Syceus of Gaia

Some children hide behind their mothers when they are trying to escape danger.

Syceus's mother was Gaia.

Therefore, the place where he could hide was a little larger:

The entire Earth.

Syceus of Gaia takes its name from one of the shortest but most beautiful transformation stories in Greek mythology. It features Zeus, a fleeing Titan, Mother Earth trying to protect her son, and a sanctuary that transforms into the world's first fig tree.

The story is so old and so briefly told that a great silence surrounds the few sentences that have reached us.

Who was Syceus?

Why was Zeus after him?

What was he thinking as he ran away?

When Gaia laid her son to rest in the earth, was Syceus still in his own body?

Or had his fingers turned to roots, his arms to branches, and his heart to the first ripe fig?

The ancient text explains none of this.

He simply says this:

Syceus was one of Gaia's sons.

Zeus was following him.

Syceus sought refuge with his mother.

Gaia took her son under her protection and raised a fig tree from the earth for him.

Sometimes that's all a good story needs.

A follow-up.

A mother.

And a tree that grew just in time.

The name Syceus is Sykeus in Greek. It shares the same root with the words sykon and sykea , meaning fig and fig tree. Its Latinized form is the name we give to tea.

Syceus.

So the hero in the story and the tree he transforms into are inseparable from the moment we say his name.

Syceus doesn't just turn into a fig tree.

The fig tree continues to bear his name.

The version of the legend that has survived to the present day is recounted by Athenaeus of Naukratis, who lived between the second and third centuries AD. According to Athenaeus, Syceus, while being pursued by Zeus, sought refuge under the protection of his mother Gaia; and Gaia, in honor of her son, cultivated the fig tree.

Older sources of the story are no longer available to us.

Athenaeus mentions Tryphon's work on plants and Androtion's book on farming. Thus, the story of Syceus reaches us not from the battle scenes of a great epic, but from ancient texts that explain the origins of plant names.

We like this detail.

Syceus may have been forgotten among the great mythological heroes.

But the farmers remembered him.

Even though it was erased from the long lists describing the lineages of the gods, it continued to live under the fig tree.

Because in mythology, you don't always have to transform into a constellation in the sky to become immortal.

Sometimes, all it takes is staying inside a fruit that ripens at the end of summer.

Whether Syceus was a Titan or one of Gaia's children called the Gigantes becomes unclear in later accounts. Ancient accounts refer to him as a Titan. Later interpretations portray him as one of the giants who fought against Zeus.

In both cases, the center of their lineage remains the same.

He is the son of Gaia.

Gaia is not a mother in the ordinary sense.

In Greek mythology, she is not merely a goddess who lives on the earth; she is the earth itself. Mountains rise from her body. The shores of the seas rest upon her. Plants spring from within her. Gods, Titans, giants, and countless other beings are descended from her.

When a person steps onto the earth, they are not walking on Gaia herself, but in a way, on her body.

Therefore, Syceus's seeking refuge with his mother is not a metaphorical act.

It is a return to the earth.

Zeus comes from the sky.

Lightning strikes from above.

Gaia's protection is below.

Where the roots go.

Syceus, while fleeing, enters his mother's womb and there transforms into another being, untouched by Zeus's lightning bolts. He is no longer a fighting Titan. He carries no weapons. He does not seek to seize power in the sky.

It takes root in the soil.

It bears fruit.

Perhaps there is no battle that Zeus can win.

But it could transform into something Zeus couldn't destroy.

Syceus's victory begins here.

He won't become stronger to survive.

Something else will happen.

In mythology, transformations are often a last resort for escape. Daphne transforms into a laurel tree while fleeing Apollo. Syrinx disappears into the reeds to escape Pan. Myrrha's body transforms into a myrrh tree.

When a human or divine being realizes that it can no longer be preserved in its own form, the plant kingdom absorbs it.

The arms extend to the branches.

The feet take root.

The skin forms a scab.

The sound transforms into the wind between the leaves.

But there is another kind of compassion in the story of Syceus.

It is not a foreign god who transformed him.

She is his mother.

Gaia does not punish her son.

He hides it.

The fig tree, therefore, is not only Syceus' new body; it is also Gaia's protective embrace around her son.

As the tree's roots penetrate deeper into the soil, Syceus clings more tightly to its mother tree.

Even though its branches reach to the sky, it no longer defies Zeus.

It is hidden under the leaves.

It reproduces inside fruits.

Each fig becomes a small memento that Gaia offers to the world without betraying her son.

The setting of the story is also important.

It is said that Syceus fled to Cilicia, where he was protected by his mother. Cilicia, in ancient times, was a region in southern Anatolia, roughly extending to present-day Mersin, Adana, and the surrounding areas.

So the land where Syceus turned into a fig tree is not a distant and abstract mythological geography.

It is Anatolia.

A place where the sun makes the fruits heavy, the mountains draw near to the sea, and in summer the earth dries up and the scent of the grass becomes distinct.

The choice of figs for this story doesn't seem like a coincidence.

Fig trees love warmth.

It can find a place for itself in rocky terrain, along stone walls, in abandoned gardens, and by roadsides. Its roots patiently grow in search of water. It lives without needing someone to constantly watch over it.

Its body isn't always magnificent.

Its branches often do not grow with perfect symmetry.

But when summer arrives, soft, heavy, and incredibly sweet fruits appear among its leaves.

It is as if the earth has gathered within them all the bounty it does not reveal from the outside.

Figs don't look like many other fruits either.

An apple explains itself easily.

It has a shell.

There is a middle ground.

They have seeds.

The fig tree, however, grows its secrets from within.

The fig, which we commonly refer to as fruit, is botanically a closed structure containing numerous small flowers and fruits. Its flowers do not open to the outside; they remain hidden on the inner surface.

While other trees display their flowers on their branches, fig trees keep their blossoms enclosed within themselves.

A more suitable body for Syceus could not have been imagined.

From the outside, it's just a tree.

But the story is inside.

Gaia completely hid her son.

Zeus can see the branches.

You can see the leaves.

He can pick up the fruit.

But to reach Syceus, one must enter its enclosed, red inner world, filled with countless tiny seeds.

Perhaps that is why cutting a ripe fig in half always seems slightly ceremonial.

When the fruit, which is plain on the outside, is opened, an unexpected architecture is revealed inside.

A space that is red, pink, and honey-colored.

Fibers that curl towards each other.

Countless tiny nuclei.

A garden hidden inside the fruit.

It seems Gaia didn't just transform her son into a tree.

He has built a small underground world for himself inside each fig.

Therefore, dried figs are central to the Syceus of Gaia recipe.

The soft, juicy, and short-lived beauty of fresh figs takes on a different character when dried. Its water is reduced; its sweetness, aroma, and earthy depth intensify. The fruit shrinks, but the summer it carries grows.

The wrinkles on the surface of dried figs resemble soil that has been left in the sun for a long time.

It's still soft inside.

The seeds leave a small crunching sound between your teeth.

Its taste is reminiscent of honey, dried herbs, molasses, and fruits ripened on hot stones.

This is not the taste of a fresh and vibrant fruit.

It's a sweetness that has seen the test of time.

Figs do not spoil when dried.

It intensifies.

Syceus's transformation is somewhat similar.

The old body disappears, but the essence does not. It continues to live on in another form, calmer, more profound, and more enduring.

Rooibos prepares the soil for the dried figs to grow in.

Made from rooibos, a plant native to South Africa, this caffeine-free brew forms the base of the recipe with its reddish-brown color and smooth character. Its flavor profile includes dry herbs, a hint of honey, wood, and a subtle vanilla warmth.

Rooibos is not sharp.

It doesn't narrow the cup with bitterness.

It leaves a large, quiet space around the materials.

What Gaia is to the story of Syceus, rooibos is to the prescription.

He carries everything with him.

Dried figs take root inside it.

The spices mingle with its warmth.

The reddish color of the cup resembles sun-kissed earth.

Rooibos itself comes from another continent; it doesn't belong to the Mediterranean story of the fig. But Syceus of Gaia doesn't offer a historical reenactment.

It blends the feeling of a myth.

Any piece of land on Earth is sufficient to represent Gaia.

Rooibos, too, originates from the red soil of South Africa and makes way for the Anatolian fig.

Thus, the prescription removes the phrase "of Gaia" from its name, making it more than just a matter of genealogy.

Syceus was born of Gaia.

Dried figs are reborn inside rooibos.

The English "of Gaia" gives the name a sense of a title taken from an ancient epic:

Syceus of Gaia.

Syceus of Gaia.

Son of the earth.

Titan, the fugitive, transforms into a fig tree.

But the same expression also describes the prescription.

Syceus, coming from the earth.

The fig is hidden not on the surface of the earth, but deep within it.

The sweetness of the dried figs alone could easily transform this recipe into a dessert. It would become a soft, honeyed, and comforting rooibos blend.

But Syceus's story contains more than just a mother's embrace.

Zeus is outside.

There is surveillance.

Lightning is approaching.

Besbase and allspice bring that tension to the cup.

Besbase is the dried, thin, lacy red husk surrounding the nutmeg seed. It's known as mace in English. Nutmeg comes from the same fruit; however, besbase is a thinner, shinier, and more aromatic relative of nutmeg.

Its scent evokes warm spices, wood, clove, and a slightly floral fragrance. It progresses more airy than the dark and heavy side of nutmeg, but leaves behind a distinct warmth.

Even its appearance befits the story of Syceus.

When fresh, nutmeg seeds are surrounded by a red, net-like coating.

A thin texture that conceals, protects, and at the same time makes something visible from the outside.

It's like Gaia's equivalent, in the form of spices, of the moment she closed herself off around her son.

Besbase does not diminish the honey-like sweetness of dried figs.

He lifts it up.

It accentuates the warm and slightly spicy notes already present in the fruit. Combined with the woody character of rooibos, it gives the cup the feeling of an old chest, dried fruits, and the aroma of spices from a distant kitchen.

This scent doesn't belong to any particular era.

It can also be found in an antique house.

Also in the cargo of a caravan.

Also in a spice jar that was opened today.

Besbase doesn't say which side of time he stands on.

It transforms into another form, like Syceus, and continues to live.

Allspice is the thunder in the recipe.

This spice, derived from a single fruit, gives the impression of several spices blended together when smelled. It has a warm, dark, and slightly pungent character reminiscent of cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, and black pepper.

That's why it's called allspice in English.

It's as if all the spices are gathered within the same tiny grain.

In Syceus of Gaia, the allspice doesn't allow the sweetness of the dried figs to become too subdued. It leaves a dark and slightly peppery trail at the bottom of the cup, complementing the perfumed warmth of the besbase with a stronger note.

It's as if the air has suddenly changed among the leaves of the fig tree.

The sky has darkened.

Far away, Zeus is still searching for Syceus.

A lightning strike might occur.

But the tree's roots are deep.

Gaia will not abandon her son.

Allspice's purpose isn't to strengthen the tea. It's to remind us that danger still lingers in the story. Because if it weren't for Zeus, Syceus wouldn't have fled.

If Syceus hadn't escaped, Gaia wouldn't have hidden him.

The fig tree wouldn't have come into being if Gaia hadn't hidden it.

In mythology, disaster and prosperity are sometimes two different aspects of the same event.

A Titan loses a battle in the sky.

The earth bears fruit.

Therefore, the story of Syceus begins like a tale of defeat but ends in abundance.

Zeus protects his throne.

But Gaia also protects her son.

The victory of the skies is official.

The victory of the soil bears fruit anew every summer.

In the cup, these two forces don't clash; they mix.

Rooibos and dried fig trees are on the soil side.

Soft, deep, and protective.

Besbase and allspice carry the tension of the sky.

Aromatic, warm, and suddenly striking.

The first sip reveals the soft body of the rooibos. Dried figs add a dark, honeyed, and slightly molasses-like sweetness. Then the base flavor rises, its floral, woody, and warm aroma swirling around the fruit.

Yenibahar speaks last.

The slight bitterness lingering at the end of the cup prevents the story from achieving complete peace.

Syceus is still hiding.

Perhaps Zeus is still in the sky.

But now there is a tree between them.

This recipe contains four ingredients.

None of them are unnecessary.

Rooibos is Gaia.

Dried figs are Syceus.

Besbase is the magic of transformation.

And the new spring is followed by lightning.

Of course, a tea blend doesn't have to be a perfect representation of mythology. But some recipes don't carry a story attached to their name afterwards.

The name is already included in the ingredients.

Syceus of Gaia is one of them.

When you remove the dried fig, the hero disappears.

If you remove the rooibos, it has no land left to take refuge in.

When you remove the spices, Zeus departs, and the urgency of the transformation disappears.

All that's left is a sweet fruit tea.

But this tea wants to remember where the sweetness comes from.

From an escape.

From a mother's protection.

From an old body buried in the ground.

And from the first fig tree that opened its branches to the sky.

It is no surprise that figs hold such a powerful place in mythology and human history. They have been cultivated in the Mediterranean and Western Asia for thousands of years. They are eaten fresh, dried, preserved for winter, and used in bread and desserts.

Along with grapes and olives, it carries one of the oldest memories of warm climates.

The shade of a fig tree offers more than just coolness.

It's a house.

It is a garden.

It is abundance.

It is the confidence that it will bear fruit again in the same year.

Perhaps that is why Gaia chose the fig tree as a form for Syceus.

If he had only wanted to make it invisible, he could have turned it to stone.

He could bury it deep in the ground.

He could have locked it inside a cave.

But Gaia did not give her son merely a body in which to hide.

He gave her a body that could nourish others.

Syceus withdrew from the war.

But he didn't withdraw from the world.

Its existence as a Titan might only have meaning in the stories of the gods. But as a fig tree, it began to live in the gardens of peasants, in the provisions of travelers, on tables, and in late summer markets.

A more modest form of immortality.

Perhaps no temple was built in his name.

But its fruit was dried and stored for the winter.

No statues were erected in their honor.

But its branches cast shadows over the houses.

No grand celebrations were held in his honor.

But when a ripe fig was split in two, people still looked at the strange, red beauty inside.

For the gods, a better ending than this is not always possible.

Syceus of Gaia also lacks any ostentatious divinity in his nature.

Its color is reddish-brown.

Its scent is warm and earthy.

In the cup, it doesn't behave as brightly as tropical fruits, as airy as flowers, or as sharp as citrus fruits.

It opens slowly.

First, rooibos.

Then the fig.

Next, the spices.

This tea doesn't bring lightning down from the sky to attract attention.

It takes root underground.

Perhaps it doesn't reveal all its layers in the first sip. The taste of dried figs sometimes doesn't manifest directly as fruit; it's a deep sweetness, a hint of molasses, and a fleeting hint of tiny seeds.

Instead of introducing themselves individually, Besbase and allspice create a warm atmosphere around the fig.

When the cup is finished, not a single trace of the material remains.

At the end of summer, the scent of a dried-up garden lingers.

Soil temperature.

Tree bark.

Ripe fruit.

Rain approaching in the distance.

That's exactly how the story of Syceus has reached us.

Not as a complete epic.

Like a faint scent emanating from an old garden.

A few sentences in Athenaeus's text.

A reference to two lost books.

Sycea is a city in Cilicia.

And a forgotten Titan, living on in the name of the fig tree.

The tree completes the rest.

We don't know exactly how Syceus escaped from Zeus.

We don't know what Gaia said when she laid him in the earth.

And which branch the first fig ripened on.

But we can see the story again every summer.

A fig fruit, still firm and green on a branch, slowly grows. It softens in the sun. Its color darkens. The unseen flowers inside transform into a sweet, red world.

Then the fruit leaves the branch.

It's edible.

It is dried.

It shifts to another season.

Syceus is born again and again from Gaia.

What we did was add hot water to this old system.

Rooibos turned to soil.

Dried figs appeared among the branches.

Besbase surrounded it like a protective net.

New spring brought the last lightning bolt remaining in the sky.

And Syceus of Gaia appeared.

We're not saying you'll gain the power of a Titan by drinking this tea.

We can't guarantee that Zeus will protect you if you encounter him.

In such a situation, we recommend that you put down the cup and go inside the nearest sturdy structure.

But there's a more useful side to the story.

Sometimes surviving doesn't mean winning the battle.

Sometimes, it's about stepping away from what's chasing you, reconnecting with the earth, and moving on in a different way.

Syceus couldn't conquer the sky.

But it turned into a tree.

The tree bore fruit.

The fruit was dried.

Dried figs were added to the same infuser as rooibos, fenugreek, and allspice.

Thousands of years later, a tea in Moda was named after him.

We don't know if Zeus is aware of this outcome.

But if you ask us:

Syceus managed to escape.