The birds called a meeting. Together they flew up to God. “The bat makes fun of us,” they complained. “And what’s more, we feel cold for lack of the feathers he took.”
Next day, when the bat shook his feathers in full flight, he suddenly became naked. A rain of feathers fell to earth.
He is still searching for them. Blind and ugly, enemy of the light, he lives hidden in caves. He goes out in pursuit of the lost feathers after night has fallen and flies very fast, never stopping because it shames him to be seen.
(92)
Mosquitos
There were many dead in the Nootkas village. In each dead body there was a hole through which blood had been stolen.
The murderer, a child who was already killing before he learned to walk, received his sentence roaring with laughter. They pierced him with lances and he laughingly picked them out of his body like thorns.
“I’ll teach you to kill me,” said the child.
He suggested to his executioners that they should light a big bonfire and throw him into it.
His ashes scattered through the air, anxious to do harm, and thus the first mosquitos started to fly.
(174)
Honey
Honey was in flight from his two sisters-in-law. He had thrown them out of his hammock several times.
They came after him night and day. They saw him and it made their mouths water. Only in dreams did they succeed in touching him, licking him, eating him.
Their spite kept growing. One morning when the sisters-in-law were bathing, they came upon Honey on the riverbank. They ran and splashed him. Once wet, Honey dissolved.
In the Gulf of Paria it’s not easy to find the lost honey. You have to climb the trees, ax in hand, open up the trunks, and do a lot of rummaging. The rare honey is eaten with pleasure and with fear, because sometimes it kills.
(112)
Seeds
Pachacamac, who was a son of the sun, made a man and a woman in the dunes of Lurín.
There was nothing to eat, and the man died of hunger.
When the woman was bent over searching for roots, the sun entered her and made a child.
Jealous, Pachacamac caught the newborn baby and chopped it to pieces. But suddenly he repented, or was scared of the anger of his father, the sun, and scattered about the world the pieces of his murdered brother.
From the teeth of the dead baby, corn grew; from the ribs and bones, cassava. The blood made the land fertile, and fruit trees and shade trees rose from the sown flesh.
Thus the women and men born on these shores, where it never rains, find food.
(57)
Corn
The gods made the first Maya-Quichés out of clay. Few survived. They were soft, lacking strength; they fell apart before they could walk.
Then the gods tried wood. The wooden dolls talked and walked but were dry; they had no blood nor substance, no memory and no purpose. They didn’t know how to talk to the gods, or couldn’t think of anything to say to them.
Then the gods made mothers and fathers out of corn. They molded their flesh with yellow corn and white corn.
The women and men of corn saw as much as the gods. Their glance ranged over the whole world.
The gods breathed on them and left their eyes forever clouded, because they didn’t want people to see over the horizon.
(188)
Tobacco
The Carirí Indians had implored the Grandfather to let them try the flesh of wild pigs, which didn’t yet exist. The Grandfather, architect of the Universe, kidnapped the little children of the Carirís and turned them into wild pigs. He created a big tree so that they could escape into the sky.
The people pursued the pigs up the tree from branch to branch and managed to kill a few. The Grandfather ordered the ants to bring down the tree. When it fell, the people suffered broken bones. Ever since that great fall, we all have divided bones and so are able to bend our fingers and legs or tilt our bodies.
With the dead boars a great banquet was made in the village.
The people besought the Grandfather to come down from the sky, where he was minding the children saved from the hunt, but he preferred to stay up there.
The Grandfather sent tobacco to take his place among men. Smoking, the people talked with God.
(111)
Maté
The moon was simply dying to tread the earth. She wanted to sample the fruit and to bathe in some river.
Thanks to the clouds, she was able to come down. From sunset until dawn, clouds covered the sky so that no one could see the moon was missing.
Nighttime on the earth was marvelous. The moon strolled through the forest of the high Paranà, caught mysterious aromas and flavors, and had a long swim in the river. Twice an old peasant rescued her. When the jaguar was about to sink his teeth into the moon’s neck, the old man cut the beasts throat with his knife; and when the moon got hungry, he took her to his house. “We offer you our poverty,” said the peasant’s wife, and gave her some corn tortillas.
On the next night the moon looked down from the sky at her friends’ house. The old peasant had built his hut in a forest clearing very far from the villages. He lived there like an exile with his wife and daughter.
The moon found that the house had nothing left in it to eat. The last corn tortillas had been for her. Then she turned on her brightest light and asked the clouds to shed a very special drizzle around the hut.
In the morning some unknown trees had sprung up there. Amid their dark green leaves appeared white flowers.
The old peasant’s daughter never died. She is the queen of the maté and goes about the world offering it to others. The tea of the maté awakens sleepers, activates the lazy, and makes brothers and sisters of people who don’t know each other.
(86 and 144)
Cassava
No man had touched her, but a boy-child grew in the belly of the chief’s daughter.
They called him Mani. A few days after birth he was already running and talking. From the forest’s farthest corners people came to meet the prodigious Mani.
Mani caught no disease, but on reaching the age of one, he said, “I’m going to die,” and he died.
A little time passed, and on Mani’s grave sprouted a plant never before seen, which the mother watered every morning. The plant grew, flowered, and gave fruit. The birds that picked at it flew strangely, fluttering in mad spirals and singing like crazy.
One day the ground where Mani lay split open. The chief thrust his hand in and pulled out a big, fleshy root. He grated it with a stone, made a dough, wrung it out, and with the warmth of the fire cooked bread for everyone.
They called the root mani oca, “house of Mani,” and manioc is its name in the Amazon basin and other places.
(174)
The Potato