Much of my work is influenced by a young woman named Mary Shelley. Her life and her writing are unique in the annals of literature. She is most well known as the author of “Frankenstein or A Modern Prometheous” and often referred to as the “Mother of Science Fiction”. My own work “Metheous Sighs” is laced with references to the legend of Prometheous and his brother Epimetheous. This myth along with the connected story of Pandora also fires my imagination. The following story is both a tribute to dear Mary and also an episode that I refer to in the opening chapter of “Metheous Sighs”. You need not be familiar with either the myth or Shelley’s original work to enjoy the tale, but I hope you will do yourself the great favor of becoming acquainted with both. While you are at it read a biography on Mary Shelley. Truth is often stranger than fiction.

A Modern Metheous

I hated my father. My father hated me. He was a genius and attained knowledge centuries before his time. In the end he held knowledge of life, but not of living. Had he been a more patient man, he would not have rejected his son, myself. Had I been more mature, I would not have sought to kill him. I was not mature and so, like Dr. Freud observed, I felt compelled to live out the Oedipal archetype, only without Jocasta.

My father never lived to marry and the one he chose to marry was not my mother. Indeed, she was unaware of my existence until the evening I frightened her to death. I did have my wilderness, my Kithairon. It was where I learned of nature, mine and the worlds. It was my school. I learned that things will try to kill you if you are ignorant. I learned that the blind can see truth with more ease than those who rely on sight. My father relied on sight. It is ironic then that he was such a visionary. It is ironic that he was also shortsighted.

If he had waited, if he had cared for me, if he had sheltered and protected me like a child, he would have lived to realize his dream, for in time I healed. In time I gained knowledge and experience. In time I gained wisdom. With wisdom came regret and in truth I am not yet over the results of my actions. They were the best course open to me at the time with my limited scope of experiences.

It can be argued that I did not actually kill my father, but I know that it is semantics alone that separates the act from intent. He is dead by my hand as sure as if I had struck the blow. For I was a monster then.

Once a monster, always a monster? I did struggle with that for many decades. In my travels I met a great many people who had a great many outlooks on life and death. The strength and vitality that travels through my body is a seemingly supernatural one. I am living proof that most outlooks on life and death are wrong. My father was a scientist cut of wizard’s cloth. He imbued me with the life force of the heavens. Lightning charged my dead form and sparked the cells and chemicals to life the same way that life sprang up on this planet billions of years ago. The difference was that I did not evolve. I was a ready made man.

It also took decades to understand that the hideousness of my appearance had faded and the scars had healed, at least the visible ones. Mirrors did not convince me. It took artists and their paints and canvas to show me how others had begun to see me. It took a century and the invention of photography to fully convince me that I looked like most other humans. Larger perhaps, more pale of skin, but still a human. Not a monster. I posed for many paintings and many photographs, any chance I had and any time I could afford the commission. It amuses me now when I see a photo in a museum exhibit and there I am standing with others in that ancient sepia time. It was not all like that, all black and white, all brown tones. It was a bright world filled with color and scent and motion. Those old still pictures show us frozen in time as if all we ever did was sit still waiting for the light.

I loved my father. In his own way, I believe my father loved me. He was a genius and he created me. I believe that my father did not fully comprehend the why of my existence, the full implication of his ability to recreate the combination of molecules and the surge of vitality that came from above. He believed that it was the lightning and the electricity that brought life to the once dead cells. I know different. I know that lightning is just the carrier.

My father was ignorant. He possessed no understanding of cellular structures or DNA. Molecules themselves were still not fully known or even believed in at the time of his life. There was much superstition and my father, for all of his science, was still a product of that age’s religious nonsense. A part of him still believed in a heavenly father and still believed in a mighty god of love who would punish him eternally. Damn him! He should have known better. I am proof of the error of that concept.

Yet, I did seek to punish him for what I imagined were his sins against me. The theological seed did not fall far from that rotting tree.

It took a journey to the roof of the world for me to escape the concept. It is a peculiar part of my nature that I need and thrive in the coldest of climates. It is not something that we have been able to explain. Yet.

The Himalayas were a revelation for me in many ways. In the days that I traveled, most of the sojourn was on foot. There were carts and horses and later, trains to some extent. My early visage prevented me from traveling in public and my size prevented me from traveling in any conveyance. It was no matter. My stride and strength took me many places on the planet. I sought the most isolated of areas. I sought peace through hermitage. My first revelation about the high passes and valleys was that they were in fact populated.

The sons of Cain had taken refuge there in the distant past and lost their ruddiness. The adaptive qualities of life are truly amazing and a miracle and that is the closest thing that I have to a religious belief. That and one other. The second revelation was that I was welcome. It is no surprise to me now that the community could know of my existence and coming long before I was in their presence. Then I was still coming from the restrictive and oppressive European philosophies. That I had intellectually rejected those thoughts was true. My heart, however, knew no other reality and I was still young in my life to trust fully my perceptions.

In the High Pass commune I took to sitting in meditation. Many humans from all levels of development had made their way to the High Pass and the community was fully integrated. They had become adept at the walking between worlds and could see beyond the mere physical forms that we walk about in on this planet. If that sounds like religion to you then you have not pursued the science of it.

There is one other thing that I hold as a religious belief, something I believe in faith only with no proof other than my own questionable perceptions. I believe in the dragons.

I have seen them twice. First in the Arctic while I pursued my father to his death. After his essence left his flesh, I found I had no reason to live. I wandered north with the thought that I too would succumb to the mortality of the flesh of the men from which I had been created. I soon discovered that I was doomed, not to death, but to life.

My power and my vitality are beyond most things alive. As I wandered the Arctic Circle above the European continent I faced great challenges. It was not simply the elements. I seem to be peculiarly capable of surviving the coldest of environments. I also fought and defeated a great white bear that stood over me by nearly ten feet. I resisted and defeated a pack of starving wolves that sought me as a meal. I wear the beasts’ pelts from time to time still.

Once, I fell into and was frozen by the great northern seas only to drift and thaw and return to life off coasts and shores foreign. It is only one of many times that I believe I should have died. I did not resist death in those early days.

Before I experienced that icy death and rebirth, I saw the dragon. I was exhausted from the wind and had laid down again in an attempt to die. Three days passed and I was covered by the ice and still I lived. Reluctantly I rose. Standing there on the sheer white plains of frozen water was a beast of immense size. It sparkled and flashed in the pale, cold sun like liquid silver or mercury. It rippled with power. It spread one immense wing then the other and snapped its snaky, spiked tail with a sound like thunder. Ice cracked from the vibration. It turned its face to me and opened its jaws wide, tooth and fang clear and large and sharp enough to grind my form to bits.

It is a good way to die I thought.

And then the dragon finished his yawn.

And then the dragon noticed me.

And then the dragon asked me a question.

“Are you a giant?” The voice rang clear and shook my bones and organs. I knew without knowing how that he had not actually spoken, that I had heard his thought directed into my mind. My confusion was clear to him and he then introduced himself. “I am Metheous.”

In our short time together the dragon was ever direct. “You are different from all other life.” He said with no judgment, no hatred and no revulsion. I believe that I amused him. He seemed interested in me. He invited me to walk with him.

To this day I have no clear recollection of the narrative we conducted. I did regain my ability to speak. It is from that point in time that I became able to express myself with clarity. I believe the dragon healed my brain. I also believe that he healed my heart, but he did not remove the scars or pain. In this he was wise, for my greatest lessons have come from my wounded, healing heart.

We “talked”. That is, we spoke without speaking. It was impossible to actually verbalize anything as the wind whipped the frozen words away before they were fully able to be released from my mouth. We walked. I found myself descending into a great cavern. I know in my intellect now that there is no land mass in the arctic and that I must have been on and in ice. In my heart I know that we walked through rock and gneiss from a primordial time, stone that was ancient before the dragon was born. I do not seek to explain it. I cannot. I only know what I saw.

The dragon told me I was a man. It did not matter that I was different from all other men. He told me that at one time there had been a first man that had been different from all others. He told me of many that had been the first of their kind. He told me of the rejection that they all faced. He spoke as if he faced rejection himself. He told that the time was coming when hope would return to humankind. He told me that I might be a part of that hope. He did not say how.

His “voice” sounded as if there were two beings speaking simultaneously. I wondered about this, but he did not reply. The cavern was warm and eight small flames lighted the interior intermittently, flashing here and there in sequences that I could not decipher. From time to time I sensed other presences in the vast room, but none approached me. It was a strange feeling and the first time that I felt acceptance from more than one being.

How long I spent in the cavern with Metheous I do not know. My early life is a blur and I am unable to reconstruct my history from that time. I would have stayed there forever. Eventually Metheous said, “Even one such as I need sleep and you yourself are not so mighty that you cannot benefit from stillness. Now be still.” And with those words I fell asleep, for the first time without nightmares.

When I awoke I was a changed being. There was no cavern and no dragon and I was out on the ice in my bearskin cloak and wolfen boots. In front of me burned an impossible little fire, and in my hand, a knife. I have that knife still and in fact have on occasion risked my life rather than lose it.  I pulled the skins from my form and in the cold snow and ice began working them with a skill that I had not possessed when I had pulled them from their dead hosts. Using the knife, I trimmed and cut and pulled and stretched. In the days that passed the fire did not go out and I did not feed it and I knew that I had received it as a gift.

One day, when I had finished my rough sewing, I sat quietly, wondering what to do next. It was arctic summer and the sun had been above the horizon all this time. That day it dipped slowly into the west. I stood up and followed it. Behind me the fire vanished.

My travels took me to and fro across the wilds of the northern continents. There are many legends of my life and some of them are based in truth. Humanity found the monster in me fascinating and I know now that it is just because they recognize the monster in themselves. A girl, a child really, told the tale the best. Time has diluted it to myth and fable. The moving picture has stripped the monster to its core and it seems with each passing generation the legend diminishes and the humanity is depleted from the character. I know today that this is because humanity has itself become more monstrous. Some ask me if this bothers me. I am not that being, I reply. I am not a monster. I am a man. I know this because a dragon told me so. It is a religious belief I hold and makes as much sense as any other.

The second time I saw a dragon was after I had left the High Pass.

My teacher had seen me working at some carving with my knife. She looked at it carefully. She had me hold it and turn it, side to side and back to front. She would not touch it and asked that I speak to no one else about it. She went to the council of elders. When she emerged, she immediately sent me off on a sojourn. She bid me farewell and blessed my traveling companions and myself. She did not explain and that was not unusual.

My trek took me across the country of Tibet. I was guided by the white sons of Cain. Many legends come from our travel for we choose speed over stealth. We were witnessed by many eyes.

We descended down from the mountains into the hills of Asia and then into the jungles. I was forced to pause to become acclimated to the heat of the equatorial regions. My companions turned me over to the ministrations of the forest dwellers and they took me in as one of their own. Our journeys must have been a strange sight, for I towered over them, almost twice their size.

We walked through thick and moist jungles, the air heavy with the smell of life and death, growth and rot. My lungs ached as I learned to breathe the thick humid air. The sun was mercifully kept away from my skin by the canopy of giant leaves and fronds that covered the hot skies. It was soon though, that I did face the fierce rays of the star.

I had learned much from the jungle men and learned their stories and myths as I learned their language. We traveled far and at a leisurely pace, for which I was grateful. I learned the languages of my differing guides as I was passed from one peoples to another. It did not occur to me that I was swift at attaining proficiency in these differing dialects and no one seemed to find anything unusual about it. They were too busy commenting on my rare size. They were too polite to comment on my skin.

I had quickly taken to wearing little clothing. In the manner of my hosts I would wrap a cloth about my loins and often a robe tied at the waist.

I never considered these tribes my friends, but was always greeted and treated with respect. The one that would meet me would typically take me to a strange man or woman. That one would look at me and chant or dance about for a bit. I always stood still until they had gained what knowledge they sought. Once approved of by the shaman, I would find myself welcomed by the village or town. It was a very different experience here than the first part of my life.

I grew to enjoy the warmth of the people and the warmth of the land. I never grew completely comfortable and the Shaman would sense the moment I was ready to move on. Leaving almost always made me melancholy, as if I was leaving behind a potential home.

The children would often start at my appearance. The women would be curious, but guarded. Soon enough the young ones would approach and, as I became comfortable with the idea, they would set themselves in my lap in the evening. Sometimes four and five and more of the little ones would find places to sit on my shoulders or knees when I perched on rocks or logs, or sometimes within the crook of my arm, nestling and falling to sleep in the late storytelling sessions that went on in my honor. How strange I thought, to be so small. How strange I thought, to be so trusting.

Sometimes one of the women of the tribe would begin to pay closer attention to my needs. It was then, too, that the Shaman would decide that it was time to move on.

The beauty and grace of these people captivated me and I was constantly aware of the massive lumbering nature that I exhibited. I was constantly comparing myself with these ancient and simple ones. Large and pale white, I moved with much noise through the vines and roots. My companions, browned and sleek, light and lithe, slipped through trackways that I could not even see without their help. In those years the Europeans had not yet blundered fully through their lives. I recently returned there to seek any trace of these ones. I found none.

Everywhere I traveled I asked questions. I sought their view on all matters. It came as a surprise at first when I heard them speak about dragons. Soon, it seemed that everyone had a tale to tell about the dragons. Some were local legends, some grand myths of creation, some had the creatures flying, some swimming, some earthbound and burrowing. I listened and learned and never once mentioned Metheous.

They would often become curious about my pack, for I carried the bearskin coat and wolfskin boots. These items had been added to at the High Pass commune; buttons and fleece lining, strong lacing and thick soles, pockets and a proper hood and wrapped tightly in a protective slick, leather sheet. Deep inside the roll, lay my knife. One of the craftsmen had fashioned a metal sheath. Another had created a carved and beaded belt to carry it more efficiently. Another had taught me how to use the blade more easily and for many things.

I learned to throw, slice, thrust and parry, gut, trim, cut and stab. He showed me ways to open a wound and remove errant sticks or arrowheads and then gave me needle and thread to close the wounds again. He would often trace the scars of my own stitches gently with his fingers and often with a thick paste that smelled of butter and honey and some kind of strong tea. In this way my scars began to heal and disappear. They had not completely faded when I took my journey south through the mountains and jungles to the sea. I could sometimes notice the guides looking at my scars from the corners of their eyes. It was at those times that I believe they felt fear. It is to their credit that they did not succumb or display this fear.

Eventually we reached the sea. A gathering of people lived on the shores. Small boats and nets and racks of drying fishes made up a great deal of the village. Small huts of grasses and bamboo sat in a semi-circle facing the open water. The sun burned overhead.

My guides bade their farewells, disappearing back into the thick growth. Two men came up to me gesturing and leading me toward the shore. Understand that I did not know where my teacher had sent me or how these various guides knew where to take me. I was acting in faith certainly, but I did not have much else to do with my life. Despite what might be termed physical hardship, I was experiencing a better form of companionship than I had received in the villages of Europe. I held no desire to return to the mobs and torches and judgments. Now I was shown to a vessel resting on the sands. Quickly the two men and some others stowed some gear and provisions aboard. Together they gripped the sides of the boat and began pushing it towards the water.

I strode forward and tossed my pack aboard. Grabbing the craft by a trailing rope I hauled it swiftly into the surf. The laughter and smiles and claps all around were pleasant to my ears. I stood looking back at the village as the waves surged around my knees. I had not spent an hour there and already I felt as if I were leaving a home.

I climbed into the small craft gingerly and with more grace than I had when I began back at the High Pass. I did not realize at that time that we would be sailing out of sight of land in the tiny boat. Had I known that, I would have surely refused. The sun was setting as we prepared to leave with the tides. My two companions, skin leathered from years of sea fishing, quickly moved about the vessel and prepared an area for me to sit. The air was calm and warm and I had traveled far that day. I set my roll against the side and lay my head down. The gentle rocking of the boat and the quiet song of the eastern winds brought my day to a peaceful close. My last sight was of the deep indigo of twilight and the piercing stars forming a shining canopy above my water borne bed.

My waking was different. I awoke to a high sea and waves the size of hills. The captain and his mate hauled back and forth on the rigging and the sails responded quickly. The boat rose up the side of one wave and slid swiftly down into the trough to await the next crest. I was terrified.

Over the next three days I gained a perspective. I had been on sailing vessels before, but never anything so small. After the initial terror I was able to stand partially upright and lean out over the stern. That stage of the journey was one of the few times my stomach failed me. At length I came to a point where survival took over for fear and I was able to add rudimentary sailing skills to my life’s experience. By the time we spotted the northern shores of what would come to be known as Australia I felt as if I could actually control the craft, at least in quieter conditions. Despite sailing the lakes of Geneva and Switzerland and Italy, I have never ventured to test my skills on a body of water of any true size and strength.

Tacking about, my guides found the spot of shoreline they were looking for. It all looked the same to me. When we arrived we were met by a tribe of the blackest of black men that I have ever seen before or since. They wasted no time in greetings or farewells and no explanation was given as to how they knew I was coming. If an explanation had been given I would not have understood it. I began to learn yet another language.

It was here that I faced the tropical sun completely. It was ironic to me that I, who had been frozen and survived, who had existed in elements of cold, clad in the most basic of skins, who had stood exposed to the biting winds of the arctic, should be facing death in this land of warmth and dryness. I remember being carried after I collapsed. The men in the tribe must have lifted me together, though it felt as if I were being cradled like a child.

When I awoke we were all in the shadowed area below an overhanging rock. It seemed that we had been there for a while, for there were signs of encampment all around. It was impossible to tell how long I had been journeying and I had not tried to keep track. Now in my heat induced altered state of mind I had time to wonder at the turns my life had taken. A fever roared through my brain and body and I shook in the heat as if I were cold. My vision shifted and became tricky. The pictures that were painted on the wall of our cave seemed to come alive at times. I thought I could hear the voices of my teachers back in the High Pass.

One day I awoke to the feeling of hands at my back and neck and head. The tribe was propping me up and an old woman was smiling at me as she held a gourd full of liquid to my lips. My fever seemed to be gone, but I was weak. The fluid touched my tongue and before I could gag the old woman quickly turned the container upward and emptied it into my throat. Fire seemed to race down to my belly and I stood up in a rush. The tribe was thrown backward away from me, but they did not flee. I grasped at my throat and wiped at my eyes for they had started to tear and water was rolling down my cheeks as if I was crying. My breath came in ragged choppy gasps as if I were sobbing. I dropped to my knees in weakness, as if I were supplicating or praying. In those moments I might have actually uttered a prayer.

I entered another realm. It literally opened up and I walked into it. The land seemed the same, but now I could see that it was far from an arid lifeless region. There seemed to be beings everywhere I looked. I have little recollection of the nature of these creatures. They were not afraid of me, but they did not approach me readily. I thought again that I must be dying.

It was then that I realized how strong the will to live had grown inside me. It was then I knew that death was no longer something to pursue. Life in all its variety and experiences was waiting for me and I choose then to live life fully. That was nearly three hundred years ago. I still live.

I pushed against the experience. It pushed back. I was stronger. I returned to the People, for that is what they called themselves. My strength returned quickly after that.

Night fell across the land. The temperature dropped and the tribe began to pack up to leave. After a few miles I was able to discover the reason for traveling in the cold of the night desert. The sun, they said, was not my friend. The night would be good to me.

In my defense, I had not asked them to do this thing. Many of the tribe began to show signs of being cold. They were not prepared for this and normally would be huddled together near a fire. I pulled my roll apart and distributed the warm clothing that I had carried so far. The knife and sheath I belted to my waist.

Several days passed and we developed a routine. Some of the young men and I would venture out at sunset. They would be clad in my garments and I would face the elements. It was no hardship. The balance of the tribe would make camp and stay warm and near the fire. At daybreak we would arrive at predetermined point and make our own spare camp. The tribe would follow during the day and meet us at the camp. A group meal and some songs and gossip and then I would be sent off.

On the way the tribe would gather and hunt in what seemed to be a desultory fashion. Yet, at meal times there was always plenty to go around. As usual, I quickly learned the way of speaking. At night I asked the young men of their myths and their gods. Their stories were like none others. And they told a tale of a dragon. They said serpent when they spoke, but it sounded like a dragon to me. The rainbow serpent, they said. The rainbow dragon, I heard. I asked if they knew where they were taking me. To the rainbow serpent, they said and laughed. I smiled, but inwardly I wondered what that could mean.

After walking for many days and nights we camped outside a settlement of some kind. I could see activity and cook fires and people milling about in random, purposeful movement. We did not approach that night or the next day. The old woman who had given me the drink went ahead and alone.

One morning a stranger approached the camp. I had lain awake all night as I sometimes did and still do. Sleep is not as necessary for me as for a … normal man.

For one such as I, in a land such as Australia, the heat of the day begins almost as soon as the sun rises. The stranger approached in a haze of heat. In fact, when he got closer it appeared as if the heat was radiating from him. He carried the scent of fire and hot metal. His skin was the color of bronze. He was as tall as I.

We stood looking at each other for a time. I have often wondered how I appeared to him. My normally pale white skin had succumbed to the force of the sun. Rather than turn a brown or tan color, I had simply deepened the white until I was ashen grey. My eyes are dark and deep set and in the bright light can be very shadowed. I am told that it is a very scary effect and I have used this to my advantage.

His eyes ranged up and down my form. One of the people brought over the cloak of bearskin and he fingered it carefully. Another came over with the wolf skin vest and he regarded it. A third showed him the fur boots and he ran his hand gently against the wolf leather. Then he looked at me. Finally, without a word, he indicated the sheath at my hip.

I had come far on trust. Now this stranger wanted to see my knife. I had never sharpened this knife. It had never needed it. It had never cut me by accident, though I had run my thumb over its edge. It had served me as a weapon and a tool and an eating utensil. It had been given to me by a dragon. A dragon who asked if I was a giant.

Now a giant was asking to see my knife, reaching out to touch it.  Many things went through my heart at that moment and my brain raced with conflicting thoughts. In the end, it was still a matter of trust and I made the difficult leap. I handed it to him handle first.

The blade of the knife is shiny and thick at the middle. It is two edged and actually quite long. Knife may not be the right term for it, for in the hands of a smaller being it is more proportionately like a short sword. In my hands it is a knife. The haft and handle are simple and comfortable. They are made of a bone like material, or perhaps something like ivory, pale and white, like my skin. The handle rests comfortably in my hand no matter the position I hold it.

The giant took the knife in his own hand and hefted it gently and with, I thought, a touch of reverence.   A look of surprise crossed his face and briefly his eyes lit up. He said one word. “Metheous!”             

He extended the knife, cradled in his palms out to me. His eyes fixed on mine and I was unable to look away. The knife had been important to me in a very personal way up until that point. Now it seemed as if it was some holy artifact from some ancient spiritual experience. I felt small.

We walked in the hot sun. A massive rock dominated the landscape and did not get smaller. Understand that I was in this still point of the world before the Europeans had gotten there. Nothing held a name that did not come from the People. All was pristine in a sense and peaceful. The People still struggled for an existence, but the land gave them what they needed and they spoke to and heard the language of the earth. I could not hear what they heard nor see what they saw. My entire strength went into each step under the fierce forging fires of the southern sun. My strength, once formidable, was now drained and emptied onto the anvil of Terra Australis. I kept nothing that was not necessary. I held nothing save what was truly of my essence.

“You are being purified.” The giant voice rolled back across his shoulders. “That is why you are here.”

Ahead of us a cavern seemed to open up. My feeling was the same as when I entered into the cave of Metheous, though I do not know what I mean by that. The cave was not of the large rock. Rather it was something that appeared. We walked in. The shade and coolness was a physical thing. I stumbled as I crossed the shadow line. My mind went dark with the shadow of the hollow.

I woke slowly and felt cool water flowing from a smooth cloth across my face and neck. It seemed as if a small high voice was speaking, but I could not catch the words or their meaning. As I regained my senses, I looked about the room with eyes rested from my nap. There was only myself and the giant. He strode casually across the stone floor.

Propping myself up on one elbow, I felt the damp cloth fall from my forehead. Again I looked about the room, but there was only the two of us visible.

The giant spoke with a peculiar accent. Not quite English, not quite Germanic and definitely not from the any of the tribes I had journeyed with. I could understand him most of the time, but had a feeling that his original tongue was much more ancient than any I might have learned.

“My name,’” he spoke low, “is Nort’ on.”

I am reasonably certain that is what he said, but I may be completely wrong. My head was still a bit fuzzy and I believe the impact of the travels had caught up with me. I was disoriented and feeling feeble. Everything that I saw or heard was suspect. I did not trust my own senses. I could only trust the moment. Then he asked the question.

“What is your name?”

Up to this time I had always identified myself as my father’s son, but in truth he had never given me that name. Now I knew I could no longer claim what was not mine. I truly had no name. I stayed silent.

The giant reached to the side of my resting place and pulled a large ladle of water up from somewhere. I drank it quickly and spoke. My voice was dry and rough. “Thank You.” It seemed that I had never said those words before.

“You are welcome.” Norton’s voice was deliberate and steady. Smoke seemed to come in wisps from his mouth. It must have been a trick of the light and shadows.

I tried speech again. “This heat, it is not like this where I was born.”

“You should be here in the summer.” Norton laughed a bit. “Can you tell me about the knife?

 Would you rather rest?”

I reached to my side and my hands came up empty. I sat up quickly and searched all around. The metal ladle fell noisily to the stone floor. I stood up and swayed dangerously. Norton caught me and set me back down.

“It’s okay! It’s okay. The blade is right here. Your blade is safe. You are safe. It is okay.” Norton spoke softly and steadily and handed me my knife. He smiled. The room smelled of smoke.

My eyes adjusted and I looked about the cavern, noticing many things for the first time. As I looked I told my tale. Norton sat still, shifting slightly now and again. A light seemed to emanate from his body and heat also.

The center area held a forge. I did not know it to be a forge at that first sighting, but I could see the light from the flames playing against the high, blackened ceiling. Little flames were all around the perimeter walls, banked in stone or metal braziers, casting a warm and beautiful glow. The stone walls carried the soot of ages at those spots. The rest of the stone was magnificently polished and held a blue green glow of its own. It was as if light was inside the very walls. Occasionally I would see, sense really, a movement. Something small would flit or flick in and out of my awareness and I could not tell what it was. I believe that there were many creatures with us in the cave that day. I do not believe I could identify them even if I had seen them clearly.

I had paused in my narration. The giant prompted me. “Tell me where you,” he paused and I sensed he did not know how to ask the question. “How did you happen to come into possession of the knife?”

I realized that I had been talking about my travels to and from the High Pass. I was not consciously avoiding the story of the knife. Now I consciously approached it. I told the giant, Norton, everything that I could recall about my encounter. I told him that a dragon had found me on the arctic ice and taken me to a cavern similar to the one we were in. I told him that we spoke without words and that the dragon, Metheous, had seemed to like me. In the telling, I felt that the story must sound ridiculous. To my surprise, Norton described the coloring of the dragon, Metheous, and asked if the voice sounded like one or two voices.

I sat silently. Here was someone who knew Metheous. At least knew enough about him to know his voice. I wanted to be suspicious. It was not part of my training to be trusting, though somehow I had found ways to be betrayed by trust many times in the past.

I had no strength now to mistrust. Norton stood up. “You are very special. We are possibly entering a very special time and you may be the first to know that.” My mind whirled and I felt the dizziness overtake me again. It occurred to me that it may not be the heat.

I awoke slowly and comfortably. From my half closed eyes I could see Norton. Perched on his giant forearm was a winged creature. I say creature, not bird, for this was not any avian species that I recognized. In fact, until it spread its wings, I thought it to be a lizard of some type. Norton spoke and I believe that I heard his mother language for the first time. The creature made a similar sounding noise in return. I felt I was overhearing a conversation. My linguistic skills were not up to the task of comprehension.

Norton walked over to a door. Later, when I had a chance to examine the door I could see that it led nowhere. That is, it was set upon a shelf near a wall. It opened and one could see right through to the rest of the room. It was a door hung on hinges without a wall about it. You opened the door and saw what you could see by looking over, under or around it. It was a beautiful door. Oak polished to a high gloss and metal fittings with semi-precious stones of tiger eye and hematite inlaid and shining. It led nowhere.

I tell you this so that you know that I know that I must have been hallucinating what happened. Indeed, I am not certain that my entire adventure was not hallucinatory in nature.

The creature entered into the doorway and vanished. From the doorway a gust of arctic air and a burst of snow blew inward. Then I saw my second dragon.

At the back of the cavern, the wall had not held the same luster of the sides. The beauty of the side walls had actually distracted me from noticing the back wall. Now I saw one eye, nearly as large as the giant, Norton, open slowly, cast a look at me and blink. The firelight danced in the dragon’s eye and I could see that it was a beautiful orange and yellow iridescent.

“Greetings.” The dragon spoke to me and in a feminine tone. Norton whirled about.

I had long since reached my limits of belief and I assumed that if this were all true then life was stranger than even one such as I could ever know. I extended a greeting back to her.

We talked of many things that day. Or perhaps it was night. It may have even been a week or a month that passed while we conversed. The dragon, Uluru was her name, wanted to know of Metheous and perhaps I had met others that were of the draconic persuasion or maybe other giants. It was clear to her that I was not a giant, but she asked if I wanted to become one. I politely declined and explained that Metheous had said I was a man.

Uluru was amused and said that Metheous should certainly know a man when he sees one. I do not know what she meant by that, but she was not speaking in mockery. In fact, Uluru only spoke affectionately of all things. As we spoke and as time went on, she seemed to gain strength and I felt a presence of mind that exceeded my previous limits. I felt myself growing, not smarter exactly, but perhaps more capable of being smart.

More than my brain, I felt my heart growing.

Uluru’s skin began to shine in the firelight. It held all the hues of the rainbow. I could sense, once again, the presence of other beings around us. I did not look about and neither did Uluru. We communed in private in the presence of all others. Norton brought water to me and on occasion food as well, cakes with the sweetest honey and cream and cheeses like I had enjoyed in the isles of Britain.

Uluru said, “Even one such as I need sleep and you yourself, mighty as you are in the power of life, can benefit from stillness. Now be still.” And with those words I again fell asleep at the behest of a dragon.

When I awoke, Norton was sitting next to me. We were in a garden. My roll of skins was lying nearby wrapped tightly and my knife was lying atop the pack next to the sheath. The metal of the sheath gleamed with a fresh sheen and polish. I noticed some stones set in the sides that had not been there before. They were the blue green stone of the cave.

I felt wonderful.

“Welcome back.” Norton smiled. The scent of wood smoke danced around him. I smiled in return.

“I don’t suppose I can stay here.” I let the question be the answer. “It is so peaceful and still in this place.”

We stood together and began walking about the garden. It was amazing. A riot of flora and in the midst of the hot arid desert! Norton handed me a small leather sack about the size of my hand. Not so small to the average human.

“Seeds,” he said. I took them without comment. Something told me that I would know what to do with them when the time came. I tied the sack to my belt. Something told me that I would know what to do with all of this when the right time came and I have been proven correct in this over the centuries.

After I left Norton and the garden and the rock of Uluru, after I traveled my lone course back to the sea and across, after I traveled through new lands of ancient peoples and learned many tongues and many religions and many techniques, I returned to Europe and to Switzerland and France and Italy and Britain and Ireland and it was in all these places that I made my home. During the late 1700’s and into the late 1800’s I journeyed the known world. Yet that is a long tale best told over a hot Mongolian chai or thick Turkish coffee.

“It is a still point,” Norton said. “One of many on the planet and not everyone will find them. Those that do find them do not do so easily. Except for the still points of the world, there would be no dance of life. The still points, the centers, are the source of all movement and you would regret staying still and not following the path and opening the doors. You are being purified. Like gold gets purified in the fire, only for you it is dragon fire! I have tried to forge you here and others have and will attempt to forge you. You will be subject to the forge again and again. Do not despair, for it is only when gold is removed from the fire that it is valuable and Gaia evidently finds a great deal of value in you. It is not long now that a great movement will occur. Many injustices will seem to occur and you may feel the need to take arms against them. My advice is, do not. You can be the still point, the balance that the dance circles around. It is a much older dance than you now know.”

“Will we meet again?” This time I wanted an answer.

“I hope so and I believe we will. There is much of this place in you now, but there is much of many places in you already and of many beings also. It is a puzzle to me, your nature and your existence. It is unlike anything I know and I have knowledge of many things. You may meet one such as I. His name is Wayland and he is my brother. Show him your sheath and he will know that you are my friend. It is he that made your knife. It is made from the scales of an Ancient Dragon. Scales, by the way, are for balance.”

I felt Norton slip away from my presence or perhaps I was slipping away from his. “Farewell!” I said loudly, hoping he could still hear.

“Fare forward!” his voice rang in my mind.

*************

I would have liked to spare the child her life of sorrow. I met her quite by accident in the bitter winter-like summer of 1816 in Switzerland, near the shores of Lake Geneva. She had braved the elements rather than stay locked inside a cold and dark old castle. A storm overtook her and she had become lost. I believe that she would have died had I not found her and chosen to rescue her.

My little cabin was close and damp. Being a creature who rather enjoyed the cold, I lit the fire only rarely. Young Mary was soaked and freezing and the fire I prepared for her gave life to her slender limbs. At first she was fearful and I said little. This was such a common reaction in my early days that I quite naturally attributed it to my visage. I still did not trust my reflection.

The first words that I can recall her saying to me are, “Do you mean to do me harm?” Her words and tone were direct and she sounded resigned. She did not sound like one who was afraid. She looked me firmly in the eyes. I fell in love.

I stumbled over my words, my voice halting and stuttering, my brain not quite connecting with my mouth. I sounded, to myself, much like my first attempts at speech in my father’s laboratory. I told her how I had found her near the shores, lying beneath a tree. I told her how I had carried her to the cabin. I told her how I had lit the fire and that I didn’t need a fire and I had some food and that it probably was not what she was used to and that she could have it all and my bearskin cloak. I rambled on like this for some time until she reached over and placed her hand on mine.

“Who are you?” she asked. I was silent for I still, after all my travels, did not have a proper name. I told her so in quiet tones. “No name!” she responded slightly aghast. “Then we must find one for you! Tell me who you are by giving me your history, for it is from there that we shall draw proper meaning to the word that will describe you.”

I started slowly. Over the next several weeks, she returned and spent time and moments with me. She asked and I told her. Something in my story seemed to resonate with her. I do not know if she truly believed me, but she asked and she listened and she did not run away and she returned time and again.

I have known women since then and I have loved and been loved by many people male and female. None is as sweet in my memory as Young Mary.

Eventually, she told me some of her tale as well. Eventually, she took me to meet her friends and her husband. That is what she called him, but I was uncertain of the legal status of their union at the time. I did not like him. I was not alone in this and he was found dead on the shores of another lake some years later. I tried to protect him for Mary’s sake, but he was rash and very headstrong. It seemed that he spoke not to make friends, but rather enemies. He did not easily think of others and Mary deserved better treatment. History remembers him better than I.

That I was jealous I have no doubt and claim nothing else. Mary, however, was devoted to him and that was enough for me. I stayed apart from them. That is, I kept a watchful eye on them, but did not let them know of my presence. It was not enough and in the end I failed to protect them from themselves.

After she had written her book, Mary sought me out. She read me the whole tale and I easily recognized it for what it was. My life as she had perceived it. I wept. I do not easily get moved to tears. There were many things that were inaccurate, and she focused only on the tale up to the time in the arctic. In the remembering I do not believe that I told her of the dragons. I did not care. She was not truly telling my story, but her own. I met her father and in this way she and I were similar. The power and emotion of my early life was there in her writing, and indeed the story has resonated through the centuries since then. For me, it was enough that some one had listened; someone had cared.

She asked my permission to publish the work. She asked! As if I would have refused her anything.

I was there when she died. I wept.

It is hard for those that hear of my life to believe and most do not. I don’t really care. It is sometimes hard for me to believe as well. That my father was able to create life is not so hard to believe. Many believe they have a father that created life. That I have lived for nearly three centuries is not hard to believe. I have the pictures. I have the stories. I have the relics. That I have hope for my fellow man, after everything I have gone through and witnessed, well, that may be hard to believe.

A dragon told me once that I was a man. Since then I have sought to be the best man I possibly can. If I can do it so can the rest of humanity. Perhaps.

Of all the arts I understand poetry the least. Because of Mary, I sought to gain the spirit of a poet. In the end, I simply kept company with them for several centuries. I never learned to love them the way she had. 

*************

I sit today in the top floor of a very tall building near the center of the continent of North America. There are no walls, only windows. In the center of the large room is a circular fireplace. The flame is visible from all around the room. I can look out in any direction without obstruction. To the east I see a great lake. To the north, a vast shore filled with humans and their dwellings. To the south, industry fills my view and I marvel at the works of men as I witness the lighted ribbons of roads that extend from the north to the south. In the west, the sun sets over a vast land that rolls off into farm land that feeds these humans and more.

I have had a dream the last three nights. It is always different, but somehow I feel it is the same dream told three ways.

First I dreamt of a pale giant. It is Norton’s brother Wayland and all around him are sparks of light. Some of the sparks fly as if they have a life of their own. He raises his eyes and looks through the fires of his forge. He looks right at me and I know he can see me. I believe we will finally meet and soon. A woman stands behind him in a garden. She seems to have wings. She holds out a rose. For Wayland or myself I do not know for it was then that I awoke.

The second is of a high mountain. I am standing at the peak and all about me dragons soar in the high sunlight. I stretch my arms wishing that I too could fly. A dragon of many colors floats before me. On his back is a small rabbit. A second dragon, deep greens and browns and larger, lands next to me. I hear the voice in my heart as he offers me a ride. I woke up before I could know my decision.

The third then is of Norton. He lies on the floor of his cavern and his forge is cold. Uluru is not in her place at the back of the cave and I fear that he weeps for her death. I do not believe that Norton is a being easily moved to tears. I reach to him to give him the comfort of companionship. He looks up and around, but does not see me. He does not know what name to call me and then I came awake.

*************

I was born of fire and light. Magic and science together granted me life. I have much power, but in the end I could only bear witness to unreal things over which I could gain no power. I have seen the world dry up of sensible things. I have felt the world of fanciful things evacuated for the purpose of profit and religion. In these things, I became witness to the world of spirit becoming inoperative in the world of man.

I hear a call now. Perhaps you do too. It is not a call that makes sense. It is a call to enter into the world of fancy. It is a call to the path, to the world of spirit. I have been still for too long now and must renew my exploration of the worlds.

In beginning again, I know that the beginning is often an end, but the simple act of ending is also to create a beginning. I had thought to travel to a home I have in Little Giddings in Huntingdonshire, England. It is there that I thought I might spend sometime amidst the roses. It is a place that I believe magic may happen one day.

From there, though, I believe I will soon travel again to the still point of the world in Australia.

I thank my father for creating me. I hope that I can redeem his memory by my life. I thank Metheous for granting me life. In many ways he is also my father. I thank Uluru for being the mother that I needed. It is she that granted my heart life. And I thank Mary for striking the spark that set my heart alight.

It is Mary that first called me Deucalion, the son of Prometheous, bringer of fire and light to all mankind.

I look forward to being able to introduce myself to my friend Norton.