Prometheus Wakens - 3. Chapter 3: Day 3, Oak

Chapter 3 Day 3: Oak I

The Dryad-of-the-Day was waiting at the table, with breakfast laid, when Olive and I reached the patio.

“Good morning,” I greeted him.

“Good morning, My Lord,” he said. “I am Oak, and I am about 2,000 years old.”

Oak, like his tree, was sturdy—muscular, stocky, a bit like a high-school Greco-Roman wrestler of my world. He appeared to be about fourteen, a year or two older than Maple, Ginkgo-1, and Olive had appeared.

“Please call me Lucas,” I said, “unless there’s some different protocol to follow when one of the gods is visiting. And, why did you tell me your age?”

“Uh,” he blushed. “Maple and Ginkgo said . . . you wouldn’t . . . ”

I managed not to laugh, but must have smiled broadly, for his face got redder.

“And you want to?” I asked. The boy’s blush grew brighter, but he nodded.

“Come here, please,” I said. “Give me a hug, and be at ease.”

He did as I bade. It was a good hug: strong. I whispered into his ear, “Do not fear me, Oak, for I believe there is nothing any of you boys could say or do that would offend me. I am confident of that, and I want you to be confident of my love and respect for you all.”

We released one another. I looked at him. Oak’s eyes were shiny with tears, but I knew they were happy tears. “Thank you, Lucas,” he said. “I . . . I think we have been waiting for you for a very long time.”

Breakfast was a treat, and very different from the day before. Buckwheat pancakes with maple syrup, and sausage. Of course, there was fruit.

“Oak? Who plans the menu?” I asked.

“Do you not like it, My Lord?”

“Lucas,” I said. “Call me Lucas, remember? Yes, I do like it. I just wondered.”

“I don’t think anyone plans, Lucas” Oak said. “I prepared with the help of others what I hoped you would like from what I found in the kitchen.”

“You like this food, but it does not nourish you?”

“Yes, Lucas. We can take pleasure at food, we can take pleasure at . . .” He blushed, and then continued. “ . . . at other things. But this food does not nourish us.”

“Before we go to work in the groves,” I said, “would you please show me around the kitchen?”

Fascinating. The kitchen, that is. A gas stove and refrigerator. Yes, a gas refrigerator. I remember being surprised by that when I first learned it. A high school physics class, I thought. Where was the high school? What else did I study? But the memories were slippery and didn’t want to be pinned down.

The pantry had no plastic: containers were metal or ceramic. There were lots of mechanical things: mixer, sifter, Madeline, coffee mill. Mechanical, but nothing electric. Light, as elsewhere, came from panels in the ceiling. I realized, then, that I’d not turned on or off a light. Something else to find out about.

We took an inventory of supplies and used a fountain pen to make a list. The six-pointed star on the cap of the pen looked suspiciously familiar. It was another memory that would not come to the fore.

“Oak? I think we need to go grocery shopping,” I said. “But what do we do for money, and where’s the nearest Piggley-Wiggley?”

Oak showed me a casquet, filled with gold coins. He pointed to several chests, the size of steamer trunks, along the walls. “They are full,” he said.

I’m rich, I thought, and then realized how stupid that thought was. I was a titan. I had powers unparalleled. Still, I did need to operate in the mundane world, and needed to be able to feed the boys who visited me, even if what they ate wasn’t nourishing.

We walked to the village. Along the way, Oak described my estate. It was quite a bit larger than I had imagined.

“The wheat and buckwheat in these fields,” he gestured to one side of the road and then the other, “are farmed by people from the village. In return, they provide both kinds of flour.

“Here,” he gestured after we’d walked a bit farther, “is grown sorghum and cane, from which syrup and sugar are taken. These fields, too, are tended by people from the village who pay you in kind.”

“Oak? I am not entirely comfortable with that thought. The people who tend the fields and who pay me from their harvest, are they serfs? Are they slaves? Are they free to seek another arrangement? Are they free to bargain with me?”

Oak nodded as if he understood. “They are not the tenants or share-croppers of your reality,” he said. “Hebe made that clear before . . . before she left. She set up things.” He said that as if he just understood it. What he said, next, cemented the notion.

“Hebe was careful to establish formal bonds with the villagers before she left. The bonds are still in place.”

“Who administers the estate?” I asked. I was reluctant to force Oak to think of Hebe’s absence, but felt I had to.

“As eldest, Ginkgo has had that responsibility,” he said. I remembered, then, that the Ginkgo was one of the oldest known angiosperms, dating from perhaps 270 million years ago. I also remembered that in my world, the species was considered threatened, and at risk of extinction. I must remember that, I thought.

I was concerned about the reaction of the townspeople; however, I needn’t have been. They were dressed not unlike Oak and me: tunics for the most part. Some in trousers and shirts; women in skirts or something resembling a sari from East India. The merchants were glad of our custom, and promised delivery to “the house of Hebe” before day’s end. I didn’t disabuse them by saying that Hebe no longer lived there. I think they knew that, though.

We returned in time for lunch, which had been prepared by someone in our absence. We spent the afternoon working in the groves. About 4:00 o’clock, or what would have been 4:00 o’clock had there been any clocks in this place, a new Dryad ran up to me. He knelt, bowed his head, and said, “My Lord Prometheus, you have guests.”

I stared. His hair was green. Ginkgo’s yellow had been on the edge of what I would consider normal, but this boy’s hair was the innocent green of new spring growth. I wondered if it were a sign of youth.

“Please stand, and look me in the eye when you speak to me,” I said. “And call me Lucas, unless there is another protocol when one of the gods visits. Tell me, please, what is your name and how old are you?”

“I am Yew, and I am twelve years old.” He seemed to think about that, and added, “Eleven going on twelve.”

“Thank you, Yew.” That got a giggle from both boys. I pointedly ignored them, which only got more giggles. “And which god is visiting?”

“Not a god, My Lord—I mean, Lucas. Neighbors. Mundanes. Galen and Ariane. They live on the farm, in the valley, down the path, past the wheat fields . . . ” He seemed to run out of descriptors.

Oak, who was listening, added, “It’s the first one we passed on the way into the town. The one with the seahorses on the gate posts.”

I nodded. “Where are they?”

“Half a stadia away on the path to town,” Yew said.

“Oak? Will you arrange light refreshment on the patio, and then will you and Yew join us, there?”

You and Yew got another giggle, which I ignored.

Oak nodded, and gestured to Yew. The boys vanished. I began the walk back to the house. I searched the information Demeter had given me, and realized I’d have to get someone else to show me the vanish-here-appear-there thing.

Galen and Ariane were a youngish couple. Young by my pre-transformation standards, at least. I guessed him to be about 30; she, a little younger. They were waiting on the patio when I arrived, and immediately knelt. I think they would have prostrated themselves had I not spoken hastily.

“Galen? Ariane? Please, stand. Yew tells me that you are neighbors. I think it is important that neighbors be friends.”

The couple rose, but stood awkwardly. Hmmm. I needed to do something to put them at ease.

“I’ve asked the boys to call me Lucas, unless there’s some protocol to follow on formal occasions. I hope that you will call me Lucas, too. We’ll deal with formality when we have to. Will that be acceptable?”

Ariane recovered more quickly than Galen. “Yes, Lucas, it is most acceptable, thank you.”

She smiled, although one side of her mouth was lower than the other. Stroke? I wondered, and then realized that it was a wry smile when she smiled with both sides of her face and said, “My sister, who has a shop in the town, said you came buying food. She also said you bought no eggs. We’ve come to gift you with some. Neither she nor we knew you were a god until . . . until the Dryads met us on the road, just now. I hope you believe that.”

I laughed. At first, Ariane and Galen seemed afraid, until I said, “I didn’t know I was a god, myself, until a few days ago. Please, will you sit? The boys have anticipated our needs, and prepared refreshment.”

The next half-hour or so passed pleasantly. I told Ariane and Galen a little about myself, stressing that I’d inherited the estate of Hebe and intended to be a good neighbor, while leaving out a lot of how I’d gotten here. Ariane told me about their farm, on which they raised chickens and goats. She opened her basket, and showed me the eggs she’d brought. I thanked her, and asked Yew to take them to the kitchen. “Oh, and Oak? Would you please bring us water?” I asked.

As soon as the two boys left us, I addressed Galen. “You’ve not said much, but I’ve watched you. You’ve kept your eyes on Oak and Yew, and I see something horribly sad in your face.”

That’s all I said. I had more than seen; I had felt. I tried to select my words carefully. I did not see anything froward in his face or his mind, only ineffable sadness. I did not want to force him to speak, but to give him opportunity to do so.

There was a long silence. Then, Galen spoke. “Yew and Oak. Our sons died at about the age of these boys—twelve and sixteen. I know that Yew and Oak are dryads and are probably centuries old, but they appear to be the same age as Dmitry and Andreas. I cannot look at them without wondering what happened to our boys.”

I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach. “Galen, I’m sorry. I did not mean to ask you to live old and sad memories. Please, will you forgive me?”

“You’re a god, and you ask forgiveness?” Galen whispered.

“I am, and I do,” I said.

Galen bent over, put his head in his hands, and sobbed. When he was able to control himself, he sat up, looked at me through tears, and said, “I give you my life. I swear eternal loyalty to you.”

Wow! That wasn’t what I was expecting!

“Galen, I thank you, and I accept your loyalty. You should know, that loyalty is a two . . . a two-edged sword. Your loyalty to me means I will be eternally loyal to you.”

“Galen’s oath binds me, too,” Ariane said.

I chuckled. “Well, I think we’ve pretty much taken care of the neighbors thing,” I said. “I still hope that as time passes, and we learn more about one another, we will become friends.”

Galen cast his eyes at the table and scrunched his brow. When he looked up, he said, “I hope that, as well, for as Aristotle said, Without friends no one would choose to live, though he had all other goods.”

I thought about that, in the context of the loss of Galen and Ariane’s sons, and simply nodded. I could think of nothing to say.

Oak and Yew returned with water. I asked Galen and Ariane if they’d stay for supper, but they declined. “We’ve chickens and goats to put to bed,” Ariane said.

Sex that evening with Oak was both satisfying and exhausting. He was strong, and he had stamina that exceeded mine. At first, he held me, wrapped his legs around me in an unmistakable invitation to enter him. Which I did. At one point, I lifted him from the bed and stood, holding him in my arms while he was supported seemingly only on my penis. He leaned back so that his prostate received greater stimulation. I heard him crying my name as he came. His seed spurted into the air between us. I was unable to either pull him to me, so that he could feel the pressure of my tummy against his, or bend down in order to capture him in my mouth. I was afraid that he would be disappointed.

I needn’t have been afraid. Afterwards, he begged me: “Please hold me; please, just hold me!” So, we lay in the bed and cuddled with my penis still in him. At first, I wasn’t sure how long I could sustain my erection; then, I realized: I’m a titan, with powers unimaginable. If I can’t at least keep my dick hard for a while, I should probably abdicate! And then, I wondered about the origin of that word, abdicate, and nearly laughed. That would have spoiled the moment, so I bit my tongue.

It worked. We lay together. Occasionally, I would slide in and out of him. I heard and felt his pleasure.

Finally, we seemed to agree that enough is enough. I slowly withdrew, Oak kissed me, and we went to the shower.

Chapter Notes: “Froward” (FRO-ward) really is a word. It’s the opposite of “toward” (TO-ward) as in “to and fro.” Shakespeare used it in Richard III, when he described the little Duke of York (who asked Richard to ride him as a monkey on his back) as a “froward” child, although many modern translations, made by cretins who have no appreciation for the language, render it as “forward.” A “toward” child was tractable and obedient. A “froward” child was a bit naughty and certainly not docile.