A son was born to a wealthy family. His mother and father had prayed to the Gods for a strong, healthy baby. These god-honoring parents were naturally shocked and upset when their son left his mother’s womb and arrived in this world with limbs twisted and gnarled. The parents’ dismay was very great, and the boy’s mother wept inconsolably. It was quickly decided that no one would know about the horribly deformed child.
He was quickly wrapped in fine, silken swaddling clothes and sent away in the arms of a faithful nurse. The parents spread word that the infant had been born without a breath of life in his tiny body, and their lives continued as before the ill-fated pregnancy. The boy was banished to a remote villa on the coast which, despite its seclusion, was luxurious and well-appointed. So the boy was raised by his household staff, which consisted of his nurse, a cook, and an elderly tutor.
As the boy, who was given the name Oakarion, grew, the natural curiosity of a child went unsatisfied. He craved adventure, but in his seclusion he could only live vicariously through his tutor, who often recounted the various trials and tribulations of many great heroes and kings. Oakarion was also fascinated by the sea. He often wondered what lived — or died — beneath the turbulent surface. As he grew, his walks on the beach became longer and longer as he combed the sand at low tide for treasures cast ashore for him by Poseidon. In spite of his twisted limbs, the boy grew strong, not bothered in the least by his deformity.
One day, Oakarion found a mighty blade cast upon the beach. He hefted it, wondering what great or horrible deeds had been performed with a weapon of such rare caliber. He knew little of swords and weapons, but something told him that this blade was extraordinary. Something about the metal burned powerfully in his palm as he gripped the hilt. The gem in the pommel glittered as if it contained a hundred stars, and the blade was straight and true. He picked up a bedraggle feather and rested it on the edge of the blade. The feather fell to the ground in two pieces before he even applied pressure.
Upon Mount Olympus, the sword’s owner knew the moment Poseidon released it from his hold. Hephaestus had been waiting for Poseidon to return the weapon for centuries; after all, he had only loaned it to the sea god, not given it to him to keep. Hephaestus came down from the mountaintop to stand before Oakarion on the lonely beach disguised as a mortal. “Oh thank you for finding my weapon!” he exclaimed in a weak, mortal voice, “I was afraid I would never see it again!”
“What?!” cried Oakarion, “You are the hero who wields this sword against demons and monsters?”
“I forged it,” Hephaestus explained. Oakarion’s face lit up light a lantern, so powerful was his excitement. A boyish flush colored his soft cheeks as he realized he had just found an adventure. Suddenly, the normally stalwart and loyal Hephaestus was filled with lust for this young man with whom he shared the burden of a deformity. At the same time, Oakarion’s young body, still unfamiliar with rushing passion, seemed to begin to float as admiration for this hero grew in his chest. It was easy for Hephaestus to seduce young Oakarion.
As soon as the deed was done, Hephaestus was wracked with guilt. Had he not humiliated his wife Aphrodite for committing this same folly? The lame god hustled poor, bewildered Oakarion off the exposed beach and under the cover of a forest canopy in an attempt to conceal his deed. However, it was too late. Aphrodite had seen it all from her vantage point on Mount Olympus. She raced down to the forest where Oakarion now cowered among the trees. The goddess flew into a passionate rage. The very air seemed to darken, and poor Oakarion struggled to breathe. Hephaestus could do nothing to combat Aphrodite’s rage because he knew in his heart that her passion was quite justified. Therefore, he could do nothing but watch in horror and shame as Aphrodite turned her fury upon the boy.
Oakarion’s legs grew long and sank deep into the ground, his hard, muscled body surged upward, and his gnarled arms reached out over the ground in a plea for help to Hephaestus. However, it was too late for poor Oakarion, for if one grows hard for a married man, then it is just punishment that he be forced to remain hard for all eternity. So Oakarion was trapped in an iron-like, wooden prison, gnarled arms outstretched in fear for all eternity as an Oak tree mighty as the sword that had caused all this folly. |
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anaxandras Journal
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