And I thought, A morsel of liver.
And we were higher now, Mrs. Bernstein’s farm no longer in view. Walking the mile that, fifteen years ago, had determined that I couldn’t be with Nick today. My forehead wet with sweat, my head full of a sound like wind clattering a sail, the sound of beating wings. Thinking, Better not look back. Thinking, Do not look back.
Mrs. Bernstein asked, “Are you all right, Sam?”
And whaddya think? ’Course the Hermit came, in Grandpa’s story. Grandma was knitting her scarf, her lips curled in a vague smile. Julia fast asleep. Me listening to Grandpa’s words: “He was an old man in a dark brown cloak, snow-white hair, though the funny thing was that no one could actually see his face. But no one cared, because the Hermit had given the townsfolk the gift of fire. You should know, all this happened in a time before humans had discovered fire. Before that, the people in Phoenicia had lived in clay, and fire made it possible for them to rise out of it, and what’s more, now the party could go on all evening.
“Before long, torches and hearths were lit in the banquet hall and the delicious smell of roasting meat wafted through the air. The townsfolk had also prepared a gift, but among them was a handsome and strong young man called Prometheus, and he played a trick on the Hermit. Prometheus served him two dishes, one with a delicious tender steak hidden in disgusting-looking ox tripe, the other with the ox bones hidden in glistening roasted grease. Naturally, the Hermit chose the latter. The townsfolk ate up all the meat, laughing and slapping each other and Prometheus on the back.
“A shrill scream pierced the hall. Wind blew from all sides and it became dark all at once, because the torches and fireplaces had been blown out. A woman screamed, ‘Dear Lord, he is the mountain! He is rising from the ashes!’ And in the pale moonlight no one could see exactly what she meant, nor did she ever utter a single word about it again. But the furious Hermit was gone and had taken the fire with him, and he kept it hidden from them forever.”
A gnarl or an ember must have popped out of the hearth and caused the rug to catch fire, I told Mrs. Bernstein. That’s what their theory was, at least. I said, “We were all sleeping. By the time the smoke alarm had woken us up, we only had enough time to save ourselves. The living room was ablaze, and within a minute you could barely breathe because of the thick smoke, and the fire was already spreading to the roof. The cabin was lost.”
“How awful! So fast! Fire is such a dangerous thing, Sam. There’s a reason they say, ‘If you play with fire, you get burned.’ ”
“Grandma screamed. I’d never heard her do that. Can you imagine what it’s like to hear your grandma scream?”
“My god. Poor thing! It must have been terrible. And was it your grandfather’s idea to put you on the sleigh? To put all three of you on the sleigh and drag you down the mountain?”
“Yes. He tried getting the car out of the garage, but it was too late.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “He was as strong as an ox, your grandfather. It was an act of heroism that he managed to bring you all to safety before you froze to death. Because, my lord, that night was freezing! Many people would get lost in that kind of cold.”
I shrugged. “All he had to do was follow the mile down.”
“Oh, but there are other ways of getting lost up here. I still remember what you looked like when you knocked on our door. It was like there were four snowmen on the porch, two big ones and two small. My, it was such miserable weather, with all that nastiness falling from the sky! The snow, the birds . . .”
“There weren’t any birds,” I said.
“Oh yes, there were. They must have been drawn by the fire, dozens of them, big ones too, and they spiraled above the place where Huckleberry Wall was burning. Like they were searching for prey.”
“There’s no way you could have seen that,” I said, hearing how unsteady my voice was. Something was wrong. With a shock, I realized that Mrs. Bernstein was neither muzzy nor senile. “You couldn’t even see the treetops, you know. Because of the blizzard and the dark. And you were never up there, that night.”
“Are you sure? That’s not how I remember it. Some nights I’m still there.”
And Mrs. Bernstein walking beside me. Walking beside me on the Panther Mile, and wild horses couldn’t have dragged my gaze in her direction. Only her bony silhouette in the corner of my eye. I stared dead ahead, to where Zeus had preceded us, but if he was there, I couldn’t see him. The path through the woods was silent as the grave.
Prometheus didn’t take it lying down. No way. Fifteen years ago, in Huckleberry Wall, just before it went up in flames, Grandpa told me, “One day the crafty Prometheus said to the other townsfolk that he was brave enough to venture climbing up there and stealing the fire, so he could give it back to mankind. Of course, he was ridiculed, but Prometheus still clambered up the mountain, and when he got to the Hermit’s house he found it empty. The Hermit was nowhere in sight. But the fire was burning in the hearth, and Prometheus stole it in a giant fennel stalk.
“When, holding his torch, he had reached the base of the Panther Mile, the people of Phoenicia flocked around him. The crowd broke out with a cheer and carried him in celebration into the town. Prometheus had become an instant hero. For days, they feasted, because with fire they could now roast meat and forge iron and heat water, and civilization rose up from the clay.
“But in the midst of it all, they didn’t notice the pitch-black shadow soaring down from the mountain. They didn’t hear the bird’s hoarse croaking, not until handsome Prometheus was nabbed by razor-sharp talons and, legs flailing, carried into the sky, higher than the tallest trees, higher than the church’s spire. It was a giant eagle called Ethon, and Ethon took him to the top of the highest mountain. There, Prometheus was left exposed to the elements. Wearing only a loincloth, he was chained to the rock, and the eagle ripped out his liver and gobbled it down with gulping, birdlike jerks of his head. And—”
“Herb, you’ll give the boy nightmares,” Grandma broke in, giving him a piercing look over her knitting.
“But that’s how it went, Dorothy. You know that. And not just once, because Prometheus’s liver grew back every night, and the next day the eagle would return and rip him open again with his claws and devour the bloody organ. Sometimes he only used his beak to tear the flesh from—”
“Herb!”
“It’s okay, Grandma. I don’t mind,” I said, not mentioning that my mind was still on the loincloth, the loincloth I saw my handsome hero wearing, chained to the rock.
The loincloth. That’s what did it.