Chapter 12
Like a child Prometheus followed Demo. At first ever watchful, his frightened eyes on the sky. With time he relaxed, only sporadically tensed, glanced anxiously upward.
He did not speak.
He did chores as directed. He searched for berries, edible plants, honey. He fetched water from a nearby spring.
Within the immediate area he worked diligently. He would not go beyond sight of Demo. When he reached a distance that seemed to great he would halt, bow his head, and return.
Broken, frightened, the hero was dead! Only the shell lived.
The wild beast became ever braver. Fire, that strange creature that turned night into day, no longer existed. Mankind huddled by night in their abodes, listening, frightened, at the night sounds.
The wolves became bolder. They hunted in larger and larger packs, killed sheep at will. Soon village dogs became their prey. And children who wandered alone into the night. Even men, traveling alone, were subject to the deadly raid of the wolf pack.
Prometheus and Demo came under attack. They slept in the open, under the stars. Demo woke to hear the call of the wolves as they assembled for the hunt. He grimaced, felt for his bow and arrows.
Prometheus slept. Childlike, he trusted to Demo for his protection.
The howls soon ceased. That silence, more than the wild calls, frightened Demo. He notched an arrow to his bow, sat with back against a huge oak. He watched the edges of the clearing, looking for sign of motion.
He wasn't to be disappointed.
They came in the false dawn, quietly creeping to the edge of the open space. Demo saw in the dim light their movement. He let fly an arrow, prepared another. The yelp of the injured wolf signaled the attack.
One more arrow flew and a wolf fell. The pack was upon him! He had not time to draw his bow again.
With an angry roar Prometheus awoke. His huge form towering high, he seized a fallen tree trunk, raised it above his head.
He met the oncoming horde with battering blows, growls more fierce than that of beast. Quickly, leaving fallen comrades behind, the wolves scattered.
Prometheus sat down, shivered as though cold.
"Why is there no fire? They would fear the fire."
Demo stared!
Under the fierce attack Prometheus had regained his will to live, to fight!
"The fire you gave man is extinguished. He failed to keep its flame burning, failed to protect it. He took it for granted, and none would be its keeper.
"There is no fire!"
Prometheus lay down the great log, breathed deeply.
"I took from Vulcan's furnace, from the hottest flames, the heart of fire. I gave it to man for his care and nurture, to protect him from the creatures of the wild. I gave it to him to protect him from the night, and those things that creep in the darkness. And now he has let it die? What fools are these mortals, to disdain a such a gift?"
"Man grows lazy and irresponsible. He thinks all things come to him with no effort on his part. He values little those gifts that he receives. At last he knows, now, what he has lost."
"In my own hand I carried the fiery coals. Look!"
He thrust out the palms of both hands, and Demo stared in the dawning light of morning at the charred and blackened skin.
"Vulcan will not so easily be fooled again! Yet," Prometheus mused, looking at Demo, "Perhaps it can be done."
Demo frowned. No more was Prometheus leaning on him to take the lead.
"You have access to Olympus. Zeus has given you the key, for you seem to be a favorite of his. And once on Olympus, you have access to Vulcan. You could prepare the way for me, distract Vulcan, and I could once more draw fire from that deadly furnace. Let us plan together."
They sat, discussed, argued, compromised.
It was decided. Demo would return to Olympus, persuade Zeus to call an audience with Vulcan. And in Vulcan's absence, once more would Prometheus carry fire to mankind.
The best laid schemes of man and firegiver go oft astray.
Zeus would have none of it! "I want no involvement on my part. Otherwise, do what you will."
They sat, discussed, argued, compromised.
Demo was amazed! That Zeus would condone such activity on Demo's part seemed unbelievable. Perhaps, as Prometheus implied, he was a favorite!
Regardless, Vulcan would be called to an audience. He would be detained long enough for Prometheus to wend his way to that great furnace wherein lie the eternal fires. And once more would Prometheus give to man the gift of fire.
Vulcan looked morosely at the raging fires in his furnace. Flames huge and red leaped, frolicked, and disappeared to be followed by others of blue and white. They cast gigantic shadows, grotesque and ever changing.
Usually he admired the display, relaxed as might others to the sound of music.
Tonight he did not relax.
Zeus desired his company.
Rarely did Zeus call upon him. Even more rarely was he invited into the presence of that most august God. It did not please him. Here, at his furnace shaping objects from hardest metal, he felt at home. Let others court the company and favors of Zeus.
Nevertheless, he would go. Perhaps there was a chore to be done, a mighty sword to fashion, a shield to form from molten metal. Or, more likely, some damaged tool to repair, welding broken parts to make a whole.
He stoked the fire, breathing the hot flames as though perfume. Wiping sweat from his moist brow he hurried to ready himself for his audience with Zeus.
Prometheus waited.
With Vulcan's departure he slipped into the celestial foundry, inched ever closer to the heart of that huge factory. The furnace glowed from the fire within.
Prometheus entrance was noted.
He knew not of the guard.
Vulcan had led a life of abuse, mistrust, and rejection. He himself trusted no one. Though crippled he remained agile and able, and used his skill with fire and metal to fabricate an object of strange shape and size.
The object was formed of the strongest metals. Its joints were cunningly hinged to allow motion. Its appearance was that of man - rather, that of giant. For it was huge. Huge and massive.
Silently it stood guard in the empty foundry. A dead, useless metal statue, a scarecrow for the vagrant birds that might pass by.
It had one more characteristic.
It lived!
Vulcan had withdrawn from the huge furnace a heart of fire, ensconced it in the body of his creation. That burning, beating heart gave it an existence of its own.
Prometheus' entrance was noted.
Noted by Vulcan's metal monster!
Prometheus stalked quickly to the fiery confines of Vulcan's furnace. Opening the door to its sizzling interior, he flinched back from the blast of flames and heat.
Quickly he picked up the long shovel, thrust it into the midst of the flames. Slowly he withdrew it, the very heart of scorching mass centered in the scoop.
Vulcan's creation struck!
The metal monster, moving silently, steadily, had positioned itself behind Prometheus. Even as he captured the heart of the furnace its arms enfolded him.
Prometheus dropped the shovel!
The white-hot mass of fire rolled onto the floor, began to melt the stones that supported it.
Prometheus threw himself backward, tipping over his attacker!
They rolled on the floor. The creature dug its iron talons into Prometheus stomach.
Prometheus screamed!
The memory of the eagle engulfed him!
Once again he was chained to the crag, the eagle coming ever closer.
Now it struck!
Its talons, tearing, ripping . . . !
He seized the metal arm, bending and ripping at the fingers! One by one they gave way to his strength.
Even as the last finger gave way, the other arm now enwrapped his throat! His breathing grew ever more difficult. And Vulcan's monster wrestled him closer and closer to the deadly ball of scorching fire.
He felt the heat on his skin, burning and charring! Now his chest was barely inches from the fire! It touched his skin!
Abruptly he reached out, seized the burning mass in his huge hands!
He lifted the deadly cargo above his head!
Burning through skin and flesh, charring bone, it lit the hellish scene!
With an effort he loosed the deadly mass behind his back!
If fell on the head of Vulcan's creation.
The struggle was over!
A molten mass, the metal monster lay inanimate upon the floor!
With crippled hands Prometheus once more shoveled the burning heart of the furnace. Without a backward glance he rushed from the site of battle.
Arriving on earth he deposited his burden in the bowels of Mt. Vesuvius. There would it ever burn. And from that burning mass man once more distributed fire to hearth and kiln.
"My boy, you handled that quite well. Certainly left Vulcan's foundry in a mess, though. By the way, I sent Aesculapius over to care for Prometheus' hands. It will take time, but Aesculapius works wonders. Gad, his rates are high! Do you know how much he charges for house calls! Never mind, it's enough, I assure you!" Zeus grumbled to even think of the cost.
"Stay healthy." He growled morosely.
16. Wading in the River Styx
Odor of dying algae, of rotting plants, of stagnant waters - all drift above the long, dark stretches of the river Styx. No beauty here.
And in these waters lived creatures not of this world, but of Hades, round which the river flowed, and flows forever. Doomed through eternity to these putrid stream, they had yet one recompense.
Who dared wade the River Styx, he was their prey.
"My boy, take this package over to the guardshack just across the Styx. They are expecting it; by the way, be sure to get a receipt. They hate to sign receipts. Still, it messes up our accounts if we don't have them. The boat is anchored right by the pier, and the oars are stowed beneath the seat."
Zeus started to turn away, then hesitated. "Oh, well! Boy, don't drag your hands in the water. And don't even think about taking a dip. You'd be dreadfully sorry!"
An extremely simple chore, this. Why all the fuss?
Each river has its peculiarities. The Nile, known for its annual flooding. The Lethe, notorious for the effect on those who drink its waters.
And then there is the river Styx.
It has a well-deserved reputation. The environmentalists have been picketing since time immemorial. They complain, legitimately, about the odor, the sludge, the inhabitants - all the little things that help make the Styx unique.
They picket Pluto.
Pluto suggests they picket Zeus, instead. To emphasize his point he releases Cerberus.
Hurriedly they scatter, not taking time to even look back.
They picket Zeus.
Zeus takes it all with gentle and tolerant attitude. His is a measured reaction. He assigns to each picket a little black cloud, from which rain continuously falls. Umbrellas are discouraged by random gusts of wind.
The pickets persist.
Zeus smiles.
The clouds grow larger, the winds gust more strongly.
The temperature begins to fall. The continuous rain ends, is replaced by snow showers. The winds now blow steadily from the cold north.
The pickets persist.
Zeus' smile broadens.
The clouds merge. The winds now reach blizzard force, and the snow changes from soft flakes to frozen pellets. The temperature drops, then drops again.
The pickets assemble, discuss, and rapidly disperse.
Zeus smirks, makes a snowball, which he then playfully tosses into the air. He then builds a snowman. He gives it a picket sign to carry.
Humming, Zeus returns to his throne.
There is no snow by the river Styx. Nor rain. Nor cooling breeze.
The air is stagnant, hot, thick with the odor of rotted plants, the breath of Hades' denizens.
Demo, with the back of his hand, wipes the sweat from his brow. Ah, how delightful it would be to splash even this putrid water on his forehead. Or even to swim in its cooling depths! What was it Zeus had said? Something about being dreadfully sorry?
He rows slowly, moving the oar against water with the consistency of mud. To lift the oar for the next stroke is nearly as difficult as to row.
Then he cannot lift it at all!
Frowning Demo yanked at the oar. It gave slightly, then slipped back into the dank water. With an effort he used the side of the boat as a point of leverage, once more brought up the oar.
Covered with slime, strange plant growth, it broke the surface of the water. But there is something else, a red long and sinewy coil wrapped tightly around the oar. Grimacing, Demo tried to scrape the enwrapping red plant from its hold.
The red plant suddenly uncoiled, extended upward, and quickly enwrapped his forearm. Wide-eyed Demo attempted to pull free.
The hold on his arm tightened!
He was being pulled to the side of the boat!
Slowly the boat began to tip. He lost his footing, fell against the gunwale. The boat began to rock, and with each rock the putrid water of the river Styx splashed in.
As Demo pulled hard more and more of the red plant became exposed.
With a start Demo stared into enormous green eyes!
This was no plant!
Rather, a denizen of the weird waters! A denizen with an appetite for Demo!
A grin appeared on its face. Rather, a smirk. It licked its lips in anticipation.
With one arm held captive by the creature, Demo was unable to use his bow and arrows. Nevertheless, he was not completely helpless.
With his free hand he pulled an arrow from its pouch, stabbed at the entwining red tentacle. Surprised and in pain, the creature uncoiled its hold, slid back into the dark stream.
Demo sat down in the boat, sweat appearing on his forehead. For a moment he sat still. Then he noticed that the boat was drifting away from the shore.
With a start he once more manned his oars!
It was useless. The slow flowing waters of the Styx had now branched off. This was a different river entirely!
He recognized it! Fearfully his eyes opened wide!
The Meander! A river that went on forever. Purposeless, endless, going on forever!
He looked back.
No trace of the Styx was to be seen!
From the far shore he heard unearthly laughter!
An object he knew too well blended with the shadows there. The unseen companion!
Night fell, the air cooled. Birds flew low in pursuit of mosquito swarms. From the swampy shores growls and moans, strange shrieks and lonesome howls disturbed the darkness. The water lapped intermittently against the boat's side. Fish, or creatures adapted to the Meander, leaped above the water, splashed back to the surface. Nightbirds winged closed to the boat, dived toward Demo, then veered away.
Finally, lulled by the boat's rocking, he fell asleep.
The frigid night air woke him. The vast waste of the river was coated by a low-lying white fog. Above, a cold and desolate moon shone full on the quiet scene below. At times white fluffy clouds blocked its rays, then drifted on.
As morning approached a light breeze began to blow. The surface fog, like disturbed ghosts, scattered, drifted, faded away. False morning lit the sky, only to fade.
A red and angry sun rose on the horizon. Twisted, bent, huge trees brooded along the river bank. The sun's rays hardly penetrated into the depth of the forest. Birds flew high, dashing wildly away as a hawk fell into their midst. A large fish leaped from the waters' surface, splashed back and disappeared.
His empty stomach growled in anger over lack of breakfast. The thought of meat and eggs cooking on his mother's fire would not leave his mind.
He searched his pouch, found only day old remnants of bread, which he quickly devoured. Still, visions of venison roasting, of warm loaves of bread from the oven - enough! He must quit this foolish dreaming, must find a way to return!
Listlessly the young man let his hand dip into the water. Only were he able to catch a fish, anything to provide sustenance.
With a start he felt an object brush against his fingers. Quickly he grasped it, pulled it to the surface. Perhaps a fish, careless of predators.
"No!"
He thrust it from him! The headless body of a man! Shuddering he watched it slip away. In his mind he recalled the story of one so killed, doomed to the endless wandering of the Meander.
The broad river seemed to wind endlessly, going nowhere. Along its low banks huge trees dipped their limbs in the muddy water. A turtle swam by near the shore, then dived below. In the tree limbs above birds sang their mating calls. Serenely the placid river flowed. A lifeless stretch of jungle bordered it.
But was it lifeless!
Something moved among the brush and tree trunks. At first he thought of the unseen companion. No, this was different.
He watched carefully.
Farther along, more movement! Something, or someone, was following his boat!
They stayed well back from the shore. Still, from time to time he saw again the movement, glimpsed once more a stern visage.
He tensed as the current moved him closer still to that shore and its unknown inhabitants.
The boat ground to a stop, its lower hull lodged on the shallow bottom.
Demo took a deep breath, using the oar tried to pry the boat from its anchorage.
A small stream flowed into the river within feet of his position.
The bushes along the stream were moving! The motion came ever closer!
He climbed into the water, attempted to free the boat again.
It was to no avail!
He turned to the shore. They stood silently, stoic, watching.
Waiting!
The Sileni!
A distant cousin of the centaurs, with much the same appearance. Their lower haunches were horselike, while torso and head were that of man. Their history was dim, their homeland unknown.
There was no escape! The boat was lodged tightly. He stood, waded slowly to the shore.
"We rarely see visitors from the outside." This Sileni stood tall above his companions. "And on the river Meander some come and go, never to be seen again. What seek you on this river?"
"Ill fate sent me to this stream. I merely wished to cross the river Styx, carrying a missive sent by Zeus. Strange forces diverted my passage, and I floated unwillingly here."
"Tarry with us a bit. To follow the Meander is useless. It never ends, never repeats a passage. An eternity is too short to follow all its windings. Perhaps we can aid you, help you return to the river Styx. Though it, too, is a river of ill repute."
The hospitality of the Sileni pleased him. They fed him well, gave him cot on which to sleep. During his sleep they dragged the boat to shore.
"Your coming has been foretold. One waits now to talk with you, for there is much you do not know. Egeria, the last of the Caminae, would speak with you. There is the matter of the Tarn."
With a start Demo regarded the speaker. "Egeria! I do not understand. The Caminae are long gone, long departed!"
The conversation with Egeria confused him. She told him of things to come, but in words that were mystic and full of cryptic allusions. Yet she spoke of the tarn, where he must inevitably meet a foreordained fate.
"The tasks shall lie behind you, yet will there be another task. By your kindness to a stranger shall you be led to danger never faced by man. Though you be brave, follow the dictates of your heart. Heed my words. For this were you brought to me. It was foretold before your birth." The ancient woman stared at him through blinkless eyes.
Although he had listened he knew well that he did not understand. "Heed the dictates of your heart." What dictates of his heart? And if all had been foretold why should he not be informed of those inevitable results? He gazed at her, started to ask questions, then reconsidered.
"The Sileni shall return you to your craft. Lie down, in the bottom. Do not take oar in hand. When darkness descends you shall once more be on the river Styx. Your mission shall be quickly done. Tell Zeus that Egeria has opened your eyes."
It transpired as she explained. Zeus, when he delivered her message, bowed his head. "The Moira draws maps on sandy beaches, and man and Gods dare not deviate. My boy, believe that I wish you well. You understand, I cannot intervene in what will be."
Perhaps for the first time Demo felt real fear!
17. Lost in Time
Cronus hiccuped.
It doesn't happen often, and it rarely has much significance.
Only this time, it had significance. This time, Cronus was busy.
He was adding a slight touch of gray to Demo's hair.
Cronus, to those not knowing, has time as his domain. Even the gods respond to his wiles, and age even as you and I.
And Cronus was gently aging Demo.
Cronus hiccuped.
He had taken a liking to the boy since they had met on an earlier task imposed by Zeus on Demo. So Cronus had not acted in spite. It was only that Cronus is the master of time, and when he hiccuped he inadvertently sent Demo flying into a time far removed. Even this would hardly have been a problem, for Cronus could easily have returned him. But, as only one way exists for a project to go right, and many ways for it to go wrong, this project went wrong.
Cronus was distracted by his wife. He quickly followed her to adjust a timepiece that kept erratic time. "My dear, it really isn't the sundial that's at fault. It's the sun. It refuses to travel at a constant rate. I've talked to Zeus. Unfortunately, It's low on his priority list."
Then Cronus went off to his study, and his hobby of clock collecting. Demo was, for the moment, forgotten. In his study Cronus maintained clocks of every size, every design, every motif. Electronic clocks, grandfather clocks, wall clocks, floor clocks, round clocks, square clocks - even clocks that kept time. But no two displayed exactly the same time. For, you see, time isn't at all the same. Here it has one value, there another, and elsewhere still a third. But, most assuredly, one of the numerous clocks ticked the right time. Only Cronus knew which one.
"Which studio you with? They shooting here today?"
Demo looked quizzically at his interrogator. Since becoming Zeus' protg he found that languages were no problem. All the same, always there were references, words, and phrases of which he had no ken.
"I know not of studios, and the next shooting is at the great fair, a full moon away. There I shall surely prove champion of all of Greece, perhaps of all the civilized world."
"Ah-ha! Your advertising a coming film, right. The Great Fair. Well, I'll try to take it in. Your doing good, pal. I'll tell you, though, that costume really needs some work."
The stranger smiled and walked away.
Demo frowned.
No city of Greece was this. Grass grew not, and chariots dashed madly, teamless, down streets of solid rock, The people wore clothing of strange design, talked in a weird dialect, and gazed at him in benign amusement. The buildings were as none he had ever seen. They, too, were made of stone or even metal, and their height gave challenge to proud Olympus.
Suddenly he noted, passing high overhead, a dragon of strange construction, growling deeply as it passed. Passersby gave it no heed. Plainly the monster had already fed, was returning to its lair for rest.
A chariot smashed into the side of another, and high-pitched screams as of the wild geese filled the air. The chariots lined up, one behind the other, all emitting similar shrills.
Something here is akilter, he thought.
He noted men being disgorged by the shrilling chariots, shouting each to the other and making aggressive motions with closed fists.
Then arrived chariots with fires of red and blue flashing upon their heads, screaming like night creatures in tales he had been told.
These in turn disgorged men adorned in blue cloth, with shining metal decorations on their chests. These men in turned carried sticks, and screamed and shouted at those who had gone before.
In due time the horseless chariots moved away, the mass chasing in single file the leader. And endless sequence followed madly after the leading chariot. Was this a race, or a new form of war?
Along the pathway a bench attracted his attention, and he sat down, took dried venison from his poke. A young man, perhaps his own age, approached.
"Hey, got a dollar? I'd like to borrow a dollar for a while."
"What, pray, is a dollar?"