant. Demeter watched as Hebe reached down and scooped up the child. Hebe numbly swaddled the child in a blanket and said softly, “His legs.”
“What about them?” Demeter asked as she hurried to the other side of the bed where Hebe stood.
Wordless, Hebe showed Demeter the child’s legs, how they were twisted and gnarled and grotesque, just like the bark of the olive tree that had borne it.
“Have you ever seen anything like that, milady Demeter?”
&nbs
p; “Never.”
Both goddesses looked at the child silently. The other servant-girls, helpless during the birth, stepped forward and crowded the newborn son.
“What…what…”
Hebe heard Hera’s voice, making sense for the first time in months. She stepped towards the bed, the child still in her arms, and gently set the infant down in his mother’s arms.
“It’s a son, milady.”
Hera looked down at her first son for the longest minute. Then she looked up at the goddesses standing before her and, with her eyes dazzling from tears, said, “I have a son.”