by B. TRAVEN
B. TRAVEN
The Creation of the Sun and the Moon
illustrated by Alberto Beltrán
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There is a legend among the Indians of Mexico that tells how once when the world was young the Sun brought joy to men, how the Sun was destroyed by evil, and how a singularly brave young Indian undertook a perilous journey to create a new Sun.
And this is how the legend goes.
Once men lived in peace on earth and in true happiness. The golden Sun gave them light and warmth, enriched their fields with corn, painted the flowers in radiant colors, filled the trees with sweet fruit in abundance, and caused the birds to sing.
Thus it was only natural for men to revere the Sun as the source of all blessings and richness and happiness on earth. To thank the good gods for the Sun, men built great temples and pyramids of stone and sang beautiful songs of praise.
But the gods of evil and darkness envied the happiness that men enjoyed on earth. So it came to pass that these gods left the deep ravines where they lived and their homes on the shores of subterranean lakes and rivers and went forth to do battle with the good gods so that they might destroy them and rule the world.
The fierce fight between the gods of good and evil shook the universe to its foundations. The seas and lakes and rivers rose up, flooding fields and houses and whole cities.
After the floods receded, a terrible drought came and with it misery over all the lands. It was only the Sun, still bright in the sky, that gave hope to the people and kept alive their faith that the good gods would conquer.
The long and bitter battle raged but in the end the gods of evil triumphed. They had united with the enemies of all that was good—with the evil spirits of intolerance and brutality, greed and envy, vanity and meanness and jealousy—and so grew powerful enough at last to win a complete victory. In their meanness they slew all their adversaries and left the bodies of the good gods unburied for the zopilotes and vultures and coyotes to devour.
There was sadness and mourning everywhere in the universe; no longer was there peace and harmony. Instead of harmony and good will only discord and enmity arose whenever people came together.
The good gods had been destroyed, but men still worshiped the Sun. The gods of evil were ill with envy and they set out to destroy the Sun once and for all.
They hated the Sun because of its light and warmth and friendliness to the people on earth. They wished to extinguish the Sun in the hope of annihilating all mankind. For mankind had been the creation of the good gods, and the first people on earth were as children of the first gods, with the laughing goodness and the warm breath of the gods themselves.
So now the triumphant gods of evil, commanding mountains of ice and snow and freezing storms, extinguished the Sun, and darkness settled over all the earth.
All plants and trees and all grasses were now covered with snow and ice. Only some wild maize still grew, and in a few places protected by wooded hills some stalks of beans and edible roots survived.
No longer did trees bear fruit or adorn the earth with blossoms. Even strong old trees withered away, and the birds, with no possibility to nest, forgot how to sing. The crickets and cicadas in the fields grew silent, too, and the beetles and bees ceased to hum in the woods and bushes. No more did butterflies—the crown jewels of the good gods—brighten the air. And the earth’s dome, once the playground of fantastically formed multicolored birds, was now empty, gray, and silent.
People died of starvation. Many died from the cold. And many others lost their way in the unending darkness, never to find their homes again. They could no longer count the days and so lost all sense of time. All over the world people knew hunger and death and suffering.
Then at last, when desperation was at its highest, the kings and lords and leaders of all the Indian peoples called a great gathering to discuss the creation of a new Sun, whose light would conquer the gods of darkness.
The only light left in the universe was the faint light of the stars high up in the sky. The gods of evil had wished to leave mankind in utter darkness, but they had not been able to put out the stars. On the stars there existed the spirits of departed humans and to them the good gods had given the strength and wisdom to keep the stars shining forever. The stars were the very substance of the universe, and only from their light, the sages in the temples declared, could a new Sun be created.
The meeting of the kings and chieftains lasted for seven long weeks, and in all that time not one man could tell another how to make a new Sun. At last one among them remembered that in the temple of the Tigermen and Snakegods, that is, in Tonaljá—the source of the waters high above valleys and plains—there lived an ancient philosopher. He was more than three hundred years old. His name was Bayelsnael, and it was said that all the secrets of nature were known to him.
Bayelsnael was summoned to the council and to him was put the question: How could a new Sun be created so that mankind might survive?
After a time of meditation, Bayelsnael spoke to the council and he said: “Hear ye, esteemed kings and princes and chieftains, mighty lords, brothers, and friends! There is a way to create a new Sun as big and beautiful as the Sun we once enjoyed. But the way is difficult and full of danger. A young and strong man of Indian blood must visit the stars. He must ask the spirits that dwell there to give him a small piece of each star. Though star-fragments are hotter than any fire known on earth, yet he must be able to hold them in his hands. For he must fasten each star-piece onto his shield, and he must then climb higher and higher, gathering fragments from the stars, until he reaches the very apex in the arc of the sky. There, when all the star-pieces are fastened at last on his shield, the shield itself will turn into a great flaming sun.”
After Bayelsnael had spoken, all the kings and chieftains and bravest warriors leaped up and cried out in a mighty voice: “We are ready to go and create a new Sun!”
The old man answered them calmly.
“It speaks well that all are so ready to go. But only one man may do so, and this one must go alone with his great shield, because only one Sun is to be created. More than one Sun would burn the earth to ashes.
“And I must tell you that the brave man who is willing to go must be prepared for the greatest sacrifice a man can make. He must leave his wife and children, his father and mother, his friends and his people. Never again can he return to earth. He must wander forever in the sky, shield in one hand, lance in the other, always ready to fight the evil gods. For the gods of darkness will not rest. Again and again they will try to put out the light of the Sun, which is their enemy.
“Thus he who aspires to create a new Sun may look down upon the earth for ever and ever, but he can never return to it. He will see his loved ones, his friends, and all his people die, one after another, but he himself will be immortal—for all eternity. The older he grows, the more strange
his people will become to him. He will be a lonely soul in the universe—lonely forever. Think carefully of this, each one of you, before you decide to try.”
When the kings and lords and warriors, and all men had heard these words of warning, they lost heart and fell silent. Who among them would wish to separate himself, forever, from his wife and his children, his father and mother and friends? Here on earth they could die peacefully among their loved ones. All feared to live forever—never to die. Here on earth they could see how men were born, how they flourished, how they withered into old age and died peacefully at last; but the hero in the skies bearing aloft his burning shield would never be able to share the destinies of men on earth. Nor would he be able to hope, to suffer, to rejoice, and thus live life in its full sense among other men. And should he look down from the sky and see misery and disaster coming upon mankind, he would be unable to help or even to warn his own people.
All this was more than the bravest of the warriors dared to undertake. They had experienced much, and they knew well that they lacked the strength and courage to leave their people and to endure all that had been described to them as the destiny of the one who would create a new Sun.
A deep silence settled over the council—a silence that lasted for seven long days. Then on the morning of the eighth day, one of the younger of the chieftains raised his voice and said:
“With your permission, noble lords and warriors, allow me to speak. I am young, strong, and experienced in the use of arms. My wife is young and beautiful; I love her dearly, for she is the very image of kindness and goodness. I have a fine son, noble of mind and strong in body, versatile as a young tiger, shrewd as a coyote, swift as an antelope. I have a mother who is now old and weak, to who I am protector and all her hope. I can also count twelve if not more good friends whose faithfulness I have valued since childhood days, because with them I shared dangers and hunger, wounds and thirst. I am a true son of this earth, neither better nor worse than any of my people; yes, I am in fact part of the earth, as my breath is part of the air beneath the sky.
“Yet, what use is all of this to me when my people are without a Sun? How can I be happy here on earth when, more and more, all men are suffering! Without a Sun, men will perish and disappear from the earth. For that reason, noble kings and chieftains, I ask submissively your permission to leave earth and go forth to create a new Sun; though I am the youngest among you, wise men of all tribes and kingdoms, I pray you, give me your permission to do my duty to you and to mankind.
“Kings and chieftains, do not think that I desire to rise above the members of this great council, nor do I seek glory and honor for great deeds. Every man in this council is more worthy than I. But in these seven long days of silence, I have come to understand that every king, chieftain, and honorable man in this council has a larger duty to his family, his friends, his people, and to earth than have I, the youngest and least experienced among you. Thus, coming to the end of my words, it is I who must go to create a new Sun, be my fate and destiny what they will be.”
He who spoke thus, in the longest speech of his life, was Chicovaneg, a young chieftain of the Shcucchuistans, a tribe of the Tzeltal nation of Indians living in southern Mexico.
The lords and the warriors of the council listened and for a time they were silent. Each felt in the heaviness of his heart all that lay before this youngest one among them should they grant his request. Yet each knew too that a new Sun must be kindled if men were to survive. So at last they gave their consent.
Chicovaneg took leave of his wife and his son, of his mother, his friends, and his people. And none spoke of what was most in his thoughts, that this was indeed a last farewell.
Then Chicovaneg went to seek the counsel of the old sage of Tonaljá. Bayelsnael told him in what manner he must equip himself for his great quest, and this the young chieftain went forth to do.
First he made himself a strong shield. He made it from the hides of kingly tigers, and wove among the hides the skin of a mighty coatl tapir, which he caught near the lake of Pelhaj in the very depths of the jungle. Then he made himself a living helmet out of a powerful eagle which lived on the highest mountain peaks overlooking the plains of Quentan.
Then he went forth to look for the Feathered Serpent.
The Feathered Serpent was the living symbol of the universe, of all friendly things that flew in the air or moved on earth and in its waters. The gods of darkness abhorred this symbol of goodness. Although they had seized and overcome the Feathered Serpent, they were powerless to destroy it, for it was life itself.
Chicovaneg sought the Feathered Serpent in vain through many perilous encounters. Then at last he had the help of a Quetzal.
This Quetzal was considered a noble being among the trogons. He was the most glorious of all multicolored birds and was revered by man and beast alike. But this day, hunted for his beautiful plumage, he had been wounded and had fallen into a lake; and Chicovaneg, searching the shore for traces of the Feathered Serpent, saw the bird struggling in the water. He took off his heavy clothes and swam out to save the Quetzal.
An evil spirit hidden in the high rushes of the lake observed all this. Seizing a fish as swift and ferocious as a small shark, he sent it to inform the evil spirits at the bottom of the lake that the one who planned to create a new Sun was at this very moment swimming in the lake without protection.
Immediately a violent tempest came upon the lake. Heavy foaming waves arose, and rushing whirlpools gripped Chicovaneg, sucking him toward their depths. But with strong strokes he swam onward until he reached the Quetzal bird.
He placed the Quetzal on his head and the bird guided him back to shore, for the sharp eyes of the Quetzal were able to discern every distant threatening wave and every treacherous current. Then Chicovaneg made camp on the shore and nursed the wounded bird until his wing was healed.
When the Quetzal was again able to fly, he said to Chicovaneg: “I will guide you to the Feathered Serpent.”
Thus Chicovaneg learned that the Feathered Serpent was tied in a cavern near a place called Tulhlum, where the sorcerer Masqueshab lived. Masqueshab was a most evil sorcerer, with four heads, forty eyes, eight arms, and eight legs, and he had earned his name from his great wickedness. The gods of darkness gave him much gold and many fine pearls which they had stolen from the temples of Tonaljá and Chamo, from Socton and Sotslum and Shimoljol, from Huniquibal and other sacred cities in the land.
Masqueshab had tied the Feathered Serpent to a rock in the depths of the cavern. He engaged a wicked man, called Molevaneg, as guard. Molevaneg had a crippled foot which kept him permanently in an evil temper so that he enjoyed torturing and tormenting the Feathered Serpent. The Serpent’s cries of pain were a delight to Molevaneg. But one night the Feathered Serpent sank his fangs into Molevaneg’s crippled foot and held him fast, day and night, until Molevaneg withered and died. Then the Serpent released him and let him fall.
The death cries of Molevaneg were heard by the sorcerer Masqueshab. He hurried to the cavern, but found there no Molevaneg, only a heap of bone dust.
At this very time, Chicovaneg came along, disguised with beard and ugly warts and hunched-up back. Masqueshab asked him if he thought he could serve as a prisoner’s guard. “I am a good guard of snakes,” answered Chicovaneg. “I catch snakes for their skins, you see, and no snake escapes me, no matter how long, fast, or powerful.”
So clever was Chicovaneg’s disguise and so truly had he spoken in the accents of a common Indian woodman that the sorcerer did not recognize him. He made Chicovaneg the guard of the Feathered Serpent.
Now, cunningly, Chicovaneg planned to kill the evil sorcerer so that he could free the Serpent. He made him drunk with a mixture of sweet juices of maguey, the aguamiel, and acorn, sugar-cane juice, and nance, and prickly pear and wild honey. With his four heads and forty eyes, eight arms and eight legs, Masqueshab, when he slept, was like a giant tarantula or octopus. Ten eyes were open while his other eyes slep
t. But Chicovaneg made him so drunk that he closed his forty eyes at once. Then Chicovaneg killed him with a spear poisoned with one hundred different venoms, given him by the old sage Bayelsnael.
Now Chicovaneg tried to free the Feathered Serpent from the rock. But the ropes were tied and knotted by tricks of darkest witchcraft. Chicovaneg then worked his own Indian magic learned from his own grandfathers. He sang sweet songs and melodies; and he danced in front of the cavern the dance of the hunter and the antelope, and the dance of the turtles, then the dance of the vivid Quetzal birds when in love, and then the dance of the tigers, and the dance of the hundred fires. And he danced the dance of the flowers in the night, and the dance of the butterflies at the Ushumacintla river; and at last, after many days, his magic rhythms freed the Feathered Serpent from the ropes and the rock. And the great sacred Serpent was glad for his freedom and strength. Recognizing in Chicovaneg the kindler of the new Sun, the grateful Serpent followed him from that day onward, obeying all his commands.
Chicovaneg set out on his great journey toward the stars. After many, many years and countless fights with evil spirits, he arrived at the ends of the world, as it was then. Here he found the lowest star so close that it seemed he could reach it with his hands.
He captured two powerful eagles, and because the eagles were of royal blood and were messengers of the good gods, he begged their forgiveness for having taken them.
But the eagles said: “We know well why you captured us. You have need of our mighty wings to carry you to the stars. We have recognized you, Chicovaneg; your name tells us that you are destined to light a new Sun. We will give you our powerful wings.”
Chicovaneg tied two of the great eagle wings to his legs and two to his arms. And when the eagles had taught him how to use them, he took the two great birds under his arms and flew with them to the rock Taquinvits. Here he put them in a cavern where they would be sheltered from wild animals, now that they were without their wings.