Here is a splendid story that makes the discovery of fire real to us because it shows us how a man might have felt.

This is a story to read and enjoy. No questions will be asked about it, but you may ask your teacher to explain anything you do not understand. Perhaps you would like to tell the story to your parents or friends or to some class below yours in the school.

Before the years were counted or the circuit of the seasons reckoned, man lived where it was always summer, and summer heat ruled the Northland, now ruled by winter cold. As the scepter of the Frost King reached farther and farther south, men slowly and reluctantly retreated from the old homes. But some lingered through the fireless winters for the love of the familiar places and the beauty of the northern spring and summer.

Among those who lingered was Ang, the mighty hunter. His home was in a cave at the edge of the great forest. It faced the south so that it could catch all the scant rays of the winter's sun. The mouth of the cave was partly closed by a screen of fir boughs, while a bark slab, torn from a big tree, formed a rude door. Inside the cave were bunks piled high with dry moss and leaves, with the skins of animals which Ang had slain thrown over them.

It was not yet midwinter, but it was cold, bitter cold. As Ang sat in front of his cave, chipping knife blades and arrow points from flint, he moved from time to time to keep in the feeble light of the sun, but it seemed to have little warmth, and he shivered and grumbled to himself: "Every year the cold grows stronger. The old men tell of a time when it came late and went soon, but that must have been long ago. Ugh! but it is cold! It gets under my bearskin; it nips my ears and numbs my hands. I wish I had taken the long journey to the Southland, but it was far for the woman and the child, and I hoped that the Ice Giant would grow old and lose his strength—and I was born here; my father and my father's father hunted in these woods and fished in this river, and men, like trees, take root."

The sun sank into a cold gray cloud in the west. The bite of the wind grew sharper. The hoarse cough of a child echoed from the cave behind him, and the dull crooning song of the mother, as she tried to warm the sick child at her breast, could be heard as the wind was lulled for a moment.

Colder and more cold it grew, but Ang would not enter the cave. He could not bear to hear the troubled breathing of the child or see the face of the mother. He dreaded the coming of the grim White Spirit for this, his last child. Sometimes he fancied he could hear him rushing through the woods above the cliff, and feel the chill of his breath on his face. Had he no other food but children, this dread hunter?

Colder and more cold it grew, but Ang still lingered. He piled dry moss about his feet and tried to bring warmth to his numb hands by hammering off flakes of flint which he would later shape into rough weapons and tools. He struck two flints together in a kind of dumb fury. It was a glancing blow, and one of the flints dropped into the dry moss at his feet with a flicker of sparks. A coil of gray smoke crept out of the moss like a serpent coming out of his hole. A bright spot at its heart grew brighter and brighter, and then red flames lapped hungrily.

Ang leaped to his feet in astonishment. At the smiting of the flint the Fire Spirit had been born. Its breath was the breath of summer. He stretched out his hands over the flames, and the cold loosened its grip. He touched the flame, and it stung him like an angry bee. Clearly the Spirit must not be handled. Awe and wonder filled the mind of Ang. He fell on his knees and prayed to the Fire Spirit: "Spirit of light and heat, Thou hast come in our hour of need—I know not whence. Stay and keep away the terrible cold Spirit with thy red arrows. Stay! I will deny thee nothing. If Thou art hungry, I will feed thee."

The Fire Spirit

As Ang watched the fire, it hungrily ate up the dry moss, and lapped the dry sticks. He brought more and fed them to the reaching flames. The northern darkness had shut in the rest of the world, light lingered at the door of the cave of Ang, and the warm breath of the fire brought back the heat of summer in the midst of winter. Joy filled the heart of Ang, and he called to the mother and the child: "Oma, Om, come! The Great One has heard. Come, come, come quickly."

The bark door opened, and the mother came out holding the child to her breast. A cry of wonder broke from her as she saw the fire, but wonder gave way to the mother instinct. The All-Father had heard. Here were warmth and light. The gray huntsman should not have her child. She crouched by the fire, holding the babe in her arms so that she sheltered it from the encircling cold while the glowing fire warmed and healed it. With gratitude and awe she watched the color come back to the child's face, and then she looked with eager questioning at the face of Ang, as it shone with a light brighter than that of the fire.

Finally he spoke: "I sat at the going in of the cave. Fear gripped me; the cold smote me. I said, Odin has forgotten. It may be that he has gone to the Southland because the cold was stronger than he. I heard the barking of the child. The dread of the great robber was on me. I tried to forget. I smote the flints together. Star-flies seemed to leap from the stone, and the fire was born in the heart of the moss."

Then Ang stood by the mother and the child and placed his left hand on the head of the mother and raised his right hand to the sky to which the leaping flames pointed and said: "Great Father, now I know that none is greater than Thou; not even the giants of the North. Thy shining arrows have driven the huntsman back. And I know that Thine eyes see farther than the eagle floating in the sky, for thou hast seen us alone in the great woods, and Thine ear is quicker to hear than that of the mother listening for the cry of her first-born, for thou hast heard the cry that did not rise to our lips. Henceforth the fire shall be the sign of Thee. As the flames leap up the sky, so shall our thoughts leap to Thee, Our Father."

All through the long cold winter Ang and Oma fed the fire, and Om grew well and strong again. They very soon found that the fire, though it gave so freely the life-giving light and heat, had to be treated with great care. It was a good servant but a poor master. One day little Om toddled too close and burned his hand on a live coal. On another day the wind blew the sparks from the fire into the dry rushes which screened the entrance to the cave, and in a moment the cave was filled with flames and smoke, and Oma had to cover her head and that of Om with skins, and dash out into the open. All the bedding of dry leaves was burned up, and some of the skins were badly scorched. The wooden handles of many of Ang's spears and arrows and knives were burned also. It took many days of hard work to replace what the fire had eaten. So they came to fear as well as to love it.

But Ang and Oma learned one thing from the fire which burned out their cave that was worth more than a thousand fires could destroy. Part of a deer, which Ang had killed, hung inside of the cave. It had been very hard to get, and it was almost the first thing which Ang thought of after the fire had burned down. If that had been destroyed, they might starve before he could kill another one. He dashed into the cave to see if anything was left, the fear of hunger already gripping his vitals. A strange new odor filled his nostrils and doubled his hunger—the smell of roasted venison. The deer still hung from the side of the cave. The hair had been burned off and the skin hung in rolls, but the flesh was there, brown, hot, dripping red.

At Ang's call Oma hurried in. It needed but one whiff of the fragrant air to convince her that the touch of fire had made of the cold frozen meat food more delicious than the fruits of summer. She snatched a long stone knife from her belt and cut strips of venison steak from the smoking mass and gave to Ang and Om.

After they had eaten, Ang looked into the glowing embers of the fire in front of the cave and pondered. The Fire Spirit had grown angry because they had taken only one of the gifts of the Great Father and had burned out the cave, but it had showed them what its magic touch would do to the frozen meat. The wonder of it grew on him. As he looked into the world at the heart of the coals, he saw the promise of a better one than that in which he lived—a world in which the sons of his son's sons should have discovered all the gifts of the Fire Spirit.

As Ang looked into the fire, Oma looked into the face of Ang and wondered at what she saw there. His look seemed to pierce the blackness behind the fire a hundred days' journey. "Father of my son, what seest thou in the fire?" "I see," said Ang, "the spirits of the things which are to be. I see, but do not understand all that I see. I see our son's sons talking fire, the flames leaping from their mouths like tongues; I see them crossing the Big Water in great logs which breathe out fire and smoke. I see—but there are no words to tell thee all that I see."

And Oma looked into the embers, and she too saw the flickering spirits of the things to be. She saw countless fires—fires in the woods, fires in caves, fires on altars—but those who tended the fires were the daughters of her daughters.

In a few days the damage done by the fire was repaired. It was Oma who discovered that water stopped the hunger of the fire, and when it grew too fierce she beat it back with boughs dipped in the stream which ran before their cave.

The warmth of the fire and the cooked meat made little Om grow as no boy had ever grown in the cold season, and before the winter was over he was running about as sturdily as a young bear. But it made trouble for Oma. The woods were full of savage wild beasts, bears, panthers, and wolves. Even Ang, with his strength and cunning and great stone axe and sharp knives, was in constant danger. When he went out to hunt, Oma always feared till he came back. What chance then would little Om have? So she tried to keep him always in the clearing before the cave, but the task grew harder and harder as the weather grew warmer and Om's legs stronger and his eyes more curious.

One evening, just as the dark was shutting in, Oma was cracking some bones to get some choice marrow for Ang's supper after he returned from his hunting, and for a moment her back was turned to the boy. When she looked for him he had slipped away into the darkness. The cry of a hyena broke on the stillness of the night, savage, blood-curdling. Then came a terrified scream from little Om. She leaped to her feet in terror. Where? Where? Which way? The sound seemed to come from all directions. Not knowing what she did, she snatched a burning brand from the fire and dashed into the darkness, leaving a trail of flame behind her.

She had gone only a few yards when she came upon the beast crouching over little Om. Thoughtless of all danger to herself, Oma leaped at the savage beast, whirling the burning brand about her head. The hyena gave a snarl of surprise and fear, dropped Om, and sprang away into the thicket, with leaps longer than any he had made in his life, for the fear of the fire was on him.

Oma snatched her baby to her breast and hurried back to the cave, crooning over him as she went. She brought him to the fire and stripped off his little fur coat; that was in shreds, but the child's skin was only slightly scratched.

As she locked him in her arms to comfort him, Ang suddenly leaped out of the darkness, his great stone axe swinging in his hands. Terror was in his face; sweat dropped from him like rain. "The hyena! I heard his cry here and that of little Om!"

Oma pointed to the baby in her arms, to the torn skin at her feet, to the smoldering branch and to the darkness which had swallowed the great beast. "It was only a moment, but he slipped away into the darkness; I heard the cry, the cry of the beast and the cry of the child. I caught up a brand from the fire and ran; the fearless one ran at the sight of it. The child is safe, see!" And Om looked at his father through tear-dimmed eyes.

Then Ang knelt by the side of the child and its mother and prayed: "O Thou who are greater than the greatest and mightier than the mightiest, again Thou hast saved us by the red magic. By it Thou hast made us, Thy children, masters of the beasts of the wood, for the fear of the Red One is upon them all."

As the strength of the winter passed and the snow began to melt, Ang had a visit from Wang, who lived some days' journey to the east. During the winter the men of the North saw little of each other. Each family needed a large hunting ground, and men had not learned to live together. The distances between the families were so great that when the snow was deep in the woods months passed in which the isolated families saw no human beings outside of their own circle. But when the ice broke up and the snow melted, the men who were on fairly friendly terms paid visits to each other and exchanged stories of the winter's experiences.

Now Wang approached the cave of Ang with great ceremony. It was neither good manners nor safe to approach another man's home too suddenly. One could not be sure of a welcome, and it was always assumed that one who came suddenly was an enemy. So Wang strolled out on an open spot by the bank of the river which flowed by the cave of Ang, and acted as if he did not know that there was another human being within a day's journey. He tossed stones into the water and watched the ripples. Then he imitated the call of the wild fowl on the river banks.

For a time Ang ignored him, going about as if he saw no one. But Oma and Om peered out curiously from the mouth of the cave. At last Ang wandered down to the river's edge and looked aimlessly everywhere but where Wang stood. He too tossed many stones into the river. Finally, apparently satisfied that all the demands of primitive etiquette had been met, Ang turned to Wang and put his left hand over his heart and raised his right to the sky. Wang did the same; they were of one blood and children of the Great Father.

Both dropped their weapons where they stood and went to meet each other unarmed. Ang and Wang had played together as boys, hunted together as young men, and taken wives from the same family, but each spring, after the winter's separation, they met with the same elaborate ceremony, because it was the man custom.

When the men were seated, Oma and Om came out and sat near by. "A long winter," said Ang. "A long winter," answered Wang. "Much cold," said Ang. "Much cold," answered Wang. "The woman and the boy?" asked Wang. "The woman is well, and the child grows like a bear's cub," replied Ang.

Wang turned and looked at Oma and Om and gave a grunt of surprise. "Why, they are as fat and sleek as if it was the time of fruits and nuts instead of the end of the great cold, when even the bear is so thin that he casts no shadow. Has the eagle carried thee to the Southland on its wings? Have you found food that cold does not harden? Has Odin fed you? My woman sits all day at the going in of the cave. She looks old like the moss-bearded oak. She notices nothing, but talks ever about the little one whom the Black Robber took; she cares not for the child that is left, who cries for food like a young kid whose mother the wolves have eaten. And my strength has not come again. My traps and snares take nothing, and my arrow is slower than the flying deer."

At this Oma leaped to her feet and brought a piece of dried venison from the cave and a cake made from a flour of pounded nuts and seeds and put them before the hungry man. He ate ravenously, like a famished wolf, in silence, but questioning with eager eye, "How? Why? What?"

And Ang answered the unspoken question: "It was cold, so cold that the blood in one's body ran slow and became like ice in the stream. The meat became like stone. The supply of nuts failed. The woman grew weak. The huntsman from the north took the child by the throat. His breath came hard. I said, 'He will be taken as the others have been taken, and the mother will not stay without the child, and I shall be alone,' and I cried to the Great One, to Odin, the All-Father: 'We are cold, give us heat; we are hungry, give us food.' I heard no answer; there was no voice; but the prayer was heard. I sat by the going in of the cave, making knives of flint, not thinking to use them, but hoping to forget and cover up the hoarse crying of the child with the noise of the flints. So I smote two stones together, and the chips fell into the dry moss at my feet. There was a buzzing noise like that of a bee in a flower; a little white cloud rose from the moss, then spots of light like star-flies at night. Red tongues reached out and ate up the moss and the dry sticks. I saw that the Red One was hungry, and I gave him more moss and dry wood to eat. He grew big and bright, and his breath was warm like that of summer, and Oma brought out the child, and he drove away the barking sickness from the child's throat. Then we knew that Odin had heard us."

And Ang told Wang how they had learned to cook the venison; how they had learned to feed the Red One and keep him from wandering. He told how the fear of him was on all the beasts of the woods, so that not even the most savage and the most hungry dared stand before him; and the smallest child was safe within the circle of light.

Then they took the wondering Wang and showed him the sacred fire, gift of the Keeper of Secrets; they cooked venison over the coals so that he might taste it. And when Wang started for home Oma gave him a shoulder of smoked deer's meat and cakes made of acorn meal.

And now a strange thing happened. Pity stirred the heart of Ang. Odin had helped him in the time of his troubles; why should he not help Wang? He turned to Oma. "The hunting is good; the stream is full of fish; the Red One can warm more than three. I will go and bring Wang and his woman and his child. They can live in the cave which we thought should be Om's. It is the will of the All-Father that men should live together."

And the men went together and brought Wang's wife and child, and they made a screen and bark door for the new cave home. Oma taught Suta, wife of Wang, the mysteries of the fire, and Ang and Wang became the first neighbors, and that also was one of the gifts of the Revealer, through the Spirit of the Fire.

As time went on, the story of Ang, the fire-man, spread through all the north country, and often men came as Wang had done, many day's journey, through trackless forest, to see the wonderful fire in front of the cave of Ang. But Ang told to no one but Wang the secret of how to call the Fire Spirit. To men who were friendly he gave live coals to carry away in bowls hollowed out of soapstone. Men who were the enemies of Ang did not dare come near his cave for fear of the red knives which guarded it.

By and by men began to say to each other, as they went to hunt or sat about the carefully tended fire, that Ang, the fire-man, must be loved by Odin, and they came to Ang and said: "Tell us of the Great One," and Ang was troubled because he had not heard his voice or seen him. As he hunted in the stillness of the forest, he pondered: "Why had no one ever seen the Great Spirit? Or was the sky his face and the sun and moon his eyes? Why had no one heard his voice? Or was the thunder his voice? If so, no one understood his language." The more he thought, the more troubled he became. For days at a time he rarely spoke and went about as one in a dream, and Oma said to Wang and to others who came, "The spell of Odin is on him," and they began to look on Ang with awe and wonder.

One night as Ang was far from home and slept in a cave on a hill-side, he dreamed that his shadow self left his body and journeyed to a far country, and there he saw his father and his father's father and the men of long ago. They all sat about a great fire and beckoned to him to join their circle. There was a silence like that before the storm, and each one in the circle looked steadfastly into the fire, which burned on and on, though no one fed its flames.

As Ang continued to look into the flames, it seemed as if something was lifted from his eyes and he saw what no one had seen before. The earth was the body of Odin. His life was the life of all. He had not one voice like man, but many. He spoke in the thunder, in the voice of the storm, but also in the song of the birds and in the words of one's best beloved.

Ang awoke just as the sun was driving the mists from the valley beneath him, and these words came to his lips as if they were a message from the dream-world which he had just left: "The wise son of the All-Father sees him everywhere and hears his voice always." For the first time in his life Ang saw the beauty of the world at his feet, and the song of the birds which filled the vibrant air awoke a new joy of melody and harmony in his soul.

As Oma and Om came out to meet him, he looked at them with newly opened eyes. How beautiful was the ruddy brown sheen of Oma's hair and the light in her eyes as she welcomed him! And little Om's eyes sparkled like dewdrops in the light of early morning, and his laughter was like the splashing of a brook over its pebbles.

When Ang told Oma of his dream, she answered: "The men were right. The spell of the Keeper of Secrets was on thee. Thou art a man apart. Henceforth thou shalt tell men the will of the One who hides himself."

And so Ang became one of the voices of Odin. From far and near men in trouble and men in doubt came to him, and he spoke words of comfort and wisdom. And every year before the cold kept men apart they gathered at the home of Ang. They built a great stone altar, and each man threw a log upon the fire which Ang had kindled. And they brought the choicest from their hunting and had a great feast, but they always gave the best to Ang, and he put it in the fire, saying, "The best we have is Thine and we are Thine." And when they had feasted and were satisfied, Ang talked to them of the All-Father, and each year his words were wiser and more winning.

Before the men departed each took a brand from the fire and marched about the altar chanting: