Hunger

King Erysichthon killed a dryad. He needed wood, so he told his men to cut down the largest elm tree in the sacred grove. They wouldn’t do it, refused him to his face, in fact. Violate Demeter’s grove? For shame! Erysichthon didn’t care. He was too smart for such base superstitions. Enraged, he took the ax himself and found that elm tree. She wasn’t just an elm tree, though. She was a dryad. She screamed as he cut her open.

The wood nymphs went to Ceres, begged her to punish the king for killing their sister. Ceres nodded, and her nod rustled all the grain on Earth as if it had been blown by a strong wind.

Far up the coast of frozen Scythia, there is a place, a sad land, waste, where no trees grow. Hunger lives here. A rustic nymph found her in a field of stones, chewing on scant weeds with rotting, blackened teeth. She shuddered at Hunger’s coarse hair, her empty eyes, the pallor in her face. The old woman’s lips were gray from lack of use, her throat scabby with blight, her skin both rough and thin. The nymph could see her insides, all bones and bowed-out loins. Where her stomach ought to have been, nothing. Her limp breasts hung only from the wicker of her spine. Beside her, warmth was sucked into a void.

The nymph felt hungry even in her presence, but orders were orders. She held her breath as she flew Hunger to the king, wafting her empty body through the upper air. When they entered the bedchamber, the nymph left as quick as could be, and left Hunger alone with Erysichthon. The king was sleeping. Slowly, slowly the old woman approached him. Her swollen knees creaked as she worked her way towards the bed. Slowly, she lowered her feeble body on top of his. His mouth was open, and she worked her way inside him, first her arms, then her head, then all the rest. When she was almost all the way inside, the king coughed, and woke up. He was famished.