God of Fire

Part I

The Fall

Less than an hour old, fatherless and despised by his mother, the squalling infant fell from the heavens. Fell all day and fell all night through vast starry skies, on through the firmament, down to the humble blue and green orb below, until he landed on the sea with a sickly crack of breaking baby bones. The fallen god let out a scream that shook the world. Yet no one came.

Finally, the briny maw engulfed the child and he sank through the indigo depths, the cold threatening to extinguish his inner flame and leave him in permanent darkness. As the night entered his soul, two hands grabbed him.

Deep in an undersea grotto, an icy teat was forced between his lips. Immediately, he ceased squalling. The milk yielded was brackish, but freely given, and more than he’d received from his mother.

Surf-like, a voice pounded in his mind. ‘Your saviour is Thetis the seawitch. I have healed all your wounds, except one. You are Hephaestus: he who shines by day. Quite a mouthful for such an insignificant wretch so I will call you Heph. You are god of fire.’

In spite of her stony embrace, he clung on and the tide of milk flowed into his belly, making him one with the ocean. The pain in his leg ebbed a little, if not the pain in his heart, but the shattered ankle wasn’t worth worrying about. He was a god – which is to say, perfect – so lameness was not an option. The bone would heal soon enough, although nothing could erase the wound of maternal rejection, of being tossed from the celestial mountain as if he were no more precious than a pomegranate skeleton. But what of his other parent? Hephaestus searched inside himself, seeking the waymarkings of a father, somebody he’d been moulded on and formed by, but found no answers.

In the meantime, at least the seawitch had saved him from the murky fathoms and taken him as her own. Greedily, he suckled on her left teat, his free hand possessing her right as if to stop another infant latching on. There, he drew comfort and imagined he was at his mother’s breast, warming himself as he sheltered beneath the skin of the sea. Thetis was not known for kindness but cared for him as if he were a fallen nestling. On he drank and on, endless his hunger, until a bony finger forced itself into the corner of his mouth and he was deprived once more.

‘That’s enough, Heph. Leave a drop for someone else.’ She held him at arm’s length. ‘Go to Eurynome and let’s have a look at you.’

Prised from his source of comfort, he prepared to yowl, instead inhaling a large quantity of ocean as he was thrust onto a soft belly. A round, translucent face loomed over him, smiling.

‘Eurynome,’ said the surf-like voice, ‘creatrix of the universe, exalted dove, wide wanderer and consort of Thetis.’

The seawitch appeared beside the creatrix, frowning. Silenced, Hephaestus looked at his saviour. Beautiful, yes, but also terrifying. Black of eye. Fingers tipped with jet. Blue-green tresses clinking with bruised pearls. Clad in a couple of scallop shells and a few fronds of seaweed. A goddess as dark and cold as the ocean itself.

‘Ugly little scrap of divinity, aren’t you?’ said Thetis as she tugged his plump bottom lip between thumb and forefinger. ‘No wonder they didn’t want you up there, and being noisy with it can’t have helped your cause.’

The seawitch’s words cut him like a thousand shards of coral, but despite her sharp tone, she patted his backside and tucked him under her arm as she went about her chores. Gradually, he settled, watching her spinning sea moss into spools of yarn and knitting them into miniature cloaks and baby blankets, which she stowed in a wooden chest inlaid with gold. Fascinated, he watched her nimble fingers working the needles.

Little did the god of fire know, but these clothes would never cover his back. They were for another child. A true son of Thetis. Achilles is his name. But no more of him just now for his time has not yet come.

Thetis woke Hephaestus from a sound sleep, swaddled him in sealskin and tied him to her before swimming into the ocean where tendrils of kelp ensnared them, impeding their progress. As they travelled, it was hard to tell where they were going, but the severe drop in temperature suggested the colder, deeper water that lay in trenches. The godling snivelled, salt tears lost in the sea. It was happening again. First, his birth-mother had rejected him and now his foster-mother was casting him out. Where would he turn next in this precarious life?

Suddenly, he was borne upwards. The night air on his wet face scared him and he pressed himself to Thetis. All he could see were dim outlines, and all he could hear was water hurling itself at the rocks. Why had they left the grotto? Thetis shushed him and whispered that Poseidon was hunting her so they had to be quiet.

Walls of water rose, sucking the seabed dry and exposing twitching sea creatures, but just before they drowned in air, the water collapsed and surged inland. The sky blackened as Selene hid her bright face behind a passing cloud and Thetis sent up a prayer. Hephaestus hoped his father would hear it and protect them from this terrible Poseidon, but when the plea was answered by thunderbolts raining down, he flinched.

‘Almighty Zeus is here to save me from Poseidon and not to harm you.’

His guardian petted him while he got used to the sight and sound. The intermittent light revealed the sea god in silhouette, locks trailing down his back like knotted ropes. Ignoring his brother’s aerial onslaught, Poseidon continued striding through his domain, waist-deep and holding his trident, comfortably absorbing the bombardment.

In a new tactic, Zeus spread purple sheet lightning, and when Poseidon turned, his locks eddied around him, destroying the foolish whimbrels who flew too near. Water funneled from the sea to the sky, taking birds and fish with it. So many sent to their doom. How many must die when gods collide?

The sea god pushed on, half in his world and half in that of his brother. Why did Zeus not venture down to the sea? Was the thunder god weakened by water? Up to his shoulders and haloed in lightning bolts, Poseidon moved to the deeper sea, storms following him until the funnel receded and the water swirled shut.

‘The god of the sea has been vanquished and Zeus has spared my chastity so we should give thanks.’

Kneeling, she raised the child overhead and sang her siren song. The offering must have gratified the almighty as the luminous god descended to earth and waved a benediction. Scraping his head on the night sky and shoving clouds out of the way, Zeus ranged over his lands, platinum mane flowing behind him.

Thetis lowered Hephaestus and clasped him to her breast. ‘The sea has hidden Poseidon but you can tell where he is by the whirlpool above him. It would pull you under in an instant, so be extra cautious when Poseidon is on a stalking mission. He’ll wade through his realm to his palace, which is said to be magnificent, but I’ll never go there and neither should you. Be ever wary of him and his brothers. The three of them are cut from the same cloth. Zeus, Hades and Poseidon, always wanting what they haven’t got and taking it, regardless.’ She pinched his cheek. ‘But no need for you to fret.’

He snuggled into her shoulder, bracing his sore leg against the crook of her arm as he nursed. Since Poseidon had gone below and Zeus was beyond the horizon, the rain of thunderbolts faded. Encouraged by the newly calm night, Selene returned, her soft light spilling in a silver river across the placid sea.

‘Come on, it’s safe to go home.’

But home no longer felt safe for Hephaestus, and even though Thetis hadn’t cast him out this time, there was a risk she might. It would be easy to earn her wrath so he’d make himself small and silent to avoid drawing the fury that must nestle in the heart of every mother.

Sibling Rivalry I

The fire god’s fears proved unfounded and for years he lived contentedly in and on the sea. Daily, the family breakfasted at the beach and while they picked lobster meat from their teeth with sparrow bones, a bevy of blue-haired nymphs cleared up, singing and laughing as they toiled. Hephaestus marvelled at their lively movements and the light work they made of their labours. Life with the two goddesses was good and he had the run of the grotto, apart from a locked grate that he was warned off. He also had the run of the surrounding waters, spending blissful days teasing octopuses and chasing swordfish through underwater caverns. With Eurynome looking on, Thetis and their foster-son raced around the islands on dolphins, and he was happy. Or at least, he was happy, until one day, the seawitch vanished into the surf, abandoning him on the shore. Valiantly, he clutched his staff of cornel wood and hobbled after her.

‘Mother, wait!’ he called, thinking he was alone until he heard sniggering.

‘Fool!’ said a voice from a cave. ‘She’s not your mother.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Hephaestus, peering around.

‘I’m sure,’ said the voice. ‘As if your mother would be seen half-dressed in seaweed and seashells.’ The owner of the voice revealed himself: an enormous boy with blood-red eyes and a shock of black hair. ‘The greatest goddess, Hera, is your mother, and mine.’

‘And mine,’ announced a petite girl with the same colouring. She had a downturned mouth and a plait poised over her head like a scorpion’s tail. ‘We’re twins. I’m Eris, goddess of strife, and he’s Ares, god of war.’

Admittedly, his siblings didn’t resemble Hephaestus since he had brown curls and amber eyes and this Ares was easily four times his size. Still, family was family.

‘If we share a mother,’ he ventured, ‘then you must be my brother and sister.’

‘Half-brother and sister,’ clarified the girl. ‘Our father is Zeus but you don’t have one. That’s why you’re so short and ugly.’

This couldn’t be right. Surely everyone had a father. ‘I don’t need one,’ he lied. ‘I have three mothers instead. One who gave birth to me and two who take care of me and love me.’

‘Just as well, because Hera certainly doesn’t love you,’ said Eris. ‘She hates your withered leg and so do we!’

‘I hate you too,’ said Hephaestus. ‘You’re both horrible!’

Incensed, Eris kicked away the lame god’s staff and he stumbled. Ares seized him in a headlock and punched him so hard that ichor gushed from his nose. Daisies bloomed from the drops of golden blood, and when his captor released him, he sank onto the bed of flowers, only for Eris to kick him in the belly. He curled into a ball to protect his tender parts but the blows to his pride hurt more than those to his body.

Momentarily tired of physical violence, his tormentors started running rings around him, chanting ‘cuckoo’ as they went. All he knew of cuckoos was that such a bird graced Hera’s sceptre. Was that what they meant? If they shared the same mother, and he was a cuckoo, then so were they. Hephaestus dared to echo the insult and Ares leapt on him, his immense weight crushing the breath from his hapless victim.

‘You’re the cuckoo, not me,’ said Ares, twisting his smaller brother’s arm until it was on the verge of snapping.

‘Understand?’ asked Eris, pinching his nose.

‘Yes! Yes!’ promised Hephaestus, chin quivering, not understanding at all, but afraid to disagree.

‘Hey, stop that! Get off him! Pack it in!’ yelled a chorus of voices. In the distance, three young gods sprinted towards them.

On realising they had company, the two bullies stopped torturing their half-brother and ran off, hotly pursued by the new arrivals. Hephaestus watched them go, wondering who his rescuers were, before limping home, determined to shun his half-siblings in future.

When he reached the grotto, he charged at his foster-mothers, scattering yarn and needles, babbling his snot-filled report.

‘Cuckoo?’ asked Thetis as she disentangled him from a knot of knitting and settled him on Eurynome’s lap. ‘It simply means you were toppled out of Hera’s nest and into ours.’

Toppled out? Shoved out, more like, but he let it go.

‘Am I definitely related to them?’

‘Yes, unfortunately for you,’ said Thetis, restoring her ball of seaweed. ‘Steer clear of them.’

That should be easy as he had no intention of going anywhere near them ever again. ‘What about the three who saved me?’

‘Persephone, Dionysus and Prometheus? They’re alright and Prom especially will treat you kindly.’

Prometheus lived up to his reputation for kindness. Unfortunately, the god of foresight came with a brother, Epimetheus, who shared his beauty, but not his gentle nature. Instead, he was always boasting about how he’d made all the animals out of clay, how he was the most gorgeous god going and how he was the fastest runner.

Often, he would goad Prometheus and his friend into racing but every step was costly to Hephaestus and his heavy-footedness translated itself into a heaviness of the heart. Trudging along the shore after the competitive brothers, his spirits dragged as much as his foot, and he was pleased when Thetis stepped out of the water.

‘Let them run,’ she said. ‘Don’t hark after what you haven’t got and can’t have or it’ll make you weaker. Grow strong in other ways and follow your own path.’ She fossicked in her bodice and pulled out a fragment of dolphin leather. ‘Here, wear this to keep one eye intact and I’ll summon three old friends to set you on the right road. They need quite a bit of space so get back. Further back than that. You might want to hold onto a tree.’

Obediently, he edged into a nearby grove and hugged a young oak.

‘Cyclopes, the day has come.’ She stood facing away from the sea, locks blowing in the rising wind, and raised her sceptre. ‘Brontes, Steropes, Arges, I summon you from the earth.’

Gaia heaved and three gigantic men sat up, shaking sand from their massive bald heads. Each had a solitary eye, surrounded by tattooed concentric rings. When they clambered to their feet, they cast the whole beach into shade. Without troubling their mouths, the giants spoke, and their words reverberated in the god of fire’s head without troubling his ears.

‘Quake, little one, quake,’ they said. ‘We are risen. Ready to create, destroy, renew.’

Their order was impossible to disobey and the child feared he’d never stop quaking.

Thetis whacked the nearest giant’s kneecap with her sceptre. ‘If anyone is ordering anyone to quake, I will be doing the ordering and you will be doing the quaking. Understood?’

All three giants rubbed their knees and nodded.

‘Good,’ she bristled. ‘Heph, don’t be afraid. The biggest Cyclops is Brontes, in charge of thunder. The smallest is Steropes, in charge of lightning. And the one reckless enough to stand within striking distance of me is Arges, reputedly in charge of brightness. They are the mighty smiths who created Zeus’ thunderbolt, Poseidon’s trident and Hades’ helmet of invisibility. They have guarded your legacy. Come and get it.’

He didn’t trust these colossal smiths but he trusted Thetis so he shuffled over to them. The Cyclops called Arges handed him a curiously hot oyster shell.

Again, the strange voices resonated. ‘Here is your sacred fire, which we have kept safe for this fateful day.’

Hephaestus opened the shell and warmth radiated through him, evaporating his aches and exhaustion. Inside, was a mound of smouldering ash. Some legacy. The first Cyclops formed a ring of large stones, the second placed the shell in the middle, while the third emptied sacks of charred wood onto it. Together, they breathed on the heap, kindling a fire.

Thetis observed for a while before ushering away the Cyclopes, leaving her ward alone to find his future in the flames. The orange tongues wavered in the breeze and white smoke billowed until his eyes watered and the haze filled with visions of machines that would do his bidding. But where to begin?

The giants returned and hurled rocks into the fire, then blew on the flames until they became an inferno and the sky burst with explosions. The boy’s mind span in circles as a river the colour of Helios flowed along the ripples sculpted in the sand by the waves. All day, he listened to rocks exploding and followed molten metal wending its way to the shore. When the noise finally stopped and the river stopped running, the weary god curled up and fell asleep.

Shivering, he awoke to the sound of his gargantuan friends snoring next to a pile of glowing embers. The yellow river was now cold and dull grey, weakly reflecting the sun. He tested the river with a toe, discovered it was firm and walked across it, wondering what magic had taken place while he slept. As Helios climbed higher, the surface warmed beneath Hephaestus’ feet but remained solid. Did this mean fire was hotter than the sun? Perplexed, he roused the Cyclopes, who explained that Helios was more intense but also more distant, while iron needed heat that was both fierce and immediate to regain its beautiful colour. They proved it by rebuilding the pyre to make the rivers of gold flow again.

Crouching carefully, he carved animal shapes in the sand with his staff, casting creatures from land, sea and air. If only he could give them life – that would show Epimetheus!

‘Start small,’ said the giants. ‘A mouse, perhaps, but first you need something for that leg of yours.’

They moulded a gold cage with their calloused hands, cooling it in the water before fitting it. The support was rigid and grazed his skin but it did help him to stand up straight. Next, he was given some long tongs and a hammer, and taught how to use them. While working, he forgot his pain, absorbing every word and memorising every action. Bending low, the Cyclopes showed him how to cast his mouse and when Brontes touched the rodent, it sprang to life, snuffling and scurrying, feinting left and right, making it hard to catch. Absorbed in chasing his pet, Hephaestus only noticed someone was watching when he heard a discreet cough and turned to see his foster-mothers.

‘Fine work, Heph,’ said Thetis. ‘It would impress the pantheon.’

This unexpected praise made him blush and he was even more delighted when she picked up the mouse by its tail and dropped it into his hand. It landed on its back and scrabbled at the air until he righted it. Once on its feet, the mouse ran up one arm, across the nape of his neck, and down the other arm before he caught it and placed it on his shoulder. The little inventor couldn’t stop grinning.

‘You know who would love that mouse,’ Thetis continued. ‘The sun god, Apollo. His pet mice last less than a year and he’s perpetually upset. The other gods complain when he sings sad songs. Hermes can drop it off.’ She looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Even Hera might be impressed. You should return to Olympus and show her your skills.’

His heart lurched at these words but Eurynome stilled him with her gentle smile.

‘You’re always welcome here,’ said Thetis, ‘and the Cyclopes will continue to teach you, but as god of fire, it does you no good to dwell beneath the waves.’ She glanced up at heaven. ‘I’ll wangle us an invite. Your mother will learn to love you. She just needs time.’

He sighed. Time was all he had, and plenty of it.

The Prodigal Son

In a shimmer of gold, Hermes arrived at the smithy, shoved the Cyclopes aside with his caduceus and presented a palm-sized stone tablet.

‘Thetis and Eurynome are invited to a ball on the mountain in one moon’s time.’

‘Why don’t you tell them yourself?’ asked the giants.

Hermes admired his winged sandals and tapped his helmet. ‘I’m keeping my wings dry so the saltwater doesn’t ruin them.’

‘The boy cast those wings from gold pure enough to withstand most insults, so they’ll be safe,’ intoned the Cyclopes. ‘You’re welcome, by the way.’

The dismissive messenger tutted. ‘I’m here now, so do you want this or what?’

The young smith flipped up his eye-patch and took the tablet. The front was inscribed with a gibbous moon over the Olympian palace. The reverse featured a graphic caricature of his foster-mothers, which he quickly covered up. When he shyly asked where his invitation was, the messenger brushed him off, suggesting the palace had forgotten about him.

‘Pay no attention to that gadfly,’ said the Cyclopes. ‘Half the time, he doesn’t know where he’s going, and more often than not he’s flying backwards, so your invitation must be lost in transit. Isn’t that right, messenger boy?’

Hermes smiled, and from his pitying glance Hephaestus understood he still wasn’t wanted on Olympus. His mother had hated him at birth and nothing had changed.

‘You know me,’ laughed the messenger nervously. ‘Careless to a fault. Anyway, it’s a masked ball so I’ll swing by to ensure everyone’s disguises pass muster.’ He fluttered his wings. ‘Must get on. Messages to deliver. Gossip to spread. Love to the mothers.’ And with an air kiss, he was gone.

Hermes scrutinised the goddesses. ‘Really? Was this worth getting my wings wet?’

‘Eurynome isn’t going to the ball because it’s after sunset, so she’ll be out wandering, and I’m fine as I am,’ replied Thetis through thin lips.

The messenger flapped a hand at her. ‘Those lobster-feeler necklaces may be acceptable down here, but they’ll laugh you off the mountain if you turn up looking like an old seawitch.’

‘An old seawitch is exactly what I am.’

‘I don’t know why I bother sometimes. You can’t go as yourself.’ The messenger seized the lad’s shoulders, newly broad from hammering. ‘You, on the other hand, can go as you are, or at least you could if you were invited.’

Before Hephaestus could respond, the mercurial god had vanished.

‘Never mind him. Eurynome says you can have her place.’

He hugged the creatrix gratefully and she glowed.

‘What do you think?’ asked Thetis. ‘Be honest.’

Her hip-length locks clinked with more pearls than usual, her robes were woven from red seaweed and her fish-scale slippers sparkled. She was lovely to Hephaestus but he couldn’t bear the thought of the Olympians treating her with contempt.

‘Try not to worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure you impress them.’

‘Who said I was worried?’ She examined her slippers, which were showing the first signs of decay. ‘Still, the whole idea is to impress your mother so do your best, lad.’

He had something in mind but would need to search for treasures to adorn his gift. Wondering how to traverse the world in time, he recalled the revelations he’d had on the day he received his fire. Grinning, he swam to the shore and summoned the Cyclopes to the smithy.

As soon as the iron chariot was complete, Hephaestus trained herds of seahorses to pull it. He collected his foster-mothers and set off, yelling with excitement, his anxious passengers clinging to each other. The seahorses flashed in various shades of cerise, aquamarine and violet, and he laughed so hard he forgot his pain. Now that he had wheels, who needed feet?

Unleashing the seahorses, he raced up sea mountains, hurtled down dark trenches and blazed through the rib cages of ancient whales. Shoals of rainbow fish parted in fright and startled jellyfish quivered on the surface. From the blue waters of home, he moved into the grey north, forcing his way through forests of icebergs until he circled home to warmer climes. Exhausted, he reined in the teeming seahorses outside the grotto and tucked his shaken guardians into bed.

‘Beware,’ said Thetis, voice muffled by a quilt of sea urchins, ‘Poseidon is a jealous god and when he gets wind of your chariot, he’ll steal it, and although we never left the water, I bet Helios had his hot eye on us.’

Hephaestus shrugged off her warning. ‘I’ll make them one each but not before I’ve created your gift.’

He arranged his loot at the foot of his bed and in his dreams he smelted, hammered and filed, making the best present any goddess had ever seen, praying it would impress his so-called mother.

When the day of the ball arrived, Thetis twirled in her finery. ‘What do you reckon? Not bad, eh?’

The audience of two pondered her disguise in silence.

‘What? Say something!’ She shook her heads at them. ‘Fifty heads too many?’

Hephaestus bit his lip while Eurynome’s eyes watered with the effort of holding in her laugh.

‘Maybe a few too many,’ he spluttered.

She pretended to strike him with her sceptre.

‘A few, he says. If you’re so clever, Heph, tell me what to wear.’

He chewed his thumbnail. ‘Actually, I have an idea.’

She listened, nodding all fifty heads, before waving her sceptre and throwing up a vortex. Behind it, the surplus heads dissolved, leaving one, which promptly grew into a point. When the water cleared, a giant cuttlefish hovered before them, magnificent beak shining blackly, eight arms and two tentacles bobbing gently.

‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘You can change colour to blend in or stand out as you choose.’ More importantly, a solo head would show off his gift without forty-nine additional heads vying for attention. ‘Are you ready for your present?’

After receiving a solemn nod, he produced a circlet. Sea snakes coiled beneath a silver band, and above that, glittering fish swam through fronds of waving seaweed. He crowned her, gently