Containing the Wild Flame: Ancient Greek Fire Myths
Jan Cossiers, Prometheus Carrying Fire, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
After the devastating Greek wildfires of 2021 — in which over 100,000 hectares of Pine forest burned in two weeks alone — I became curious about the ancient Greeks’ relationship to wildfire — and fire, in general. What sorts of stories do they have to share with us about the power of flame? What Greek gods and myths have arisen from the ashes of their interaction with the element of Fire? And, of course, which plants, trees, and aspects of the Greek landscape are linked to those burning stories?
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Mentioned in the Episode
Do Greek Forests Need Wildfire?
Placing the Story
Below is a map of the volcanoes and mountains mentioned in this episode, including Mount Moschylos (Μόσχυλος) where Hephaestus had his first forge, the volcanoes of the Aegean arc, as well as Mount Olympus (Όλυμπος).
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Transcript
You’re listening to A Temple Wild Episode 8 — Containing the Wild Flame: Ancient Greek Fire Myths.
“O father [Zeus], who shakest with fiery light the world…
From thee proceeds the ethereal lightning's blaze,
flashing around intolerable rays.
…
'Tis thine to brandish thunders strong and dire,
to scatter storms, and dreadful darts of fire;
with roaring flames involving all around,
and bolts of thunder of tremendous sound.
…
Sudden, unconquered, holy, thundering god,
with noise unbounded flying all abroad;
with all-devouring force, entire and strong,
horrid, untamed, thou rollest the flames along.”
Excerpt from “To Thundering Jupiter,” The Mystical Hymns of Orpheus, Translation by Thomas Taylor, 1821
Hello and welcome to A Temple Wild, where we rediscover the myths of the ancient Greeks through the plants and landscapes that shaped them.
My name is Ekstasy and it is late October and the autumn rains have started on our mountain in northern Greece. The river by our house, which was dry all summer, is now full and rushing again. The ground is moist and dotted with mushrooms. And the air is rich with the scent of rotting leaves and that nostalgia-inducing harbinger of winter: wood smoke.
We’ve already begun burning fires at night in our wood burning stove, and as autumn progresses and winter settles in, we’ll tend that flame to keep it burning all day and night.
I’ve always loved fire — whether mesmerized by the dancing flames of a bonfire or watching a humble candle flickering in a dark room — there is something so primal, so powerful, about the element of Fire.
But living like I do these last four years — with our wood stove as our only source of heat during the winter months — I’ve come to have a deeper respect for Fire — and for the trees whose wood we burn to keep ourselves from freezing. In our yard is stacked several tons of firewood: large logs of Oak and Beech, as well as smaller piles of kindling from last year’s pruning of the Pomegranates, the Olives, the Plum, and the Bay Laurel.
And let me tell you, having a wood stove as your only source of heat sounds really romantic and cozy; and it is. But it’s also a lot of work. Cutting, hauling, and stacking wood; building, lighting, and stoking the fire; removing ash and keeping the chimney clean. It’s not easy work, but it is fulfilling. And at night, when I turn off the lights, and sit beside the flames in the dark, I feel a deep, primordial connection to my animal body — and to my ancestors who first learned to work with the element of Fire.
For those of us with electricity — when light appears with the flip of a switch, cooking happens with the turn of a knob, hot water runs from the tap, and heat emanates from vents in the floor or radiators on the wall — it’s easy to take Fire for granted, and to forget that for thousands of years, the Flame was our only source of heat and light.
I imagine what it must have been like for my ancestors — those early humans — who sat huddled around campfires, cooking and laughing, breaking bread and sharing stories.
But I also wonder what it was like for my ancestors to encounter Fire in Nature, in its most raw and untamed form: the forest wildfire.
How terrifying and awe-full to see a forest burn. How humbling to watch an element that gives so much to human culture, also take so much away.
But of course, wildfires are not confined to the past; they are very common during the summer months in a Mediterranean landscape. They most often ignite from the coming together of dried plant material and a spark or flame. And in the past, that spark or flame would come from lightning strikes or volcanic eruptions (and yes, there are several volcanos in Greece, but more on that in a minute).
But today, wildfires are most commonly started by human behavior, whether intentional or accidental (like discarded cigarette butts, unattended campfires, machine sparks, and arson, to name a few).
After the devastating wildfires of 2021 — in which over 100,000 hectares of Greek pine forest burned in two weeks alone — I became even more curious about the ancient Greeks’ relationship to wildfire — and fire, in general. What sorts of stories do they have to share with us about the power of flame? What Greek gods and myths have arisen from the ashes of their interaction with the element of Fire? And, of course, which plants, trees, and aspects of the Greek landscape are intimately linked to those burning stories?
As I was reflecting on the three forces that bring Flame into being — lightning, volcanic activity, and humans — I realized they can point us directly toward three of the most prominent Greek gods associated with Fire: Zeus, Hephaestus, and Prometheus. But there are also other gods and stories to consider, and, since this is A Temple Wild, we'll be looking at those as well as the trees and plants that are our allies in Fire.
But let us begin this exploration of the Flame in Greek mythology by turning our attention to the god of lightning himself, Zeus.
Zeus — or Ζεύς, as his name is pronounced in Greek — is probably the most well-known of the ancient Greek gods. He is the King of Mount Olympus, the god of law, rulership, justice, order, and fate. His animal familiar was the eagle — a regal bird if there ever was one — and his sacred trees were the Oak and the Olive — two trees associated with wisdom and wise council.
And, most importantly for our discussion today, Zeus was also god of the sky and all its weather phenomena: most notably thunder and lightning. Zeus was often depicted holding a lightning bolt, and I imagine it as a tangible symbol of his quick and fiery justice.
The opening poem to this episode was an excerpt from the Orphic hymn to Zeus, praises his awesome power as a producer of Flame upon the landscape:
“Sudden, unconquered, holy, thundering God,
with noise unbounded flying all abroad;
with all-devouring force, entire and strong,
horrid, untamed, thou rollest the flames along.
Rapid, ethereal bolt, descending fire,
the earth, all-parent, trembles at thine ire…”
Excerpt from “To Thundering Jupiter,” The Mystical Hymns of Orpheus, Translation by Thomas Taylor, 1821
In this instance, wildfire comes from the sky — a conflagration descending to the Earth, striking a tree or the earth, and setting the forests aflame.
Now it could be argued that most trees of the Mediterranean landscape have some connection or lesson to teach us about wildfire, since they are all affected by Zeus’ incendiary power: the deciduous and evergreen Oak, the Bay Laurel and wild Olive, the Chestnut, the Plane tree, the Fig, and more. But it is the Pine tree that I want to discuss today, since it is that resinous, evergreen conifer who blankets much of the mountainsides and coastal regions of Greece.
Now, dried plant material accumulates easily in Greek Pine forests, where an understory of primarily evergreen brush and herbaceous plants turn dry in the Mediterranean summer heat. Add to that the fallen Pine needles and it’s a perfect recipe for highly flammable tinder. Pine trees that are tapped by humans for their resin — with dripping gum wounds and droppings — become like upside down fuses, easily transporting a ground fire from the understory up into the crown of the tree and spreading it across the forest canopy.
But not all wildfires are bad. When confined to ground level, wildfires can clear out brush, aid in seed germination, and regenerate soils, effectively improving the health of a Pine forest. But the danger arrives when the fire creeps into the upper canopy of the trees and begins to spread from tree crown to tree crown, destroying mature trees. And if it’s windy, the air will help it travel, fanning the flames and growing the fire, and leaving nothing but blackened landscape.
It’s theorized that the ancient Greek peninsula was in fact once covered in forests of Pine, but most of that is now low scrubland of small evergreen shrubs and herbaceous plants due mostly to the poor forest management practices that were started by the early settlers of the land and continued to this day.
Today, there are five main species in the Greek landscape, each with their preferred climate and altitude, and I’ll include a link in the show notes to the Materia Mythica entry I've created if you’d like to learn more about their differences. Used since antiquity for everything from medicine to perfume to culinary dishes, the Pine has a long history in ship building, as well, linking the tree to the sea god Poseidon.
But the Pine tree also has a very special relationship with the god Dionysos, who among many things, is the god of revelry, wine, and viticulture. Pine resin was used to seal ceramic wine vessels and was also added intentionally to fermenting grapes for flavor — and possibly for its medicinal and spiritual properties. Today, this resin-flavored white wine is called retsina. But as a god of the wild mountainside where Pine trees flourish, Dionysos and his followers — the maenads — were often depicted carrying a pinecone-tipped staff called a thyrsus and are sometimes even seen wearing wreaths of Pine.
We’ll be returning again to Dionysos and the Pine tree, but for now, let us remember this: Zeus’s fiery lightning bolt comes in a sudden flash — a burst of power that strikes the tops of the Pine and sets the needle-strewn forest floor alight.
Zeus' power is quick and exacting, with “dreadful darts of fire.” And “with all-devouring force, entire and strong, horrid, untamed…Zeus rollest the flames along.”
The next god that we encounter in our journey through the wildfires of ancient Greece is Hephaestus, son of the goddess Hera.
Some stories say Hera created him all on her own, without the aid of a partner. Other stories say Zeus himself was Hephaestus’s father. But regardless of how he was made, Hephaestus grew up to become the most skilled craftsmen of all the gods.
As god of the forge and of Fire, he was responsible for fashioning some of the most important items of the ancient stories — including Athena’s aegis and weapons, Apollo and Artemis’ arrows, and many of the tools the hero Herakles (Hercules) used in his trials. It was also said that Hephaestus crafted automatons — animated statues of gold, silver, or bronze made in the likeness of humans, dogs, and bulls — including a personal retinue of handmaidens to serve as his attendants.
Stories about Hephaestus (pronounced Ήφαιστος in Greek) emphasize his ugliness and the fact that he walked with a limp. In one telling, his mother was so disgusted by him as a baby that she threw him from Mount Olympus (Όλυμπος), and the violence of his landing on earth resulted in his limp. Another version says that we was simply born that way, with a leg that caused him to limp, and he is often depicted astride a donkey while holding his sacred tools: the blacksmith’s hammer and tongs. His sacred plant was the Giant Fennel — a plant whose pith burns slowly and evenly without destroying the outer stalk, making it the perfect vessel for containing and transporting fire.
As god of the forge, Hephaestus was associated with volcanos and the heat, fire, and gas that come from geologic activity. In fact, the modern Greek word for volcano is ηφαίστειο — after the god himself, Ήφαιστος.
Some say that when he was first thrown from Mount Olympus as a child, he was rescued by pirates near the island of Limnos in the north Aegean sea, and it was there that he established his very first forge beneath Mount Moschylos (Μόσχυλος), which once emitted volcanic vapours and is now extinct.
Later stories associate Hephaestus with the Roman god Vulcan — from whose name we get the English word volcano — and one of his smithies was said to be beneath Mount Aetna — the active volcano in present-day Sicily. In fact, it's believed that whenever a volcano was active, so was Hephaestus — stoking his fire and crafting new items for the gods.
Greece is one of the most geologically active regions in the world, and — not many know this — but there are still active volcanos in Greece. You may have already heard of the massive volcanic eruption from three thousand years ago on the modern day island of Santorini. But Santorini is still geologically active, with earthquakes, thermal hot springs, and volcanic activity from as recent as 1950. There are also several other active volcanos that — along with Santorini — form an arc through the Aegean sea. I will include a map in the show notes so you can take a look at the other volcanos’ locations — including Methana (Μέθανα), a peninsula in Peloponnesos, the island of Milos (Μήλος), and the island of Nisyros (Νίσυρος), whose last violent eruption was as recent as 1888.
Like Zeus’s fiery lightning bolt, a volcano can be explosive and utterly destructive. But Hephaestus is more often associated with the less explosive, but just as transformative, energy of a molten forge. His is a fiery force for melting, shaping, and reforming metals — just as lava flows, hardens, and reshapes the landscape.
And while Zeus’ fiery justice is sudden and exacting, Hephaestus is a bit more crafty and, dare I say, patient in his delivery. There are several stories where he designs a trap, a weapon, or even a piece of jewelry that demonstrates to me a calculated willingness to wait to see his art bear justice (Hera’s throne, the net that trapped Aphrodite and Ares, and Harmonia’s necklace all come to mind).
Compared to Zeus, Hephaestus takes his time. He designs, then forges, and his innovative skill and brilliance is celebrated as a gift to humanity.
So already we have two gods of Fire — Zeus of the destructive lightning bolt that descends from the skies, and Hephaestus of the volcanic forge who feeds the transformative flame beneath the mountains. But the figure in Greek myth who is most known for his relationship with the flame is Prometheus — the Titan god who stole fire from the Olympian gods and gave it to the humans.
Prometheus is often credited with the very creation of humanity, having molded the first humans from clay. But Zeus, wanting his due respect as ruler of the gods, demanded that these newly-created humans must make sacrifices to him. So Prometheus, wanting only the best for his creation, tricked Zeus into accepting the inedible portion of the first animal sacrifice.
In one bowl, he placed the most delicious portion of sacrificial meat beneath a layer of unappealing organs. In another bowl, he hid the inedible bones beneath a thick layer of glistening fat. Zeus chose the bowl of fat — thinking he was getting the better deal — and thus set a precedent for all future offerings: the gods received only the fat and bones, while the humans would keep the meat and organs for themselves.
Zeus, angry at this deception, decided to withhold the knowledge of Fire from the humans, dooming them to suffer in darkness and cold, and stunting their development and innovation.
But Prometheus — still wanting to provide the best for his creation — schemed to steal fire from Mount Olympus and bring it to humanity. Some stories say that he stole fire in the form of Zeus’s lightning bolt, others that he took a flame from Hephaestus’s forge, but regardless, they all say that Prometheus concealed the flame in the hollow stalk of a Giant Fennel plant.
With the flame concealed inside the Giant Fennel stalk, Prometheus was able to transport fire from Mount Olympus to Earth, thus gifting humanity with the knowledge and the skills that allowed them to form civilization as we know it today.
Prometheus was punished by Zeus for his treachery. Shackling him to a mountain with chains forged by Hephaestus, Zeus sent his own animal familiar — the eagle — to devour Prometheus’s liver by day. At night, his liver would regenerate and the next morning the eagle would descend to devour his organ again in an unending, torturous cycle. And all because Prometheus dared to steal that “flower, flashing fire, source of all arts” and give it to mortals.
Herakles later freed Prometheus from his torture, but it should not be understated what a revelation Fire must have been for early humans. Fire — and the knowledge of how to use it — changed everything about the way we lived. It broadened the kinds of foods we could eat by way of cooking; it granted us night vision and the ability to explore caves with torches and candlelight; it enabled us to travel to and live in colder and wetter climates by keeping our bodies warm and our clothes dry; it enabled us to fashion and bake pottery from clay — like Prometheus — and shape metals into tools and art — like Hepheastus; and really, the list goes on.
So given that, we can see why Zeus may have been so angry at Prometheus — not only for deceiving him, but for giving humans so much power — power that had previously only belonged to him and Hepheastus. With fire, we could create, innovate, and accomplish things that our oldest ancestors could not even dream were possible. As such, Prometheus was honored as a champion of human crafts and technology — and indeed human civilization.
Thanks to Prometheus, the flame became central to the everyday lives of the ancients. And so — in our discussion of ancient Greek fire myths — we must not forget to also mention the goddess of the domestic fire: Hestia.
Hestia (or Εστία in Greek) literally means “hearth,” as well as “focal point” or “center” and the domesticated fire was truly the heart of the house and of the community. In ancient cities, there was a central fire dedicated to Hestia which represented the health and structure — the vitality — of the settlement. Housed in a central building of governance, the fire would be tended by the cities’ leaders, with various rituals surrounding its maintenance. But most households also had a private altar to Hestia, as fire was central to the everyday habits of cooking, baking, lighting, and warming the home.
Hestia was also the goddess of the sacrificial flame, as Fire was understood as a direct channel for making offerings to the gods. Libations were poured on the flame and — as we remember from the Prometheus story — the bones and fat of animal sacrifices were burnt in offering.
So much more can be said about the ancient Greek’s practice of sacrifice, but for now I will say that this was Hestia’s domain: tending the hearthfire of Mount Olympos, and overseeing both the public and the private sacrificial flames. So now we see the wildfire domesticated: brought inside, tended, and honored.
Here we have four gods of the Flame — Zeus of the fiery-justice lightning, Hephaestus of the crafty volcanic forge, Prometheus of the civilizing flame, and Hestia of the domesticated hearth. Together, they give us a glimpse at the way the ancients interacted with and experienced the element of Fire.
But there is one more story I want to share with you about a god who may not necessarily be the first to come to mind when Fire is mentioned, but whose sacred plants offer us, today, a very special connection to the transformative and illuminating power of Fire.
So let’s return for a moment to Zeus, the god whose lightning sets fire to the Pine and transforms Greek landscapes with its power.
Zeus was quite fond of cheating on his wife, Hera, and in one instance he had fallen deeply in love with the human, Semele (Σεμέλη).
In one telling of the story, Semele became pregnant with Zeus’s child and Hera, in her jealousy, disguised herself as an old woman and manipulated Semele into doubting Zeus’ divinity.
Zeus, being a god, had not shown his full nature to Semele for he knew that as a mortal she could not survive his true form. But Zeus, in his devotion, had vowed an unbreakable oath to give Semele whatever she asked, and so when she asked him to appear before her as a god, he had no choice.
When faced with the awesome and incendiary force of Zeus’s lightning-power, Semele immediately burst into all-consuming flame. Zeus pulled their unborn child from her dying body and sewed the fetus into his own thigh, where the child matured for several months and then was born.
And who was that child?
None other than the god Dionysos.
Twice-born — first from flame and again from his divine father — Dionysos grew to become the god of the ivy vine, of viticulture, of ecstasy, and of divine madness. We’ll spend quite a bit more time talking about Dionysos in an upcoming episode, but it’s vital for our discussion on fire to mention that he and his retinue — the maenads and satyrs — are often depicted carrying a thyrsus (θύρσος): a sacred staff made from a Giant Fennel stalk topped with a Pine cone and wrapped in ivy.
You must have noticed by now that we have heard quite a few Fire stories involving this Giant Fennel plant. First, it is Hephaestus’ sacred plant. Second, it was how Prometheus transported fire from Mount Olympus to Earth. And now, we encounter the Giant Fennel in the hands of a Fire-born god.
So what does this plant have to teach us about the ancient’s relationship to Fire? And how might we invite it into our own ceremonies when seeking to honor the primordial element of Fire?
The Giant Fennel is a drought-tolerant, herbaeous perennial in the carrot family. Growing as tall as 4.5 meters (or 15 feet), it has a deep tap root and a tall, cylindrical stalk and branches ending in bright-yellow, flowering umbels, The Giant Fennel looks like a giant, flaming torch. Though it is in the same family as culinary fennel, Giant Fennel is considered toxic to ingest and should not be eaten. But its stalk is hollow and contains a pith that burns evenly and slowly without destroying the outer stalk, enabling it to be used as a means for transporting fire.
As a fire bearer — a plant sacred to Prometheus and Hephaestus and thus as a bearer of the gifts of civilization — the Giant Fennel could be honored as an emissary of human culture and craft, as a reminder of our capacity for creativity, for innovation, and for achievement.
But…what is it doing in the hands of Dionysos — a god of revelry and divine madness, a god who embodies wildness and — in some ways — is the antithesis of civilization and order?
Some sources say that the Giant Fennel stalk was used as Dionysos's sacred staff because it was sturdy enough to offer support as a walking stick and lightweight enough not to cause harm if used as a weapon by his intoxicated followers.
(As an aside, the Giant Fennel is so lightweight and sturdy, that it was traditionally used as a splint to assist in bonesetting. The Greek word for Giant Fennel is νάρθηξ and modern Greek doctors use the word “narthikas” (νάρθηκας) for a splint or plaster cast.)
But putting its strength and weight aside, the etymology of the Giant Fennel’s name in Greek — νάρθηξ — points to its role as a vessel, a carrier, or a casket. The hollow stalk not only burns slowly and evenly — thus acting as a perfect carrier of burning embers to ignite fires — it was also possibly used as a vessel to carry herbs and ointments — herbs and ointments that may have had a consciousness-altering effect. So the Giant Fennel should be viewed — not as a simple walking stick — but as a potent carrier of divine revelation for the ecstatic revelers who used it.
And with the highly flammable Pine cone added to its top, I imagine the thyrsus in the hands of Dionysos and his followers as a symbolic lightning rod — a flame conductor, a means for drawing down and containing that illuminating, destructive Fire from the sky.
Fire as an element is both destructive and creative — like in a Pine forest, it is a force that burns away debris and clears the way for new growth. Like the revealing light of Zeus’ lightning bolt or the burning innovation of Hephaestus’ volcanic flame, Fire has the capacity to illuminate or spark creativity. But uncontained, it can destroy and leave nothing but ash.
And so the Giant Fennel, with its connection to the twice-born god, becomes a reminder that humans can never be as powerful as the gods; our bodies simply cannot withstand that much power. Yes — thanks to Prometheus and Hephaestus, we are crafty and creative and innovative. But we are still fragile beings made humble by the primal forces of Nature — lightning storms, wildfires, earthquakes, volcanos. Our bodies are resilient like the Pine tree, but when faced with the raw power of the divine — like Semele — we incinerate.
But this is the gift of the Giant Fennel: it has the capacity to carry divine revelation without being consumed, to hold the burning flame within its stalk without incinerating. And so it can be called upon to share with us its wisdom of what it means to be a container, a channel, a vessel for divine power.
The Giant Fennel offers us a vessel for experiencing the power of Fire — for learning the wisdom of containment and of the slow burn.
Personally, I invite the Giant Fennel into my ceremonies whenever I need divine insight and a humble reminder that — like the Giant Fennel — I am a container of Nature’s energy, a channel for power, not necessarily its source.
During dance ceremonies or any embodiment practices meant to expand or alter consciousness, the Giant Fennel can be crafted into a thyrsus and held — or invoked in the minds eye — as a rod or sacred axis, a channel for energetically drawing down the Fire of the sky or drawing up the Fire of the earth, and then holding it in a sacred container — letting it smolder and slowly burn as a sustaining source of energy.
And so I offer this devotion:
Giant Fennel, Fire-bearer,
show me the wisdom of containment,
so I may be a vessel
of slow-burning embers
that ignite the way of being.
There are so many other gods and figures that I could have mentioned today, others who are associated with fire and flame. The fire-breathing monster the Chimera comes to mind, as do the the Cyclops, who are credited with creating the very first lightning bolts. There is also Hekate and her Lampades, the torch-bearing nymphs of the underworld, as well as the Pyriphlegethon (Πυριφλεγέθων) or fire-burning River of the Underworld.
But I hope that today gave you a glimpse into the rich landscapes of Fire in the Mediterranean imagination, and gave you some inspiration for your own ceremonies and devotions.
If you’d like to learn more about these stories — about the Giant Fennel, the Pine tree, or whether wildfires are actually necessary for the health of the Greek landscape — be sure to check out the show notes where I link to several other offerings on my website.
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I thank you so much for joining me today on this journey through the mythic landscapes; I hope you have a wonderful day and I will see you next time.