The Son of Vulcan
When the stars killed the sky and the sun had forsaken Earth, those who were bound to her planetary mass were engulfed by the black hem of night’s perpetual shadow. Man and monster, blossom and beast, water and rock—these entities lived and battled, wilted or flourished, raged or sat inert beneath a darkness shared by all.
The son of Vulcan, who took his father’s name, inherited the strength of the smith and the gift of fire—glorious fire!
The daughter of Mercury, who took her father’s name, inherited the grace of the messenger and the gift of speed—glorious speed!
The son of Marabou, who took his father’s name, inherited the hunger of the scavenger and the gift of hedonistic pleasure—glorious hedonism!
The darkest of evil has no lineage; no mother from whom to wean, no sire to claim their name. The darkest of evil inherits nothing, yet exudes the vile qualities that make it what it is. Echidna crawled from the depths of Tartarus, claiming sadism for her banner. She mimicked the savagery of the snake, nurturing her pleasures from the harm of others. Stealth and strangulation, venom and fang—these were her touchstones of pride. Torture was her art. Deception, her vocation. Malice came as freely to Echidna as the laughter on her lips when her victims cried for mercy.
When Nox impaled Tengri with her waxing crescent, tearing wide the eternal blue, his unfurled robes darkened after his death. His body fell, colliding with Terra’s bleeding heart, seeping deep to poison her core. Without a ray of light to spare for the profanity of the gods, the world that was their playground, Sol, in a darkening mood, transposed his brazen gaze to shine on other planets.
Heroes and villains converged. They came together with velocity and flame, wrath and hunger, seeking to claim the tumbled relics of the sky, hoping to seize its clouds and ether, lifting Tengri’s robes which stifled the harvest, clogging Terra’s lungs. For the granting of power, or the return of order, the sons and daughters intersected with benedictions and curses on their lips. With bonds to unite, or hammers to break, they forged the history of man.
When the dust had settled, one warrior remained: Mercury, who took Vulcan’s gift of fire and bestowed it upon man. A new device, a new weapon, an asset for the apes and cave-dwellers who carried crude tools and lived in tribes that vied to dominate one another. When they built a pyre in celebration of their newfound craft, Mercury approached the towering flame. Slowly, stoically, she entered the fire, ascending, joining Vulcan in the sky.
ABOUT THE ARTIST
James Callan lives and writes in Aotearoa (New Zealand). His fiction has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, Burial Magazine, X-R-A-Y, Reckon Review, Mystery Tribune, and elsewhere. His collection, Those Who Remain Quiet, is available from Anxiety Press. X: @James_CallanNZ
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