The Grove of Demeter: An Ancient Hellenic Horror Story

Alone of all the Muses, sweet-voiced Melpomene is tasked with recounting the great tragedies that have befallen her mortal subjects. Of these, one of the most terrible is the tale of King Erysichthon of Thessalia, whose own insatiable greed brought down upon his house the wrath of mighty Demeter, who grants mortals bountiful harvests or barren fields as her whims take her.

Erysichthon for his part was a wealthy and powerful king, with had all he could desire: his fields were bountiful, his flocks prosperous, the stone walls of his palace were strong, and he was blessed with a witty, kindhearted, and beautiful daughter. The only sadness in his life was the death of his wife shortly after the birth of their daughter, a wound to his very heart which only grew bitter as the years passed, causing him to lose much of his faith in the gods. The king doted on Mestra, for that was her name, loving her with all his heart and vowing to his wife’s memory to ensure her a good life. As the years went by and Mestra grew into a young woman, Erysichthon did all he could to find his daughter a suitable spouse: in his grand palace, the king threw lavish feasts to entertain his people, dressing Mestra in finery, doing up her dark hair in pearls and draping her in richly-colored linens to complement her light brown skin and stout form, and displaying her prominently in hopes of attracting the eye of a suitor.

For her part, Mestra grew into a cunning and mischievous woman, entertaining the young men who pursued her, but never giving herself over to them. Every feast her father hosted found the maiden speaking a new man, spurning the attention of all who had made a previous attempt. In the corner of the hall they reclined, Mestra laughing at his jokes and talking until he inevitably went too far, or gave the wrong answer to one of the questions she put to him. When the night reached that particular eventuality, she invented an excuse and found herself a new partner, until he too overstepped. Eventually, Mestra grew tired and snuck out of the palace, much to her father’s displeasure. Down a short path she crept, avoiding the guards by concealing herself in her father’s grape vines whenever they approached. Down the path and through a crack in the rocky cliffside down to a hidden cove by the sea. Hidden away by the dark cliffs, Mestra sat and watched the waves as they reflected the light of the Moon and Stars. She loved the rhythmic movement of the water, the sound of sand rolling over itself, and the cool evening breeze as it gently caressed her hair and skin. It all gave her a sense of calm, alone, isolated from the troubles of the world, hidden from the presumptuous men who pursued her. And so it was that one night as she lay on the sand, watching Selene rise, that a stranger appeared, calmly strolling across the sand towards her. Seeing him, Mestra tensed and put her hand to the knife she had slipped beneath her dress. But she did not draw it. In the silver moonlight, she could see his body: he was handsome, and muscled, like the athletes she had seen at the competitions to honor the gods. Beneath his tunic, his long thighs were thick with muscle, flexing smoothly in the silvery moonlight. His dark brown eyes were set against equally dark skin, topped with a crop of short black hair. His face was square and handsome, and his eyes shone with a power and wisdom far beyond his apparent relatively few years as he sat himself on a log a short ways away and contemplated the sky for a time. Eventually, he spoke in a deep, soothing voice.

“Tell me princess, why do you dock your ship here on this beach on so many a night? Why leave all those admirers up in the palace and spend your time all alone? You could easily have any of them with a single word, if you wanted.” He considered a moment before continuing. “Or is it simply the men who court you that are the problem? Would you have said yes if that young man two moons ago, the one with the first hints of his beard, had been a young woman?”

“Who are you? And who told you I come here?” she asked apprehensively, ignoring his probing. “And how came you through the cave? It scarcely fits me, and I know every nook and cranny.”

The man smiled a comforting smile. “As to your third question, I swam up from the sea, rather than squeeze through your cave. As for the second, I know you come here ’cause I see you here night after night, as you gaze out over my kingdom, and as to your first, my shipmates know me as Poseidon, King of the Seas, father of horses, and the Enesidaone, the Earth Shaker,” he said, his voice smooth.

Mestra was struck silent, taken aback. She had never met a god before. Finding her voice, she said “if you are truly Lord Poseidon, and not simply a traveler who swam to this beach, then you’ll have no objection to a small demonstration of your powers and skill. It’s not every day that a girl can meet with one of the mighty gods, let alone the noble king of all the Oceans.” Her voice was calm, controlled. Yet the hand that gripped the hilt of the knife was clenched firm. All knew of the wrathful power of the gods.

The man gave a chuckle. Few were so forward as to make demands upon meeting him. He considered only a second before saying “Fair enough. One should know the truth o’ one’s shipmates before setting sail.”

With that, he turned to the seas, and with a motion of his hand, formed a horse from the waves, shaping it from the very brine. Mestra stared at the animal, its fine silvery coat liquid in the moonlight. The animal’s eyes were like silvery pearls and its mane flowed like water down the side of its neck. She reached out her hand to touch the animal; it was solid, but cool to the touch, as if its body were still made of the dark waters that lapped at the shore. With another wave, Poseidon sent the horse back into the water. Mestra watched as the fine creature walked out onto the waves, then seemed to melt into the sea, as a drop of rain joins a great lake.

The god turned back to the mortal, his face calm and reassuring. “Why d’you shun those men, princess? I’m certain any one would happily marry you” he asked again.

Mestra paused for a second before responding, her eyes growing fierce in defiance. “And then what would they do? Once they inherit my father’s lands, what use have they for me and my wishes? Tell me that, oh king of the seas. What do you suppose, in all your wisdom, they would do? How long before I was forgotten, and they took a young mistress? One year? Five? Ten? Not one took more than ten of my questions to mention my father’s holdings. No. I will not give myself to a man who only wishes to use me and offers nothing in return.” By the time she had finished, her eyes positively blazed in the moonlight as she stared at Poseidon.

“So you would never give yourself to any man if he offered nothing in return?” he asked, standing as he did so and taking a step closer.

“What do you want of me?” she asked, almost keeping her voice steady.

He stopped. “Nothing you’ll not offer of your own free will, princess. I swear on Styx, I’ll not force you to do anything. You said you would not give yourself to a man who would offer nothing in return. Well, I can offer quite a lot. If you consent and join with me this one night, I swear in her name, I’ll grant you any boon it is within my power to bestow.” As he finished, he held out his hand in offer.

Mestra unclenched the hand that held the knife, relaxing and thinking to herself, weighing her options. Her eyes traveled over his body as she considered what would await her in her father’s palace. Poseidon had taken a rather handsome form. “If I don’t want to name a boon just yet?” she asked, probing for details.

He smiled and knelt down, picking up a shell from the sand and fashioning it into a necklace for her. He handed it to her, saying simply “when you decide, toss this necklace into the sea, and speak your wish. I will grant whatever boon you ask, so long as it’s within my power to give.”

With that, Mestra gave herself to Poseidon, who loved her passionately through the long night. When morning came, he slipped back beneath the waves, and Mestra returned to her father’s palace. There, she found her father in worse spirits than she had seen in a long time. He told her of how, after she made her usual escape, he had caught sight of an old rival from the south who claimed to have built a palace of marble and purest gold, putting Erysichthon’s stone and wood palace to shame. And to make it worse, this man’s son had married a woman purportedly half as beautiful as Aphrodite, and nearly as cunning as Hera, with a child already on the way. Erysichthon had cursed the man and driven him from his home, heedless of the dictates of guest-friendship, enforced as they are by the gods. Yet could not get the other man’s words out of his mind, even if he knew it was all likely exaggerated. He stalked around the palace in a foul humor for several days, while Mestra remained in her room, pondering her choice of a boon and recalling in private the divine night she had spent on the beach. After days of ranting to anyone who would listen, Erysichthon gathered his slaves and set off for an ancient, untouched grove of trees he planned to fell for lumber to expand his own palace; if his could not be of gold and marble, it would simply have to be larger.

Erysichthon and his entourage set off at a good pace, reaching the grove within a week. While overseeing the unloading of the carts, he noticed his men hesitating to enter the grove.

“You lot!” he called “why do you laze around? I ordered you to harvest lumber, not to stand and talk, so get your rears to work!” Grabbing one of the men, Erysichthon dragged him towards a tree and pushed an axe into his hands. But the slaves merely stood where they were, nervously shifting and casting fearful glances at the grove. “Well?! I told you to chop those trees!” cried the king.

One of the slaves came forward. “Sire” he said, attempting to calm the irate king, “this grove is sacred to Lady Demeter. I… if we take Her trees, we would only kindle Her wrath. We all know the story of Her anger when She learned of the marriage of the Wealthy One to Her Daughter without Her permission, and it is said She loves this grove near as much as Her Own Daughter.” He gulped before continuing “there is said to be a smaller grove to the east, another week’s travel is all, and the trees well suited to building…” he trailed off, cowering before the king’s furious glare.

Erysichthon grabbed the man’s bronze axe and shoved past him without a word, stalking into the thick gloom that lay over the trees. The men followed at a distance, drawn by fearful curiosity. He made for the center of the grove, where an oak more ancient than living memory grew and spread so wide that alone it seemed to cover the entire forest in the murk cast by its branches. Thrice as tall as all the others around it, this oak, sacred to Demeter, was adorned with prayers to the goddess, and about its base frolicked dryads, their dresses of leaves and grass blending near-seamlessly with their green-tinted skin. These latter scattered when they saw the mad king approach, hiding themselves amongst the shrubs and behind the shorter trees of the grove. They watched in horror as Erysichthon raised his axe. Turning to his slaves, he said “you all fear these absent gods and their wrath, but where was Apollo when my wife died?” He dug the axe into the bark. “Where was Zeus when my guests mistreated their host so?” Another swing, and a thick red liquid began to ooze from the wound as a total silence fell over the whole forest.

Seeing the omen, one of the slaves rushed forward to grab the axe, but Erysichthon turned and with a single stroke, cleft the man’s head from his body. The decapitated body fell to the leaf-strewn ground with a soft thud, as the head slowly rolled towards the onlookers, its face locked in an expression of shock and terror.

Turning his back to the tree, the king called to all assembled “You all fear the gods, but I say there is no reason! I’ll level this tree’s leafy head to the ground even if it should be the only one loved by your so-called goddess!” Pointing his axe at the dead man, he cried “let this man serve as the price for all your pious worship of a powerless divine!” With that, he dug deeper and deeper into the trunk, willfully oblivious to the pool of blood growing at his feet. With each successive stroke, the dark green leaves turned pale, the acorns lost their luster and color, and even the branches began to droop, yet the king continued, his eyes burning with anger and greed. After several more strokes, the king paused, lifting his blood-slicked axe and turning to the remaining slaves. Understanding the silent message, they reluctantly threw ropes around the tree and began to pull. The hard wood creaked and cracked, and eventually, with a colossal crash that shook the very heavens, the tree came smashing down, crushing the smaller trees below it.

Satisfied, Erysichthon put down his axe and motioned for his slaves to begin chopping the tree up when he heard a deep groan coming from the felled trunk. Turning in surprise, his mouth fell agape as the tree began to speak. “Greedy king,” it said “I am Drys, first of the dryads and best beloved of Demeter. You knew this grove was sacred to my mistress, but in your greed, you cared not. In greed you sought to harvest my flesh for your own selfish gain. In pride you allowed yourself to believe yourself the superior of all, and even now insist on harvesting from your fellow men the fruits of their labor. You need not, yet you chose in your unquenchable hunger, to fell one who gave freely to all. Thus, your doom is sealed, oh king, and so too will be the manner of your punishment.”

As Drys spoke, the other dryads in the grove took flight, rushing to tell Demeter of the death of their sister. The found the goddess in her palace gardens, tending to a small field of golden wheat. Her auburn-kissed hair hung in lose coils around her plump face, giving shadow to her hazel eyes. She smiled, for the grain grew well under her care. Her lovely face grew concerned when she saw her Dryads run up. By the time they finished their tale, her face was hard as granite and her eyes burned with a cold fire. Summoning a nymph of the mountains to her, she spoke curtly, and bade the Oread thus: “go to the east, to Scythia, and find out gaunt Limos in their haunts in the highest mountains. There at the peak they live, so high above the land below that those who dwell in those regions are spared the hunger that Limos brings with them. Fear not the length of your journey, for you will ride my snake-bridled chariot, and your time will be short.”

The nymph set off, flying quickly by Demeter’s chariot until she arrived at the base of the tallest mountain. Leaving the winged serpents bound to the chariot, the Oread climbed high into the mountain’s valleys until she came in sight of a cave near the top; nothing grew on the grey rocks within several hundred paces of the cave entrance, and the nymph could feel her stomach growl with ever increasing volume as she approached. Finding herself unable to continue, she called out for Limos, her voice appearing as mist in the frigid air. Upon hearing the call, Famine appeared at the entrance of the cave. Their appearance alone nearly made the nymph faint. Their hair was thin, showing patches of blotchy bare scalp; their eyes were sunken and dull, giving them a ghostly appearance, and their lips were cracked and dry. Their limbs and torso were little more than bones, the yellowing, paper-thin skin clinging tightly to the protruding joints. Where their stomach should have been, there was only a black gaping void that seemed to hungrily devour even the light around Limos, leaving them in a perpetual grey twilight.

Struggling to contain her hunger, the nymph called out to Limos “I come with a message from the Mother of the Flowing Grains, who has been slighted by a mortal and desires your aid in administering a lesson to the man!”

Limos’ voice rattled horse as they replied “for the mother of my favorite Dread Queen, I shall happily inflict myself on any whom she wishes. But tell me the name of this foolish mortal, and all will be done.”

The nymph, now clutching her stomach in desperate hunger, moved back towards Demeter’s chariot, shouting across the vast distance between them as she went, “he is named Erysichthon, a king in Thessaly!” She turned and ran down the mountain to the chariot, driving as quickly as she could, far away, to find a large hot meal.

Through yielding Aether, Limos flew on wings of torn feathers, the long way to Erysichthon’s palace, finding the carpentry work already underway, as the king’s slaves worked all day drying the strong beams that would hold up the roof. Famine’s timing was fortuitous, for Helios had set, and Selene was not to show her silvery face that night, allowing them to slip into the palace unnoticed. Unnoticed, that is, save for the hunger that would gnaw at the residents for some days to come. Slipping into the king’s room, Limos crawled to him and touched their bony hands to his face, pulling the sleeping king’s head to theirs and exhaling a miasma into the wretch’s throat. As the poison spread through his body, Limos crawled back to the window and flew back into the night, back to their desolate haunts. As soon as they left, Hypnos too stepped in to avenge Demeter, for she was of his wife’s family. He stepped from the Underworld and out of the shadows to fill the king’s dreams with visions of a most succulent feast before he too left the wretched king to his fate. As Erysichthon slept, he worked his jaw chewing on the air, trying in vain to fill a hunger that only seemed to grow as the he dreamt. It was not much time before his hunger grew unbearable, and he awoke with a cry. Calling to his slaves, Erysichthon ordered them to prepare him a mighty meal, though they too suffered from hunger following Limos’ brief visit.

The tables groaned with meats and cheeses and fruits of all sorts as Erysichthon sat down and began to stuff his face. Yet, for each bite he ate, the emptiness of his stomach seemed to grow, like a fire when dry kindling is placed within. He ate and ate and ate until by all rights he should have burst his stomach, yet still he hungered. He ate from before dawn to after dusk, never stopping for an instant. Eventually exhausted, the king fell asleep, falling face-first into a fruit-and-honey pie. He awoke as Dawn spread her rosy fingers across the sky, ravenous with hunger, and called for yet more food. Such was the king’s time spent, trying in vain to fill his stomach. Days passed, and then weeks, all effort going to providing Erysichthon with an endless stream of food. Within weeks, he exhausted the stores of food in his palace, and sent his slaves off to buy more, spending more and more of his vast fortune to purchase food. In spite of the constant feeding, Erysichthon’s hunger only grew, and his body continued to grow thinner.

Within months, Erysichthon found his treasury empty. He had his land, but the fields were barren and the livestock slaughtered to feed his endless appetite. Looking over a list of his remaining assets, the wretched king considered his options. There was but one path he saw before him. A scant few days later, he summoned Mestra before him, and spoke to his daughter. Weak from hunger, he said “my darling sweet daughter, you know I have loved you deeply since your poor mother died. I allowed you to choose your own husband, and have been more than patient as you have refused each and all who have come here, seeking your hand. But this damned hunger has left me weak and with no choice. I have nothing left but my land, and may not have long for the world. Before we lose any more, I must see you wed, and to a wealthy man who will be able to provide for you. I have dispatched a letter some days past and expect your new husband to arrive soon. He comes bearing food enough for a mighty marriage feast, and has much land that will sustain our family for many years beyond. I expect you to be ready when he arrives.” Motioning to one of the slaves, he said weakly “she will help dress you for the occasion.”

Mestra was stunned into inaction by the sudden reversal of her fortunes, and allowed herself to be taken to her room as tears spilled from the corners of her eyes and her body twitched with sobs. The slave girl remained silent as she dressed Mestra as if she were a helpless child, pulling on a saffron shawl and long white dress. Dressed, Mestra was taken back to her father. The sun was setting over the ocean she could see behind him, hiding his face in shadow. “Please, if I must be married to this man, at least allow me visit the sea one more time before my husband arrives” she pleaded between hiccupped tears. The king looked up from the bones he was gnawing and nodded his consent, the most he could manage in his state. Before he could summon a guard to accompany her, she took off running towards the waves, tearing the shell necklace from her throat and ignoring the calls from the palace to stop.

Reaching the water, Mestra hurled the necklace as far as she could into the sea foam, crying out to the waves “Poseidon, you promised me your boon for my love that night! Now fulfill your oath and grant me the power to escape this cruel fate!” Deep in his palace, Poseidon heard Mestra’s call, and reached out from the sea, turning her in an instant into a man and her dress into a simple fisherman’s tunic before throwing a fishing line from the depths into her hands. With another gesture, he granted her the power to shift her form at will, so that she might never find herself without means of escape. No sooner had Poseidon transformed Mestra than her husband-to-be rushed down the sand, having only just arrived in the palace when she rushed past him.

He called out to the fisherman whom he saw standing at the water’s edge “Hey there! Master fisher! Have you perchance seen a young woman run past here along the waves? She rushed this way in wedding attire and with hair bound up in fine pearls.”

Mestra was delighted to find herself so perfectly disguised, and feigned surprise at being addressed, as though occupied with her own thoughts. She called back “What? Oh, no sir, I’ve seen no woman round these beaches, more’s the pity. A man my age could do with the sight of a pretty young thing from time to time, but Poseidon as my witness, so focused as I’ve been on the fish that bite at my rod, I’ve not seen any person save yourself on this beach all day.”

Her would-be husband had no recourse, and continued on along the beach, searching for his wife-to-be, while Mestra went back to her fishing. In the end, the man who would have been her husband was forced to conclude that she had drowned herself, and departed, taking with him what wealth he could recuperate, muttering curses under his breath.

Mestra returned to her father that night, bearing a sizeable catch of fish, which she dropped before him in answer to his first question. She explained to him what had occurred, leaving out Poseidon’s night with her on the beach, and implying he had merely taken pity on her and the situation her father had forced her into. Erysichthon was crafty as he was hungry, and immediately saw a scheme he could employ. In between bites of Mestra’s hard-caught fish, he dictated letters to all of the other kings he knew, and sent them out one by one, offering his daughter’s hand in marriage and his land as the dowry. One by one, the distant kings’ sons appeared at the palace, and one by one they were married off to Mestra, only for her to transform into a bird or stag or snake and slip away when no one was looking, allowing Erysichthon to keep the wealth promised by the kings, which he promptly used to buy food in a futile attempt to sate his hunger. On and on this went for many more months as Erysichthon’s hunger grew stronger and stronger.

Soon, not even the money brought in by selling his daughter could provide the king with the food he craved. Hunger burned in his stomach as a great wildfire, doubling the king up in agony. Desperate to sate his hunger and with no other means of obtaining food, Erysichthon took a knife and butchered one of his slaves, sending the body to the kitchen to be cooked. By now Mestra was visibly pregnant, and utterly horrified to see what the hunger had driven her father to. Fearing for herself and her child, she packed what few trinkets she had stashed away from her father’s greedy eyes, and fled the palace one night, disguised as a sailor. She set out south, far away where her father could never find her. The king’s slaves too deserted him, fleeing the palace in droves out of fear for their lives, lest the king decide they would make his next meal. All alone and too weak to stalk his subjects, Erysichthon turned the knife on himself, carving up his own body, feeding himself with his own raw flesh in a final, desperate attempt to sate his endless, burning hunger, his screams of agony reverberating around the hillsides. Erysichthon’s palace quickly became a cursed place, one that the villagers stayed well away from, many even packing up and leaving the village with what few possessions they had left.

Early one morning, weeks after Mestra set out, the screams of agony coming from palace suddenly stopped. Not a sound could be heard coming from inside. A month passed, and none dared enter, for fear that the king might be laying a trap. Finally, one of the local youths built up enough courage to enter on a dare from their friends. Walking through the silent halls, all the youth could think of was the horrible rumors, of the king, a mere skeleton, devouring anything he could find. The youth paused, and corrected themself. Anyone the king could find. Pausing in the hall that led to the dining area, the child peered their head around the corner to the hall, expecting to see the grotesque, shriveled up king, but all they saw was a pile of torn clothes in a crumpled heap before the barren dining table, likely cut from the king’s body in his attempts to get at more of his flesh. Slightly encouraged, they continued on throughout the palace, searching for any signs of life, but finding none. Nothing stirred save the thin layer of dust under their feet and the muffled echoing of their own footsteps. Not even a single speck of anything even remotely edible could be found anywhere in the still-unfinished palace. The king was simply gone, leaving not flesh nor bone to prove he had ever even existed.

In the years that followed, life returned to the region, and the village prospered once again, but for many years after, on cold nights when Selene hides her face, it was said that the mad king’s screams would echo forth from the palace and people would lock their doors and windows, lest he come seeking one final meal.