Prometheus.

PROMETHEUS

Electricity is real although, generally, we are unable to see it.
Our eyes cannot detect the millions of electrons swarming
crazily though the filament of a light bulb, colliding with all
those infinitesimal atoms, causing them to vibrate , to glow,
make light. We are blissfully unaware of countless numbers of
electrodynamic circuits sparking, flashing and fading within the
fabric of our own bodies. The air, made dense with the weight of
a million ionic particles, may be alive with energy, yet we move
through it, oblivious. It is a supremely powerful force. And
in the tumult of an electrical storm, it is revealed in all its'
radiant destructiveness.

When the storms come, blown in, suddenly, across a sea the
colour of wet, Welsh slate, or when they gather ominously,
gloweringly, over small towns made prematurely dark by driving
rain and early nightfall, the texture of the world is changed.
The mundane is lit with an odd, elemental light. In an
atmosphere thick with fear and a primitive excitement, through
air tense with preternatural expectation, people move homewards,
their caution, instinctive. Returning to brightly-lit refuges,
all sodden umbrellas, damp skin, strange, subconscious relief.

Thunder rumbles and crashes. Heavy raindrops, cascading from a
thousand feet up, hit the shining pavements, momentarily
illuminated by the incandescent discharges of the strengthening
storm. The streets are deserted, empty of humanity, and silent
but for the trickling, rushing of water running through gutters,
gullies, pipes and subterranean drains. The view across the
park, beyond railings, proudly Victorian and freshly painted, is
rich with the promise of the coming summer. Mature oaks are
alive with new growth, the pale, emerald green of fresh leaves,
sparkling with cool drops, darkly etched with veins bursting with
sap, fragrant essence of regeneration. Beyond them, the evening
distances, bandstand and benches, boating lake and tennis courts,
made mysterious. Obscured by sheets of driving rain.

Very occasionally, if you're sharp-eyed and patient, coolly
indifferent to inclement weather. If you find yourself viewing
the scene from the correct position, at just the right moment, a
figure may be seen. Moving slowly in the direction of the lake,
lost in the misty open spaces, startlingly black against all that
luxurious green. He is tall, unusually thin. Wrapped in a long
coat of some flowing, dark-coloured material, navy blue or ebony.
His face is not visible. His progress is meandering and erratic.
There have been rumours about him. His name is Marcus.

When did the talking begin? The low voices muttering? In the
sitting-rooms, the kitchens, the shadowy corridors and unlit
landings of this northern town. Sharply glittering eyes had
chanced upon this singular figure, so solitary, self-contained,
and had been fascinated. Care had been taken to observe him.
They saw his comings and goings, made a note of his address.
There was speculation. This is how stories come into being.

Some people are liars. They surround themselves and others with
untruths, bind friends and enemies alike into cocoons of sticky,
malicious nonsense. Their frustrated imaginations drive them,
wild eyed and mumbling, to places far away from the real world.
They are fools. Others whisper half-truths and distortions,
imply privileged insights into the secret lives of strangers.
Sexual eccentricity and clumsy perversion. Unusual acts
performed in darkness, behind moth-eaten, velvet drapes. They
pronounce, archly, of violence and voluptuous moral outrages.
They are voyeurs. Some individuals, however, speak the truth.

Marcus had known for a long time that his stature, behind the
lace curtains and peeling paint work of all those faded villas,
had grown from that of a mere oddity into something verging on
legend. He had never allowed himself the luxury of feeling
surprised at this. His presence, anywhere, exited the unwanted
attentions of most of those around him. A prying, probing
curiosity connected, perhaps with his aura. The impression that,
if he wasn't already internationally notorious, he very soon
would be. The idea that behind the carefully contrived
appearance of normality, desire for privacy, apparent mediocrity,
something thrilling and a little risky was lurking, waiting to
explode outwards into a breathlessly expectant world.

And he had only ever wanted solitude. Something approaching
silence. A quiet room with books and fresh coffee. And the
equipment, of course. In his 37th year, the realisation came to
him that these simple needs could never be fulfilled. The
maniacal scrutiny and general harassment he encountered from all
sides seemed to be intensifying rather than diminishing. Remarks
had been made, in organs of the less respectable press, about his
life.

Articles, including photographs of his home, the telescope, the
Crystal Ambience Equaliser, that glittering machine perched
precariously on the badly leaking roof. If only they could have
left him to get on with his work in peace, resisted the
temptations of relentless pursuit, understood that he was onto
something important. A breakthrough.

It wasn't just meteorology. Not simply a question of windspeed
and air-pressure. Warm currents over the Indian ocean spiralling
skyward, up into the cold. No. It was the intimation that
behind all of that, behind cumulus and hurricane, blizzard and
cirrus, there was something else. Transcendence. A simple truth
concealed within the fabric of an insanely complex metaphor.

There had been years of experiments. Gleaming, silvery balloons
rising into the icy blue. Frail machines with limbs like the
bones of tiny birds, sampling the thin and crystalline air of the
upper stratosphere. Reporting back. Pristine, new rockets,
prototypes and failures, launched into the clouds, scattering
chemicals in their wake, compounds intended to create, out of
clear, calm air, extremes of atmospheric activity. All the
majestic violence of the natural world. The work had been
steady, carried out in secret and often at night. Behind the
heavy, locked door of his neglected and crumbling house, he had
felt safe, free to do as he pleased, make progress. But those
outside gradually learned to be more intrusive, viewed invasion
as an acceptable course of action. Things got worse until one
murky afternoon he discovered small groups of people, his
neighbours and their friends, chatting to each other while
searching the undergrowth of the front garden. Pallid faces
pressed up against the window-panes. Hastily written notes were
shoved through the letter-box. Demands. Offers or money or love-
affairs. Insults and vile abuse. He had stood watching, chewing
his thin lower lip, lost in a fog of fearful frustration. There
was just one thing to be done: Bring forward the date of the
final experiment.

The perfect moment. The right conditions. The storm-creation
mechanisms had been set with absolute precision and the system
was operational. Huge, purple clouds were already gathering on
the eastern horizon. When he left the house, the rain was
falling, densely, insistently, heavy enough for drowning, running
in fast-moving rivulets over foliage, pattering against window
and doorframe. The sound of rolling, rumbling thunder, distant
flashing. An ambient electrical danger. He was pleased, felt
sure that chances of success were good. It took ten minutes to
walk to the appointed place. In the park. Under the trees.
He paused, calmed his racing thoughts, raised two hands aloft,
his smile, saintly, anticipating completion. This must surely be
the most perfect route to meteorological fulfilment. The earthly
body destroyed by the power of the storm. He envisaged, in a
moment of total interior stillness, the flawless, yellow,
lightening hitting the oak, the unearthly brilliance and
agonised rending. The ancient branch severed and falling. One
terrifying blow and it would all be finished. He was ready.

The minutes passed. Lightening flashed all around, shattering
thunder seeming to emanate from some point directly above his
head. A tree next to the bandstand was hit, two branches crashed
to the ground. The grey and heavy rain made a world of mud and
water, thunderous rumblings overcame the sounds of distant
traffic. Somewhere nearby, the lightening struck again.
Splintering of wood and root.

Perhaps he was in the wrong place, had chosen a tree arrogantly
immune to the forces of nature. Grinding his teeth in
irritation, he scurried through the thickets to another tree,
raised his hands and waited. The storm was rolling overhead,
its' clouds, towering and complex, black-hearted. Shadow and sea-
bed granite. This must be the place. The lightning would find
him here. Of that there could be no doubt. But he stood,
ignored, arms raised to heaven until the muscles complained and
his clothes hung heavy, waterlogged and freezing. Until his body
was mortally chilled.

He grew desperate. Careering from tree to tree, screaming at the
sky, vainly attempting to predict where the lightening would next
hit. At times, he stumbled, slipping in the marshy undergrowth,
falling face-down into pools of viscous mud and flooded earth.
But he would not be defeated. The lightning would strike him,
kill him. The experiment would succeed. He deserted the
disappointing wooded areas for the vulnerability of the open
ground, eyes wild, staring glassily into the blackness of
thwarted intention, hands held together in prayer or pleading.
The storm was weakening, all that energy squandered, wastefully,
wantonly. He was exposed and alone in the middle of the park,
hearing the thunder subsiding into failure, its' diminishing
music blowing unheeded over the suburban rooftops.

Then, a bright explosion of light. Pure, hard like diamonds,
quite different in character to the other electrical outbursts.
He was dazzled, blinded. Felt no pain. The moment was
confusing. Was this what it was like to be struck? Had the
storm claimed him after all? As his vision cleared he saw the
photographer making his escape, fleeing in the direction of the
park-gates. A small man in grubby overcoat . Gentleman of the
press.

At breakfast-tables all over town, in newsagents and hotel
foyers, that picture on the front page, enhanced, enlarged. His
face, expression insanely distorted, drenched garments clinging
to his emaciated body. Hands, clawlike, displaying some
unspeakably dark emotion. Marcus. His strange story poured
over, by psychologists, astrologists, our own correspondents.
With mouths filled with cereals and poorly prepared bacon, faces
filled with sympathy and half-concealed glee, the neighbours,
observers, the concerned well-wishers and interested parties,
nodded sagely. Said they'd always suspected he was odd. A
danger to himself and others. One of lifes' misfits. Really.
And he wasn't the only one. That woman, for example. She of the
unnecessarily red hair and unusual clothing. Did anyone know
what she was up to, how she supported herself. Could anyone find
out? All those little voices whispering,. Insinuating. And
the sounds of cutlery, the scraping, harsh metallic scratching of
soiled crockery. And chewing. Gulping down. Mulling things
over. Yes. Mulling things.

Ends.