With the knowledge of the god he almost was, Prometheus knew his story would be told someday. With the knowledge he had of mankind, he knew it would be mistold. For all his knowledge, he did not know how it would end. He wasn’t sure if it would end.
The valley below the mountain face where he lay chained was cloaked in morning mist. He couldn’t see the sky; the cliffs rose too sharply and too high all around him. The wound hurt, a flap of skin hanging where it had been torn loose by them when they came, came for whatever part they had chosen to rip out last night. They always came in the night. He never saw them, but he could hear: flapping, screaming, cackling, chewing. And he felt their cold, rough claws and what they did.
Deep within the mist he spotted a spark, tiny, flickering red-yellow. His gift to the ones below, stolen from the ones above, who punished him for it now. But he knew the good it did the people in the valley, and did not regret it.
It warmed the shepherds before they went with their flocks into the hills, and in the evening it made tender and sweet the mutton eaten by the old and young and sick, and at night its light kept the wolves away. Nothing could keep away the creatures that visited him in the night, but in the valley the people were safe.
As his wound began to heal, he became aware of other pains. His wrists hurt; his weight pulled against the shackles. He knew he could break them, if only he had enough leverage. The art of metal was still new to both gods and men, and its first works were poor and brittle — yet strong enough to hold a prisoner to the mountainside.
He wondered what his tale would be like.
Something stirred on the slope below him. Looking down was almost as hard as looking up, but he tried, and was rewarded by brightness: berry dyes in the wool of a child’s tunic. There were two, a boy and a girl, leading goats to one of the mountain’s meadows — he thought at first, until he saw there were no goats.
Even the knowledge of gods had limits. He knew humans were cautious, and therefore he thought they would not risk the displeasure of those who had chained him.
The boy carried a rock, a dark, heavy thing. The girl pointed up, at the prisoner, at the mountain face around him, and sketched a path with her outstretched finger. The boy formed a pocket by tucking his tunic in his belt, placed the rock in it, and began climbing.
“Go back!” Prometheus called. His voice was weak, but he was almost a god; it carried.
“No,” the boy said.
“You will be punished.”
The boy shrugged, nearing him now. “The flappers won’t come for us. We have fire.”
Prometheus frowned, remembering how the creatures came only at the dark of night, and wondered for the first time why the gods had refused to share the power of fire.
The boy stopped beside him and, with several good blows, broke the cuffs on his wrists. Prometheus almost fell, but the boy caught him, and together they crawled down the face. The child had the nimbleness of a mountain shepherd, and Prometheus — the grace of an almost-god.
The girl smiled but said nothing, turning to lead them into the valley. The boy helped Prometheus walk, but already the Firebringer grew stronger.
With strength came knowledge. Someday these children would be forgotten, turned into a single hero, a man with too much power to be fully human, and with too much fault to be anything else. And the story of the rescue would be little but an addition to the story of why it was necessary, why he was first chained.
Someday this would be forgotten, and his tale would become a moral of how one is not to go against the will of the gods — but for now he knew that it didn’t matter.
Therese Arkenberg is a student from Wisconsin. She works part-time at her local library; unfortunately, this work does not include test-reading. She has been writing for at least four years, mostly speculative fiction. While her only pets are some fish, she has quite the extensive collection of stuffed animals. Her work has previously been published in M-BRANE SF magazine, Kaleidotrope, and the online anthology Thoughtcrime Experiments, and a short story of hers will appear in Sword and Sorceress 24.
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14 Responses to “FIREBRINGER • by Therese Arkenberg”
Comments
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July 25th, 2009 at 12:45 am
The tenses in this story are a bit confusing at times – as is the story.
July 25th, 2009 at 3:56 am
Interesting, although a bit confusing. I kinda expected a bigger bang at the end. There was a lot of tension build up and it kinda fizzled…but as a fan of Greek myth it worked for me
July 25th, 2009 at 5:24 am
I don’t really care for mythology, and I’m not really sure how to feel about this. Was there some significance of the children or were they just kids from the area? Why didn’t any of the adults free him? I don’t get it.
July 25th, 2009 at 6:50 am
Sorry, this one didn’t seem to go anywhere. And I agree about the confusing tenses … in the first paragraph, shouldn’t “he did not know how it will end” be “he did not know how it WOULD end”?
The god (near-god) being saved by the children is sort of a “deus ex machina” solution except maybe in this case it’s a “humanus ex machina”?
July 25th, 2009 at 7:17 am
I actually quite liked this story. I don’t remember much about this particular myth but I didn’t thin that made much difference. I didn’t mind the children eithier, though I don’t know if they had any signifigance.
July 25th, 2009 at 8:48 am
I liked this very much. It was an entirely satisfying meditation on how myth and legend (and urban legend) form over time. The tense thing is a problem, but not a game-breaker.
It also makes me want to go back and brush up on my Prometheus; Wiki, here I come!
July 25th, 2009 at 9:26 am
I agree with Bob … I liked the blend of myth and urban legend and need to refresh my memory of Prometheus.
July 25th, 2009 at 11:04 am
Ummmm, sorry. The writing was pretty clear but this one didn’t seem to either catch my attention or go anywhere. Although told from a prisoner’s perspective, there didn’t wasn’t any desperation to escape, everything seemed vague and plodding. It was almost as though it was a story told *about* a happening rather than putting the reader into the middle of it. You’ve got your flow of logic, now work on pumping some life and blood and action into your work.
July 25th, 2009 at 1:35 pm
Typo “will” corrected to “would” — thank you, Jim.
July 26th, 2009 at 10:58 am
I enjoy mythology with a new twist, but I didn’t think this one twisted quite far enough. The main difference with the “original” is the rescue; in the myth it is Hercules that frees him, here it is two children. I was also a little put off by the vague references to what was eating him, including at one point calling them “flappers.”
Good writing and with a bolder stroke this could have been a much better story.
–John
July 26th, 2009 at 8:32 pm
I expected more–like the children being demigods rebelling against the unfairness of the elders and overruling the penalty, or *something*. I was left thinking, “So what?”
July 27th, 2009 at 4:58 am
Enjoyed the read. Didn’t know the myth until I checked it out after. Could have done with a little more conflict and struggle, rather than an easy rescue.
July 27th, 2009 at 6:39 am
In the original myth it was Hercules who freed Prometheus, but I suppose this one’s throwing a different spin on it…
July 29th, 2009 at 2:15 am
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