“You just have to realize how much good your sacrifice will accomplish for the rest of your race.”
The bovine audience of one looked at Prometheus with baleful eyes. The gaze was not condemning (though he was certain the entire cow species was still bitter about its gift) but it contained such an ocean of sorrow that Prometheus found himself pausing. It was as if the creature was mourning its own death to be.
“Stop it.” Prometheus knew the creature didn’t understand him, but he spoke regardless. “It’s not like you had that much longer to live anyway. At the rate Epimethius is going you probably would have ended up as tomorrow’s sacrifice.” The cow blinked once. “What do you mean ‘first my gift’? I gave you a plenty good gift! One of the best, in fact.”
The cow mooed plaintively.
“You haven’t seen the future like I have, it’s a dangerous place and despite your penchant for herds, you’re not a very threatening animal.”
The cow turned her head away.
“Oh don’t give me that. You know I had to reserve the physical gifts for the predators.”
She turned back and blinked twice.
“Well, yes. I gave the Kangaroo a pretty good jump, but I could only give out each gift once—those were the rules—and I’d already given speed to the cheetah and strength to the gorilla and size to the elephant. It wasn’t my fault that you were so far back in line.”
The cow mooed again.
Prometheus coughed uncomfortably.
“Yes, well, flight seemed to fit the pegasi better. I mean, can you imagine flying cows?”
The bovine clearly could imagine flying cows and furthermore thought they would do a better job of it than those prancing pegasi.
Prometheus rolled his eyes. “Look, I told you, I’ve seen the future, I know where safety lies, it’s with him and his kind.” he gestured in the direction of Epimethius’ hut. “By giving you the gift of usefulness I am essentially putting you under their protection. In ten thousand years, the cheetah will be nearly gone and there won’t be a pegusis left, but your kind will proliferate.”
The cow stared at him.
“Alright, yes you will be used for meat and milk. Yes I condemned the individuals of your species to miserable lives in tight lots followed by gruesome deaths, indecent grinding for clowns selling “burgers”, and an obesity epidemic, but it won’t be that bad for all of you.”
The cow was silent.
“Some will be range fed and I’ve already set in motion a rage for hobby farming somewhere down the road that will be downright pleasant for a few of you. Well, no I couldn’t have given you companionability. I mean, the dog is just better suited for that gift.”
The cow was silent.
“Your tail was just not expressive! You looked like you were swatting flies, not greeting a friend.”
The cow turned and started to walk away.
“Yeah, I’m done talking about this too.” Prometheus rolled his eyes before remembering his unfinished business.
“Hey! I’m not done with you!”
An hour of messy work later, Prometheus had his reticent conversation partner dismembered and sorted into her component parts. Choosing the best cuts of meat, he spread the skin out on the ground and placed them in the center. Then, he rolled the whole thing into a bundle and placed it to the side. He took the remaining bones and cartilage and pushed them into an appetizing chuck of tender fat.
“I apologize for the indignity of the situation,” he said to the piles of cow scattered about the room, “it’s not the prescribed way of doing things…yet, that is. That is why we’re here, after all.”
He packed up the two bundles and headed to Olympus.
“Lord Zeus. It is good that humans should sacrifice to you.” Prometheus had been practicing this speech for weeks, ever since he had come up with this admittedly goat brained plan shortly after his nighttime visit three weeks before. But he didn’t believe a word of it. Sacrifice, in his opinion, had to be the greatest waste of resources anyone had ever devised. It’s not like there was actually anything left for Zeus after Epimethius burned a sacrifice: it didn’t magically show up in the kitchens of Olympus when it was burned. All that was left was an empty belly, a pile of ash, and a planet with rapidly deteriorating air quality. And anyway, the gods wouldn’t be caught mortal eating the kinds of cattle that Epimethius had. They only ate the Golden cattle of Helios. And yet, Prometheus said it was good that humans sacrifice. “But it is not good that they sacrifice all to you.” He continued carefully.
Zeus stiffened on his throne.
“My liege,” Prometheus hurried on. “how can the humans know what it is they give up if they are to sacrifice all to you? Epimethius has tasted cattle, yes, and he will know, but what of his children? How will they know the devotion demanded of them if every day they burn an offering to you that is no more than that, an offering? If it is not intrinsically valuable to them, then it cannot be praise for you.”
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Prometheus paused for a moment to let Zeus mull that in his head.
Finally, Zeus filled the silence by asking. “What would you recommend, Uncle? It is not good that Man should forget to appreciate the depth of his obligation to me.”
This was the opening Prometheus had been waiting for. “My liege, you must demand that man should offer only a portion of the chosen sacrifice to you. The rest, he should keep for himself for his own use, to remember how good what he has offered has been. I have taken the liberty,” he produced from under his robes the two bundles that he had so meticulously prepared: the choice meats wrapped in skin, and the cartilage, bones, and intestines sunk in appetizing fat. “Of separating a sacrifice into two parts, as seem good to me, so that you may simply and conveniently choose one and mankind might begin this new practice of sacrifice as soon as possible.”
If Zeus had been with the gods before his ascension, instead of on an island in the Mediterranean, he would have suspected a trick. In fact, one long conversation with any of the old Titans about “the good old days,” would probably have revealed Prometheus as not just a trickster, but the god of tricksters (a title now held by Hermes)—rarely or never to be trusted. But Zeus had been on the island and he had not taken the time to “chat” with any of the Titans, as such, the only thought in his head was that everyone must naturally have one goal at heart—that of accomplishing his will.
“Very well,” Zeus said, his voice resonating around the large pillared room. “I choose—”
“My liege,” Prometheus made the dangerous move of interrupting the absolute monarch of the universe. “It is enough for the gods that you merely choose, but man is a fickle thing with a great disbelief and a stubborn idiocy when it comes to tradition.” This wasn’t untrue, Prometheus remembered how he had tied up the goat when he was teaching Epimethius to pray to the gods so that the goat wouldn’t keep nibbling Epimethius’ ear and otherwise distracting him. Twenty years later, Epimethius refused to pray without first having a goat to tie up. “They will need,” he continued, “a binding oath if they are to be convinced to change.”
Zeus looked annoyed, but said, “What would you have me do?”
“Choose by your power that is and the powers that will be.”
“Very well,” Zeus ground out, then straightening in his throne, he proclaimed, “By my power which is, and by the powers which will be, I choose the left portion.”
He reach his arm out and the shining block of fat flew from Prometheus, left hand into Zeus’ outstretched palm.
Prometheus did his best to plaster on a puzzled look and, with a slight bow said, “Very well, if that is your pleasure. You are most gracious indeed.”
Zeus suddenly looked up in sharp suspicion. “Why? Did you not think I deserved the best?”
Prometheus knew he was walking a very dangerous line here. “No, no, no.” he hurried to assure his king. “You deserve the very best. In this, you have once again shown your magnanimity as a selfless god."
Zeus’ eyes went wide and he tore open the block of fat to find the utterly useless contents.
He was a dangerous shade of purple. “What have you done?” His voice was deadly quiet so that, even with his godly projection, Prometheus had to strain to hear the words.
“Bones and cartilage that I had wrapped in fat so as to keep them supple and usable over the choice cuts wrapped in skin to keep them clean.” It was time for the linchpin. He continued as though the king wasn’t contemplating dismemberment of a near relative. “This is, after all, the standard way to transport these things.”
Prometheus projected innocence. However, he also knew that Zeus could not challenge his own choice or blame him without admitting he had made a mistake—something which the new king of heaven would never admit to. The fact that he had been so formal in making the choice, choosing “By [his] power”, meant the social pressures disallowed any reversal at all. Finally, Prometheus had taunted him by saying essentially no body else would have made such a mistake. Unfortunately, Prometheus knew that Zeus’ mere inability to renege on his choice did not mean he would not seek retribution for the deception. It was entirely possible that Prometheus would silently disappear one night and the only evidence that he had ever existed would be Epimethius and the occasional instance when the other Gods would sit around chatting and someone would look around and say, “hey, do you remember that weird little Titan, Brobeastus—or whatever his name was? Whatever happened to him? Is he still kicking around the continents?”
To which the other gods would look in confusion until finally someone would say, “I think you’ve been hitting the ambrosia a little hard. Man.” and then the others would chime in with things like, “I don’t remember any Crowmeatsus,” or “Everyone important is in this room.” all of which would be perfectly true because any member of the fantastic collection of egos that makes up the gods could stand alone in a closet and know that everyone they deemed important was in that room.
Prometheus forced himself to breath calmly and returned his attention back to Zeus. He had offended enough for the day without adding inattention to his crimes.
“You are, of course, correct.” Zeus was clearly containing his anger with a great force of will. “This is as it seems good to me.”
Prometheus breathed a little easier.
Zeus pondered for nearly a minute before continuing. “While we are discussing the subject of sacrifice, the man has been diligent in performing his oblations to me. It is time that I do something to show my pleasure to mankind.”
Prometheus’ breath caught. He knew Zeus was angry and almost certainly looking for an outlet to his anger. Epimethius would be an easy target. Still there was one other gift that Prometheus had promised his son and suddenly, he saw a dangerous but possible avenue to accomplishing it. It was foolish, to press his already strained luck, but he had waited too long already.
“My lord Zeus.” He cleared his throat nervously. “If I may. The man Epimethius has long been in need of that which he wants not. It is good that we perpetuate the race of man so that they may worship you and sacrifice to you for millennia to come. However, the man, Epimethius, daily begs me not to curse him with a wife. Perhaps, in your wisdom…” Prometheus left the sentence hanging. It had been badly presented. He had not had time to prepare and in a delicate matter like manipulating gods preparation and timing were key.
There isn’t any way, he thought, that Zeus didn’t see through that. What, he thought, was I thinking?
He had hoped the dual nature of his request, a benevolent fulfillment of a need plus a flippant disregard of wishes, would satisfy both Zeus’ need to lash out and his wish to appear benevolent. But he was not yet used to reading Zeus and feared he had made a terrible error. Additionally, this was all assuming that Zeus didn’t realize how completely and unutterably false the bit about Epimethius not wanting a wife was. Prometheus did get daily requests on the subject, but not to spare Epimethius the curse, but rather to grant him the blessing of a wife. He was fairly sure, though, or at least dearly hoped, that Zeus had never listened to a word Epimethius said.
Zeus narrowed his eyes looking thoughtful. “Why have you not already forced a mate upon him?” He asked.
“Because I love him too well, your majesty. I could not bring myself to hurt him even if it was for his own good.” Prometheus was beginning to wonder whether he remembered how to tell the truth. He knew that were he to create a mate for Epimethius, she would have the same flaws that he had which would then necessarily pass down to all of their posterity in the form of ultimately disastrous mutations. He needed some other god or gods to create a mate so that their flaws would be in different places. This seemed like it may be his only chance.
Zeus rubbed his chin thoughtfully; then, unnervingly, he showed his teeth in what could most accurately be called a smile.