Epimetheus Drowned

Dotted throughout the rising foothills along the coast are fires stoked by man. The cherished gift and sacrifice Prometheus gave our species. Something that would one day allow us to rival the gods. The cost was dear, but honored and revered by all. But the world is entirely ignorant of the efforts of the unsung protector of our race, Epimetheus, in preserving the rights of mankind.

On the beach adjacent to the site of Prometheus’ gruesome trials sits a hut on a raised platform, more a sentinel post than a home. And sitting upon it is the hermit. At night he gazes upon the fires in the hills above. The site brings him joy, but his smiles ever prove short-lived when he hears the crashing of waves upon the beach. The hermit would mutter curses to Poseidon and descend from his meager hut. In his hand a leather flail or rusted billhook, a gnarled club formed from ocean debris, or a torch.

The hermit knew of the jealousy of the ocean lord that surpassed even that of Zeus. Poseidon was a frequent loser in the battle for the hearts of men and women, even of whole cities. Spurned by them, their love and honors bestowed to lesser gods and heroes. It was no coincidence that wrathful Poseidon’s violent waves surrounded the rock upon which Prometheus suffered in chains. Foregoing gifts and favors for love and honors, Poseidon now sought pain and destruction for the recalcitrant usurpers of knowledge and power. His waves would engulf their fires throughout the earth, and the survivors of his typhonic rage would be as base and ignorant as they had begun.

The hermit knew of this with the surety that others have of the sun rising each new day. And so, each day the hermit struck his weapon upon the encroaching sea that crept farther and farther up the beach. For hours would he strike against the tendrils of foam, blasting sand skyward with each retraction. And so on and on the solitary rearguard battle with the sea would continue until his back was against the raised beam supporting his hut. In this way he would keep his post, slashing and swinging before his feet with the saltwater roiling around his ankles. And always when he had used up the last measure of reserves in the desperate fight in the shade of his hut, the sea would steadily retreat.

No matter the hermit being exhausted, for as he kept the field he was the victor. But knowing victory to be fleeting and battle daily assured, the hermit would raid the frontier of the ocean realm for shellfish and seaweed to cook over his brazier. The heat never failed to warm him to the deepest depths of his soul, for he knew how dearly was fire given to man.

After a brief respite, the hermit would always be awakened by the gathering of Poseidon’s next assault. Day after day after endless day the hermit emerged from his humble abode clad in a simple tunic and sandals, donning a wide-brimmed wicker hat. He would jump down into the sand wielding whatever he had salvaged against the approaching waves. The hermit smashed his weapon against the sea. Not in a fury, but with the measured discipline of a Spartan. For he knew the battle would rage for many hours, many days, many years, a lifetime if he could. Days and nights of the coming tide the hermit was in single combat against the sea.

Word spread through the hills and with each passing generation to regions farther and farther away of the hermit and his daily struggle on the beach. Those living nearby would go to the berms along the backshore to picnic or simply to throw stones and insults at the mad hermit. But they never came too close, lest they caught madness themselves. The hermit was far too busy in the perpetual struggle for man’s fire to respond to the hurling of taunts and rocks, but one or the other found its target. But the hermit, though worn down by it, bore the insults to his body and character with grace, armored with the inspiration of Prometheus and the ultimate sacrifice of self.

Those with mockery in their hearts were not the only visitors of the hermit’s beach. A minor cult and pilgrimage had formed around the hermit without any encouragement from him. For many miles they would travel to gaze upon the hermit who fights the sea. None would interfere, but all would leave offerings: skins of wine, bread, lambs slaughtered on site, weapons, armor, coins and jewelry, most important of all- casks of life-giving sweetwater from a nearby spring. These offerings, which ebbed and swelled based on the religious caprices of the populace, were placed upon the very rock of Prometheus. When it was prepared a large pyramid of driftwood would be set ablaze to invite the hermit to accept what was justly his. As he fought the sea, which was the only time they gave offerings, he could not fail to see at the edge of his vision the rising flames.

The sight of man’s first victory over the gods stirred the hermit to a furor of strikes upon the waves. As the tide reached its apex and began its retreat, the hermit would salute his followers with the weapon at hand and proclaim his peculiar blessing: “May your fires never die!” At this, the pilgrims would leave with joy and gratitude in their hearts and the hermit’s name on their lips. When, and only when, the cult had left, the hermit would gather the offerings and bring the choicest items to his hut during the ebbing tide.

For countless cycles, the hermit’s war continued unabated. Under a blazing sun, he would fight the sea on limbs rent of strength from heat exhaustion. Through moonless nights would he fight blind and become disoriented, lose his way, and fight tenaciously just to stay afoot until dawn. The hermit’s stalwart defense put Poseidon in a rage. All sea gods and demigods at his command would rally into a violent storm that would press the hermit all the way back to the line of vegetation and destroy his squat tower.

But always the hermit survived Poseidon’s manic assaults. Always raised again his elevated hut. Always beat back the waves from man’s fire. But with each passing generation, fewer were those who appreciated the gift of fire and efforts made to keep the flame alight. Fewer were the pilgrimages to the rock, of less value were the scant offerings given.

Which was all too well because the hermit could hardly ascend the rock anyway. Could no longer tote water from the nearest spring, so like a camel did the hermit drink up his daily share at the oasis before returning to his sands. Fevers and chills wracked his body. At times he was too weak and lame to descend from his hut. So he would use a sling and launch pebbles at the approaching waves. And when his supply of rocks was gone he would launch the precious coins and jewelry from the offerings. And when the waves had reached below the hut, the hermit would hurl down all his worldly possessions into the surf as is they were burning oil dropped from a parapet during a siege.

Many cycles after the last offering was left, the wizened hermit remained the victor, though years of battle showed on his gaunt and crippled frame. His long beard was a dirty grey tangled with seaweed. His wide-brimmed hat no longer a defender against the sun’s powerful rays. His tunic no longer carried any dye, was in tatters and held to his wasting shoulders by a few stubborn strands.

When the hermit could no longer climb into his hut, his last abode became the shaded beach just under his austere home. But on he fought Poseidon, though with far less vigor. He no longer met his foe at the genesis of each incoming tide. Rather, he saved his strength for high tide, beating and clawing at the waves, thrashing it with handfuls of sand, until the waves beat their slow retreat back to their proper realm.

One night when the hermit was at his weakest, shivering under his hut without a blanket, Poseidon marshaled his forces for one final overwhelming attack. It proved to be the most savage storm ever experienced along the Aegean coast, or any other. Deadly gusts of wind came on like skirmishers to open the way for the main body of troops that formed one colossal wave. The wind took the roof off the hut and sent tumbling to the ground a rusted breastplate, a dented Corinthian helmet, and a heavy spear with a splintered butt. Through the howl and blinding sand and spray, the hermit crawled to his armor, strapped it on, donned his helmet, then pulled himself up to his feet with the aid of his spear. He faced the sea, and from brilliant strikes of lightning saw the oncoming wall of ocean taller than any siege tower ever built. He was fearful of the sight, not for himself, but for the fires that stoked the brilliance of the human race. He would defend the fires one last time before his watch was done.

Rolling his shoulders back to reveal his full height, he sparked the last measure of strength he had to advance towards his enemy. As he met the seawall, he hurled his spear. Just before impact the sea gods and nymphs could hear the paean of Epimetheus- “May our fires never die!”

The sun rose upon a calm sea and the beach swept clean of anything related to Epimetheus the hermit. For most it was validation that he was simply mad and unsuited to fellowship. That his battle with the sea was either absurdly hilarious or the tragic epitome of futility. It was all nothing more than an old vagrant drowned and good riddance.

But for a dedicated minority Epimetheus was someone worthy of veneration. A story spread that Poseidon had become so transfixed with defeating him that he completely forgot the original purpose of the attacks- to extinguish man’s fire. And when Epimetheus was crushed by the titanic wave, his body was pulled into the depths and came to rest on the seafloor. When the fire of life went out of Epimetheus, so too was vengeance expunged from the heart of Poseidon. He and the other sea gods mourned their vanquished enemy. They put on him armor of white gold and pearls, placed him on a funerary pyre that would put to shame that of Hector’s. The pyre was set alight as sea nymphs honored him with mournful song. The perpetual fire sent boiling water rising in bubbles to the surface. A faithful reminder to peoples traveling across Poseidon’s realm of the eternal flame of Epimetheus.

MAY OUR FIRES NEVER DIE

Note: Written by the author while getting treatment at Bartlett Inpatient Behavioral Health for having extreme suicidal ideations that was turning into planning. It seems dark. But I’ve been where many of you are. This story represents the struggle we all go through individually with mental health. It can at times feel as powerful as a malignant god or a tsunami. But it’s the fight that keeps us strong. Keeps us whole. Keeps us alive and full of wonder. And there is nothing more honorable than that. I pray that the fire in your soul never goes out. And many years from now you can die old wearing your tattered armor, facing down that black beast we have in ourselves.