Hephaestos: Enabler of Prometheus

By B. Daniel Blatt

I, Hephaestus, the loneliest and hardest working of the gods, am also perhaps the Olympian most sympathetic to you humans. Your great cities of steel, your armaments, your vehicles, the devices you use to heal wounds and cure illness, your jewelry, even your fine baked goods, these—and so much more—you have because you have learned my crafts. And because I let Prometheus take fire from my forge.

Oh yes, legend has it that Prometheus stole the fire. And that he was punished for it. I should know. I nailed him to the cliff in the Caucacus Mountains. I was reluctant to do the deed. Perhaps, I should have told the truth then. Perhaps, I should have confessed, but I feared my father. I did not want to be cast out of Olympus a second time. I followed his orders. I chained Prometheus to the rock.

It wasn’t just that I feared Zeus. I wanted him to acknowledge me as his son. To this very day, I do not know the truth of birth. You no doubt have heard both tales and likely assume that we on Olympus know the truth. But, even we, even we immortals, even we do not know all.

Perhaps Zeus himself does not know. Perhaps he is not my father, but I always felt that he was. When I was cast out of Olympus, I felt as any child would feel if his father threw him out of his home. I wanted to win my way back into his graces, so like a dutiful son, I did much to please him. Down on Samos, I learned metal working so that when I returned to Olympus—as Thetis insisted I would—I would win praise for my craft. I did gain same honor up there, but never the full recognition a son seeks. They liked my devices, even invited me into their councils, but otherwise kept me at a distance. I had to work to gain their favor. They frolicked, gossiped and conspired.

I worked ever harder, not just to win the attention of my parents, but also to earn the praise of my siblings. Only my sister Athena took any notice of me. And yes, I call her sister, even though there may be no blood between us, she the goddess who, some say, had no mother and I the god who, some say, had no father. She, father’s favorite. I, his shame.
She and I had much in common, including our love for you poor mortals. She wanted to teach you so many things—and not just arts of war. She wanted you to learn weaving, to make fine things of wool. She wanted to share her wisdom with you.

But, these things were of little use to you, huddled in your caves, eating what you could gather from the land and what animals you could kill with sticks and rocks, flesh that you had to eat raw, not heated by any fire. How could you improve your lot unless you had tools. You need fire to cook your meat, fire to make these tools. You needed a forge like mine.

My sister Athena, she also wanted to help you, but she would never defy father. Oh, sometimes, it seemed she had him wrapped around her finger. From time to time, she might get him to bend his will to hers. But, it would never occur to her to defy an edict of his, no matter how it would help you mortals. She may love humankind greatly, but she loves father Zeus more.
It was up to me. And yet I feared father’s wrath. The child who has been rejected by his parents—as I had been—knows that there are few pains greater. I did not again want father to cast me out of Olympus. I continued to do what I could to please my parents, and avoided doing anything which might offend them.

And yet, when I looked down from Olympus and saw you toiling on the land, saw you all but defenseless against the elements and wild beasts, I recalled the indifference of my father to the pains he made me suffer. I felt a kinship with you, you beings with a mind, with a soul, yet ignored by the gods. They had rejected me as well. I felt your pain and pitied you. I knew how much you could accomplish if only you had the tools. I had to do something. But, what could I do without risking the wrath of my parents?

My task would have been easier if I had chosen to help you just after I returned to Olympus when my cousin Prometheus had the run of the place. But, back then, we thought father would eventually allow me to give you fire from my hearth. There was then no need to steal it. Father, in gratitude for Prometheus’ help in overthrowing his fellow Titans, had once allowed him to travel freely between Olympus and your world where he befriended you mortals. So much did he love mankind that some said he had fashioned you himself. Prometheus visited me often, watched me work, eager to understand the business of making things.

But, things changed when we immortals feasted with your ancestors at Mecone. Prometheus taught you how to divide the sacrifice in two parts, one part with the flesh and intestines wrapped in skin, the second with the bones wrapped in fat. When you offered Zeus a choice, he chose the succulent-seeming package wrapped in fat. Angry at discovering only bones within and learning (from Hermes, I believe) how Prometheus taught you this trick, father grew angry and set limits on Prometheus’ movements. His vowed to withhold fire from you, but his rage only steeled Prometheus’ will. He burned with the desire to steal my fire and give to you.

Father took many precautions to ensure that that would not happen. He made me vow to summon him immediately if I saw Prometheus so much as approach my forge. He ordered me to fashion a special door that would lock whenever I was away.

I missed Prometheus’ visits. I knew he was not content, but I was afraid to show him kindness when I passed him in the halls of Olympus, fearful of the ever-watchful eye of Zeus. I labored ever harder to please father.
I made him a fine quiver, the interior of adamant, the outside interlaced with gold and silver, finely spun, with a strap of the supplest leather so he might bear his thunderbolts wherever he roamed. Long did I labor on this project, eager to win father’s praise. The day I brought it to him, he was alone in his chamber. He took the gift, held it in his hands, turned it over, studied its design. He admired my craft. How great a feeling to be alone with one’s father while he delights in your labors!

But, alas, that moment was not to last. As I was showing him how to fasten the leather strap around his chest (so that he might bear the quiver on his back and easily draw forth a thunderbolt), my brother Hermes walked in. He too admired my handiwork. He felt the leather, noted how supple it was, how easily it fit father’s chest. He asked me if I had perhaps stolen a cow from the herd of our brother Apollo.
I was about to tell him that yes, I had slaughtered a cow from Apollo’s herd, but I had first asked his permission. Only skin from a cow of his herd could produce leather so sturdy, yet soft to the touch. Hermes did not wait for my answer. I think he brought up the subject of our brother’s cattle merely so he could once again tell how he stole the herd, knowing how much father liked the tale. Hermes had to be the center of attention. Just as he could not match my handiwork, I could not match his tales.

So, I listened, sad at first to be deprived of father’s complete attention. When I heard (yet again) my brother tell how he feigned sleep when Apollo approached his cave at Mount Hellene, I began to laugh. They thought I was laughing at Hermes’ tale, but I was laughing at his guile. Inspired by his spirit, I knew how I could help Prometheus. I would make it easy for him to steal the fire from my forge so he could give it to you.

The next time I saw Prometheus, I would pretend that I was tired and needed to hasten to my chambers, adjacent to my forge. With this plan, I looked up. Hermes continued to regale my father with some tale. I took my leave, telling those two that I needed to get back to work. Since I was always working, they did not suspect me.

It was weeks before I again saw Prometheus. One day, just after delivering a golden diadem to my sister Athena to crown an owl that was dear to her, I passed Prometheus in a hall not far from my forge. Ever curious, he asked me about my latest project. With a yawn, I told him how I just had spent hours fashioning a tiny diadem. So exhausting was this project that I had little time for conversation. Perhaps we could meet some other day; I needed a nap. I feigned another yawn, then walked back to my forge. That day, the spirit of my brother Hermes surely had infected me. As I felt Prometheus behind me, I wanted to look back, but remembering my oath to my father, knew that if I saw Prometheus approach my forge, I would have to report him. So, slowly, ever so slowly, not looking back, I hobbled forward, occasionally leaning against a wall as if to prevent myself from falling.

Back at my forge, I even pretended to close the door, but knowing that the bolt I had fashioned would lock if the door so much as touched its frame, made sure that that did not happen. I could feel a slight breeze as the door slowly glided open behind me and could sense Prometheus’ presence as well. I lay down on my pallet, not far from my forge. I shut my eyes.

Perhaps, my trick had deceived even Hypnos for as soon as my head hit the pillow, I fell asleep. It was Hermes who woke me. Zeus had looked down from Olympus just as Prometheus was giving fire to men. It was too late to take it back. I yawned to hide my smile. My strategy had worked. My brother urged me to wake up. Zeus had summoned us all to council. I hobbled there as fast as I could.

There we stood in a circle. Zeus alone sat. Held by Strength and Violence, Prometheus stood in the middle. Reminding me of my oath, father called me forward. I shuddered, fearing his wrath. Would he learn my device and again cast me out of Olympus? As I approached father with my awkward gait, Athena, dear sister Athena, kindest of the immortals, gracefully stepped in front of me. From a fold within her cloak, she brought forth her owl wearing the intricate diadem I had made. All marveled at my craft. “Surely, father, your son was exhausted from this labor. So eager was he to lie down that he must not have realized that his door was open.”

Oh, how I envied the power she had over him. She just looked into his eyes and his face lit up. Mother scowled. My sister set the owl on father’s lap; he took note of the tiny diadem. As father admired my craft, my sister turned to me and smiled. I felt a surge of warmth throughout my broken body. I could not speak nor did I need to. Father said she was right. It would exhaust even his hard-working son to fashion jewelry as exquisite as this owl’s diadem. He held up the owl and excused me of all blame. What a day it had been! My strategy worked. Prometheus had given you mortals fire. My dear sister plead my cause. My father admired my handiwork, praised my skill to all the assembled immortals.

So good did I feel from her kindness and his praise that I did not refuse him when he asked me to accompany Strength and Violence to the cliff in the Caucacus where I would bind Prometheus to the rock. I would rather not have gone. I did not want to bind my friend to the rock. But, at that moment, I could not say, “No,” to my father. I shed many a tear to see a being so fine as Prometheus, chained to that rock, but I knew that he would one day be set free.

Once he was chained, Strength and Violence hurried down the mountain. Slower than them, I walked alone for a bit, looking down on you mortals and imagined all that you could do now with the fire I had allowed Prometheus to take from my forge. I do not much care that I did not get the credit for this gift. I wanted you to have it so you could delight in your labors as I delight in mine, so you could improve your sorry lot. That day, that day of all days, that day when Prometheus gave you fire. What a day that was! Athena looked kindly upon me and father praised my craft. And you, dear mortals, you had the capacity to learn the skills that she and I so longed to teach you.

Posted by john at June 7, 2005 09:51 PM