Og—Son of Fire

by Irving Crump

Og gave a grunt of surprise at this and his low forehead wrinkled into a perplexed frown. Here was a thing that he could slay with his breath yet he could bring it to life again by breathing upon it. It was strange indeed, a thing he would have liked to puzzle over, for he had found that thinking was a strange and fascinating game. But he realized that the daylight hours were waning. Night was coming on and he knew now that with the Stalking Death abroad and probably many other animals down there in the valley feeding on the roasted horses, it would not be safe for him to linger. He thought of the cave under the cliff where he and the wolf cubs had taken refuge first and he decided to go there for the night.

Both cubs were close at hand, though the one he had rescued was unable to walk. Og gathered this one under his arm and calling to the other started out of the valley and toward the towering cliffs that he could see in the distance through the steam. As they made their way forward Og glanced at the hill where the crevice had been. What had been the crown of it was now a deep depression still filled with dust clouds. Og turned his head away for the thoughts that he and the cubs might even now be buried under that mass of rock and dirt were very unpleasant.

They were a long way from their refuge and Og hurried for he feared to be caught down there in the valley at nightfall. Night was the time when all the great beasts hunted and feasted and he knew that he would make a choice meal for the Stalking Death, the great panther, or Sabre Tooth, the huge cave tiger, as had many another hairy man in the past. Indeed, it was with a sense of relief that the hairy boy scrambled up the steep mountain side and crawled in under the shelter of the overhanging cliffs, for already the terrific hunting roar of the giant cave tiger was waking the echoes and in the gathering twilight this was a blood chilling sound to hear for the hairy men of that age.

Shelter gained, Og’s attention came back to the fire stick which he still carried. It was then that he noticed for the first time, and with consternation, that the stick, once as long as his arm, was now less than a quarter its original size. Here was another perplexing phase of this new thing that he thought he had mastered but which he now found he could not at all understand. Why had the stick grown shorter? Where had the rest of it gone? Did this thing devour the wood? Was that what it ate?

Crouched up there on the shelf under the cliff Og experimented anew. He tried to see if the thing ate wood. He found another stick and held it into the flame. The red fingers reached out and took hold of it and, because this was soft wood, the fire consumed it quickly; ate it all so fast that Og had to drop it before it burned his fingers. There on the stone ledge it burned itself out. Og tried to feed the flames leaves. These were eaten up so swiftly that the hairy boy was frightened for a moment. He tried more sticks and more leaves, then he tried to feed it a stone. This it would not eat and Og marveled, for had he not got it from a stone originally?—yet here it refused to eat other stones. This red thing, this animal that could be slain or brought to life with a breath, that came from stone yet would not eat stone, was indeed a mystery.

Og held the fast shortening pitchwood torch in his hand and pondered. He saw the charred remains of the stick and leaves he had burned lying about him on the ledge. From these he gleaned still a new idea. He gathered more sticks and leaves in a pile, then laid the burning torch among them. And presently he had a fire that delighted him; a fire that gave him warmth and light and which he could keep alive so long as he fed it sticks and leaves.

Thus was born five hundred thousand years ago up there on the ledge below the cliff the first campfire and as this hairy boy crouched before it and watched it with consuming interest while he basked in its warmth and light, he chanted softly to himself,“Og, Og, Og, Og,” which was his way of telling himself and the wolf cubs that he was a great man, that he had made a wonderful discovery and that he well deserved the name he had given himself.

And as he crouched there the roar of Saber Tooth, the tiger, and the wail of the Stalking Death, the giant panther, floated up to him through the night, from the valley below where they quarreled over the cooked horses, but somehow Og felt strangely happy and comfortable by his fire. The light and the heat and the flickering flame tongues gave him a sense of protection in the night, a sense of protection that no other hairy man had ever felt; and the wolf cubs, sprawled in the warm glow, gave him an added feeling of companionship. He was happy, so happy that he wanted other hairy people to know about it; to see what he had achieved; to witness his triumph over the Fire Demon.

He began to think then of the other hairy people who had fled from the wrath of the volcano. He thought of Wab, his father, who was a mighty hunter with the stone hatchet. Og had a vague feeling that he was even a greater man than his father now.

He thought of Gog, the fierce old warrior with the scarred face and ugly disposition who was chief of the hairy people because no one had the courage to dispute it. Og hated him for many a hard cuff and unnecessary beating. He was a greater man than Gog now and he found malicious pleasure in the thought of taking his fire animal among his people and making Gog jealous with the flame that would be his. If he could conquer the Fire Demon assuredly he could conquer Gog. The old chief would never dare come near him while he held a fire brand in his hand.