Relying only on these most primitive ways of getting food, being hungry one meal and full the next was the norm of life.
Especially once a tribe had children, a great deal of labor had to be set aside to look after them, and the pressure of feeding everyone grew heavier.
There were more mouths crying to be fed, and fewer people going out to forage.
With no food, you go hungry; hungry long enough, you lose your strength; longer still, and you die.
And to starve is the most painful way to die of all.
There is no second.
Though the law of death was not yet perfected, and with humans' present constitution they were quite sturdy, so in general they would not die,
by comparison, hunger only grew harder to bear.
And it had no end.
The pain of hunger only increases with its duration; it never lessens.
The taste of it is truly a fate worse than death.
Amid hunger, humans also learned sacrifice and choice.
If all starve together, perhaps all will lose strength, and in the end all will meet their end.
Limited food sometimes must be given to those who need it more and matter more.
It is the most painful, hardest choice—but at times, one that must be made.
Hestia watched humans endure the pain of hunger, and even, because they ate whatever they could, suffer even more grievous consequences.
Each time, her heart filled with deep sorrow and distress.
Her fire could bring warmth, make food easier to eat, and make it more delicious, but it alone…
could not make there be more food.
She had taken the initiative to ask Zeus what to do.
Zeus had only one reply.
"Wait for our dear Demeter."
"When Demeter wakes, her abundance, joined with your fire, will mean humans will not go hungry."
"At least, if they go hungry again, it will not be nature that does it."
Hestia did not then know why Zeus said this, nor what exactly should be done.
But she knew Zeus would not be wrong.
Now this was Demeter's first time, in Hestia's temple, seeing humanity through Hestia's "eyes" in the mortal world.
She laid without reserve before Demeter humans' joys and sorrows, goodness and struggle, needs and hopes, and her own love for humanity, and told her everything about them.
Hestia believed her gentlest, kindest sister—this true Mother of the Earth—would, like her, come to love these children.
And when Demeter, the Mother of the Earth, truly loved humankind, spring would not be far away.
Then the Mother of the Earth would sow between their hunger and their hope the eternal wheat and the hope of abundance.
The gods love all people.
So too does the Mother Goddess.
May the firelight stay warm, and the heart not veer astray.
Through that great mirror of sacred fire, listening to her dear elder sister's steady tale, Demeter took in the plain yet resilient lives of humans.
She watched these small and unknowing, yet infinitely full of possibility, humans run and labor upon the earth.
As Mother of the Earth, at the slightest stirring of her divine mind, the whole earth's pulse was laid in her heart.
Their joy and sorrow, ease and hardship, strength and weakness—everything—was as if it were her own heartbeat.
Facing these beings who likewise possessed wisdom and feeling, the Earth Mother's love for "life" itself naturally stirred in her the softest compassion.
For she could feel what they felt.
The tangle and resentment born of "passion" in her heart had already been easily covered over by this vast tableau of "life" in heaven and earth.
Within the broad, selfless love of her dear elder sister, the deepest thing in her own divinity—her greater, more magnificent love as the Earth Mother—was awakened as well.
The glow of the sacred fire mirror slowly drew in, and the images within gradually faded away.
Demeter's lashes, like a butterfly's wings, were still wet; the shine at the corners of her eyes had been mostly dried by the warm firelight beside her sister.
She raised her fine head to Hestia and said softly, "I understand, Sister."
"Thank you, Sister. You have shown me that the purpose of love is not narrow possession, but walking into happiness together."
She gazed at Hestia; there was no more confusion in those green eyes—only the unmatchable breadth and firmness of the Mother of the Earth.
"I will think well—and love well. Not only love Zeus, but love my children, and even more love every dear child upon this earth."
Hestia smiled gently and stroked her sister's long hair in comfort. "That's right."
"My dear sister, then what do you think of these children?"
Demeter's willow brows knit lightly; there was deep thought in her gaze. She said softly, "These 'humans'—though very weak, I can feel they are utterly different from ordinary mortal beings."
"They possess wisdom and feeling akin to ours; they are plain and pure—such dear children."
"And I can be sure Zeus places great hopes upon them. And they do indeed have a splendid future worth our expectation."
As Demeter spoke, a glint of decision flashed in sea-green eyes. She looked to Hestia and said seriously, "Sister, I wish to go to the earth myself and look closely at them. Will you come with me?"
Hestia was delighted, yet a little hesitant. She said softly, "Of course I wish to—only… Zeus had no desire before to let me go down."
Demeter gave a soft "hmph," the corners of her lips tilting up; some of her old, charming willfulness returned, shading her tone with unhideable plaint. "What of Him! So long as He hasn't given a clear prohibition, what is there that we cannot do?"
"He is now…" As she spoke, Demeter cast a resentful glance at the horizon, where golden clouds and rosy light were rolling into a sea; the light of thunder and the aurora of wisdom were layered together into a splendor that made faces flush and hearts pound.
The plaint in her eyes deepened as she murmured, "He has surely thrown everything behind Him now—how can He care for the affairs of the Three Realms and Three Domains?"
"Er…"
On this point Hestia quite agreed.
Still, she hesitated, for she had never done anything that would put Zeus in a difficult spot.
"This… isn't it rather hasty? I think we should still ask Zeus's opinion first," she ventured.
Demeter could wait no longer. She took her good sister by the arm at once and tugged her to set out.
As they walked she said sweetly, "What we wish to do—would Zeus dare stop us? If He dares, then we won't let Him in the temple next time!"
"Oh—yes!" She seemed to think of something. "We should call Hera to go with us too! Looking at the sky, I'd guess she's not feeling well. Let's go keep her company and help her ease her mind."
Seeing lingering hesitation on Hestia's face, Demeter went on, "Good Sister, don't worry. We'll go to the mortal world in concealment, won't we?"
"This time we'll only look and do nothing for the moment. Only by truly walking into and looking upon humanity, and understanding them in person, can we know what these children most need."
Hestia thought that was so, and at last nodded. "Very well—then let us go together. But you must also restrain your temper; do not be too willful, and do not upset Zeus's design, lest you put Him in a bind."
"This time we only go to see—decide what must be done, but for now do not act."
Demeter nodded again and again. Hestia smiled faintly, said no more, and instead said, "Hera has not seen you for some time—she must miss you very much. Let us go to her first."
The two goddesses exchanged a smile and rose into the air. Their robes spread two gentle arcs across the sky as they glided toward the nearby Temple of Procreation.
The three sisters' mountain peaks were linked, their summits like clasped hands—this was the nearest, warmest stretch of ridge upon Mount Olympus.
And at that moment Hera's heart was a mixture of many flavors.
On the one hand, she felt heartfelt comfort that her dear friend Metis had at last had her wish.
On the other, she felt deep worry for her dear sister Demeter.
Not long before, when Demeter awoke, Hera had clearly felt the world-shaking wave of divine power.
And then the earth's pulse that shook all Olympus three times over.
As for why… it needed no thought.
On all Olympus, even the dullest dullard—even that blockhead Epimetheus—could understand the crux. How could wise Hera not know?
The love among the sisters was the treasure she prized most.
She truly did not wish, because of that rascal Zeus, to let even the slightest rift arise between them.
That would be too unworthy!
Seeing Demeter's green divine light—sign of the earth—fly straight to the elder sister's temple, Hera worried still more.
She wanted to rush over at once, yet feared the timing was wrong and would add fuel to the fire; she could only sit ill at ease in her own hall and wait.
In truth, at that moment on all Olympus, and upon the earth and even in the Underworld below, there were not a few goddesses waiting to watch the spectacle.
To see fire in Hera's house was enough for many goddesses to gossip in private for centuries, and even be so delighted they could not stop smiling for years.
Of course, there were gentle, loving goddesses who worried in silence and stood ready to go and soothe at any time.
When Hera at last saw her two elder sisters' divine lights coming together toward her, the great stone in her heart fell halfway.
Then a great joy surged up; she hurriedly ordered Leto and Asteria at her side to bring out the divine wine and ambrosia long since prepared.
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