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Creation 3: Pandora
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Prometheus’ children, the first people, didn’t know what to do at first.
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They gnawed roots.
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They ate grubs and leaves and earth and whatever fruits they could find.
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Prometheus the grey Titan and Epimetheus showed them how to make spears and bows and swift arrows.
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They showed them how to hunt, how to plant seeds and harvest them.
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They showed them how to build shelters out of branches.
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The creatures were quick to learn and to understand but at nights they would huddle together.
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Sometimes in winter, they would shiver and shake.
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Sometimes on bitter nights, one of them would turn as cold as clay and be still.
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Prometheus would have to bury it in the ground.
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He knew something was wrong.
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His creatures seemed to be suffering from something he’d never known,
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something he could barely understand.
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Slowly he began to realise:
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they were suffering from cold.
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And if they were cold they would need something he hadn’t got.
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They would need something only the gods possessed.
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They would need the secret weapon of the gods.
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His creatures needed fire,
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and he knew that the gods would never let him have it;
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it was too precious.
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It would have to be stolen from them.
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And he knew that if the thief was discovered he would be punished,
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and the punishments of the gods are always terrible.
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But like any father he loved his children.
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He couldn’t bear to see them suffer.
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So one night he climbed the steep slopes of Mount Olympus and stole one smouldering piece of charcoal.
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As soon as they had fire, Prometheus’ people prospered.
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Their little settlements spread across the world.
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Prometheus taught them how to dig terraces on the sides of hills for vineyards and orchards;
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how to plant wheat and oats and barley;
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how to keep sheep, goats, pigs and shambling cattle.
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He would sit and watch his people,
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and the longer he watched them,
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the deeper the tenderness he felt for them.
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He wanted only good for them.
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Like any father, he wanted them to be happy.
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He gathered together all the things that might bring them harm and put them into a stone jar.
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He gathered disease, hatred, jealousy, anger, violence, starvation.
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All of them he pushed into the jar.
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He fitted a lid tightly to the top of it.
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He showed the jar to his brother, Epimetheus.
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‘As long as the lid stays on this jar,
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all will be well for my children.’
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Epimetheus nodded: ‘Of course.’
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Prometheus leaned the jar against the trunk of a fig tree.
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And all would have been well with the world had Zeus, the most powerful of the gods,
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not glanced down and seen the smoke of tens of thousands of fires drifting up into the sky.
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He rubbed his eyes and looked again.
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He saw Prometheus’ creatures warming their hands,
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boiling their pots,
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roasting their meat,
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lighting up the shadows of their huts with fire:
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fire, the secret of the gods.
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Someone must have stolen it.
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He began to tremble with fury.
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And then he saw Prometheus.
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He was squatting on the side of a mountain,
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watching his children with infinite affection.
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‘So,’ Zeus thought to himself,
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‘The grey Titan is the thief, and he shall pay for it.’
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The sky darkened with the god’s anger.
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There was a rumble of thunder, a flash of lightning;
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a drop of rain splashed onto Prometheus’ face.
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Once again, Prometheus turned to his brother.
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‘Epimetheus, I feel Zeus’ anger.
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We must be careful.
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The gods will try to punish us for the theft of fire.
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Don’t accept any gifts from them, least of all from Zeus.’
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Epimetheus nodded:
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‘Of course.’
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Zeus had a plan for vengeance.
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He made his way to the palace of Hephaestus.
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He found the crippled god of metal-work working at his forge.
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‘Hephaestus,’ he said,
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‘you are the master of making.
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I have seen the broaches and necklaces you have fashioned for your wife Aphrodite, the goddess of love.
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They are dazzlingly beautiful.
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Would you make something beautiful for me?’
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Hephaestus was flattered.
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He bowed to Zeus.
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‘What do you want me to make?’
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Zeus held out his hand.
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On it was a lump of clay.
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‘You have probably looked down at the world and seen the little lumpen creatures the Titan Prometheus has made.
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Make me something similar.
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Make me a woman out of this clay but make her as beautiful as Aphrodite.’
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Hephaestus was a master craftsman.
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He took the clay and set to work.
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In his hands it soon took shape.
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He made head, shoulders, arms, body, legs.
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He shaped it to perfection.
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He baked it in his furnace and gave the little figurine to Zeus.
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Even though it was no more than a statuette, Zeus was charmed.
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It was just what he’d been hoping for.
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He blew life into it.
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The clay woman’s eyes flickered.
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She smiled, tossed the hair from her forehead;
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she was like a miniature goddess.
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Zeus summoned all of the divinities to his palace.
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‘I want each of you to give a gift to this creature of clay.’
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Each of the immortals in turn came forward.
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When the last gift had been given,
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the woman was no longer the same.
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The clear, uncomplicated beauty that Hephaestus had given her had become clouded by contradiction.
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She was filled with the contrary promptings of the immortal gods and goddesses.
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Her thoughts and feelings were not simple or straightforward any longer.
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Zeus rubbed his hands together with delight.
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‘We will call her Pandora, bringer of gifts.’
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Epimetheus was tending his orchards in the valley at the foot of Mount Hymettus.
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Prometheus was away, helping his people, somewhere far across the world.
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Hermes, the messenger of the gods, appeared before Epimetheus.
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The Titan recognised him by his winged sandals.
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‘What do you want?’
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‘I’ve brought someone to meet you.’
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Hermes lifted his fingers to his lips and whistled,
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and from between two apple trees a woman appeared.
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She was beautiful, more beautiful by far than any of Prometheus’ creatures.
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She was as beautiful as a goddess.
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‘Her name is Pandora.’
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She came towards Epimetheus, her hands outstretched.
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‘Bringer of gifts.’
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She lifted her face to him and Epimetheus couldn’t help himself.
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He lowered his great grey head and kissed her.
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Her lips were soft and sweet.
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He closed his eyes.
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‘She is a gift from Zeus.’
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When the Titan opened his eyes, Hermes had vanished.
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Epimetheus loved Pandora.
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He taught her the skills of farming and she was quick to learn.
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Soon the valley was prospering.
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Apples, grapes and grain were swelling
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just as her own belly was swelling with the child she was carrying in her womb,
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the child that had been fathered by the grey Titan.
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Epimetheus loved to watch her swinging her sickle,
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waist-deep in barley, singing to herself.
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He had never been so happy.
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And then one evening as they were eating their supper,
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Pandora noticed an old stone jar,
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leaning against the trunk of a fig tree.
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‘What’s inside the jar?’
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She jumped to her feet and ran across to it.
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She was just about to curl her fingers under its lid when Epimetheus shouted
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‘No!’
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She backed away from it, startled.
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He stood up and walked across to her.
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He curled his great grey arm tenderly around her shoulders.
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‘No, my love.
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We must leave that jar alone.
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Prometheus told me that the lid must never be lifted.’
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The next day she went and looked at the jar again.
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It squatted at the foot of the fig tree like a mocking affront.
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‘I wonder what Prometheus keeps inside it,
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for himself and his precious people.’
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Day followed day.
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The jar, that she had never noticed before,
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seemed always to be on the edge of her sight.
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The thought of it plagued her.
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And then one day Epimetheus was working at the far end of the valley.
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Pandora was quite alone.
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She looked at the jar and suddenly she was full of voices.
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It was as though all the gifts of the gods and the goddesses were chattering inside her head.
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There was an Athene voice, whispering,
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‘It’s always better to know.’
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A Hermes voice was saying,
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‘Nobody will ever find out.’
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An Aphrodite voice was saying,
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‘If he does find out, one kiss and he’ll forgive you.’
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And Ares voice was shouting,
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‘Now! Now! Now!’
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She couldn’t help herself.
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She reached for the lid.
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She pulled it open.
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In an instant she was lifted into the air and thrown back.
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It was as if a tremendous whirlwind had burst out of the jar.
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When she opened her eyes she saw a spiralling swarm of seething, buzzing, wheezing, screeching, screaming, shrieking things,
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flying out into the world.
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She watched them with horror.
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When they all seemed to have disappeared,
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she scrambled to her feet and ran across to the jar.
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She peered inside.
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There was something still there.
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It was a beautiful, shimmering, shining thing quite unlike all the others.
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She reached down and it climbed onto her fingertip.
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She lifted it to her lips and blew.
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It flew away.
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Prometheus had hidden it in the bottom of the jar in case the lid was ever lifted.
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It was called ‘Hope’;
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it was the Titan’s last gift to his children.
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When Prometheus returned and discovered what had happened,
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his heart was broken.
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His children would never be the same again.
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He climbed up the steep slope of the valley,
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without once looking over his shoulder,
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but Zeus was watching and waiting.
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Suddenly Prometheus felt an iron grip on each shoulder;
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on either side of him stood a one-eyed Cyclops.
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‘You are to be punished.’
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‘Why?’
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‘Because you are a thief, a thief of fire.’
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The Cyclops pushed Prometheus to the ground.
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One held him down while the other bound him with chains of adamant.
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The chains were fastened to the face of a cliff;
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there was no escaping.
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And then the sky darkened.
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Prometheus looked up.
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A huge vulture was swooping down towards him.
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It perched on his chest.
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With its razor talons it ripped open his belly.
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It plunged its head into the wound and tore out his liver.
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With one sickening gulp it lifted its head and swallowed it.
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Then it opened its wings and flew away.
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The two Cyclops watched and laughed.
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‘Every day, thief, your liver will grow back again.
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And every day the vulture will return,
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day after day to the end of time.’