The God of Clay and Fennel Fire: A Retelling of The Golden Goose

Chapter X: More Than a Singe

The streets of Mecone were quiet except for the din of the forges, solitary chinks of hammer meeting metal, the whoosh of bellows. Instructions were whispered or written down on paper. Doors were closed despite the heat of the fires. The people of the city knew something was wrong. They could see by the way Prometheus watched from his house on the hill. He hadn't been down to see them in weeks. Only Deucalion traveled between them with orders or encouragements. But some suspected that he was carrying his own words. Prometheus seemed to have lost all interest in them.

But this was scarcely the truth. Prometheus' mind was on nothing but the well being of his city and his creations. Their future was uncertain. He knew that much. But he could not prepare for what was to come. His foresight was limited in many ways. And although he could see that something was brewing in Olympus, he could not tell what exactly it was.

Prometheus turned back into his one room home. This was not the existence he wanted for Mecone: his men were fugitives in their own homes. They had sent up extensive sacrifices every day at dawn since his return, but Zeus was not satiated. So their work was carried out in the quiet of uncertainty. They rebuilt the homes torn down by the rampaging bulls of the Overseer. They relit the fires of their kilns and their homes. Warmth and good food were once more traveling through the streets on streams of smoke and savoury smells.

But this vague peace would not last for long. Prometheus was sure of that. He sat down at his work stool and looked at the statue that was slowly taking shape over the weeks. Her arms had shapely muscles and her neck was long and delicate. Her eyes were outlined and her hair softly curled to her shoulders. When she was finished, it would reach the middle of her back. Today, he turned his attention to her shoulders—they were too wide—and her collarbones, which needed more definition.

As he worked, he followed his plan, delicately drawn on a parchment scroll by his feet. The shape of his woman as well as detailed instructions guided his hands. Hours passed without his hands stilling or his breath hitching from the deep and steady inhalation and exhalation that had become the metronome for his movements.

As the sunlight dulled from the window, lamps and candles around the room lit on their own. But as darkness fell upon Mecone, the winds picked up. From the peace of his room, Prometheus could hear the clamour of his men as they worked to secure windows and doors, bringing in equipment left outside and tools that could easily be blown away. The wind howled through the small windows and the candlelight danced violently, throwing shadows around the room.

Prometheus looked up from his work. This was it. Zeus' rage had been let of its leash. The door slammed open and a wind of a different kind blew into the house. It blew out the candles and threw Prometheus against his worktable. Tools clattered to the floor and the titan could barely open his eyes against the tornado.

Prometheus knew in whose presence he stood. He could taste him on his tongue. "Hermes!" he shouted into the wind. The sound of his own voice didn't even reach his ears. "I know it is you! And you do not want to come between Zeus and I! The crossfires are a dangerous place to be, even for a god!" The winds did not still and through the flurry of scrolls and clay flying through the hair, Prometheus could see his woman slowly inching for the door.

"No!" he shouted, peeling himself off the table. He tried to lunge for the statue, but the wind only pushed him back. On his second try, he threw himself with the direction of the whirlwind and was yanked into the carousel. Half a breath later, he was in reach of the statue. With every last inch of energy in his legs, he pushed off the wall and made contact with his woman, knocking her to the ground and securing her down with his weight.

And then it was over.

Prometheus rolled over to the ground, his eyes still clenched shut and his breath trying to keep up with the screaming in his lungs. He sat up and surveyed the damage. The statue's arm had broken clean off mid-forearm and the side of her face had softened and crumbled away.