Ask a random group of people to describe the punishment of Atlas and you are likely to receive a fairly uniform response.  He was forced to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders.  This was what the Olympian Gods proclaimed; hard labor without the benefit of motion, a torture as straightforward as it is cruel.

There is seemingly no more ambiguity in this sentence than in locking someone in a cell, or hanging them.  And so it has been depicted throughout the centuries, sculpted onto the doorways of aristocratic villas and inscribed in heroic verse.  The familiar image of the titan bowed down under his burden speaks of a punishment which can be measured in cubic tons, and which is first and foremost physical.

But truth and mythology are not as closely allied as people tend to think.  You only have to conjure up the scene before your eyes to glimpse a myriad of cracks running through it.  Atlas is standing in the garden of the Hesperides, his arms outspread in a seeming gesture of resignation.  Then again, maybe he is only preparing to be handed the earth, loosening up like a weightlifter about to raise a barbell over his head.

He is spared this initial effort though, and the globe is lowered down to him as if on a string.  His hands approach it and then hover at a safe distance above its surface, just barely caressing the clouds.  From the look on his face he is experiencing a lava flow of burdensome thoughts.  A violent trembling overcomes him, as if he is trying to act out the effects of an earthquake.

He obviously wants to run away but remains standing in place, either constrained there by the invisible gods or because there is nowhere he can possibly go.  This is hardly the kind of behavior one expects from an immortal being; how to explain such an awkward, unheroic moment?

For the poets the answer is clear: edit it out, simply don't mention it, sweep this unpleasant aberration under the rug so that you will be left with a work of classical unity and refinement.

Perhaps this selective retelling of the myth isn't such a bad idea, for the question is a troublesome one.  Has it suddenly occurred to Atlas to revolt against the harsh Olympian judgement?  No, he knows what fate has decreed and that there is nothing he can do to change it.  Then does he suddenly doubt his strength, not knowing whether he can keep the earth aloft?  Again, no.  Endless life has provided him with a long view of things and he knows that when you hold something eternally you cease to feel its weight.

What has led him to become frozen with fear turns out to be all too prosaic, a further confirmation of how right the poets and painters were to ignore this episode altogether.  In order to balance a planet on your head and neck it is necessary to distribute its weight as evenly as possible, and for your hands to get the optimum grip.  These were the weighty considerations passing through the titan's mind, not resistance, or reflections on the nature of judgement, or cruelty of fate.

Where should I put my hands?  Simple.  But what seems like a thoroughly functional question suddenly takes on unsuspected dimensions.  Does a Mayan tribe get wiped out because their mountain enclave might prove a comfortable place to grab hold?  Does the steppe have a tower in the form of his arm plunged into its wide open spaces?  Is it better to flatten the accomplishments of an advanced civilization or snuff out a young one before it has any history at all?  And as to which part of the earth should rest on his upper back, this is a question of mass murder.

Ultimately, he has to decide.  It is impossible to delay forever and it might be more merciful to do the damage now before incessant population growth makes his choice an even bloodier one.  Blindly, and without a further moment's thought he takes his burden upon himself.  Paradoxical as it may sound, once the world is set firmly on his back the pressure is off, so to speak.  Even the initial physical exertion goes some way towards helping him forget.

Among the earth's inhabitants though relief is far from being the reaction to this turn of events.  Even after the initial terror, large swathes of land are cast in permanent shadow, and only handfuls of survivors are able to escape in the spaces between his giant fingers.  Need it be said that the once fertile Sahara is the place which landed on his upper back, and that other deserts were the sites of brief handholds.

For in spite of how he is depicted Atlas was unable to remain perfectly still.  The story of his gazing at Medusa's face and being turned to stone is sheer fabrication, perhaps wishful thinking on the suffering titan's part.  The vindictive gods would never have allowed such a painless, convenient escape.  Fully conscious, his torment is that much more effective.

The slightest movement on his part produces incalculable devastation.  Whenever he needs to scratch his nose cities are laid to waste.  Humankind has other, more profound explanations of these disasters.  For centuries they are ascribed to the wrath of God.  Then, an increase in scientific knowledge fosters the belief that they are natural phenomena, or the effects of climactic change.  Only Atlas, crippled by guilt and convinced that he can hear a hum of constant screaming, knows otherwise.

Eventually, the burden grows too heavy for him.  He collapses, morally, falling prey to the desire to see the world extinguished and himself with it; a common enough suicidal urge, but in the case of Atlas, seemingly within his powers.  He stands up straight and lets the earth roll off his back.  He waits to hear a crash but there is only silence.

Turning around, he sees the globe floating as effortlessly as if he was still nestled beneath it.  The poor, ignorant titan had never suspected gravity.  He had spent millennia suffering for nothing.

Overcome with rage at the sinister nature of divine justice he wants to lash out.  But at what?  The Olympian Gods have long since faded into legend.  In front of him is only the earth, floating at face level like a punching bag, and the former object of all his compassion suddenly becomes the focus of burning hate.

Taking hold of a mountain peak in either hand he flings the earth as if it were weightless, throwing it directly at the sun.  His sincerest wish is to see it incinerated, but once again forces he was previously unaware of take hold and the planet's course is bent far out of harm's way.

He stands and watches in silence.  After all, he has nothing left to do and nowhere to go.  The earth passes all the way around and begins heading back towards him, like a boomerang.  Its movement hypnotizes him, to the point where he forgets himself and his anger altogether.  By the time it reaches him again a year has passed.

Author Bio

It took Michael Stein longer to write this biographical note than it did to write any of his stories.  He was born in Philadelphia and has spent the last nine years living in Prague.  His stories have appeared in Mcsweeney's, Pindeldyboz, Cento and his first novel, Revival:  a Ghost Story, will be available shortly on Pulpbits.com.