Edgar Brau

The Forgotten God

Translated by Donald A. Yates

(complete short story)

There are four legends concerning
Prometheus… According to the third,
his treachery was forgotten in the course
of thousands of years, forgotten by the gods,
the eagles, forgotten by himself.
KAFKA, Prometheus

I

There were no longer wounds, nor eagles, nor chains. The rock had dissolved into thin air.

The light was gone and no sound could be heard. But within the perfection of that emptiness, isolated like a germ, a consciousness throbbed.

It was a fragile movement, a readjustment amid that timeless lethargy. The faint perception of something located outside time but that nevertheless seemed immersed in it, that in some way had always been there… But nothing definite could yet be sensed. It was only the delicate impression of a stirring, of a quivering, communicated by some kind of shallow wave that flowed inward, breaking, exhausted and punctual, in the very center of that still unknowing conscience.

But then, suddenly, perception broadened and something approaching an understanding occurred. The quivering increased and amid the mists of lethargy there appeared several tatters of light. The understanding was becoming clearer. And anxiety emerged.

Anxiety over what was imminent, over what, becoming complete, is a beginning. A limitless anxiety as the consequence of understanding, which signaled that something was approaching. Something resembling a stronger consciousness that invaded the other consciousness and carried with it a sensation and the shred of a memory. The feeling of a softly wrinkled hollowness. The memory of shadowy beating wings and of the creak of rusted metal.

A recognition occurred. And quickly sorrow overwhelmed the consciousness. An anguished sorrow, at once sharp and muted. A frenzy of uneven stabbing pains that, probing the deepest reaches, left behind the impression of a loss, of an irremediable plundering.

For a moment, there was nothing but this rising tide of sorrow. But then, slowly, its initial strength diminished, the pain dissolved into mere discomfort, as a result of which the consciousness quickly recovered the sensation of an ancient burden, composed of shrieks and oppressiveness, the memory of which began to form itself into an image that the increasing brightness of the sun was rendering transparent.

The understanding, however, was now more irrepressible. So much so that it could even overcome that circle of light —that was bent on erasing it with its soundless incandescence— and succeed in having the consciousness recognize, aided by a thread of shadow that suddenly intruded before it —that the spectral body, writhing under enormous chains, its side destroyed and bleeding, was… Yes, it was a continuation, and extension of itself, the objectified product of its perception, which came together in a vague and drifting memory that seemed to grow in the presence of that shadow that was beginning to rise over the bright horizon, murmuring a name: Prometheus…

II

Prometheus… Unfathomable was the world that this word evoked. An abyss of things that once happened, things that the consciousness was trying to remember.

Prometheus… Like an enchantment, the repetition of this name drew the consciousness forward and communicated a sense of belonging… Now the perception, the understanding were emerging from that name. Only thus was it possible to comprehend fully that rock, those chains, the wound in the side, and the alarmed shriek that seemed to emerge from the very sun itself. Only through knowing that he was Prometheus was it possible to raise himself a bit, lift up an arm to shield his eyes from the sun and regard that man, that youth, whose form stood out, glowing and uncertain, in the bluish air.

Prometheus… The faint voice merged with the sound of the waves below, which rose like a supplication up along the green and scaly flanks of the mountain. The titan lowered his arm and looked into the sky. All the while, the youth continued uttering his name. Then he came forward a few steps and grasped an outcropping of rock: from that position he continued speaking the name of the god.

The latter remained with his head raised up. Then he turned and his gaze met that of the youth and for an instant he had the impression of observing himself with the other`s eyes. The youth began talking uncontrollably. But Prometheus was not listening to him: immersed in his own memories, he was searching for a moment. Finally, he discovered the protective darkness within which a grateful self had dissolved, at last forgotten. He moved forward slightly… up to the very edge where the pursuing anxiety and the pain began… He retreated immediately back into his shadowy refuge. But another urging penetrated that blessed place: the urging of a candid insistence that kept calling him…

He opened his eyes and looked back down. The indistinct murmur of a multitude seemed to envelop the youth, whose expression was radiant. He closed his eyes again. He was at once startled by a scream; he clenched his fists and a grimace of pain appeared on his face. A moment later he turned to the youth, who was trying to make himself understood, and signaled to him to stop speaking. He then showed him the chains. The youth`s features glowed with intelligence and he abandoned his position.

He began to climb laboriously, grasping onto the rock. Prometheus urged him on wordlessly. At last he reached the side of the titan. A series of steep precipices surrounded the base of the rock. The youth stood up so that he could grasp the chains, but he stopped when he saw that Prometheus was reaching out trying to bring their arms together. Their eyes met. And even in the instant when he felt the slove, his eyes never left the gaze that accompanied him down into the abyss.

From Casablanca and Other Stories, MSU Press – 2006