Pandora’s Burden

“My brother warned me to not accept gifts from the one who commissioned you,” said Epimetheus to the woman clad in silvery raiments standing at the entrance to the temple. Her silver tiara and the silver rings on her fingers and toes glinted in the firelight cast by torches set on either side of the doorway. Lingering in the shadows, beyond the reach of the flames as she was, he could not tell what she held in her hands. At first what appeared to be a box was perhaps a funerary urn, or maybe merely an apple.

“Where is your brother now,” she asked, though she already knew the answer. The first ones she’d met after she’d emerged from the forge had taught her about the world as they’d clad her and pierced her lobes with silver jewelry. They’d lilted with song and story as they fed her ambrosia with a silver spoon. The ugly one, the one who’d made her, did not speak, not as he appraised the fineness of her form, nor when he limped back to his bellows and hammers. He did not gather with the others to watch as his creation was cast into the realm of mortals.

In the void between worlds she was approached by one last benefactor. “Pandora, I am your father,” said Zeus, who appeared, at first to be a swan, then a white bull, then a serpent, but also a man with horns and cloven feet. “Bring this to your husband to be,” he said, withdrawing a box from his toga and placing it in her hands, “I have faith that his inclinations will see this project to its proper end.”

Pandora rotated the thing in her palms, feeling the coarseness of its ceramic surface, pressing her ringed fingers into its firm, ripe flesh, tugging at its bow. “I shall decide what to do with the box, Father. As for this husband to be, I shall decide about him, too.” In that moment Zeus rued the free will of mortals, Titans, and even homunculi, constrained as he ever was by The Threads of Fate. She had then taken the box and proceeded to the temple of her destiny, which she was to know by the barks, cries, and grunts of the menagerie within.

As he was standing at the temple entrance, pondering the question about his brother, a fox stuck its black-snouted, red head between Epimetheus’s legs and pondered the scene. “Move closer, I can’t see,” said the scorpion on its back. The creature crept forward. “Oh, she’s a finely made thing,” added the scorpion, “nothing like those nasty brutes in the caves. Made in the image of the Gods, so they say. My tail, I say. Let her in. I want to nestle in the folds of her clothes against her warm skin.”

“Let her in, I wish to peck at her shiny adornments,” said a crow, alighting on Epimetheus’s shoulder. The Titan stood aside, allowing Pandora and the parcel she carried into the temple.

The gates of stone led into a forest at dusk, with a pastel sky visible through the branches above. Pandora could see craggy mountain peaks towering over the valley. “Come, it’s getting late,” said Epimetheus, leading her deeper into the trees. They were accompanied by a procession of animals, as a truce was called among those who most often negotiated with tooth and claw to the death. They were enchanted by this new offering from the Gods, exactly as had been her maker’s designs.

Epimetheus led them all to a clearing in the woods where sat a sizable structure made of vines.”Welcome to Shangri-La,” he said, bidding her to come inside, “or Eden, or any of the other names my brother tells me this place will be given. I call it Utopia, but I am told I was born flawed and limited in my thinking, hence the current situation. Now the others punish me.”

“What do they punish you with,” asked Pandora.

“With you,” came the reply.

The fox, with the scorpion on its back, followed them in, aa well as a timid looking rabbit. The crow hopped from its perch on Epimetheus’s shoulder, alighting on a huge, woody mushroom which served as a table. The massive fungus was flanked by two vine chairs growing out of the ground, the whole tableau sized for Titans, who were larger than mortals, though giants more in presence and aura than in stature. Pandora hauled herself up into one of the seats at her host’s invitation and sat, with her legs dangling in the air. Epimetheus grunted something and departed down a tall corridor of arched vines.

As the sun set, the room grew dark. With the fox licking its chops as the scorpion whispered something in its ear, the rabbit spoke up to break the tension. “I can hear what’s scratching away in that box,” it said.

“What do you hear, Little One?” asked Pandora.

The rabbit crinkled its nose and said, “Inside the box I hear a wolf-like hunger, but not for food. I hear desire, the kind any rabbit is well acquainted with, but it cannot be satisfied. I hear conflict, not in pursuit of food or mates, but rather to control everything as far as one’s eyes can see, but more than that I see the means to do it.”

“Oh it would be terrible if those nasty, rock throwing apes in the caves got into all that,” shot the scorpion from its perch atop the fox.

The light was dimming rapidly as Pandora looked down at the rabbit. “Do you hear anything good in the box?” she asked, but the response was interrupted by Epimetheus’s return.

He emerged from the hallway, carrying two wooden bowls, ensconced in a halo of yellowish light. What at first appeared to be some strange sorcery was merely a cloud of fireflies which swarmed above his head. Seeing how dark the chamber had grown, the Titan apologized as he placed the tray on the table. He clapped his hands and the entire ceiling exploded into light. “I am mistrustful of fire,” he said.

Expecting ambrosia, Pandora slurped oniony nettle and hazelnut soup directly from the wooden bowl. When she asked for water, a spring sprang from the floor beside her chair, allowing her to sip from the stream. As they ate, Epimetheus explained that he and his brother Prometheus had been tasked with making life in the garden. He said that he’d taken all of the Gods’best attributes and distributed them among the animals, but when he got to the last one: Man, the one made in the Gods’ own image, he’d run out of good things to endow them with, as he lacked foresight. They’d created Man for entertainment, but all he did was pick berries and squat in his caves. Epimetheus said the others were angry with him now, which was why they’d sent Pandora.

Without even asking about its contents, Epimetheus said that they should just open it and be done with it, as the others always found ways to get what they want. After dinner, the animals scampered back into the forest and Pandora was led to a bed made of leaves. The titan thanked her for her company, and departed for the upper stories of the house. Before he left, he told her to clap her hands to turn off the fireflies, and said he hoped she’d stay, no matter what was in the box. She fell asleep with the damned thing in her arms.

At first light, a piercing scream rang out through the whole valley, awakening Pandora from a deep slumber. She emerged into the dining chamber to find Epimetheus with a sheepish look on his face. “My brother,” he said, “Each dawn he greets us so when the eagle arrives.” He offered her nut cakes made from acorns and told her that if she found his diet of raw foods unpalatable, she was welcome to cook if she wished, that his brother’s lamentations should serve as a reminder of his gift of fire to mortals such as herself. Or, he said, she could go to the men in the cave, they cooked what they killed with their flame-hardened spears. Epimetheus added that he could not provide her with silver rings or tiaras, but presented her with a gown made of spidersilk and a wooden diadem, which she graciously accepted, but left on the leafy bed.

“I shall visit your brother today,” she said.

Pandora wove a bag out of grasses and climbed the craggy mountain upon which Prometheus was chained with the box held tightly to her body. Halfway to the top, she was startled and surprised by the appearance of the crow, who cawed encouragement as she ascended. Hauling herself up the final ledge, she saw a large, flat, bloodstained rock, upon which was chained a naked Titan. “Wake, Prometheus,” bade Pandora, which caused his eyes to flicker and open.

Prometheus beamed when he saw that he had a visitor, though his smile lasted but a moment as he began screaming when he caught sight of the crow. As Pandora comforted him, she noticed that his bound limbs were uncalloused and his body free of scars. “The wounds last only in my mind,” he said, apologetically, returning to his senses. She told him of the box and who had given it to her.

Prometheus repositioned himself to the best of his limited ability, sitting up, as much as he could, to face her. “Zeus has many names, but he is a trickster,” said the Titan, warily. “He makes you think he wants one thing, when he wants the opposite the whole time, but no matter what you do, you get punished. I think you should take that box and bury it.”

“No! Open it,” scoffed the crow, “It’s full of scratchy things that will mate and multiply underground or bitter seeds that will sprout into trees bearing unkind fruit. Better to peck at them now than let them take foothold. Release them one at a time and I shall snatch them from the air.” Prometheus flinched at the bird’s eerily human voice.

“Better yet,” said Prometheus, settling back into place, “burn it. Let my stolen gift to mortals do something other than char meats and brand flesh. Let my pains and sacrifice mean something.”

“I shall consider these points of view,” replied Pandora.

“Go visit them now, if you dare,” said the Titan. Pointing with his eyes before closing them, he added, “Climb down the descent there and meet the burned men. You are meant for them as much as you are my brother. They need the idea of you to evolve. Do it now, or do it later, but you’ll do it in time. Such is the Fate or the Will of the others, as if there’s a difference.”

Pandora climbed down the indicated path, encouraged in her progress, again, by the crow. “Hang in there!” it said when things looked precarious.

Finally back on the forest floor, the black bird led Pandora along a well-trod path between the trees. It hopped from branch to branch, darting ahead and back. “Smell that? Smell that?” it cawed. In the air she could detect an unfamiliar smell, unctuous like ambrosia, but charred with memories of the forge she was born in. At the end of the path stood the fox and the scorpion. They gazed across a burnt, ashy field at a narrow cave opening in the side of the mountain’s base. A hundred feet up the slope a plume of smoke billowed into the wind.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Are you not drawn by the smell?” said the fox, replying to her question with a question.

“I am drawn by it, yes, but it is not what draws me here,” came her reply, “I have come to see mortal Men so I can better decide what to do with my burden, which may be a boon to them, though it could also be a great danger.”

“Fascinating,” said the fox, licking its lips, “I am here to snatch cooked meats they sear on their fires.”

“Do you not fear the burned spears I hear they carry, or the rocks they throw?” asked Pandora.

“They fear my burden enough that they simply stand there and let me do as I wish,” said the fox, “Come with me, we shall protect you.”

“Hey! I resent that,” chittered the scorpion, raising its tail as the fox set off across the field, “but it's true, they’re terrified of me.” Pandora followed, while the crow waited at the treeline.

The fox’s arrival in the cave was met with a single, loud hoot of alarm followed by the cessation of all activity. A few paces behind, Pandora stepped through the opening into a frozen scene. The cavern was a large, flat-floored space, mostly empty, except for a few towering mineral pillars around the chamber. A huge bonfire blazed at the center of everything, venting up a natural chimney shaft above, and illuminating a hundred or more mortal men caught in the act of living their lives. All of them, young and old, were scarred with burns over their naked bodies.

Most were marked with elaborate designs on their limbs and torsos, marching ranks of lines and sun-symbols placed with intent, but some had seared foreheads, burnt hands, and brutally melted flesh exing out their scarification, which spoke to Pandora of punishments inflicted. Worst of all were the few she saw with burned out eye sockets and the dangling bits between their legs seared away.

Many men were cooking slabs and scraps of meat set on hot rocks around the fire, close enough to sizzle the victuals, but not hot enough to burn the frizzy, scraggly mats of hair that spouted from their heads and faces. Some were sleeping on grass mats away from the flames, while others merely sat in groups looking at shadows cast on the cave’s walls. Pandora saw a large man rutting with one of the burned eye ones, who was bent over a rock with a line waiting their turn.

Everyone remained still, except for those who stepped aside for the fox, which they did so slowly, so as to not attract attention. All their eyes were focused on the scorpion, who raised its tail threateningly. “Take what you want,” it said, snapping its claws in the air. The fox snatched a few small scraps and wolfed them down, mouth wide as it chewed the hot meat. As Pandora stepped forward, the men first saw her. A chorus of alarm hoots sprang out all over the cave, and the group collectively lunged towards the fire before freezing again.

“I can’t protect you from all of them,” chittered the scorpion, sounding alarmed itself, “I exist as more of an idea than an actual threat.” The fox snatched a steak and turned to flee. Pandora stuffed racks of ribs into her woven bag and followed. They didn’t stop running until they were halfway back to Epimetheus’s vine abode with the crow keeping watch at their rear.

That night, full of smoky meat, Pandora built a bonfire in the clearing. The fox, crow, and scorpion waited eagerly for what was to come next. As the flames danced, other animals arrived to bear witness. The rabbit hopped around her feet as she withdrew the box from the bag, and she could see Epimetheus observing from the door to his home. She lifted the box above her head and said, “This gift from the gods may not be what Men need, but it may be what they deserve.” She opened the box.

What flew out was a small thing, which floated, more than flew upwards. Cawing, the crow darted from its perch on Pandora’s shoulder and tried to snatch it from the air, but it was wispy, ephemeral, and growing quickly.

Pandora put the lid back on the box and all assembled watched Knowledge permeate the world, dissipating into the night sky above the bonfire. It seemed that they had done a terrible thing. “Oh, now you’ve done it,” said the scorpion.

When all was quiet except for the crackling of burning wood, the rabbit said, “I hear something else in the box.”

Hesitantly, Pandora lifted the lid again, allowing Hope to escape. It drifted into the air unassailed by the crow, and she began to think that perhaps things would not be so bad. Tossing the now empty vessel into the fire, she walked back to the house of vines, accompanied by the animals, to try on her spidersilk gown.