Fire
by Harris Tobias
I remember when Og first brought
fire into the cave. It was a smokey disaster.
“Get that dirty thing out of here now,”
Old Bag bellowed. Old Bag ruled the roost inside
the cave— her word was law.
“But Bag,” Og pleaded,
“just look, it makes heat and light as well.
You should try it.” Og was doing his best to
convince her that there was something to be
gained by having the fire inside. “We can
keep it near the entrance,” Og persisted.
“That way it’s out of the rain.”
Og was tired of starting the fire from scratch
each time it rained.
Old Bag was not convinced she wanted
the filthy thing inside, although the thought of
a source of heat appealed mightily to her old
bones. After a lifetime of living in the cold
dark cave, she was suffering from a host of
maladies. “It eats,” said Old Bag
scornfully, “who will feed it?”
“I will feed it,” said Og
who really hadn’t thought the fuel problem
through, and wasn’t prepared for a lifetime
of wood gathering. Hopefully the women will take
over the job. It was more suited to their nature
anyway.
Old Bag dismissed Og’s promise
with a wave of her hand. “And where will we
keep all this fuel you will be gathering?”
she asked. Og had no answer to such a practical
problem and wisely did not attempt to offer a
solution.
Sensing that Old Bag was wavering,
Og pressed his case. “We could sit around it
at night and tell stories about the ancestors.”
Og knew Old Bag had great reverance for the
ancestors. “We could dry our clothes and
heat the water. And, best of all, we can cook the
meat even when it rains.”
Old Bag looked at the coals in Og’s
hand and thought about how much she’d like a
cup of tea and a fire to warm her feet. Then she
thought about the smoke and soot, the ashes on
the floor and the piles of wood lining the walls
and shook her head. “No, Og, take it away.”
It was another 200 years before
anyone raised the subject again.
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