In the halls of Olympus, Zeus leaned back upon his throne. His hair shimmered with borrowed lightning to keep the others out of the hall for his privacy, and his voice, as he whispered to himself, echoed with the power that he knew had made the Titans fear him.
But all that power didn’t comfort him now. His mind was, at the moment, occupied by another storm, a rare storm, a storm he didn’t often feel and never admitted to feeling.
A storm of doubt.
He had, on the advice of someone who had betrayed him and made up for it once, elevated a mortal who had rejected his son to a seat of influence among her people. It had been a smart move, as she knew the future and he knew how to make them believe her. The prophetess Cassandra, her tongue sharp with knowledge, would be their new secretary of health. He had known this would upset his son, but no decision pleases everyone. And Zeus was king of the gods, not Apollo.
“The world has changed,” he had declared. “We need a different way of looking at it. And she was ideal for the job.”
But now, Cassandra had stood before the assembly and called sugar—the sweet ambrosia of modern feasts—“poison of the plebs.”
The Senate had gasped. The people who received the news later had trembled. Merchants of artificial sweeteners had whispered curses as they predicted the end of their businesses.
“Poison,” she repeated, “It feeds not the body, but the market. It fattens not the people, but the profits of those who package addiction in pretty colors.”
Zeus felt the weight of the storm in his gut. He had chosen her because she spoke the truth, spoke boldly, and sowed chaos among his enemies. But now? She had turned her fire toward the temples of comfort and commerce—his temples.
And worse still: she might be right.
This simply would not do. Not for him.
He turned as he heard the door open and saw his sister Demeter enter. This was a surprise, at the coming of spring she usually stayed on Earth to meet her daughter, her hands among her plants, her ears listening to the whispers of hopeful mortals and shifting roots.
“Zeus, I’ve been informed by our brother that the road out of his home has been blocked, and it can’t get open for another week at least. Tell him he cannot do this, my daughter is due back today.”
“Demeter, I cannot do this right now. I have my own problems to deal with.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he raised his hand for silence.
“Demeter,” he continued, “Cassandra speaks her visions again—this time against sugar. She says it is poison. I gave her a trusted position, and this is how she repays me. What shall I do now?”
Demeter smirked. “You regret promoting her because her words offend the rich?” she asked. “Or because you see her becoming a mirror to your own excessive desires?”
Zeus flinched as if struck—by the truth. He started to lift a thunderbolt but stopped when she spoke again.
“She just might be the oracle the people need.” She continued. “I may have a solution that will keep me busy even after Persephone gets back.” She took a breath and continued.
“If sugar is poison, then give the people their cure. Build gardens. Community gardens among empty spaces in the neighborhoods. Sow herbs where there is nothing now. Let the people grow food instead of buying it wrapped in needless packaging. It will encourage community pride, make people part of something, and keep them moving and fit. Let children see where life comes from. Let communities break bread they kneaded themselves.”
Zeus nodded slowly, the storm in him quieting.
“A community garden,” he murmured. “A thousand of them.”
“A million,” Demeter replied.
And so the word went out from Olympus: where there were parking lots, let there be rows of peas; where there were sugar carts, let there be berry bushes. Cassandra remained in the government, as fierce as ever, and though many still scorned her visions, they grew tomatoes with her warnings in mind.
And Zeus? He never had to say aloud that he had been wrong.
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