Prehistoric Prometheus

I was seventeen when I first saw Fire. I was seventeen when I saw it last.

The women of the clan were gathering berries when the heavens struck the earth. An ugly gash had split the evening air and impaled itself on a nearby oak. I was brought to my knees as the world went and came in a flash. The sound of a crashing waterfall flooded my ears and fell silent in the same moment. Those around me worked their mouths like fish on land yet their words did not reach me. My skin was numb and unfeeling even as my sisters clawed at it to drag me to safety. All my senses had been taken away but sight; and I only had eyes for the oak tree. Where once were lush green leaves now held spitting orange ivy that coiled down and around the trunk. It slithered a glowing way across the forest floor as grey air curled and caressed the dry forest air. It looked like a tempting hiss. Some of the older women seemed to scream. Only a single word of theirs made it through the thick fog now cast in my ears. It was the only word that mattered: Fire.

Word of the Fire was immediately sent out. The men quickly returned from their hunt and began to isolate the oak. It was a slow and taxing process, but Father told us it was crucial. It was the dry season, and we could not risk our forest being set ablaze. The treetops were our home, after all, and there were not many. I should have felt glad the Fire was taken care of. The godly wrath that had brought it upon us had nearly cost me my hearing as well. Yet this sinking feeling in my stomach was undeniably disappointment. Today marked the start of another cold winter and the heat of the ivy, the Fire, still lingered and warmed me from the inside. If we could control the Fire, tame it as we did the wolves, then my younger siblings would be sure to survive this winter. Hunts could be safer. Gatherings could be warmer. They would respect me. They would honor me. As they do a man. The power of the heavens would be ours because I was the one to gift it to us. The thought grew and grew like Fire itself until it raged and roared me forward, towards the oak.

The oak was but a thing of night among the white birch. There was no Fire to be seen. Still, I crept closer slowly; afraid that Fire might pounce and strike. I carefully lay a hand on the charred tree then let out a sigh. It seemed the men had done a good job. I bowed my head and scoffed. Shame at my own foolishness built in my chest and spread to my limbs. My hand warmed from it. Then I yelped in pain and tore it from the oak. It was burnt. Clutching the wound to my chest, I peered closely at the blackened bark. There, a single seed of Fire remained. It pulsed red in sync with the pain in my palm. A disbelieving smile spread across my face. I laughed into the quietly judging forest. Perhaps I could prove my worth just yet.

From the seed, I managed to grow a flower. It only needed some dry wood, and the Fire revealed its petals soon enough. The ancient stone shelter I chose to store the Fire let it cast brilliant shadows along the walls. Frightening tales of Fire melting mountains and raining from the skies had done little to prepare me for what it truly was like: mesmerizingly beautiful. It was both fragile as an ant yet as mighty as a lion. I should have known better than to think such a force of nature was under my mortal control. Yet amidst the flickering light, I let fantasies of bringing the clan to heel dance across my mind.

The clan was busy painting their treehouses with sap. Layer after layer, it was painstakingly applied to protect against the harsh winter winds that were starting to pick up. Claiming to refill the half-empty jar of sap in my arms, I snuck out of the clan to visit the Fire. My work was nearly finished. All that was needed was a way to bring the Fire safely to the clan. I put down the jar when it caught on a rock and sap went spilling into the flames. I cried out, fearing my chance at glory was lost. Fire shot up to the cave’s ceiling and sought to melt rock. It burned as brightly as when I stared at the display in a reverent daze. I now knew what to do.

I did not return home that night. A bright burning seed rode the winter winds and went in my stead.

Drunk on victory and youth, I held the sap-soaked torches high and my head even higher as I marched back into our clan’s territory. A full day had passed. My family would be sick with worry, but it would have all been worth it to see their smiles as they see the days lengthen by my light. But when I arrived, the village was already lit bright with sap fueled flames. Once again, I could only see. The scent of cooked flesh, the sound of torment, and the stinging sparks in the air all faded away. I only had eyes for the burning house that was mine. One shaking foot in front of the other, I stumbled home. I gently knelt in front of the charred things of night that were my family and howled up at the gods.

That is how the surviving clan found me. My lungs were full of ash and Death reflected in my eyes. A jar full of sap sat beside me. All the flames have been quelled but two. The twin torches crackled with vindictive glee as I went to pick them up from the ground. I handed one to the clan leader and whispered in his ear the secrets of Fire. He stared, nodded, then looked into my eyes and saw my plea. He poured the jar of sap I had prepared over my head and stepped back. With a grateful smile, I lifted the other torch and touched it to my sap-covered forehead.

I was seventeen when I first saw Fire. I was seventeen when I saw it last.